R-i-i-i-p! I grit my teeth as Bloom, a woman with Persian Rose hair and silver tattoos out of the end of her eyes, yanks a strip of Fabric from my leg tearing out the hair beneath it. "Pardon me!" she pipes in her silly Capitol accent. "You're just hairy!"
Why do these people speak in such a pitch? Why do their jaws barely open when speak? Why do the ends of their sentences go up as if they're asking a question? Odd vowels, clipped words, and always a hiss on the letter s . . . no wonder it's impossible not to mimic them.
Bloom makes what's supposed to be a sympathetic face.
"Good news, though. This is the last one. While you're in the Arena you won't be able to grow hair for at least three weeks, this is a special wax. Ready?" I get a grip on the edges of the table I'm seated on and nod. The final swathe of my leg hair is uprooted in a painful jerk. I've been in the Remake Center for more than three hours and I still haven't met my stylist. Apparently he has no interest in seeing me until Bloom and the other members of my prep team have addressed some obvious problems. This has included scrubbing down my body with a gritty loam that has removed not only dirt but at least three layers of skin, turning my nails into uniform shapes, and primarily, ridding my body of hair. My legs, arms, torso, underarms, and in between my eyebrows, they all have been waxed off. I detest it. My skin feels sore and tingling and intensely vulnerable. But I have kept my side of the bargain with Haymitch, and no objection has crossed my lips.
"You're doing very well," says some guy named Anatolius. He has this long spiky hair in waves the starts yellow on the top and fades red on the bottom, which seems to represent fire, to go with it fiery red lipstick. He's eyes are blood red, and nails that have a fire design with a black background, in a dark night he'd scare the life out of anyone. He seems to have, this, sick obsession with fire. "There is only one thing we can't tolerate, and that is whining. Grease him down!"
Bloom and Apogee, a man who has corkscrewed lavender hair with touches of golden highlights at the tip of his hair, tell me what they'll be doing to get me ready for when I meet my stylist. Then they pull me from the table, removing the thin robe I've been allowed to wear off and on. I stand there, completely naked, as the three circle me, wielding tweezers to remove any last bits of hair. I know I should be embarrassed, but they're so unlike people that I'm no more self-conscious than if a trio of oddly colored birds were pecking around my feet.
The three steps back and admire their work. "Excellent! You almost look like a human being now!" says Anatolius, and they all laugh.
I force my lips up into a smile to show how grateful I am.
"Thanks," I say kindly. "Back home, we don't have any reason to look this good."
This wins them over completely. "Of course, you don't" says Apogee clasping her hands together in distress for me.
"No worries," says Bloom. "By the time Cosmo is through with you, you're going to be absolutely hot!"
"We promise! You know, now that we've gotten rid of all the hair and filth, you're not horrible at all!" says Anatolius encouragingly. "Let's call Cosmo!"
They dart out of the room. It's hard to hate my prep team. They're such total idiots. And yet, in an odd way, I know they're sincerely trying to help me.
I look around and decide to pick up my robe. But I know once my stylist, Cosmo, comes in, he'd tell me to take it off. I sit on the table with my feet hanging and swinging back and forth. I slide my fingers between my hair. My father, I left the clothes he gave me for the reaping on the train, now, I think I'll never retrieve them, I wish I had it with me, it would make me feel like dad's close.
The door opens and a young man who must be Cosmo enters. I'm taken aback by how normal he looks. Most of the stylists they interview on television are so dyed, stenciled, and surgically altered they're grotesque. But Cosmo's close cropped hair appears to be its natural shade of blond. He's in a simple yellow shirt and light pants. And he has rare Fern green eyes. He has pale skin, with blushing cheeks and perfectly natural pink lips to match. And, despite my disgust with the Capitol and their hideous fashions, I can't help he can pass for someone at least from district one. People there practically have those looks.
"Hello, Peeta. I'm Cosmo, your stylist," he says in a quiet voice
"Hello," I venture cautiously, and force a little smile.
"Please, take your robe off" he says, I do so, but, I can't help blushing
"No worry, that is what I'm here for" he pads my shoulder "Just give me a moment, all right?" he asks. He walks around my naked body, not touching me, but taking in every inch of it with his eyes.
"Aren't you new?" I ask "I mean I haven't seen you here before". Most of the stylists are familiar, constants in the ever changing pool of tributes. Some have been around my whole life.
"Yes, this is my first year," says Cosmo.
"So here for District twelve huh?" I say. Newcomers generally end up with the least desirable district.
"I asked for District Twelve," he says without further explanation. "Why don't you put on your robe and we'll have a chat."
I look up and find Cosmo's eyes trained on mine. "How despicable we must seem to you," he says. Has he seen this in my face or somehow read my thoughts? "No matter," says Cosmo. "So, Peeta, about your costume for the opening ceremonies, my partner, Anastatious, is the stylist for your fellow tribute, Gale. And our current thought is to dress you in complementary costumes," says Cosmo. "As you know, it's customary to reflect the flavor of the district."
For the opening ceremonies, you're supposed to wear something that suggests your district's principal industry, District 11, agriculture, District 4, fishing and District 3, factories. This means that coming from District 12, Gale and I will be in some kind of coal miner's getup. Since the baggy miner's jumpsuits are not particularly becoming, our tributes usually end up in skimpy outfits and hats with headlamps. One year, our tributes were stark naked and covered in black powder to represent coal dust. It's always dreadful and does nothing to win favor with the crowd. I prepare myself for the worst.
"So, coalmining outfits, right?" I ask
"Not exactly, you see, Anastatious and I think that coal miner thing's very overdone. No one will remember you in that. And we both see it as our job to make the District Twelve tributes unforgettable," says Cosmo. "So rather than focus on the coal mining itself, we're going to focus on the coal," says Cosmo. Naked, I think. "And what do we do with coal? We burn it," says Cosmo.
"You're not afraid of fire, are you, Peeta?" He sees my expression and grins. A few hours later, I am dressed in what will either be the most sensational or the deadliest costume in the opening ceremonies with a flared collar and tall black leather boots up to my knees. And shiny black jacket with a pair of tight black jeans. And my hair is back in waves, held by a watery gel Cosmo put in my hair. Cosmo plans to light them on fire just before our chariot rolls into the streets.
"It's not real flame, of course, just a little synthetic fire Anastatious and I came up with. You'll be perfectly safe," he says. But I'm not convinced I won't be perfectly barbecued by the time we reach the city's center.
Despite this morning's revelation about Gale's character, I'm actually relieved when he shows up, dressed in an identical costume. His stylist, Anastatious, and his team accompany him in, and everyone is absolutely giddy with excitement over what a splash we'll make. Except Cosmo, he just seems a bit weary as he accepts congratulations.
We're whisked down to the bottom level of the Remake Center, which is essentially a gigantic stable. The opening ceremonies are about to start. Pairs of tributes are being loaded into chariots pulled by teams of four horses. Ours are coal black. The animals are so well trained, no one even needs to guide their reins. Cosmo and Anastatious direct us into the chariot and carefully arrange our body positions, the drape of our capes, before moving off to consult with each other.
"Noticed?" He asks
"What" I don't think there's anything I should notice, do I, I don't know. But what he says next is true.
"We're the only district besides four that has two tributes of the same gender" he says without opening his mouth much. "Four has two girls, and us twelve, two boys, weird huh?" Now that he mentions it, yeah, it is. Last year Twelve had opposite genders, no district had two boys or two girls, one and one. This is the first time in Seventy-Five-Years of Hunger Games that this happens.
"Yeah," I say like I didn't pay much attention or that I don't care "How's your stylist?"
"Who, Anastatious" he seemed distracted "Nice, he looks nice, and yours, what's his name, Cosmo, I think"
"Real" I meant by the way he looks
And suddenly we're both laughing. I guess we're both so nervous about the Games and more pressingly, petrified of being turned into human torches, we're not acting sensibly. The opening music begins. It's easy to hear, blasted around the Capitol. Massive doors slide open revealing the crowd lined streets. The ride lasts about twenty minutes and ends up at the City Circle, where they will welcome us, play the anthem, and escort us into the Training Center, which will be our home/prison until the Games begin.
The tributes from District 1 ride out in a chariot pulled by snow-white horses. They look so beautiful, spray-painted silver, in tasteful tunics glittering with jewels. District 1 makes luxury items for the Capitol. You can hear the roar of the crowd. They are always favorites.
District 2 gets into position to follow them. In no time at all, we are approaching the door and I can see that between the overcast sky and evening hour the light is turning gray. The tributes from District 11 are just rolling out when Cosmo appears with a lighted torch. "Here we go then," he says, and before we can react he sets our capes on fire. I gasp, waiting for the heat, but there is only a faint tickling sensation. Cosmo climbs up before us and ignites our headdresses. He lets out a sign of relief. "It works." Then he gently tucks a hand under my chin. "Remember, heads high, and big smiles. They're going to love you!"
Cosmo jumps off the chariot and has one last idea. He shouts something up at us, but the music drowns him out. He shouts again and gestures.
"What's he saying?" I ask Gale. For the first time, I look at him and realize that ablaze with the fake flames, he looks great. And I must be, too.
"I think he said for us to hold hands," says Peeta. He grabs my right hand in his left, and we look to Cosmo for confirmation. He nods and gives a thumbs-up, and that's the last thing I see before we enter the city.
The crowd's initial alarm at our appearance quickly changes to cheers and shouts of "District Twelve!" Every head is turned our way, pulling the focus from the three chariots ahead of us. At first, I'm frozen, but then I catch sight of us on a large television screen and am floored by how breathtaking we look. In the deepening twilight, the firelight illuminates our faces. We seem to be leaving a trail of fire off the flowing capes. Cosmo was right about the minimal makeup, we both look more attractive but utterly recognizable. Remember, heads high, and big smiles. They're going to love you! I hear Cosmo's voice in my head. I lift my chin a bit higher, put on my most winning smile, and wave with my free hand. I'm glad now I have Gale to clutch for balance, he is so steady, solid as a rock. As I gain confidence, I actually blow a few kisses to the crowd. The people of the Capitol are going nuts, showering us with flowers, shouting our names, our first names, which they have bothered to find on the program. The pounding music, the cheers, the admiration work their way into my blood, and I can't suppress my excitement. Cosmo has given me a great advantage. No one will forget me. Not my look, not my name, Peeta. I feel a flicker of hope rising up in me. Surely, there must be one sponsor willing to take me on! And with a little extra help, some food, the right weapon, why should I count myself out of the Games?
"Peeta, Peeta!" I can hear my name being called from all sides. Everyone wants my kisses.
It's not until we enter the City Circle that I realize I must have completely stopped the circulation in Gale's hand. That's how tightly I've been holding it. I look down at our linked fingers as I loosen my grasp, but he regains his grip on me. "No, don't let go of me," he says. The firelight flickers off his gray eyes. "Please. I might fall out of this thing."
"Okay," I say. So I keep holding on, but I can't help feeling strange about the way Cosmo has linked us together. It's not really fair to present us as a team and then lock us into the arena to kill each other.
The twelve chariots fill the loop of the City Circle. On the buildings that surround the Circle, every window is packed with the most prestigious citizens of the Capitol. Our horses pull our chariot right up to President Mow's mansion, and we come to a halt. The music ends with a flourish. The president, a small, thin man with paper-white hair, gives the official welcome from a balcony above us. It is traditional to cut away to the faces of the tributes during the speech. But I can see on the screen that we are getting way more than our share of airtime. The darker it becomes, the more difficult it is to take your eyes off our flickering. When the national anthem plays, they do make an effort to do a quick cut around to each pair of tributes, but the camera holds on the District 12 chariot as it parades around the circle one final time and disappears into the Training Center. The doors have only just shut behind us when we're engulfed by the prep teams, who are nearly unintelligible as they babble out praise. As I glance around, I notice a lot of the other tributes are shooting us dirty looks, which confirms what I've suspected, we've literally outshone them all. Then Cosmo and Anastatious are there, helping us down from the chariot, carefully removing our flaming capes and headdresses. Anastatious extinguishes them with some kind of spray from a canister. I realize I'm still glued to Peeta and force my stiff fingers to open. We both massage our hands.
"Thanks for keeping hold of me. I was getting a little shaky there," says Gale.
"It didn't show," I tell him. "I'm sure they didn't notice anything. You should wear flames more often," I say. "They suit you." he gives me a smile that seems so genuinely sweet with just the right touch of shyness that unexpected warmth rushes through me.
A warning bell goes off in my head. Don't be so stupid. Im is planning how to kill you, I remind myself. Im supposed to be luring him to make him an easy prey. The more likable I am, the more deadly.
Now, what do I do?