This group is literally so awesome. That's why I'm auditioning for two groups in one night. It reminds me a lot of Pretty Wicked, actually. Although my baby Coco and her cocaine love won't be anywhere nearby.
Tagging @dreamingofamelia for the lovely layout! I think I pretty much fail at preppy style, which is a shame, because I have a thing for tassels and blazers and pleats and the Chanel logo... Shame. That's a Michael Fassbender movie, did you know? He was so robbed of an Oscar nomination.
Anise is so prim and proper and is such a cookie cutter form of innocence. This year will be her first year in the Society. She moved to Pemberley last semester and knew absolutely no one. She's on a scholarship and is from a regular, midwest, suburban home. Her grades, tennis achievements and her plaid skirts are what have gotten her soaring through Pemberley, and even Corpus Humanis likes a good girl (to corrupt of course). Anise knows nothing about what goes on behind the brick walls of the Corpus Humanis walls. She is oblivious to the cruel things they do and thinks its just a society for brains and popularity. However, she's sure to be proven wrong this year. Or maybe she already knows the Pemberley ways, maybe because Elsie told her all about it. After all, the only reason Anise was let into Corpus Humanis was because Elsie's spot was open. Raises some eyebrows, now doesn't it?
taken by: @volonte (cheers mate)
model: Katiusha Feofanova
I was barely fifteen years on this earth the day my luck changed. It was waiting in my school mailbox, a shimmering white envelope resting snugly in the little brass box. I breathed in and held it, pulling it free and slipping a nail to slit through the bloody red wax seal. And then the envelope was open, a letter with black ink and looping handwriting and creamy white paper spilling free, into my outstretched palms. I breathed out, forcing my eyes to the page, to read the words blooming across the page. “The Corpus Humanis Society requests…” I stopped breathing again. “…We invite you, the bearer of this letter, Anise Cathilion, fifteen years of age, in your second year of schooling, to join us for a formal reception in order to tap our newest members of Friday, the Fifth of March, at The Gardens.”
Blood pounded violently in my chest, my heartbeat accelerating. A slow flush crept over my cheeks, staining my reflection in the tarnished mirror hanging halfway down the hall. I felt the impossible urge to giggle, and I hugged the letter to my chest, spinning around and running down the hall to tell Elsie, my favourite plaid skirt flouncing, dusting my knees. She pried her door open, her eyes hollow and sad, her cheekbones sunken in. “What is it?” Even her voice was broken, gravelly and deep. Her hands shook as she clutched the door frame.
“You look bad again.” I pursed my lips, trying my best to stay calm and quiet in order to not disturb her. She just nodded, opening her door wider to invite me in; crossing over to sit quietly on her bed, with the lacy, beautiful quilt she had told me came from Morocco. I sighed like I always did when I saw it. She, and the girls around me, was exotic and beautiful, creatures of perfection and creatures of seduction. It had always upset me, my inability to speak Swahili or regale the others in the common room with tales of my worldly travels. Money was not the thing scholarship girls were known for.
She stared dully at me. “So. To what do I owe the honor of a visit?” I squealed and pranced over to hug her, brandishing the letter. She winced slightly as I squeezed her, but I pretended not to notice, thrusting my new most treasured possession toward her. She took it, her brow furrowed, her mouth forming the words silently as she read. I couldn’t wait for her to finish reading, and interrupted, “I’m in! I’m in Elsie; I’m in your little society of grades and beauty!” She frowned. My heart dropped.
“You don’t want to be in.” She said cryptically, and then, as if realizing a mistake, she clapped a hand over her mouth and pretended to cough. “I mean, just because you’re going to the garden reception doesn’t mean you’re in.” Her words had a darker undertone to them. I wasn’t good enough. I felt tears forming on my open lids, trickling down over my cheeks, warm and salty. She back tracked again. “Want me to help you choose an outfit for the reception?” I nodded vigorously, forgiving her. She seemed to understand. “I’ll text you when we can meet again.”
I hugged her tightly again, and bent to kiss her cheek. “You’re darling, thank you so much.” She smiled in that crooked way of hers. “Of course, Anise. Until we meet again.” It was her usual closing line, but the words seem enigmatic and unfamiliar, as if she was warning me of something. Two days later she was gone. I never found her perfect dress for me, or spoke to her, or heard her voice, or smelled her coconut shampoo, or sat on her Moroccan blanket ever again. And yet somehow I was happy. I was in, for real this time.
Without regard to Anise, in order of preference: