A lot from the book but some differences in conversations. I know a lot is like the book but that is how I wanted it. Not a different story just different circumstances. I hope you like it.

Chapter Ten: Preperations

Haymitch told me to try to get at least an hour of sleep but it won't come. Giving up I get in the shower and get dressed for the day.

I walk into the dining room and to my surprise only Haymitch is there.

"So, what's going on? You're coaching us on interviews today, right?"

"That's right," says Haymitch.

"You don't have to wait until I'm done. I can listen and eat the same time," I say.

"Well, there's been a change of plans. About our current approach," says Haymitch.

"What's that?" I ask. I'm not sure what our current approach is. Trying to appear mediocre in front of the other tributes is the last bit of strategy I remember.

Haymitch shrugs. "Peeta has asked to be coached separately."

Betrayal. That's the first thing I feel, which is ludicrous. But the boy who risked a beating to give me bread, the one who steadied me in the chariot, who covered for me, who insisted Haymitch know my hunting skills he had become my friend, truly my family. I had let my guard down even when I reminded myself time and again not to.

Obviously, the connection we'd foolishly formed has been severed. And high time, too. The Games begin in two days, and trust will only be a weakness. Whatever triggered Peeta's decision I should be nothing but grateful for it. Maybe he's finally accepted the fact that the sooner we openly acknowledge that we have to kill or be killed the better. But I can't help but feeling a little hurt.

"Good," I say. "So what's the schedule?"

"You'll each have four hours with Effie for presentation and four with me for content," says Haymitch. "You start with Effie, Katniss."

I can't imagine what Effie will have to teach me that could take four hours, but she's got me working down to the last minute. We go to my rooms and she puts me in a full-length gown and high-heeled shoes, not the ones I'll be wearing for the actual interview, and instructs me on walking. The shoes are the worst part. I've never worn high heels and can't get used to essentially wobbling around on the balls of my feet. But Effie runs around in them full-time, and I'm determined that if she can do it, so can I. The dress poses another problem. It keeps tangling around my shoes so, of course, I hitch it up, and then Effie swoops down on me like a hawk, smacking my hands and yelling, "Not above the ankle!" When I finally conquer walking, there's still sitting, posture - apparently I have a tendency to duck my head - eye contact, hand gestures, and smiling. Smiling is mostly about smiling more. Effie makes me say a hundred banal phrases starting with a smile, while smiling, or ending with a smile. By lunch, the muscles in my cheeks are twitching from overuse. "Well, that's the best I can do," Effie says with a sigh. "Just remember, Katniss, you want the audience to like you."

"And you don't think they will?" I ask.

"Not if you glare at them the entire time. Why don't you save that for the arena? Instead, think of yourself among friends," says Effie.

"They're betting on how long I'll live!" I burst out. "They're not my friends!"

"Well, try and pretend!" snaps Effie. Then she composes herself and beams at me. "See, like this. I'm smiling at you even though you're aggravating me."

"Yes, it feels very convincing," I say. "I'm going to eat."

I kick off my heels and stomp down to the dining room, hiking my skirt up to my thighs.

Peeta and Haymitch seem in pretty good moods, so I'm thinking the content session should be an improvement over the morning. I couldn't be more wrong. After lunch, Haymitch takes me into the sitting room, directs me to the couch, and then just frowns at me for a while.

"What?" I finally ask.

"I'm trying to figure out what to do with you," he says. "How we're going to present you. Are you going to be charming? Aloof? Fierce? So far, you're shining like a star. You volunteered to save your sister. Cinna made you look unforgettable. You've got the top training score. People are intrigued, but no one knows who you are. Theimpression you make tomorrow will decide exactly what I can get you in terms of sponsors," says Haymitch.

Having watched the tribute interviews all my life, I know there's truth to what he's saying. If you appeal to the crowd, either by being humorous or brutal or eccentric, you gain favor.

"What's Peeta's approach? Or am I not allowed to ask?" I say.

"Likable. He has a sort of self-deprecating humor naturally," says Haymitch. "Whereas when you open your mouth, you come across more as sullen and hostile."

"I do not!" I say.

"Please. I don't know where you pulled that cheery, wavy girl on the chariot from, but I haven't seen her before or since," says Haymitch.

"And you've given me so many reasons to be cheery," I counter.

"But you don't have to please me. I'm not going to sponsor you. So pretend I'm the audience," says Haymitch. "Delight me."

"Fine!" I snarl. Haymitch takes the role of the interviewer and I try to answer his questions in a winning fashion.

But I can't. I'm too angry with Haymitch for what he said and that I even have to answer the questions. All I can think is how unjust the whole thing is, the Hunger Games. Why am I hopping around like some trained dog trying to please people I hate? The longer the interview goes on, the more my fury seems to rise to the surface,until I'm literally spitting out answers at him.

Suddenly, angry tears are rolling down my cheeks and I'm pacing in front of Haymitch.

He lets me pace for a few minutes.

"All right, enough," he says.

I stop and sit back down, and slam my fist into the arm of the chair, "I hate them!" I say to him.

"I know. I do too sweetheart." That is not what I expected him to say. It takes me by surprise and calms me down somehow. "But for right now there is nothing we can do about it."

For right now? What does he mean 'for right now'? I don't even bother asking because I know he won't tell me.

"We've got to find another angle. 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! They're already taking my future! They can't have the things that mattered to me in the past!" I say.

"Then lie! Make something up!" says Haymitch.

"I'm not good at lying," I say.

"Well, you better learn fast. You've got about as much charm as a dead slug," says Haymitch.

Ouch. That hurts. Even Haymitch must know he's been too harsh because his voice softens. "Here's an idea. Try acting humble."

"Humble," I echo.

"That you can't believe a little girl from District Twelve has done this well. The whole thing's been more than you ever could have dreamed of. Talk about Cinna's clothes. How nice the people are. How the city amazes you. If you won't talk about yourself, at least compliment the audience. Just keep turning it back around, all right. Gush."

The next hours are agonizing. At once, it's clear I cannot gush. We try me playing cocky, but I just don't have the arrogance. Apparently, I'm too "vulnerable" for ferocity. I'm not witty. Funny. Sexy. Or mysterious.

By the end of the session, I am no one at all. Haymitch started drinking somewhere around witty, and a nasty edge has crept into his voice. "I give up, sweetheart. Just answer the questions and try not to let the audience see how openly you despise them."

"I'm not the only one who despises them." I slur at him. Referring to his secret meeting.

"I know." he sighs, "but that's not gonna help you right now."

There's that right now, again.

I have dinner that night in my room, ordering an outrageous number of delicacies, eating myself sick, and then taking out my anger at Haymitch, at the Hunger Games, at every living being in the Capitol by smashing dishes around my room. When the girl with the red hair comes in to turn down my bed, her eyes widen at the mess. "Just leave it!" I yell at her. "Just leave it alone!"

Eventually I fall asleep thinking about Finnick. What is he doing right now? Will he sneak in to my room tonight?

In the morning my prep team is hanging over me. My lessons are over. This day belongs to Cinna. He's my last hope. Maybe he can make me look so wonderful no one will care what comes out of my mouth.

The prep team spends hours readying my body. Then Cinna comes in, "close your eyes."

I do. I feel them slip smooth fabric over me. It must be forty pounds. I step into my shoes blindly. They adjust the. There is silence.

"Can I open my eyes?" I ask.

"Yes. Open them." Cinna says.

The creature standing before me has come from another world. My dress us magnificent. I am radiant.

"Oh Cinna, thank you" I whisper.

Cinna dismisses the prep team and has me move around in the dress and shoes which are more manageable than the outfit Effie had me practice in.

"So , all ready for the interview then?" asks Cinna. I can tell he had been talking to Haymitch.

"I'm awful. 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." I say.

Cinna thinks about this a moment. "Why don't you just be yourself?"

"Myself? That's no good, either. Haymitch says I'm sullen and hostile," I say.

"Well, you are . . . around Haymitch," says Cinna with a grin. "I don't find you so. The prep team adores you. A certain young man I spoke with this morning thinks your very special. You won over the Gamemakers. And as for the citizens of the Capitol, well, they can't stop talking about you. No one can help but admire your spirit."

My spirit. This is a new thought. I'm not sure exactly what it means, but it suggests I'm a fighter. In a sort of brave way. It's not as if I'm never friendly. Okay, maybe I don't go around loving everybody I meet, maybe my smiles are hard to come by, but I do care for some people. "Young man?" I question.

"Yes, he found me and convinced me to give you this." he walks to a table and pulls out a flower and a small envelope. I recognize the flower from the roof.

Cinna hands me the card and secures the flower in my hair.

Cinna takes my icy hand that is empty in his warm ones. "Suppose, when you answer the questions, you think you're addressing a friend back home. Who would your best friend be?" asks Cinna.

"Gale," I say instantly. "Only it doesn't make sense, Cinna. I would never be telling Gale those things about me. He already knows them."

"What about me? Or Finnick?" asks Cinna.

Of all the people I've met since I left home, Cinna is by far my favorite. I liked him right off and he hasn't disappointed me yet. And Finnick well... "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. Finnick will be sitting in front with the other mentors. When you're asked a question, find me or him and answer it as honestly as possible," says Cinna.

"Even if what I think is horrible?" I ask. Because it might be, really.

"Especially if what you think is horrible," says Cinna. "You'll try it?"

I nod. It's a plan. Or at least a straw to grasp at.

Cinna gives me a moment to read the card. It's pale white and hand written.

Good luck with your interview. I'm sure you'll capture the audience, you've already captured me.

- Finnick

I can't help but smile. I take a deep breath and somehow I think I can do this.