My Best Face

I open the door and step towards the inevitable.

My pulse throbs in my temples and my palms become slick. It's funny how fear feels exactly like coming down with a horrible virus.

Like a sparrow flown accidentally indoors searching for the open window, my mother's words swoop in maddening loops around my head:

"Put on your best face Sarah, show them what you are made of."

I feel anger rising and surfing the wave of nausea that's been swelling since I got out of the car.

What does that even mean: Put on my best face? As if I have a selection of them to choose from, hanging in my cupboard between the dresses and jackets. As if I can just decide which one would best match my mood and my underwear today.

What would I chose anyway? What exactly goes with pink Bonds Hipsters and blinding terror? A bilious greenish grey complexion and a glow formed from oily pores leaking nervous sweat?

No, I don't think what I'm sporting at the moment could be described as anyone's best face.

"Show them what you are made of." If my muscles are anything to go by, I'm made of jelly.

The door slams behind me and a few heads turn towards the sound.

My confidence takes a further nose dive as I realise how steep the competition is. It seems that most of these people are certainly wearing their best faces. Looking around the sea of confident people, a brand new shipment of the latest range of perfect masks...and me, a slightly cracked old Halloween leftover in the bargain bin.

A man in a blue suit walks over to meet me. He ushers me towards a seat and hands me a clipboard to fill in my details. One by one the pretty profiles file past my chair and up to the front as their names are called.

Soon I am the last teen in the room.

"Sarah Whitson"

I stand and walk to the front with trepidation. I sit at the desk in front of the old woman with the black rimmed glasses who reminds me of my old primary school principal.

The interview begins.

The whole thing takes less than ten minutes before I find myself outside again, dazed and grasping a thin strip of paper.

My mum stands on the street in front of me. Her hands so often tightly clasped around her middle these days, reach out to me.

"What happened? What did they say?" She asks, her voice tight. Her eyes fall upon the letter, and I hand it to her with numb resignation:



We must inform you that based on your grade scoring, personal interview, social and genetic ranking, you have unfortunately not been selected as one of the elite group who will be remaining at school to complete their studies.

You will instead be joining the majority of your peers to begin training for the war effort. As you are aware, in these hostile times, your country needs protection. The contribution of youths such as yourself are the key to our future success.

Your government and society thanks you for your bravery.



My mother wails aloud and wraps her arms around me. She shakes as her howls become long, rasping sobs.

Whether shock or bravery, suddenly all fear and feeling is gone, and I am free.

I hold my mother and rub her back, gently whispering. "It will be ok mum."

My empty words fall to the pavement around us, and I wonder for the first time, the thought that no doubt would haunt me from now on... was there any face I could have shown them that would have made a difference?