Chapter Two
Three of the most annoying, clueless, superficial people I ever met circled around me, plucking, cutting, and ripping at every stray hair they felt caused them personal offense. I admitted I'd cared less about my appearance the last few months than I used to. More important things had popped up. Clearly, these three did not believe anything could trump one's personal appearance.
I was stark naked while they washed my skin, plucked my eyebrows, manicured my nails, and trimmed my platinum blonde hair. I felt exposed, and while I wanted to cover up, I knew that in a way they were helping me.
Sponsors would play a major role in these Games as well, and the way to get them was to please the crowd. The Capitol's biggest weakness, besides laziness and gullibility, was vanity. We appreciated beauty, strove to achieve it, and adored those who had it, either artificially or naturally. We concerned ourselves with ends more than means. An achievement mattered far more than the steps that led to it.
Two were men, and one was a woman. Their names were Diaspo, Dion, and Diamond, and they all had the same general cast of features: long noses, hazel eyes, and an open expression on their faces. I figured they were siblings, no more than four or five years apart all total. There biggest differences laid in their hair choices. Diaspo had long, straight black hair. Dion kept his hair short and bright pink. Diamond had hers in braids with actual diamonds in them. She also had diamonds embedded in her skin at the corner of her eyes.
Hundreds of Capitol citizens transformed their bodies to fit their ideals of beauty. Diamond's jewelry embellishments were far more tame than many I saw while growing up. I encountered one woman who had turned her nails into legitimate cat claws, had her pupils slitted to match those of a cat, had dyed her skin an orange color, and had turned her ears into cat ears. She was considered the extreme. Most just dyed their hair unnatural colors or wore more makeup than should be humanly possible.
They gossiped about the latest news, the parties they attended recently, and the current climate of this years Games, and how excited they were to be a part of them. For them, nothing had changed at all. How could anyone be excited for this? Six months ago, every prep team and stylist was assassinated. Did these three have no sense of self-preservation? Come to think of it, how did they manage to recruit seventy-five stylists, fifteen escorts, and seventy-five prep teams? I doubted people were lining up for the opportunity.
"We are so happy we got you, Ms. Snow!" Dion exclaimed while he meticulously filed my nails. That was about the seventh time he'd said that in the past hour. Every time he said it, I became more and more self-conscious. I always replied, "Thank you" in my sweetest voice. Sure, they were preparing me for slaughter, but that didn't mean I could disrespect them.
"We requested you specifically, you know," his brother added.
Well that was something. "That's very nice of you," I told them. Nothing like feeling wanted.
Time dragged on and I marveled at how they kept it all up. I was scrubbed with several concoctions, each smelling more interesting than the last. By the time they finished with the last, my skin practically glowed, and that obnoxious pimple on my chin was finally gone. I tried for weeks to kill the stubborn thing. Whatever substances they used, they were effective. I couldn't deny that.
The downside was that I felt raw, sensitive, as if my skin would peel at the slightest irritation. The sensation left me with a sense of vulnerability.
"You're going to love Cicero," Diamond assured me. She had a lovely, melodic voice. She should've gone into singing rather than fashion. It was probably the safer route too.
Truth be told, I hadn't thought of my stylist that much. I wondered if he requested me too. Was I the hot commodity of these Games? I supposed several of us would be. Autumn, along with a few others, were the children of previous gamemakers, and several of us descended from prominent families.
I was curious as to the general population's attitude towards the Games, particularly in the districts. I withdrew into myself a lot during the last few months, removing myself from the daily troubles and nonsenses of daily life. I continued to attend school because it was required, but no one there discussed the upcoming Games, not seriously anyway. The only two people I talked to regularly were my mother and Autumn. Caliban had tried to contact me, but I blew him off every time.
To help pass the time, I decided to actually attempt conversation with my prep team. "So, do you know much about the upcoming Games? It must be hard compensating for nearly three times the regular number."
"Girl, you have no idea," said Dion. "This has been exhausting. They started recruiting and organizing four months ago. As you've obviously realized, everybody has their own stylist and prep team, and there's an escort for every three of you. After what happened to the stylists and prep teams of the last Games, they had some issues finding replacements."
So they were aware of the dangers. That was interesting.
"What made you sign up? Or is that too personal?"
"Of course not, baby doll! It was our dream to be a prep team for the Games, but we never made the cut. When the chance arose, we had to take it."
"With some legal protection," Diamond added while brushing my hair. "No way were we going out like the last groups. We had the president herself sign a document declaring our protection, along with the protection for all the other teams as well, and made he read it during an assembly. That way she'd be forced to keep her word."
For gossipy airheads, my prep team had some sense. I found I liked them more after hearing about how they got here.
"Why'd you want me then? That can't be a status booster. I'm among the most hated people in the country after all." What I said was true. I endured torrents of abuse, verbal and some physical, after the rebellion ended. Snow failed to protect the Capitol, and since I was the nearest relative, I suffered the consequences. It was one of the reasons I stopped associating with other people. Better to be alone than beaten.
"Baby doll, don't be hard on yourself," ordered Dion, who I realized was the most talkative of the three. "What your grandfather did is on him and no one else, especially not you. Honestly, we wanted to meet the famous granddaughter of President Snow. You are a lot like him in some ways. Reserved, pensive, thoughtful. I can practically hear your brain whirring!"
That was because he raised me to be that way. Enemies needed your help to overpower you. Show them no weakness, no way to gain a foothold, and they would find conquering you far more challenging. That was true in the political and social arenas anyway. Sadly, the Hunger Games' arena operated on different rules.
"Do you think I stand a chance?" I whispered.
"Of course!" screamed Dion and Diaspo while Diamond asked, "Honestly?"
I ignored the two boys. "Yes, honestly."
"Sweetness, you're the biggest target. Both by the gamemakers and the other tributes. You will have to work twice as hard just to even have a chance at survival. The betting already started you know, and the odds are definitely against you."
It was what I already expected, but hearing it said out loud made it so much more real. I appreciated Diamond's candor. My entire life, people avoided telling me things I might not want to hear. It frustrated me to no end. They feared the wrath of my family, I supposed. Diamond seemed so different from her brothers, more aware and cautious. Something told me she was hesitant about doing the Games, and that her brothers probably convinced her.
I didn't say anything after that. What was there to say? They kept up their conversation, but it seemed more somber. I got the impression Diamond bummed her brothers out with her straightforward answer to my question. They certainly seemed less bubbly after it.
After what felt like hours, they deemed me acceptable for the eyes of my stylist. They helped me out of the chair, and Dion held a white robe out to me that I shrugged on carelessly. They took me into a room adjacent to the salon-style one where they made me over. He waited for me at the back of the room, standing next to fireplace where a small flame flickered.
"Thank you. Please leave us now," he said to his prep team without even looking towards the door. They exited wordlessly, leaving me alone with the aloof figure. He turned to face me.
An attractive, youthful man stood before me, with perfect green eyes and medium length blonde hair that had streaks of purple. Unlike most stylists I had seen, he wore little makeup and clearly hadn't undergone surgery. He wore a tailored black suit with a purple shirt underneath that brought out the highlights in his hair. He definitely dressed well, so that inspired some confidence.
He walked around me, inspecting the work his team did. I became more and more aware of the fact that only a robe hid my body from him, and I feared he would make me remove it. Cooperation was key, so I would, but that didn't mean I'd be happy about it. Luckily for me and my self-consciousness, he left it on. There were times when his face was so close to me I could feel his breath on my skin. When he finished, he merely grunted his approval after five minutes of close evaluation.
"You really are quite beautiful, aren't you?" His voice was deep and velvety, with a rumbling quality to it.
"Umm," I stammered awkwardly. "Thank you?" I'd been called beautiful, gorgeous, stunning, etc. since I was fourteen years old. I never let it get to me though. I always attributed it to people trying to flatter me to gain my favor. The only feature I felt particularly proud of was my long platinum hair, which I had naturally, without the aid of dye. That and my eyes, which ranged from storm-cloud gray to nearly silver.
He snickered to himself. I was so happy I amused him. "Don't feel insecure please. I really do mean it. You are a beautiful young lady. I'd always thought the rumors were exaggerated, and that all your pictures and video appearances had been cosmetically altered. Sorry to be so skeptical, but technology does make us question what's real or fake."
"Well thank you," I said. "Am I beautiful enough to stay alive then?"
"Don't you know?"
"Know what?"
"People either seek to protect what's beautiful, sacrificing all they have to do so, or they aim to destroy what's beautiful, sacrificing all they have to do so. Which do you think will happen where you're going?"
"That's just great," I declared, allowing the sarcasm to flow.
"Isn't it? People really are capable of almost anything. Now, let me explain to you how the parade will work. Before, a single chariot was used for every district, both tributes standing side by side. Obviously, that won't work this year. The final groups of three are being determined right now, so I don't quite know what to expect. All the stylists have had to work together to come up with several possibilities depending on the final group of three we end up with. I have my preferences for whom my coworkers will be, but that is neither here nor there.
"Regardless, we have been tasked to prepare outfits that will fit into certain categories, and we will be told them as soon as they are assigned, which should be any minute now. Some of the themes are: the seasons, the elements, day and night, nature, modernization, blah blah blah."
"And you have outfits prepared for all of these?" I questioned, amazement clear on my face.
He smiled. "It's been a hectic four months. But yes, I have made sketches or full outfits for every single theme they gave me, for both boys and girls. I can't tell you how happy I was they gave me a girl."
"Why is that?"
"Girls have so many more opportunities for fashion," he said simply.
Someone knocked on the door. "That should be the escort rounding us all up. You excited to find out which fellow tributes you'll bunk with?"
"Ecstatic," I revealed.
"Come in," said Cicero, amusement twinkling in his eyes.
Sure enough, an escort walked in. Not the same one I had before. No, I would recognize this one anywhere. Effie Trinket, with her pink hair and ridiculous shoes, announced it was time for us to meet the members of my trio.
Her presence stunned me. Was being an escort so programmed into who she was that she couldn't pass up the chance? Katniss was the most famous person in the country, for good or for bad, and Effie was her escort, which made her just as well known. How would she react if I asked about her previous tribute, the one who caused so much trouble? Better not to risk it, not yet anyway.
She guided us to a room where four people waited. I saw that both tributes wore the same white robe I did. One of the kids looked fourteen, and I had no memory of him whatsoever. What was his name? Well, he'd introduce himself. The other made my heart skip a beat. Caliban, looking as carelessly handsome as ever, leaned against a wall with his hands in his pockets. He seemed bored, uninterested, which he probably was.
"Hey, sweetheart," he said. "How's your day been?"
Fighting the impulse to claw his eyes out for calling me sweetheart, I said, "I've had better, I've had worse. Pretty average so far, I'd say. You?"
"No complaints personally."
"Cicero," I started, "tell me this is a joke and I'm not actually stuck with him."
He just shook his head. "Sorry, beautiful. He ended up with one of the stylists I requested to work with. Turns out they actually did keep their promise of trying to put us into teams we'd like."
"Well isn't that fantastic."
"Do you know our theme yet, Casca?" Cicero asked the taller stylist in the room. He had dark hair, blue eyes, and looked like the type to brood conspiratorially.
"No."
"I have your theme right here," said Effie. She reached into the handbag she carried and pulled out a folder. She opened it and read the first paper. "Ah, here we are. The tributes Aurora Snow, Caliban Howser, and Bertram Amiens—stylists Cicero, Casca, and Metellus—will have the theme of winter. Their costumes for the parade must adhere to the theme assigned. Any deviations will be penalized."
"Really?" asked Caliban. "They gave Aurora winter? That's the creative capacity of this year's gamemakers?"
Cicero laughed at the insult. "You have to love the predictability of it. You three wait here with Effie. We have to go prepare your costumes. We'll be back in two at the latest hours. The Parade starts at five. Have fun!"
I took a seat next to Bertram, shooting Caliban a shooting glare as I did so. Two hours in a confined space with Cal. I definitely hadn't seen that one coming.
"Well now, children!" said Effie, "let's get to know each other! I'm Effie Trinket, your escort throughout the Games."
"We know who you are, lady," said Cal. "Everyone does."
"Manners matter, Mr. Howser," she chastised, scowling at the boy.
"Yes, let me tell you. They're so high up on my list of importance right now."
"Sarcastic remarks do not fall into the category of polite, Mr. Howser," she lectured.
I loved watching Effie reprimand him. It reminded me of school, where teachers were constantly on his case for not applying himself. They all gave the same speech: "you're such a bright boy, why don't you just do your work?" He always gave the same snarky, arrogant answer: "because your class is stupid and beneath me."
Listening to this for two hours would get real old, real fast though, so I intervened. "Cal, behave for the next few hours, please? Thank you. Ms. Trinket, it's nice to meet you. Bertram, how are you holding up?"
To my infinite surprise, Caliban abstained from shooting a snide remark.
Bertram answered first, though he seemed surprised at being addressed. "I guess I'm doing as well as can be expected. You?"
"I'm doing well, thank you for asking."
Effie seemed delighted. "I must say, it is wonderful to see young people conduct themselves so graciously! We're going to have the best time, I'm sure!"
She kept up a constant stream of conversation after that. I believed she could talk forever if given the occasion or the inclination. Caliban stayed relatively complacent for the remainder of the time. He would answer her questions if directed towards him without his usual amount of sneering. She asked about our families, our friends, what we'd wanted to do with our lives. She thought she was being cordial and friendly, but really all she did was make us miserable. She was determined to discuss all the aspects of our lives we were being forced to leave behind. Those things we didn't want to think about because it was too painful.
Bertram was quiet, but Effie dragged him into her world, forcing him to cooperate with her. She seemed as though she really was curious about our lives. It was comforting and infuriating at the same time.
After an hour with her, I could only describe this woman as psychotically chipper. The level of perk radiating off Effie astounded me. In a way, it was amusing and entertaining. But, it also made me consider becoming a murderer a few days ahead of schedule, and that would probably be frowned upon. We were only to murder according to their rules and standards. No individual psychopathic sprees.
Cicero returned, shattering my imaginary world where Effie liked to be quiet. "Come on, kiddos. We're going to take you each to a private room to get ready. Effie, thank you for watching them."
She nodded, as though she'd performed some sacred duty. I never realized babysitting was so important.
I followed my stylist to yet another room. This was becoming ridiculous. In a corner of the room was a huge rack with clothes hanging. Numerous dresses, jackets, shirts, pants, and skirts existed side-by-side. If only people could coexist as easily as inanimate objects. Cicero sauntered over to the rack, his hand reaching for a stunning dress without hesitation. He helped me get it on.
The top half was silver, and the color started to morph into a cool blue at my hips. It felt lightweight, which I appreciated, and brilliant, glittery blue snowflakes dotted the dress at random intervals on the silver half, primarily across my chest. Aurora Snow, wearing snowflakes. I almost vomited from the childish irony. Still, I looked amazing.
"It's perfect," I told Cicero.
"Of course it is, kiddo. I made it."
"You're so humble," I joked.
He shrugged. "False modesty is no more desirable than arrogance. There's nothing wrong with a healthy confidence and pride in one's work. In fact, if there isn't one, then you're probably in the wrong business and should find a new one."
He applied my makeup quickly, using a light hand. I received silver eye shadow, some blue glitter in my hair—I could only think of Cal's blue highlights—blue lipstick, and he made my cheeks redder to give the appearance I'd been in chilly air.
"When does the parade start?"
"As soon as every tribute gets there. Come on, we're behind schedule, and if there's one thing you don't want to see, it's Effie when people are behind schedule. She goes absolutely nuts."
Most of the other tributes were in the room where we would begin the parade. I saw twenty-five chariots arranged in order. The children standing besides them all wore thrilling outfits, though some were just out there. One boy had a glowing star on top of his head, and another looked uncomfortable wearing a giant daffodil. His theme must have been either flowers or spring; either way, he wasn't likely to dazzle the crowd.
"Hey there, sweetheart," said Cal, walking up behind me. His suit matched mine. A silver jacket, blue shirt and pants, and snowflakes across the shirt. I understood what Cicero mentioned about girls' clothing providing more opportunities. While his costume was certainly stunning, it lacked the regal quality mine possessed. Or it could just be that I pulled my dress of better than he pulled off his ensemble, but I doubted that. Caliban was nothing if not attractive. Rude and frustrating, but lovely to look at.
"I know I told you to stop calling me that."
"Cause I'm known for doing what people tell me to."
He got me there. "Where's Bertram?"
"I'm right here," he said, coming from nowhere. He wore the exact same outfit as Cal, though I admitted he looked about half as good. Bertram was still growing into himself, being about six inches shorter than Cal, and his dull brown hair failed to compete with Cal's magnificent blue. His eyes also lacked the dark, mysterious quality of Cal's. Not that I was too concerned. I wanted one of two people to make it out of the arena: myself or Autumn, so quite honestly I was sort of happy he wasn't too impressive. Then I detested myself for feeling such hateful, cruel thoughts.
"Up you go," demanded Cicero, materializing out of nowhere. The three of us stepped into our carriage, which was pulled by two gorgeous white horses. To match us, they had silver and blue blankets on their backs with glittering snowflakes. We were set to go thirteenth, right in the middle of the procession. Music started somewhere, and the first carriage set off down the lane. I wondered if audiences had shown up, now that it was their own children going through this.
I stood in between Bertram and Cal, anticipating when our chariot would start moving. I clutched the front of the thing nervously.
"Listen," said Cicero from the ground, "your theme is winter. I want all three of you to be as cold as ice. Even colder if you can mention it. Do not look at the audience, do not make eye contact with anyone. Stare straight ahead with your heads held high. Give the audience nothing."
I obeyed my stylist, transforming my face into my most stoic mask of indifference. I'd mastered this look a long time ago. His instructions pleased me. I was good at ignoring people who demanded my attention. I'd been practicing on a woman named "mom" my entire life.
Our carriage jerked forward. I stopped myself from turning my head, but I heard the familiar cheering and screams from the crowd. Disappointment devoured me. Even with their own children riding to their doom, these people applauded and screamed in excitement. They got points for consistency. And tackiness. I consoled myself by saying district inhabitants must have ventured to the Capitol to witness the events, but even then it couldn't explain the raucous fanfare unfolding around me.
We reached the end of the avenue and our horses came to a stop in the appropriate place. They were so well-trained. Once all the chariots halted, facing the same stage where the Reaping took place only this morning. It was hard to believe it was only seven hours ago. It seemed so much longer.
From the balcony above the city circle, where my grandfather had always addressed the crowd, Paylor gave the official welcome. During her speech, the cameras zoom in on the various tributes. On the screens, I see the vast number of tributes situated around the city circle. I again realize how many there are of us. The national anthem played to conclude the ceremony, and we depart into the traditional Training Center, where we would spend the next few days preparing for the Games.
I was apprehensive before the parade, but after hearing the crowd's ovation I only felt hollow. Did anything ever really change? After all, didn't Panem rise out of the ashes of a previous country long ago? A country that destroyed itself through various mistakes and miscalculations. I supposed the part of humanity that thirsted for carnage and disaster could never be satiated. The victims didn't matter, so long as they had their entertainment.
Effie, Cicero, and the other stylists took us to our floor in the training center. Apparently they had remodeled it to make up for the extra tributes. Instead of only having twelve floors, it had twenty-five. How they added thirteen floors in four months, I didn't fathom, but it certainly wasn't my place to ask questions. Our floor was number thirteen, same as our place in the parade.
We rode up the beautiful crystal elevator. I just wanted to go to sleep. Once the doors opened, I asked where my room was, ignoring the beautiful room, and marched to it directly. Upon hitting the bed, which was immensely comfortable, I passed out, hoping I'd never wake up again. It was much better to die a painless death in my sleep than a brutal one on camera.
