Envy
Note: written for my ELA class.
Clove—District Two; Opening Ceremonies of the Hunger Games
The opening ceremonies of the Hunger Games are meant to draw attention to the tributes who have the best stylist. My stylist, Futurilo, seems to have embraced the latest Capitol fads head-on. Her lips are plump and purple, while her eyelashes are thin and green. It seems to contrast oddly on her long, sharp face. "Now, dear," she tells me, "knock 'em dead!" Then she frowns, as if my doing well will hinder her success. "Not literally, of course; save that for the arena."
She seems to have somehow decked me in cargo pants and a brick-printed shirt. Makeup on my face is at a bare minimum, although I'm sure that will change once we get around to the personal interviews. I tug at the end of the shirt, sure that Futurilo meant to make a fool of me in front of my entire country.
Then my stylist all but pushes me onto the chariot that I will ride with my district partner on. "Go, go!" she screeches. Cato is already on, and just the way he holds himself makes it seem like he is entirely at home here. I notice he is dressed almost entirely like me, except the cargo pants are replaced with shorts. I raise an eyebrow at him, since the only thing we usually have in common is our bloodlust.
He shrugs at me. "Hey, I can't control what my idiotic stylist does." He snorts and I almost crack a smile. I open my mouth to reply, but then the doors open and we are whisked away. In the silence are all the words we do not say—either because we do not have the courage or are too terrified to try—because, at exactly this moment, our entire world is watching.
The Capitol crowd gapes at us as we enter the City Circle; it is almost as if we are the first tributes they have ever seen. I refuse to be the bug caught in their web, though, so I smile a predatory grin at the group. They cheer at me, or perhaps just at the thought of the Games themselves.
Eventually I get tired of smirking at unresponsive things. I replace cockiness with arrogance by scowling as though this whole thing is suddenly beneath me. Being District Two, I am one of the first to make it to the City Circle. Cato, I want to say, how do we look?
It is near twilight now, and the audience suddenly quiets. Then they break into wild applause, chanting for Katniss, Katniss, Katniss. I swivel around, furious that my spotlight has been stolen. That is when I see the flames.
The District Twelve tributes are on fire.
My scowl deepens, and my face transforms into a mask of green envy that turns me into someone unrecognizable. The only reason she is known, in this very moment, is due to her stylist.
I am so full of resentment, of hatred, that I can only form one thought: I will kill this girl on fire.