As soon as I step out of the train, several Peacekeepers appear and escort me down the path and into the Remake Center. The road has already been roped off on either side, and the Capitol citizens are abiding by the barrier, but I guess they want to give us extra protection or make things seem more ceremonious.
March and I are escorted into the green-tinted building together, but as soon as we're inside, we are taken separate ways. I'm helped onto a wheeled bed, as though I'm a hospital patient, and brought to a wide room with many areas divided by shiny curtains. My bed is pushed into one of the spaces, and then I'm left there. For a moment, I have no idea what I'm supposed to do, but then I see three people approaching me.
My prep team introduce themselves. The woman with the neon orange wig is Lucilia, and the twins, Alvin and Melvina, are her colleagues. Both of them are wearing green lipstick and yellow contact lenses, giving them a slightly snakelike appearance. The trio makes me remove all my clothing, and when I'm fully nude, they start slathering what I eventually ascertain is melted beeswax all over my legs.
"This is going to hurt a bit," Lucilia says cheerfully as she applies a strip of fabric, flattens it smooth, and then pulls it back suddenly, pulling out a large patch of my hair with it.
I yelp and then instinctively cover my mouth. It hurts far more than "a bit," and this is just the beginning. I can hear screeches coming from elsewhere, so I guess all the other tributes are getting this same treatment. Is the point to make us look even younger?
"Sorry, hun," says Alvin. "But at least your hair isn't too thick. That would make it a lot worse."
"That's true," Melvina says as she lays on another piece of fabric. "Oh, you should've seen last year's tributes. Hair like sheep! Had to do two rounds of waxing on that pair." She and Alvin share a giggle over this. Apparently, seeing tributes in pain even outside of the arena is just as entertaining for them.
After what feels like about six years, the torturous hair removal ends. My arms, legs, and armpits are now perfectly smooth... and highly irritated. I reach down to touch them, but Lucilia stops me. "No, no, dearie," she says. The twins start rubbing minty green goop all over the places they waxed, which takes the edge off the pain and tones down some of the redness.
Then, with no warning, the bed is in motion again, and I'm sped down a series of hallways and finally deposited in a small pink room with nothing but a mirror and a clothing rack that holds only a robe. Having now been totally nude in front of strangers for a few hours, I jump at the chance to actually wear something, so I grab the robe and put it on before sitting back down on the bed.
I don't have to wait long this time. The door springs open and in walks my stylist. She's a short, plump woman with a black bob, enormous black eyeglasses, and no makeup whatsoever. Her name is Atia Millhenry, she explains as she grabs my hand and gives it a shake. Atia doesn't bother introducing me to her assistant, a tall woman with sparkly blue hair who seems to be perpetually taking notes on a clipboard.
"All right," Atia says. "Seeder. See-see. Anyone call ya See-see back in 11? I feel like it would work for you. Maybe try it out." It's then I notice that Atia is chewing gum. It sure doesn't slow down her speech at all. "OK, so let me tell you. I've been working with the District 11 tribute gals for my whole career now, and I love it. Love it to bits. 'Tween you and me, you're one of the best from a design standpoint. It's all about color, right? Yeah. So I think, fruits. Veggies. Plants. The palette of nature."
Throughout all this, I'm just watching her and nodding slowly. I don't think I've ever seen a more talkative person in my entire life. And Atia has plenty of ideas, too. At first she wants to do something tree-themed, but then realizes that'd be stealing District 7's style, so that's a no-go. A look that's too farmer-ish can end up giving a District 10 feel, so that's also out. "Why don't you tell me exactly what you do in 11," Atia suggests.
So I tell her. I tell her about the different kinds of apples we grow – the super sweet Honeycrisps, the tart but delicious McIntoshes, the intensely red Romes. Then I tell her about peaches and how careful you have to be when you're checking them for ripeness; a gentle squeeze is all you need. And then I find myself thinking of working in the fields with Carissa, and I'm instantly returned to the realization that I'll probably never see her or Clover or my parents or anyone I love again. The next thing I know, I'm sobbing.
Atia's assistant passes me a handkerchief and kind of pats me on the back. Atia herself looks oddly pleased. "OK, I'm sensing something here. You know what that is? A theme. We love a theme, don't we? A trib who's passionate about her home district. Ugh, I just adore it." She thinks for a minute, and then a huge smile spreads across her face. "See-see Allingham, hometown hero. Is that not great? OK, you're talkin' apples and peaches. And just like that, I'm seeing colors for you. Reds, pinks, greens and yellows. It's autumnal. It's in. Are we getting this? Good. Excellent. The wheels in this head of mine are turning." She blows a bubble with her gum. "OK, I'm ready to get going." On cue, the assistant hands her notepad to Atia, who flips to a new page and starts drawing. Then, without saying goodbye (or anything else), she walks right out of the room.
To my surprise, her assistant does not follow. Instead, she presses a button on the wall I didn't notice, revealing the outline of a door, which she pushes open. She beckons me to follow her, and we walk into an adjoining room, which contains two blue armchairs and a long, thin white table covered in different colored squares. The woman and I each take a seat, and I look down at the squares, trying to figure out what I'm meant to do with them.
"The brown ones are the main course," Atia's assistant says. Her voice is high and very nasal. "The white, yellow, and green ones are the sides, and the pink ones are the dessert. It's something new they're trying." The woman finally meets my gaze. "My name is Patience, by the way."
Looking at Patience up close now, I see it's not just her hair that's sparkly. She has a fine dusting of glitter all over her face. I start to wonder how it stays on, but my thoughts quickly move to the food in front of me. I help myself to one of the brown squares, eating the whole thing in one bite. The flavor is beefy and intensely savory, although the soft texture is a little weird. The yellow squares taste like corn with a hint of spice, but I can't quite make up my mind about what the other sides are supposed to be. For her part, Patience takes little nibbles from a white square.
"Well, what do you think?" I ask her, trying to make conversation.
She puts the square down and stares at it. "I wouldn't personally have chosen this menu," she answers.
Is she shy? Maybe she thinks I'm below her. I have another question, though. "So, where did Atia go?"
"She'll be doing some sketches based on what you two talked about. Then she'll meet with your district partner's stylist and they'll finalize their designs together. You'll be matching for the tribute parade, of course, but you'll have your own unique outfit for the interviews, and later on, if…" Patience's gaze goes back to her half-eaten white square. "If that's necessary."
What she means is if I survive – if I win the Games. She doesn't say that, though, because she knows how unlikely it is.
The next time I see Atia, she's accompanied by March and his stylist, Florus. Our clothes are on their way, but first: hair and makeup. Our faces are dusted with a collection of powders that mask the effects of years of sun exposure and malnutrition and make us look glowing and healthy. We both have shadow brushed onto our eyelids and gloss rubbed onto our lips, but I get a few additional steps: rosy blush for my cheeks and an artificial pair of eyelashes glued on top of my real ones.
"Your eyes are so huge and so gold," Florus says as he helps Atia apply them. "Lucky you." Part of me wants to point out how lucky he is because neither he nor any children he has will ever have to participate in the Games, but obviously, I stay silent.
Then it's time for hairstyling. I don't know exactly what Atia is doing, but when she's finished, my dry, straight strands have been transformed into glorious, bouncy, gleaming waves. March's hair has about doubled in size and has lighter streaks in it. I must admit… we look pretty great.
The most important step comes last – our outfits. Atia and Florus make us cover our eyes as they get us dressed, which ends up taking a little longer than expected as they have to make a handful of adjustments. After all the poking and turning is finished, we're finally invited to see how we look. I'm in a very long dress splashed with pink, red, orange and green tones; March is in a suit of the same fabric. They're quite gorgeous.
"One last thing," Atia says. A gold necklace with a large peach pendant is draped onto my shoulders; March gets a similar one with a silver apple. They're shining beautifully, but I feel a tinge of sadness for March. Both of these are references to me and my story. Surely March told Florus about what he does in 11, yet here he is represented by the work I do. I suppose the stylists must have felt that a potato or beetroot wouldn't be very recognizable, but still, it seems a little unfair. March doesn't appear to mind, though. He's just staring at his mirror reflection, dumbfounded.
Before we leave, we have to get the final approval of Golden Laronius. He walks in wearing the same white and purple outfit from this morning, but now with a jacket added and a second layer of eye makeup. "Well, hello, you two!" he gushes. "From drab to fab. A peach blossom and an apple bloom! It's so fresh. It's so District 11. I love it!"
OK. Whatever, Golden.
Golden and the stylists bring us to the basement of the Remake Center, where all the tributes are boarding chariots. March and I climb onto ours, which is led by four horses that have a bright red coat… for apples, I guess. I take the opportunity to steal a few glances at the other districts' tributes. The girl from District 3 still has her long hair, but it's been styled to be big and frizzy. Maybe she's supposed to look as though she's received an electric shock. I notice that the girl from 9 is unusually tall, and her male counterpart has been fitted in shoes with tall platforms so he's closer to her equal. I stifle a laugh.
The gates on the opposite side of the room are starting to open, so Atia and Florus do the last of their makeup touch-ups and then step back so our chariot can begin moving. The Games' theme song starts to play as the District 1 chariot begins its exit. It's not long before the District 10 tributes are out and we begin leaving, too.
The air isn't cold as we move outside, but it is a little windy. I feel a spark of sympathy for the tributes who are close to naked; there's always a pair, every single year. It is, however, extremely loud. Over the blaring music, I can hear the crowd yelling out the names of the various tributes and districts, including a few shouts of Seeder! There's no way to discern who exactly is calling for me, so I just give a wave and smile to everyone. I turn so that they can all get a glimpse of the shiny peach on my neck, which elicits a chorus of "Ooohs." Nice one, Atia. The crowd throws flowers, and I manage to catch one; then I hold it to my face and kiss it in appreciation. That goes over well. Finally, we begin to near the City Circle, the end of the line. At this point, I've done all I can to make these people like me.
President Snow welcomes us as our chariots come to a stop outside his mansion. "Hello, and congratulations," his voice booms as the music dies down. I'm not paying much attention, though. All us tributes are looking at each other, trying to measure how successful our looks were. This year it's the District 2 tributes who got the nearly-nude style – not that it really detracts from how scary they look, thanks to their muscles and aggressive expressions. Everyone else looks confused, frightened, or embarrassed.
Before I know it, the president's speech is ending, the crowd is going wild once again, and our horses are leading us into the gigantic building called the Training Center. This is where we will stay until the day the Games begin. For most of us, it will be the last place we ever live.