I'm back from hiatus!
And, not to keep you waiting any longer, here's chapter eight! :D
Enjoy!
~Katniss POV~
At breakfast, Peeta refuses to let me out of his sight. During the whole meal he keeps his right elbow hooked around my left, eating a bit clumsily with his left hand. I suspect it has something – maybe everything – to do with our conversation last night. How he said we would protect each other. Afterwards, we both retreated to our own rooms, but not before Peeta had made me promise never to scare him like that again.
As I shovel heaping spoonfuls of a hearty lamb stew into my mouth, Haymitch and Peeta discuss the plan for the interviews. I listen intently, but don't speak up more than a few times. They're the ones good at dealing with people. Not me. As much as he irritates me, I know Haymitch knows what he's doing.
"Like I said to Peeta last night, after you ran off," Haymitch says, casting me a pointed glance, "Either one of you could drop the bomb. You'll be going first, Sweetheart – or, rather, second to last – so if you do it, Peeta could follow up. If Peeta does, there's more shock value."
"Peeta should do it," I say shortly.
"Exactly what I was thinking," Haymitch says, somehow making it sound like a jab at me instead of a concurrence. Before I can snap back, he goes on, "In that case, I'll speak to you each about it during coaching. You're with me first." He jerks his thumb at Peeta.
That means I'll be with Effie: presentation.
I soon learn that I am horrible at presentation. Effie collects me the moment breakfast ends and sweeps me into my room, where a floor-length gown and two pointy shoes are dropped into my arms. As I change in the bathroom, I wonder how I'm supposed to even move in one of these dresses, much less walk. And that's before Effie instructs me to strap on the heels.
"Now," she says, clapping her hands and then rubbing them together purposefully. "Walk for me."
I stare at her blankly. Walk for me? Walk where? Why?
I take one step and already my legs are shaky. It's as if I'm trying to walk on stilts, but without the hand holds. Very thin, very uncomfortable stilts. How am I supposed to walk all the way onto the stage and back on these?
Effie clucks and takes a hold of my shoulders. Her long nails dig into my skin through the tight sleeves of the dress, but I'm glad for the little bit of support. "No, no," she says. "Don't stomp. Heel-toe, heel-toe." She demonstrates slowly, and it's a bit infuriating that she can do it so easily. "Now let me see you."
I make it three wobbly steps before the skirt of my dress catches on one heel, nearly sending me tumbling face-first into the carpet. I only avoid smashing my nose in by making a wild grab for the dresser. So, of course, I pull the skirt up so it doesn't catch on the shoes. Effie then descends on me, smacking the backs of my hands and shrieking, "Not above the ankle!"
I have blisters on my heels and the sides of my feet by the time I'm finally halfway proficient at walking. At least, I go ten minutes without either one of my ankles collapsing, and Effie sighs that she supposes it's as far as I'm going to get. This, of course, ruffles me enough that it makes the next part of my torture – I mean, coaching – even worse. Being pleasant.
I have to sit straight, stand straight, cross my legs – "Either at the knee or the ankle, depending on the dress," – fold my hands, nod and perform any number of other actions. I feel like a puppet with stiff joints, having to force my muscles to move in "ladylike" ways. This, apparently, means no large steps, no slouching, no jerky nodding, no 'sloppy' waving and, especially, no ducking my head.
"Look at the audience," Effie stresses, moving my head up once again. "Or at Caesar. Just not the floor!"
Eye contact naturally comes next, something I make a point to avoid with strangers. Why would I want to look these people in the eye when they're all imagining my death? Hand gestures and smiling are both crammed into the last half hour. By the end, there's a certain hand gesture I'd like to flash Effie which she didn't cover.
I silently point to the clock the moment the second hand hits four hours.
"Oh, well," she says primly as I fling the stupid shoes halfway across the room. "That's the best I can do. Remember, Katniss, you want the audience to like you."
"And you don't think they will?" I phrase it as a question, but I think I already know her answer.
"Not if you glare at them the entire time. Why don't you save that for the arena?" Effie suggests sweetly, and I clench my teeth. "Instead, think of yourself among friends."
I growl, "They're betting on how long I'll live. They're not my friends."
"Well, try and pretend!" Effie takes a breath, then fixes a saccharine smile on her face. "See, like this. I'm smiling at you even though you're aggravating me."
A small smirk of triumph twists my lips momentarily. At least I have given Effie as much trouble as she has given me. "Yes," I say sarcastically, "It feels very convincing. I'm going to eat."
Effie mutters, "Goodness," and fans herself as I hike the troublesome skirt up to my thighs and march to lunch.
Peeta and Haymitch are both talking mildly when I fling myself down in a chair. I just grunt when Peeta asks me if something's wrong, and Haymitch guffaws.
"Effie make you into a lady yet?" he ribs, then laughs even harder as I glare fiercely at him.
"Don't listen to him," Peeta advises. "He hasn't been drinking yet and he's out of sorts."
By the way Haymitch is sniggering, I wouldn't describe him as out of sorts so much as just easily amused by others' misfortunes.
My bad temper doesn't affect my appetite, though. By the time Peeta leaves with Effie – what could she have to coach him on? Surely he won't have to deal with what I did – I've eaten my way through a hefty plate of roast beef and carrots glazed in honey. Haymitch, meanwhile, picks at his own serving, huffing impatiently until I push back from the table and growl, "Right."
He leads the way to the sitting room, where he points to the couch. I sit rigidly on the edge of a cushion as he stares at me, one hand rubbing at the scraggly beginnings of a beard. At last, when I become too uncomfortable to just sit and say nothing, I clear my throat and ask, "Did you talk to Peeta about the interviews?"
"What do you think we're here for?" he says.
I scowl. "You know what I mean. Did you talk about revealing we're a couple?"
An unexpected tremor of nausea goes through me. Saying it out loud, like that, sounds wrong. Shallow. And suddenly I imagine what it will be like. Talking about our relationship like it's some rare curiosity. I was sickened by Effie's over-exaggerated sighing and batting of eyelashes. Now, it won't just be Effie. Everyone will act like that around me. Tossing their hands up beside their temples and declaring just how wonderfully romantic it is. Gleefully doling out their money, betting on how long we'll live, if we'll betray each other in the arena, if we'll die together…
"No," I say forcefully, and realize a half second later that I just interrupted Haymitch in the middle of a sentence.
"No, what?" he says crossly.
"I don't want to do this," I say, standing. My eyes seek out the door behind Haymitch, as if I could run from the room and leave all my problems behind.
"You don't exactly have a choice here, Sweetheart," he says. "Now, sit back down."
"I don't want them to know," I growl.
He knows what I'm talking about. And he doesn't care. I can see it in his dull gray eyes. He is unimpressed at my sudden change of heart.
I start up again, unable to stop my mouth from moving. "I don't want them watching us all the time, I don't want them to know about us, I don't want them to even think about us. It just… isn't right," I finish, pounding my fist into the side of my thigh. I'm sure I'll have a bruise there by tomorrow.
"So what?" he barks, startling me enough that I look him in the eyes. "Would you rather suck it up and tell the world about your relationship with the boy or have so few sponsors that you die of starvation within the first week?"
"I wouldn't die of starvation," I mutter. I've gone many times that long with practically nothing. An arena, no matter how inhospitable, usually has at least one semi-reliable food source, or else tributes die off too quickly. Starvation wouldn't be the issue.
"Maybe not you," Haymitch says almost smugly, "But what about him?"
Peeta. He has no idea how to survive in the wild. He's never had to hunt – or even forage – in his life. He's lived off the bakery since he was born. Though stale, his food source never ran out. I could survive much longer than a week just fine, granted I had a water source, but how long would he last?
"Worked it out, then?" Haymitch says, no doubt following the shift in my expression.
"He doesn't need to hunt," I mutter. "I'll do it."
"What if you get separated in the arena?" Haymitch doesn't wait for me to answer before throwing another question at me. "What if you get injured? Or killed? Or if you suddenly decide that being allies isn't a good idea?"
"I wouldn't – " I start, but he barrels on, ignoring me.
"What if you end up with another ally? What if a Gamemaker trap puts you on opposite sides of the arena?" He puts his hands on the arm rests to either side of me, trapping me between him and the chair. "Don't underestimate the arena," he growls.
"All right," I hiss, kicking at his shin to push him away from me. "Point taken. Now back off or I'll kick you where it hurts." For a bizarre moment, I wish I'd kept the heels on. The sharp toes would have been much more effective.
He sits down. "So. Where were we?" He pretends to think and I glower at him until he continues. "Ah, yes. The sponsors. Your boyfriend and I have it all planned out."
"Well then," I say through my teeth. "What, pray tell, is this plan?"
"You go through your interview dropping little hints here and there. Nothing major, though." He raises his voice to imitate a teenage girl. "'Oh, I have the most incredible boyfriend.' 'I've been so worried about him.' 'I don't know what to do about… Never mind. It's nothing, really.'"
I shudder at his falsetto. "I do not sound like that."
"Well, that's the idea. Let's practice."
"Fine," I snarl.
Haymitch pretends to interview me, asking generic questions and trying to get me to hint at my relationship with Peeta. It all feels wrong. I can't even repeat the lines he feeds me about my love life. They feel thick as cotton and taste like bile in my throat. I can't answer his questions, either. He tries to get me to answer in a certain way – fierce, humble, vulnerable, witty, sexy, mysterious – but I am none of those things.
"Enough," Haymitch says tiredly. "Not only are you hostile, I don't know anything about you. I've asked you fifty questions and still have no sense of your life, your family, what you care about. They want to know about you, Katniss!"
"But I don't want them to!"
"We've had this conversation before," he says. "We both know where it ends up. We have to find something. If you can't tell the audience about you, make something up. Lie."
"What if I just act like myself?" I snap. "Closed off and sullen. At least it's an angle."
Haymitch shakes his head, pulls out a fist-sized bottle of clear liquid and downs it.
By the third little bottle, he's saying, "At least the boy has some amount of promise. Without his little announcement, I doubt anyone would take a second look at you."
By the fifth he's openly laughing at my increasingly feeble attempts.
By the sixth he throws down the empty bottle and leaves the room, saying, "I give up, sweetheart. Just answer the questions and try not to let the audience see how openly you despise them."
Back in my room, I lock the door, order platters of food and hurl dishes at the walls. I haven't half spent my anger and everything is splattered in gravy, blackberry juice, green sauce and syrup.
The door rattles, and I open my mouth to tell whoever it is to go away – and then I remember Peeta's words at breakfast. "Please," he had breathed against my temple, concealing his words from Effie and the others behind my hair. "Don't lock me out again."
So I stumble to the door, flick the lock and dive into an arm chair, facing away.
The door opens, but it's not Peeta. It's the red haired Avox.
She steps back when she sees the shattered china around the room.
"Just leave it!" I yell. "Just leave it alone!"
She looks at me with those big, reproachful eyes, and then at the mess. Then she turns and walks back through the door. I slump in the chair, sure she hates me even more now, but moments later I hear footsteps. I lean forwards, peering around the back of the arm chair, and my eyes widen when the girl returns, leading Peeta.
He takes one look at the room and scoops me up, carrying me to his suite, worry pinching the corners of his mouth and eyes.
"I hate them," I choke as he sets me at the foot of his bed. "I hate all of them."
Instead of lecturing me or asking me questions I don't want to answer, Peeta pulls me into his lap and tucks my head between his shoulder and neck. "I know."
After a long time, when my hands have stopped shaking, I half-whisper, "What should I do?" A moment passes and I clarify, "About the interviews."
He breathes in, and I feel his chest lift.
"I'm not an expert," he says, "But I bet I know someone who is. Someone besides Haymitch."
"Not Effie," I groan. "I was no good at what she taught me, either."
He shakes his head. "Neither of them. We spend tomorrow with our stylists."
Cinna.
My prep team chatters over me as they transform my body. Shimmering golden skin, sparkling eyelashes, large eyes and painted nails. A braid woven from one side of my head to the other. I remain silent the whole time, increasingly anxious over the interview. I keep my eyes on the clock as Octavia finishes my nails. Two hours. Two hours until the interviews start. Two hours until I will be paraded in front of all of Panem, forced to trot around in heels and spit out meaningless lines. I clench my hands on the armrests as Venia adds finishing touches to my lashes.
Flavius pats the final layer of shimmering powder onto my skin. Sixty minutes. The door opens and Cinna walks in. Thirty.
He slips the dress over my head and I keep my eyes closed as I step into the shoes – less than two inches tall, thank God – and there are some seconds of silence before he says, "Open them."
I gape at the woman in front of me. Once again, I am a girl on fire.
My dress seems to be entirely made of tiny, reflective jewels, arranged in swirls of fire so that when I move, I burn. My eyes are dark and intense. My lips are the color of dark, rich blood. I am beautiful and as deadly as an arrow.
When I regain my voice, I breathe, "Oh, Cinna, thank you."
He gestures with one finger. "Twirl for me."
Screams pour from the mouths of my prep team, and it takes me half a second to realize that they aren't actually in pain, but ecstatic over my dress. Cinna dismisses them and they move out of the room reluctantly, smoothing my hair and touching my hands.
"You'll be wonderful, darling," Octavia chirps in her silly accent, then blows me a kiss from each hand and hops out the door.
She seems to have confidence in me. It makes me feel even worse for having absolutely no good plan at all.
"So," Cinna says, reading my mind, "All ready for the interview then?"
"I'm awful," I groan, almost dropping my face into my hands before I remember the makeup. "Haymitch called me a dead slug. No matter what we tried, I couldn't do it. I just can't be one of those people he wants me to be."
Cinna is quiet as he blends a bit of makeup at my temple. Then he says, "Why don't you just be yourself?"
I huff. "Myself? That's no good, either. Haymitch says I'm sullen and hostile."
"Well, you are…" He grins. "Around Haymitch. I don't find you so. The prep team adores you. You even won over the Gamemakers."
I snort, but he goes on smoothly.
"And as for the citizens of the Capitol, well, they can't stop talking about you. No one can help but admire your spirit."
I glance at the mirror and stand taller. Spirit. I can do that. All the things that Haymitch tried – sexy, witty, mysterious – felt forced and fake. But spirit... that comes more naturally. Spirit suggests I'm a fighter. Didn't somebody say that about me, once?
"Suppose," Cinna says gently, "When you answer the questions, you think you're addressing a friend back home. Who would your best friend be?"
"Gale. Only it doesn't make sense, Cinna. I would never be telling Gale those things about me. He already knows them."
"What about me? Could you think of me as a friend?"
I meet his gold-lined green eyes, the color of summer leaves. "I think so, but –"
"I'll be sitting on the main platform with the other stylists. You'll be able to look right at me. When you're asked a question, find me, and answer as honestly as possible."
My insides twist like someone is stirring them with a fork. "Even if what I think is horrible?"
"Especially if what you think is horrible," he confirms, tucking a stray wisp of hair away from my face. "You'll try it?"
I nod and glance at the clock. Fifteen minutes.
Cinna adjusts my makeup.
Ten minutes.
We reach the door. Five minutes.
"Cinna…"
"Remember, they already love you. Just be yourself."
I nod jerkily. It's the best advice I've gotten from anyone. Infinitely better than what I got out of Haymitch, anyway.
When we meet everyone else in the elevator, Peeta squeezes my sweat-slick hand and raises his eyebrows at me. You okay?
I press my lips together and close my eyes. No.
He rubs my back. I'll be here.
I open my eyes as the doors open and slip my fingers out of Peeta's. We are now in public, and the bomb hasn't been dropped yet. I look sideways at him as we walk, wondering how he'll do it.
By the time we reach our seats, the shaking has spread from my hands to my whole body. I try to remember what Effie told me about crossing my legs at the ankles and folding my hands in my lap, but for the longest time all I can think of is how far away Caesar is standing, and how I'll get there in the heels, and what do I say, what do I say, what do I say?
All the tributes are seated, and the music starts, and the crowd babbles in excitement. Caesar raises an open hand to quiet the audience, and as the sound dies down, he says, "Welcome to the interviews! We have so very much to talk about. But first, I know some of you are standing in the streets to watch this right now. I hope you all have drinks and ice, because it is absolutely blazing out there… The cows are giving evaporated milk."
The crowd burbles in delight.
"Any hotter and warm water would come out of both taps."
They shriek and giggle.
Caesar is doing what he does best: warming up the crowd. And, it seems, introducing the first tribute at the same time.
"Well, dear citizens," he says, sweeping a hand towards the girl from One. "I think I know the reason for the heat, and she is coming to talk to us right now! Ladies and gentlemen: Glimmer Rambin!"
The girl named Glimmer steps forward, blonde hair spilling down her back and her semi-transparent dress shining gold in the stage lights.
The interviews have begun.
