The Selection (Selection - Trilogy)

your voice again. I miss you singing around the house. Mom doesn’t do it, and it’s been so quiet since you left. Will you wave to me on the show?
How’s the competition going? Do you have lots of friends there? Have you talked to any of the girls who left? Mom is saying all the time now that it’s not a big deal if you lose anymore. Half those girls who went home are already engaged to the sons of mayors or celebrities. She says someone will take you if Maxon doesn’t. Gerad is hoping you marry a basketball player instead of a boring old prince. But I don’t care what anybody says. Maxon is so gorgeous!
Have you kissed him yet?
     
    Kissed him? We’d only just met. And there’d be no reason for Maxon to kiss me anyway.
     
    I bet he’s the best kisser in the universe. I think if you’re a prince, you have to be!
I have so much more to tell you, but Mom wants me to go paint. Write me a real letter soon. A long one! With lots and lots of details!
I love you! We all do .
May
     
    So the eliminated girls were already getting snatched up by wealthy men. I didn’t realize being the castoff of a future king made you a commodity. I walked around the perimeter of the room, thinking over May’s words.
    I wanted to know what was going on. I wondered what had really happened with Janelle and was curious if Maxon had another date tonight. I really wanted to see him.
    My mind was racing, searching for a way to simply speak to him. As I thought, I stared at the paper in my hands.
    The second page of May’s letter was almost completely blank. I tore off a piece of it as I wandered. Some girls were still buried in pages of letters from their families, and others were sharing news. After a lap I stopped by the Women’s Room guest book and picked up the pen.
    I scribbled quickly on my scrap of paper.
    Your Majesty—
Tugging my ear. Whenever .
    I walked outside the room as if I were simply going to the bathroom and looked up and down the hall. It was empty. I stood there, waiting, until a maid rounded the corner with a tray of tea in her hands.
    “Excuse me?” I called to her quietly. Voices carried in these great halls.
    The girl curtsied in front of me. “Yes, miss?”
    “Would you happen to be going to the prince with that?”
    She smiled. “Yes, miss.”
    “Could you please take this to him for me?” I held out my little folded-up note.
    “Of course, miss!”
    She took it eagerly and walked away with a newfound energy. No doubt she would unfold it as soon as she was out of sight, but I felt secure in its odd phrasing.
    These hallways were captivating, each one more ornate than my entire house. The wallpaper, the gilt mirrors, the giant vases of fresh flowers all so beautiful. The carpets were lavish and immaculate, the windows were sparkling, and the paintings on the walls were lovely.
    There were some paintings by artists I knew—van Gogh, Picasso—and some I didn’t. There were photographs of buildings I had seen before. There was one of the legendary White House. Compared to the pictures and what I’d read in my old history book, the palace dwarfed it in size and luxury, but I still wished it was around to see.
    I walked farther down the hall and came upon a portrait of the royal family. It looked old; Maxon was shorter than his mother in this picture. He towered over her now.
    In the time I’d been at the palace, I had only ever seen them together at dinners and the Illéa Capital Report airing. Were they very private? Did they not like all these strange young girls in their house? Were they only all here because of blood and duty? I didn’t know what to make of this invisible family.
    “America?”
    I turned at the sound of my name. Maxon was jogging down the hall toward me.
    I felt like I was seeing him for the first time.
    He had his suit coat off, and the sleeves were rolled up on his white shirt. His blue tie was loosened at the neck, and his hair that was always slicked back was bouncing around a bit as he moved. In stark contrast to the person in uniform yesterday, he looked more boyish, more real.
    I froze. Maxon came up to me and grabbed my wrists.
    “Are you okay? What’s wrong?” he pressed.
    Wrong?
    “Nothing. I’m fine,” I replied. Maxon let out a breath I didn’t realize he was holding.
    “Thank goodness. When I got your note, I thought you were sick or something happened to your family.”
    “Oh! Oh, no. Maxon, I’m so sorry. I knew that was a stupid idea. I just didn’t