As soon as we get to the Capitol I'm carted off to the Remake Center to prepare. It's quite an ordeal. Unpleasant is an understatement. And I'm not shy about expressing my distaste for it. My prep-team is less than pleased with me. They enjoy waxing the hair off of my legs a little too much after they endure my temper tantrum.
The first, and arguably the one in charge, is Iovita. She's a slight young woman, probably only three or so years older than me. Her hair is shock green and her eyelashes are too long to be real. Other than that she's fairly normal. She's quiet but firm. The other woman is Zenais who's her opposite. She's thicker set, with a wild mane of red hair that sparkles whenever she moves. She has dark swirls of tattoos flowering up from the collar of her dress to the bone of her jaw. She's loud. And she likes me the least. Thales is the only male of the group. He's as loud as Zenais but less decorated. His skin is a deep turquoise, as if he's been drowned before and his skin never got the blood back.
When the three have finished preparing me I feel like a skinned vegetable. Waxed, rubbed, spritzed, pulled, tugged –everything is sore. They set my hair in soft gold curls with inlays of green foliage and my face has remained more or less neutral. A little gold play on the eyes, minimal red on my cheeks and a pink touch to my lips. And now, I'm sitting under three pairs of eyes.
They're staring so intently I want to start screaming. Ever since my fight with Thalon I feel like a tangled nerve ending. Being poked and prodded all day hasn't helped matters. My fingers go white around the edges of the chair they've sat me in.
"I just don't know," Iovita complains. I've never wanted to hit anyone more in my life.
All of a sudden the door opens. A tall, bony woman comes through with an elaborate train of black silk behind her. Her hair is white, cut close to her head. A gold tattoo decorates the left side of her face. Her lips are dark scarlet and her face is thin, flower-like. She greets me crisply, but not darkly.
"Calla, good to finally meet you. My name is Tryphosa, I'm your stylist," she comes forward and the prep team separates to let her through. Her white hand extends to me. I stare at it. I consider biting it off.
The others look horrified by my lack of respect, and it almost makes me smile. But my stylist is unmoved. Tryphosa retracts her hand and looks me over with a bird-like tilt of her head.
"What's the hold up?" her question is directed at the team.
"Her teeth," Zenais snaps.
She stares daggers at me. I return them.
"Open your mouth," Tryphosa instructs.
I do so, lest she force me. She inspects my teeth. With the vocalization of the prep team, I know what's stumping them. Ever since my adult teeth came in I've had a gap between the front two. Correcting it was a luxury no one in District 7 would have ever been able to afford. It certainly wasn't on the priority list during my childhood, or from then on. I grew up not caring one bit. Frankly, I liked my gap.
"We could correct it in a matter of seconds, but we wanted your approval," Thales says and bows his head a bit.
The comment rubs my irritated temper. The Capitol's lack of tact never ceases to amaze me. Neither does their vanity.
I meet Tryphosa's flickering, black eyes.
"Keep it," she says after a moment.
"Keep it?" Zenais guffaws.
Tryphosa taps my chin and I take it as a cue to close my mouth. She turns back on the prep team.
"Yes, look at her."
She comes forward and takes my hands, lifting me from the chair. She circles my body.
"The sharpness of her face, the musculature, this look in her eyes," she stops in front of me to observe, "It's too harsh. She'll scare away potential sponsors."
This almost makes me smile. I hold the gesture back as Tryphosa continues.
"The gap makes her human, it makes her desirable," Tryphosa smirks at me before become stern once more and turning back to the prep team, "The Capitol will eat it up. Keep the gap."
I might like Tryphosa. I like her better than my prep team, anyway. Thankfully she relieves them and we're left alone together. She readies my outfit quietly. I shift in the chair. My curls wobble around my jaw. I'm still angry about being prodded and want to pick a fight. So I break the silence.
"What's the theme this year? Bark dress and leaf hat?"
"Not quite," I hear a smirk in her voice.
"I hate dresses," I inform her like a childish brat.
"Good. Then you'll like this."
I let her dress me a little begrudgingly. But when she's finished she spins me around and I finally get a look in a mirror. It's the first glimpse of myself I've gotten all day. I don't recognize the girl staring back at me. She has big blue eyes, outlined by thick lashes and brown, sparkly powder. Her hair is like frozen ribbons of honey and leaves caress the strands as if she's born from the woods themselves.
The outfit is spectacular. I was wrong to have misjudged Tryphosa's talent. The bottom half consists of a pair of brown leather shorts that stop mid-thigh. It's finely sewed material. Tight and tough, just a touch of shine. Matching leather boots come up to meet the bare skin left by the shorts. Vines wrap around them and leaves collect at my ankles. The top is the same dark material; it rounds over my chest and stops at the tops of my ribs. Tryphosa has left my most intimidating aspects bare. My strong arms and the finely muscled surface of my abdomen make for a striking image. It's a simple ensemble. But it's effective. I look like some time of woodland warrior from a storybook.
For a moment, I'm stunned speechless. I can't find myself in the reflection. The hair, the eyes, the glowing skin, the revealing clothes –my mouth drops open softly and I get a fleeting glimpse of the gap between my teeth. I hold onto the image for dear life. It's the last part of me that remains true. Suddenly, I've decided I like Tryphosa if only because she let me keep it.
"Stunning," she murmurs from over my shoulder.
"Thanks," I say, and for the first time I think I actually mean it.
She squeezes my arm.
"Don't forget to smile."