At the end of the hallway, there's another door with a little sign laminated sign on it that reads: "District Twelve, Male Tribute Prep Room" It takes a few moments for me to remember that the sign is referring to me. I'm ushered through it, and I'm not really surprised by the interior. My prep room seems to have been bleached. The island counter, multiple sinks, chairs, and even the little cuticle that holds a shower is a dazzling, pearly, white. I wouldn't be surprised if this room had undergone a very thorough scrubbing before I arrived. The assumedly male puppet leaves me alone in the room, and I wander over to one of the white leather chairs. I take a seat, and kick my legs out. Despite the fact I'm about to be altered irrevocably, I'm feeling kind of bored. The chair starts swiveling around, and I find this enjoyable. I've never sat in a spinning chair before. After a few minutes of feebly twisting around, I wheel the chair over towards the island, and using my arms to push off the countertop I whip around in a tight circle. By the time I hear someone clearing their throat, in an irritated way, I'm dizzy and feeling a little nauseated.
I quickly put my arms out to stop myself, and when the chair comes to such an abrupt halt, I'm nearly thrown from it. I stare at the counter as I wait for the world to stop spinning so badly, and I can hear approaching footsteps over the blood roaring in my ears.
"Whoa," I mutter, and I swallow hard. I hear someone laughing at me, and I look over to my left to see three very odd people. The woman has bright orange hair, and her face is covered in shinning gold tattoos arranged in swirling patterns. She's lanky, but she doesn't seem to be surgically altered. The two men are an entirely different story. The taller of the two has most definitely gone under the knife on multiple occasions. His face – if it can be called that anymore – now looks grotesquely feline. He has tattoos of whiskers, and even orange fur patters. White surrounds his eyes, and then black stripes follow his jawline. He smiles at me, revealing teeth that have been sharpened to reveal fangs. His hair has been dyed a shade of red, and the curls that hang down to his shoulders remind me of blood. The shorter man has chosen a less obvious route, but it's still painfully evident that he has chosen surgery. For whatever reason, he must have thought that a flattened nose and slanted eyes were attractive. He smiles at me too, and I can't decide if cat man or squinty eyed is more frightening.
I think they're my prep team.
"You must be the boy from 12!" Exclaims the woman, and she stalks over to me and grasps my hand in a tight handshake. Isn't that obvious? I asked myself, but still forcing myself to smile at her. Haymitch told me to cooperate.
"Yep," I say warmly, "That's me." The two men then come over, and I shake their hands as well.
"You must be Peter! Wait – no. Was it Penta?" The woman looks at me, her orange eyes wide with something that must have been an apology.
"Peeta." I correct her kindly, sticking to my promise, and she seems to be glad that I'm not upset at her.
"Peeta!" She squeals, "That was it! Well, I was close, wasn't I?" The two men nod vigorously, and I'm a little shocked to realize that cat man's curls are gelled stiff. But to be honest, I'm sure that more surprises are ahead.
"Well, I'm Mercedes, and this is Lileium," She gestures to cat man, and he bows extravagantly, "And this is Artemis." Squinty eyed waves at me enthusiastically and he smiles again. I force myself to smile back at him, trying to ignore his face. "If you wouldn't mind standing up, we'll take a look at you and see how much damage we can do." All three of them burst into a fit of giggles, and I am suddenly very worried for my welfare.
Three hours later, I can safely say that I've never been this clean in my life. Every particle of dirt has been scrubbed away with a harsh exfoliating grit, and I feel like every inch of my skin is raw. Every last hair has been waxed away from my body, and I feel bare and vulnerable. My hair has been scrubbed, and after at least fifty different kinds of expensive products, it's softer and shinier than it's ever been. It looks blonder too, and I think the prep team might have dyed it. Mercedes is absolutely beaming at me, and she looks awfully happy with her work. In comparison Lileium and Artemis look bored.
"There!" she says with satisfaction as she plucks the last out-of-place hair from my eyebrow. I try not to wince, but I'm not sure how it works. "You're perfect now! Get over here where we can take a good look at you." As she says this, Mercedes grabs both of my hands and forcefully yanks me from my chair. She practically drags me into the middle of the room, and I try to keep from grimacing at her. It's been a very long day, and I'm not sure how much longer I can stand the three of them. Between Mercedes and Lileium, I'm sure I've heard more about the latest fashions and ideals of the Capitol in the past hour than I have in my life. Artemis is disturbingly silent, and he only speaks when pressed into it by Mercedes. I swear she had to ask him nearly five times for his opinion on my hair before he voiced it, and even then, he only said two words.
"You're fantastic!" Purrs Lileium. I smile in thanks, and I get a toothy, fang-filled smile back. "Just one more thing…" He takes a bottle off of the counter, turns it upside down and squeezes it. A generous amount of red gel plops into his palm. He then rubs the shiny gel between his fingers, and then runs it through my hair. I consider protesting, because I definitely don't want hair like his, but I don't really have a choice. If I didn't protest the three of them stripping me down and not allowing me to have any clothes for the past two hours, I can certainly handle a little hair gel. Strangely enough, I'm not self-conscious in the least. They're too freakish for me to consider them to be human. They remind me more of a trio of colorful birds that have been trained to clean people up. And really, this whole transformation thing hasn't been all that bad. I expected to come out being an entirely different person, but I'm not all that different. Besides missing all the hair on my body, and being a thousand times cleaner than ever before, I'm still Peeta Mellark. I'm the boy from 12 too, but I still look enough like me to be me.
Artemis comes out of nowhere, and drapes a silk robe over my shoulders. It takes a lot of self-control to not rip it out of his hands and put it on myself, but I manage. Between him and Lileium it takes a good five minutes to get the sash tied around my waist, and I'm ready to hit one of them. After spending most of my morning with my new pet birds, I'm ready to see my stylist and get this over with. At this point, I'd rather be tossed into the arena wearing nothing but this robe than have to stay with them another minute. I smile grimly at the Mercedes, and she's smiling widely at me. "Thanks," I mutter, and Artemis grins at me.
"Let's take a good look at him!" Says Lileium with a smile, and he bustles over towards Mercedes with Artemis, and the three of them look at me like I'm the newest shade of lipstick on sale at an expensive store.
"He looks human now!" Says Mercedes, and the three of them burst into a fit of giggles. "What do you think, Lile?"
"He looks absolutely charming! Almost as good as the boy we had two years ago! Don't you remember him?" That's news. I'm almost attractive enough to be compared to a tribute that came through a few years ago. Good to know that I provided the three of them with entertainment.
"Oh, yes! He was so adorable! Too bad he was killed. I was so sad that I nearly forgot about the cocktail party I was throwing that evening." She truly does look sad as she says this, but I have trouble feeling sympathetic. Artemis nods in agreement, and 'Lile' looks slightly depressed as well. It seems that the people of the Capitol are capable of sadness, even if it is a little misdirected. Maybe these three will be sad when I die. I know that no one else will.
"It was a good party, though." Says Lileium sympathetically, and he pats her on the shoulder. I'm not really sure what to say after this. What can I say? They've just made it clear that a dinner party takes precedence over a dead tribute. Suddenly, I wonder if these three have ever missed a meal in their lifetime. I really doubt it.
"Well, let's see…" says Mercedes, breaking the silence, "Hmm… I think we're ready to call Portia!"
"Definitely!" Agrees cat man, "Penta is totally ready to see her." I blink as he winks at me, and I'm slightly offended by the fact he hasn't bothered to learn my name. But it's not like I'll be alive in a week, and I guess that he doesn't have much reason to know any more about me other than I'm the boy from 12, and that he's in charge of making me look human.
"Thank you," I say warmly, trying to sound sincere, "I really appreciate your hard work." Underneath my smile, I'm about to bite my tongue in half.
"It was no trouble at all!" Lileium throws up his hands in a wide gesture, and his fangs look particularly sharp as he smiles.
"You're a real sweetheart, Penta!" Says Mercedes, and I try not to laugh as she compliments me. "You were so easy to work with - it was more fun than anything else. "Now, let's go get Portia, and we'll see what she says about you. I'm sure you'll look absolutely wonderful this evening."
After that, the three of them rush from the room like a gaggle of puppies, all rushing to get out of the door before each other, and I sigh in relief. They're finally gone. I run my hand through my hair, and I wince as it comes in contact with spikey, dried, curls. Lovely. I can only hope that Lileium hasn't turned it red like his hair, but seeing as the gel was red, I really don't have much hope in that thought. But, if horrible hair is going to be the worst of what I'm facing this evening, I'll be entirely happy. I've never heard of Portia before, and because most stylists are the same each year, that will mean that she's new. Because the new ones are usually forced to work for District 12, which is the most unpopular District in all of the Games, she'll probably be resentful, and she'll take out her anger on me. For all I know, I could be going to the Opening Ceremonies naked and covered in coal dust, or in a skimpy coal miner's outfit. Those are the usual costumes that our tributes are forced into, and we're pretty much a guaranteed joke. But I suppose that comes with living in the coal mining District.
Then, the door of my prep room slides open, and my stylist comes in. I'm not lying when I say that I'm surprised by Portia. Although she has not had any surgical alteration that I can see, she's absolutely stunning. I've been in love with Katniss nearly all my life, and even though I think she's incredibly pretty, she can't hold a candle to Portia. My stylist is unworldly, even. Long, honey-blonde hair falls in soft waves just past her shoulders, her eyes are a piercing grey-blue, and they remind me of dawn. Her high cheekbones have been accentuated with a dab of makeup, and when she smiles, straight, pearly teeth are revealed. She's wearing a simple black skirt, and a white blouse, which is surprising to me. For being that pretty, she's not really following the rules of fashion in the Capitol. But I think it's better that way. I smile back at her, and I suddenly wish that I was wearing more than this simple robe. Because, unlike my trio of friendly and invasive birds, she's entirely human.
"Penta?" She asks warmly, and her voice, although soft, seems to fill the entire room. There are traces of the Capitol accent, but it's not nearly as severe as Effie or Mercedes and Lileium. A chill runs up my spine, and blood rushes to my face. Oh great. This is splendid.
"I – no," I stammer awkwardly, "I'm Peeta."
"Ah. Mercedes told me she was unsure of your name, but I assumed since you didn't correct her that you were, indeed, Penta. Forgive me, Peeta." Portia walks over to me, and grips my hand in a tight handshake. "I'm Portia, and I'll be your stylist for the Games. Hopefully, I'll also be your stylist for your Victory Tour after the Games have finished." She smiles sincerely at me, and I can tell she genuinely means this. I instantly decide that I like her, and not just because she has a pretty face.
"Uuh… Thanks." I'm not really sure what else to say. It's not like she'll care about my predicament with Katniss, and I'm not sure that I really want to bother her with it. Even though there's no way I'm winning, her compliment is somehow encouraging. For once, someone believes in me – and Portia doesn't even know me.
"If you'll come with me, we can discuss your costume for the Opening Ceremonies." As she says this, Portia glides away, and in a bit of a daze, I follow her. As she reaches the back wall, she pushes a button on a panel that I hadn't noticed earlier, and a hidden door slides horizontally open. She lazily ushers me through it, and we come into a little sitting room. Three of the walls are the same sterile white, but the fourth is completely glass. A fantastic view of the Capitol is revealed, and sixty-four floors beneath us, I can see the well-fed, surgically altered, fun and blood-loving citizens bustling around like frenzied ants.
There are two, squishy looking couches placed across from each other, and an ornate glass table sits in the middle. If I'm not mistaken, it's gold-plated. Hmm… People are starving in 12 while the people of the Capitol are literally eating off of gold. There's something very wrong with that picture, but it's not like anything can be done about it. The fact that people here are eating off of gold won't be changed any more than the fact that we have to live with the Hunger Games will. In fact, I'll literally die before anyone stands up to this tyranny, and no doubt, lots of other tributes will too. As far as the Capitol is concerned, the Hunger Games will last forever. I'm afraid that they're right.
Portia brushes past me, and takes a seat in one of the velvety looking couches and gestures for me to do the same. I plop myself into the squishy cushions, but I keep my eyes on Portia. No doubt, she's about to tell me that I'll be going in a skimpy orange suit. Or even worse, naked and covered on coal dust. The costumes for District 12 seem to alternate between those two. It's too bad no one working for 12 is original, and it's a big part of the reason why we never get sponsors. The upper career Districts, like 1 or 2 always have beautiful costumes, and they're always the favorites. District 4 is never too shabby either.
"Alright, we have a lot to cover in only a little time. I'll get some food –" as she says this, she presses a little red button on the tabletop, and the table splits and a platter of food is lifted up, as if it's appeared out of thin air. It's like magic. At home, we struggle to get one good meal a day, much less three, and here, you can press a button and get all the food you could ever want. You don't struggle to earn enough money for the things you need: here, you spend your money on surgeries to change your appearance, and on the latest fashion. Your only concern in the Capitol is making sure that you're a member of the 'in' crowd, and that you have suitable clothing for the next party. You get to sit back and enjoy the Hunger Games, and pick the tribute you think is going to win and buy them things in the arena to make sure they make it out alive. And then, you get to fawn over the victors of previous Hunger Games, and make sure that they're showing up at the next party you're throwing.
After a few seconds of staring at the plate of rice and chicken, I realize that Portia is staring at me. I look up and meet her glance, and I see – is that sympathy shinning in her eyes? "It isn't right," She murmurs, "Believe me, I know." Incredulously, I work my mouth, trying to find something to say. Even if I knew what would be appropriate here, I wouldn't say it. I wouldn't doubt it if we were on camera, and I don't want her getting into trouble for my sake. At the moment, she could be referring to anything. But, if I press too hard, and she lets slip she's unhappy with the Capitol, she could be in serious trouble. Portia has just become my favorite citizen of the Capitol.
I stare blankly at her for a moment, and then turn to my lunch. Unlike Effie, Portia hasn't commented on the barbarity of my District, so I'm more than happy to use my manners. I spread the cloth napkin across my lap, and I take small bites of the chicken doused in some sort of sweet sauce. It's really good, tingly, almost. I wonder what's in the sauce.
"Anyways, Peeta, back to the costumes for this evening. My partner Cinna – he's the stylist for the girl from your District – had an intriguing idea a few months back. His thought was to dress the both of you in complimentary costumes, and I liked it. Usually, each tribute is dressed in something unique that reflects the flavor of their District. But this year, we want District 12 to stand out: it's our job to make you two memorable. And what's the best way to make sure that people remember you?" She flashes a smile at me while I stop the fork just shy of my mouth. I'm not really sure if I like where this is going.
"You've got to be different. You've got to be a novelty. We want the crowd to go wild over you two. And Cinna being as brilliant as he is came up with the design for both of your costumes. I'd take credit it for it, but I'm sure that his prep team would maul me." I look at her incredulously. Why would anyone want to maul her? She laughs lightly, and I realize that it was a joke. Heat rushes to my cheeks, but Portia just keeps smiling.
"I'm sure you're wondering what he came up with, but I'm thinking about keeping it a surprise. After all, it's going to be spectacular. Do you like surprises, Peeta?"
"Surprises?" I repeat hollowly, and I'm not really sure what to think of Portia's strategy. Portia nods and her grin gets wider.
"How do you feel about fire, Peeta?" Immediately, I'm struck with memories of getting burned in the bakery, and I can only think about how badly burns hurt. My father has scars all over his arms from working years in the bakery, and I'm starting to earn a collection of my own 'battle scars' as he calls them. Truthfully, the only battle I've fought is rescuing burning bread from the oven, but the tiny, puckered scars on my hands weren't easy to earn.
"I – I worked the bakery back home," Portia arches her eyebrow in surprise, and she seems genuinely interested. "I know that fire burns," I say dryly, "And that burns are painful." She softly laughs at me, and takes a hold of my left hand. Her grip is warm and soft, and it feels nearly like a motherly gesture. This is something that my mother should have done; something that Mrs. Everdeen could have done if she had not run off with Katniss' father.
"We'll see how you feel about fire after you see your costume, alright? But before we do anything, let's get that horrible gel out of your hair. Lileium has always been fond of crispy hair." I grin in agreement, and as I put my fork back on my plate, the table opens up and swallows up our lunch. Portia stands, still holding my hand, and take me back into the prep room. She plops me down one of the white leather chairs, and wheels me over to the sinks. I lean back, and with gentle hands, she washes the gel out of my hair. After she's done, she towel dries it, and all the while, she's smiling. I really do like Portia. I hope that Katniss got a good stylist too.
"Why did you pick District 12, Portia?" I ask this as she's combing through my semi-dried hair, and her expression suddenly becomes thoughtful.
"I didn't, really. It was Cinna that chose the District. We've been through a lot together, and he's my best friend. Once we had been approved by the Capitol to be stylists for the Hunger Games, Cinna automatically said that he wanted to work with the tributes from District 12. I wanted to work with him, and I said I wanted to be a stylist for 12 too. Thankfully, we were both approved, and after months of preparation, we plan on making a splash this evening-" She pauses here, biting her lip in concentration as she parts my hair. I watch her curiously, keeping my eyes locked on face. "And," She continues, "I'm sure that we will."
"Oh," I say quietly, and I wonder if there's something between them. There was depth in the way that she said that they were friends, and when she says his name, there's a familiar gleam in her eyes. It's the very same one I see in Katniss' eyes when she looks at Gale. It's the same fire that I see in Gale's face when he looks at Katniss. It's the same, soft, powerful, wild emotion that I feel about Katniss. But I'm not one to pry in people's personal business.
"There!" Portia says enthusiastically, "You're back to your normal blonde. If you don't mind my saying so, it's a lovely color. It reminds me of sunlight. It'll go nicely with flames." I swallow nervously, and she grins cheekily. "Once you see it, you won't be nearly as concerned."
I love Portia. :) So, let me know what you guys think! :D I love everybody who reviews, and I would thank each of you personally, but for some reason, the little link that lets me respond to your reviews has been broken. . So, I'll just thank you here. Canadian-Girl14, Roj, Damarquis Angel, RiversOfVenice, and Jbieberluver22, you guys are all amazing. I'll totally bake you all cookies. Chocolate Chip, or Sugar Cookies? ;)
