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Authors: Alaya Dawn Johnson
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you both here. I trust you have heard of the Queen’s Award?”
This is like asking us if we’d heard of the summer king, and did we know one has just been elected? Bebel nods politely. Every moon and sun year (and sometimes other years, if she feels like it), the Queen sponsors one high school student, providing full tuition to any university program plus a showcase of her talent and stipend money as she starts her career. The list of past recipients could double as a guide to the most important people in Palmares Três. Queen Oreste herself won about a billion years ago when she was a waka. When I was younger, Mother would make a point of taking me to the exhibitions of thefinalists, as though she really thought that one day I could join their ranks.
Bebel and I gape at Ieyascu.
“You have? Good. Then perhaps you will understand the honor bestowed upon you — the result of certain connections or not — when I inform you that you, June, and you, Bebel, have each been named one of the ten finalists.”
I don’t even register her jibe. I’m too busy trying to keep the room in the proper orientation. Bebel shrieks a little and then turns to me with a huge grin on her face.
“June!” she says.
“Bebel?”
“Good luck!”
“Uh … thanks. You too.”
Ieyascu raps her desk and we turn back to face her, abruptly. “The final decision will be made in winter, at the end of the summer king’s term. Until that point, you will do whatever you can to prove to the Queen that you have the talent to make yourself worthy of the honor. You submit nothing formally to her. Rest assured that having picked you out of the hundred thousand eligible wakas, she has her eye on your endeavors, and you should strive to make them as impressive as possible.”
Bebel is glowing bright as her fake honey hair. She’s a singer and a musician, which is why we’re on the same art track. I can see her already confecting visions of being featured on all the feeds, of the rapturous audiences who will fall over themselves to compliment her talent.
She’s Bebel the Perfect, and I know that whoever the other eight wakas are, she has a good chance of winning.
But I’m her competition, and that means she won’t. I remember that other contest, that utter failure, and feel a gladness close to fury that I’ve been given this second chance. To prove myself to him, to do something with my art so great that no one can deny it.
Bebel leaves before me, dashing out the door with most un-Bebel-like haste, probably to gloat with her friends. Ieyascu’s voice reels me back before I can escape as well.
“June,” she says. Her voice is softer, almost weary. She’s standing beside one of her glass walls, which she’s turned into a window. For a moment, I swear she looks old , like in the video-holos of the twentieth century, all wrinkled and broken down. The effect passes and she straightens her shoulders.
“I hope, for Yaha’s sake, that you rise to this occasion. We’ve all noticed how you’ve been slipping this past year. If you fall now — well, let’s just say that Yaha will have a lot to answer for, Auntie or not.”
I open my mouth to say something, but nothing comes out. Quick as that, my joy at this opportunity has turned cold and bitter.
Like everything Mother and Auntie Yaha touch these days.
“Thank you,” I say, almost meaning it. “I’ll do my best.”
Auntie Yaha is with Ueda-sama when I find her in the hallway outside her office. The ambassador seems to recognize me from the coronation party, but he offers me his hand and his name. Auntie Yaha is wary, but she passes off my interruption as though she were expecting me.
“My stepdaughter, June,” she says, her smile somehow conveying reassurance despite not being particularly genuine. “Ueda-sama is the chief ambassador of Tokyo 10.”
“Enchanted,” I say. “I hope you’re having a nice time in our city. I believe I saw you the other night at the
This is like asking us if we’d heard of the summer king, and did we know one has just been elected? Bebel nods politely. Every moon and sun year (and sometimes other years, if she feels like it), the Queen sponsors one high school student, providing full tuition to any university program plus a showcase of her talent and stipend money as she starts her career. The list of past recipients could double as a guide to the most important people in Palmares Três. Queen Oreste herself won about a billion years ago when she was a waka. When I was younger, Mother would make a point of taking me to the exhibitions of thefinalists, as though she really thought that one day I could join their ranks.
Bebel and I gape at Ieyascu.
“You have? Good. Then perhaps you will understand the honor bestowed upon you — the result of certain connections or not — when I inform you that you, June, and you, Bebel, have each been named one of the ten finalists.”
I don’t even register her jibe. I’m too busy trying to keep the room in the proper orientation. Bebel shrieks a little and then turns to me with a huge grin on her face.
“June!” she says.
“Bebel?”
“Good luck!”
“Uh … thanks. You too.”
Ieyascu raps her desk and we turn back to face her, abruptly. “The final decision will be made in winter, at the end of the summer king’s term. Until that point, you will do whatever you can to prove to the Queen that you have the talent to make yourself worthy of the honor. You submit nothing formally to her. Rest assured that having picked you out of the hundred thousand eligible wakas, she has her eye on your endeavors, and you should strive to make them as impressive as possible.”
Bebel is glowing bright as her fake honey hair. She’s a singer and a musician, which is why we’re on the same art track. I can see her already confecting visions of being featured on all the feeds, of the rapturous audiences who will fall over themselves to compliment her talent.
She’s Bebel the Perfect, and I know that whoever the other eight wakas are, she has a good chance of winning.
But I’m her competition, and that means she won’t. I remember that other contest, that utter failure, and feel a gladness close to fury that I’ve been given this second chance. To prove myself to him, to do something with my art so great that no one can deny it.
Bebel leaves before me, dashing out the door with most un-Bebel-like haste, probably to gloat with her friends. Ieyascu’s voice reels me back before I can escape as well.
“June,” she says. Her voice is softer, almost weary. She’s standing beside one of her glass walls, which she’s turned into a window. For a moment, I swear she looks old , like in the video-holos of the twentieth century, all wrinkled and broken down. The effect passes and she straightens her shoulders.
“I hope, for Yaha’s sake, that you rise to this occasion. We’ve all noticed how you’ve been slipping this past year. If you fall now — well, let’s just say that Yaha will have a lot to answer for, Auntie or not.”
I open my mouth to say something, but nothing comes out. Quick as that, my joy at this opportunity has turned cold and bitter.
Like everything Mother and Auntie Yaha touch these days.
“Thank you,” I say, almost meaning it. “I’ll do my best.”
Auntie Yaha is with Ueda-sama when I find her in the hallway outside her office. The ambassador seems to recognize me from the coronation party, but he offers me his hand and his name. Auntie Yaha is wary, but she passes off my interruption as though she were expecting me.
“My stepdaughter, June,” she says, her smile somehow conveying reassurance despite not being particularly genuine. “Ueda-sama is the chief ambassador of Tokyo 10.”
“Enchanted,” I say. “I hope you’re having a nice time in our city. I believe I saw you the other night at the
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