THE OMEN GIRL | Wattys 2020 Winner

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Behind the ivory altar in the incense and smoke, I wait alongside the others of my school. My ears are ringing. I feel—untethered, like I am watching myself from above.

(Lumi is dead. Don't think about it. Don't think about it.)

I am next in the line to Join.

The girl before me has placed her hand on the star, but the star does not stir. A breath passes, then two and three and more, and still the star remains dark. The girl has been rejected. She turns from the altar to the sound of scattered applause, and wipes at her tears. Her head is dipped in shame as she leaves.

It is my turn.

I step onto the altar. I mount the stairs. I stand before the anchor and its star, and then do nothing but watch it. For a long while, all I do is watch it. The gold of its body sheens in the light. Its star hums, even in sleep. Up here, up on this peak, I feel removed, set apart. I did not ever think that holiness could be so very like loneliness.

This is not a dream. This is reality. This is happening.

I lick my lips. The air is electric.

The crowd below me is hushed, because they've all been waiting for me.

Of course they have.

If anyone is to be accepted by the star, it would be me. If anyone is to pass the Joining like no others, it would be me.

Because I am wearing Lumi's veil. Because I am wearing Lumi's mask.

Right now, all the world believes I am her.

It won't matter to anyone if Sozo disappears from the Joining. She's just a street girl, a friendless girl, someone with no ties to anyone at all that matters. But Lumi must participate. Lumi must be here.

And once I am inside the temple, only those that have taken their vows can see my face, and those people will have never seen Sozo's face, my face. And the only family Lumi has is a lone mother out in some empty farm-colony, too poor to do anything at all.

I will be safe. I'm sure of it. I am banking on it.

If I can survive.

I stretch out my hand and, with a steadying breath, settle my palm over the star.

Nothing happens. The glass skin of the star is dim. Its hum peters out. I grit my teeth. I tighten my grip over the star because no, it will not end like this. I have come too far. I have done too much. And if I do not have this, I will have nothing. The crowd remains hushed, watchful. They wait.

To the side, someone shouts. Everyone turns. Guardians are running and things outside the tent are crashing, falling, and I know from the scandalized screams exactly what it is.

Esp's Omens.

When I had told Esp my plan, and when Esp had listened, she responded by taking a cell-piece out of her pocket and calling someone, speaking to someone. That someone would come, she said, to help her hide the body. And then more people would come, she said, to make sure my job gets done.

I am not the only Omen she's gathered up over the years, just the one she's invested in the most. And now, in this moment, those Omens are trespassing loudly into the festival, to the tent, all for one purpose: to sow chaos.

When everyone's eyes are on them, none will be on me.

I turn back to the star. Please. Please.

Nothing happens still. I dip down. I press my forehead to the star and pray again: please, please.

I abhor begging. The Omens that resort to sitting by the sides of the streets, to while away their days on their knees, with their palms outstretched – I abhor them. I will die before I become anything like them.