The Revealed Read Free

will tell which one the public prefers.
    I walk onto the veranda and breathe fresh air, ignoring the men draped across the overhang installing chandelier lights. Immediately two security guards close in, their eyes trained on every move I make.
    “Don’t worry guys,” I say, “I’m not going to leave the house. I just need some air.”
    I’m under house arrest until my birthday next year, unless The Revealed take me first. I’m betting on The Revealed. With all the inky black notes I’ve been receiving, my odds of making it to nineteen don’t look good. But I’ve accepted it—come to terms with the prospect, unlike most of my peers. It isn’t like I’m really doing much living here anyway.
    I lean over the railing and take a deep breath.
    “Lilith?” my mother calls.
    I hate when anyone calls me that, but especially my mother. It’s Lily to everyone else. Always Lily. I clench my teeth, “Yes?”
    “Mr. Shieh is here for your history lesson,” she says, her voice rising to my room from downstairs.
    By history, she means politics. By lesson, she means brainwashing session. Mr. Shieh doubles as an advisor to my father’s campaign. His instruction leans heavily to one side. It’s the side my parents want me to adhere to. Little gems of information like states should make their own decisions. Our Founding Fathers wanted the central government to have less control, and the people to have more say. The government should provide healthcare and education to all and use taxes to further these causes.
    The lesson today is lost on me, though. It isn’t exactly a typical day, not that I usually have trouble drowning out Mr. Shieh’s declarations of democracy. But the house is buzzing with life. There are people everywhere. It’s why I chose today to try and leave. I thought maybe the cameras would miss me slipping out in the midst of the commotion.
    Only two days from now, my family is hosting a celebration at our estate to honor the anniversary of the war’s end and recognize and appreciate our progress as a nation since that moment. At least, that’s how the invitation reads. While August 6 is the sixth anniversary of the war’s ending, it also means there are only about three months before the election. It’s a win-win situation. My father hosts the party, and gains support and positive press all in one night.
    Electrical crews hustle in and out, hanging lights. Delivery personnel bring in flower arrangements. Chairs and tables are ushered in.
    My father is out of the city on the campaign trail until the night of the celebration. I haven’t seen him in two weeks. The election keeps him busy, and the only reason to be excited for this event is because it means he’s coming home. This house always feels better when my dad’s here. He asks my opinion about his campaign. He wants me to edit his speeches. He cares about what I think. He’s the only one who seems to care about my opinions. My mother just wants me to keep my mouth shut and look like a lady. She’s always worried I’ll embarrass her.
    After my lessons, I glance down over the railing to see my mother marshaling the press around her, arms gesturing in graceful, fluid motions, like a conductor. She’s allowing them to cover all the setup activity to give audiences just a taste of what attendees at this spectacular event can expect.
    “Press will be stationed here in the foyer, so you can get interviews with the guests as they arrive.”
    She leads them into the ballroom, which is on the west side of the house. It’s a breathtaking room with gold fixtures and rustic Italian tiles. It’s two stories tall. The second floor is open so guests can look down on the dance floor and orchestra. Large Grecian-style pillars support the second-floor balcony and decorate the room, providing a gazebo-like setting indoors.
    “And over here is where the orchestra will play.” She sweeps a hand toward the corner. “It’s the local symphony and they are