Chapter 7:

Twelve cars pulled up to that stage. Everyone else was already there. Gamemakers and camera crews swarmed the stage and the front rows of the audience that weren't occupied with the stylists and prep teams. The whole rest of the square was a splotchy, disjointed rainbow of colored wigs, suits, and coats that spilled all the way out into the side streets where I was sure they couldn't see.

Twenty-four tributes stepped out on that stage.

Aw, a stage. I belonged on a stage. All eyes on me. I'll take them all. Mad cheering had replaced the booing from previous years. Fortunately for us, this would be our only instance of public humiliation before the Games. In a few years time, the Capitol will realize their mistake and would create a few more opportunities for us, but being dressed up once for the Capitol's pleasure, our disgrace, and our families shame would do for now.

The interviews were a good opportunity to decide on whom to bet on since money had been placed on which tribute would win since the beginning of the Hunger Games. The concept of sponsors wouldn't be introduced until the 20th Hunger Games as a more entertaining and more profitable replacement for the random and spontaneous placement of additional supplies in the arena that took place in the 19th Hunger Games. The additional funding was nice, too. After the sudden influx of money from sponsorships, the Games got much more complicated and oh, so much more exciting.

I tore my eyes from our adoring audience and took a quick look at us all up on stage. We all looked like something out of the Capitol. It was customary not to stick too closely to modern fashion when decorating a tribute, since the winning tribute's outfit tended to define the next great fashion trend. So some of us looked good, some of us looked presentable, and some of us looked ridiculous. I liked the giant shoes on District 9's guy, and I remember District 11's girl's hair was combed through with flowers. We all sat down, and, most bizarre of all, we looked like we belonged there.

The interviewer could be described as little better than one of those talking robots I sometimes saw on Capitol propaganda television, and not by much. He sat rigidly. His voice was monotone. He was even dressed all in gray. Although I did feel like he was trying to turn his question: "Any last words?" into something of a catchphrase by the way he attempted to ask it a little less robotically each time.

The interviews were short, quick, and repetitive, which made them rather boring. They'll have a more interesting guy next year. What's your name? Age? Where're you from? Family? Who's your stylist? What are you looking forward to? Many kids stumbled on that question because, no matter how many times he asked it, it always seemed to come out as unexpected. What was I looking forward to? Not dying? Someone's got to die. No one really wanted to say 'I'm looking forward to dying as quickly and as painlessly as possible while retaining some of my dignity.' Or maybe something like 'I'm looking forward to attempting suicide tonight so I don't have to deal with tomorrow.' The guy from District 6 said he was looking forward to an opportunity to punch some Capitol citizens in the face. He had a wicked grin and I decided he was awesome. After being stuck on the question myself, I just said that I was looking forward to training. It became a safe answer for the kids after me to use. I say 'kids' because I'm pretty sure I was the oldest one there. I certainly looked the oldest, anyway.

When he asked me his last question, if I had any last words, I realized that the last thing I had said to my family was that boys can't volunteer for girls. No good-byes. No good-luck. Just a sharp and quick 'there's nothing you can do.' I didn't think saying I love you over the T.V. would ever be enough, but it was that or nothing, so I poured my heart out and left it on the stage, hoping that the other tributes would see it. The more I think about it, the more I think that maybe I'm the one that started strategies in the Games: faking yourself to gain an advantage. It worked and I never looked back. I even advised others on how to do it too. Because we're winners.

I was not able to be nervous during the interviews because I was straining to hear what all the other tributes were saying, attempting to detect clues as to what they really wanted to say. To be honest, I'm not supremely talented at reading people. That's not what I'm about. I can't look at a person and tell that they have deep, unresolved issues, but I can hear when they want you to ask them a question. It's not very hard, really. Questions asked in certain tones mean that what they really want is for you to ask them the same question, because they've had a really interesting day that they want to tell you about and they're only asking you how your day was so you would return the courtesy. Often, one can easily hear what the other wants to talk about, but there are things that you want to talk about too so sometimes we don't actually hear each other. People are very centrally focused. They may not be selfish, but they do like eager listeners. I was an eager listener, because these people were going to keep me alive.

I had already decided I was going to try to befriend as many of the tributes as possible, but I was trying to pick out ones that sounded like they'd be a little easier or, at least, more fun to win over than others.

My favorite response to the interview robot's last question was one from the District 7 girl, the one that Del and I had happily waved at. "Any last words?" the man asked, drawing it out and ending it with a long upward inflection. The girl turned, looked straight at the nearest camera, and answered clearly. "Words don't last." She excused herself. Cliché, but effective. Sara Thatch. Good girl. I wouldn't do right by her.

I decided the guy from 12 was awesome as well when he started answering the robot's questions in rapid-fire succession. It wasn't until the robot interviewer started asking questions that I hadn't heard asked before that I realized that Maytew, the sixteen year old male tribute from District 12 that had 3 older sisters and one younger, and had a stylist named Pinto, was testing to see how many questions the interviewer had on his clipboard. What are your parent's like? They're nice people- I love 'em. Next. Do you have any pets? No. Next. What's your weapon of choice? Pick-axe. Next. Why? The irony. Next. What are your hobbies? I smoke.

I doubt all his answer were believable, but he didn't give the interviewer a moment. When the time finally ran short and the interviewer asked Maytew if he had any last words, the boy gave an incredulous, half laughing howl. "How many questions were left?"

Our interviewer paused and counted seventeen.

"Seventeen?" the boy howled again. "How many questions were on the list in the first place?"

The interviewer answered one-hundred-and-fifty.

The boy howled again. "Who in the coal fire would write you one-hundred-and-fifty questions to ask in three minutes?" The interviewer had no idea. Maytew quickly shouted 'I love you' to his mom and the interviews were done.

There was a brief address from president Fairticket. He hadn't been president during the Dark Days and he would be replaced several times before the Capitol finally got someone who could hold the post for more than five years. Apparently being president of the known world is hazardous to your health. Thank goodness I wasn't eligible.

We stood for the anthem and then were quickly smuggled back into our cars and quickly stuffed back into our dormitories. I tested embarrassed smiles on the other tributes I passed on the way in. I walked a little awkwardly in my high heels so they looked like they were hurting and I wanted out of them more than anything. I pushed painted hair out of my face and my spine started to bend awkwardly. I heard Jarvis laugh and then Del came up behind me, grabbed me by the arm and dragged me into the elevator. "Stop hamming it up," he spat, clearly frustrated.

"I'm not hamming it up." I attempted to unstrap my shoes while balancing in the elevator, but it proved beyond my know-how. I could've figured it out, but I wouldn't let Del know that. "I don't wear high heels. They're painful and impractical." Del didn't talk to me for the rest of the evening.

We showered, we changed, and we gathered for dinner looking like our normal selves, except for the strange colored clothes. Jarvis was late, but he was laughing when he burst into the room. He leapt over the table and threw an arm around me. "Good show, Jammy. You're better than I thought you were. They all saw Adel drag you off. It was brilliant!"

Del threw his plate and it shattered against the wall just left of Jarvis' head. He then took his stylist's plate and threw that as well. Then, having gotten a better idea, he grabbed hold of the linen tablecloth and yanked the whole thing down to his feet and stormed out of the room.

The sudden crash of the plates had surprised me, but the action didn't really. I wish that I had felt that much anger at the situation as well. It might've helped me feel a bit more human.

Jarvis wasn't fazed by the attack at all. In fact, he was grinning. He whispered down to me, "I told him not to help you because it would make him seem weak and he ran right over and grabbed you. Guys are so predictable."

I sighed for him. "I know exactly what you mean."

We rewatched the interviews and I had Jarvis quiz me on the tributes' names before I turned in for the night. I wanted to make some sort of peace with Del, but after standing outside his door for twenty minutes, I gave up when I couldn't think of anything to say. Thinking was never my strong point.