The Starvelympics: A Hunger Games Crackfic
By alidazzles
Chapter 11
"You were amazing!" croons Cinna as soon as our chariot has passed into the prep area.
"You were radiant!" agrees Portia.
Both Peeta and my prep teams swarm us immediately, showering us in praise. Cinna and I bump fists. Champagne is poured into tall glasses and giggles abound.
Looking around the area, the other prep teams and tributes are not so pleased by our great success in the town square. Most of them get my middle finger when I catch their glares, but I feel bad for some of them. I will never understand why the District 11 tributes are dressed as Dora and Diego.
Portia pulls me aside just as Peeta and I begin to talk. She hands me a glass of bubbly and we hover in a corner while Cinna and Peeta huddle in another. I can't tell what they're saying over there, but Peeta laughs at one of Cinna's corny jokes. I don't miss how Cinna's finger hooks the belt loop of Peeta's leather pants.
"What's up with him?" I ask Portia, who looks downright gleeful.
"He wants you to tell him all about Peeta later. He thinks he has a chance."
Oh does he. I top off my glass and rejoin my fellow tribute. Peeta grins at me, taking an idle step back from Cinna.
"Cinna was just telling me about his pet cat back in design school," he chuckles, though no part of that statement strikes me as particularly funny.
"Could you get us more champagne?" I ask Cinna, who takes both our empty glasses and swaggers over to the refreshment bar. Peeta watches him go. How many ways does this boy swing?
"Thanks for keeping hold of me out there. I thought I might faint." He looks right into my eyes. His are such a brilliant blue. Mine must be so dull in comparison. I am reminded then of the look he first gave me, as we stood together on stage at the Reaping. That Damn girl, you sexy look.
I wonder what game he's playing. I really can't tell. Does he want me or the sponsors or Cinna or just to survive? It's dangerous for me not to know.
"I'm sure you looked fine," I say, giving him a playful punch on the arm.
"I doubt anyone was looking at me," he smirks. "Not with you there. You should wear black more often." He trails a finger over the fabric of my dress. "It suits you." Then he flashes a smile so genuinely sweet with just the right touch of shyness that I get a little dizzy.
Ugh, this is what he wants. This is all part of his plan to kill me. How can I forget that? He's luring me in to make me easy prey. The more likable he is, the more deadly.
But because two can play at this game, I lean forward and kiss his cheek. I hear the sizzle of my fiery lipstick on his skin and wonder if it will burn.
..
Above the Training Center is the tall building where the tributes will stay until the Games start. It's a five-star hotel that doubles at the American Idol mansion on the off-season. Each district gets its own floor. There's this big glass elevator that takes us all the way to the top. I feel like I'm at the Chocolate Factory except there's no twitchy pedophile promising me candy goodness beyond my wildest dreams. I've only ridden the elevator a few times before. Once in the Injustice Building back home, when they gave me that Sorry your dad's splattered on a cave wall somewhere but ooh look a shiny medal medal. And then just two days ago, when I had to say good-bye to everyone I love in less than an hour.
Well, everyone I like. You know what I mean.
The elevator shoots towards the twelfth floor. My stomach flies into my throat and all the people below shrink to ants. I see the little girl from District 11 staring in awe. She gives me the creeps. From so high up, she looks a bit like Prim. Freaks me out.
Effie pulls me along when the elevator finally stops. Apparently, her job entails more than being stylish and sounding like Fran Drescher with a cold and checking her Facebook every five minutes. She and Haymitch will be overseeing us right into the arena. It's probably for the best, having her around. At least she'll get us places on time, whereas I haven't seen Haymitch in hours. Last I heard, he was mumbling about screwdrivers and Jersey Shore. So.
Effie, though? She ain't even mad. After the debut Peeta and I made tonight, she's on top of the world. Her lipstick is hot pink, her heels are painfully tall, and she's smiling and giggling all over the place. She's been running around town since dawn, talking us up to the Capitol elite, trying to get us sponsors. Earlier, she tried to explain the whole "popularity" thing to me. She kept comparing it to her high school, where - apparently - the prettiest, most popular girls get all the boys and drive Mercedes Benzes. Getting to meet so many famous people, Effie said, makes her feel like the prettiest, most popular girl at school.
I didn't bother telling her that the most popular girl at my school was missing a finger and drove a Geo Metro.
"I've been really coy about you two, though," Effie trills through the third recounting of her day among the stars. "Because, of course, Haymitch hasn't bothered to tell me your strategies. But I've done my best with what I have to work with." She gives me a little poke in the chest. "How you sacrificed yourself for your sister. How you've got a…certain charm with the boys."
She's calling me a slut. How ironic, coming from the woman dressed as Neon Fuck Me Barbie. And sure, my dress is so tight it may have to be blurred out on the morning news tomorrow, but I liked the judgment better coming from Cinna.
"People are skeptical, of course, you being from a coal mining district and all. I mean, they've all seen October Sky. But I said, and this was very clever of me, I said, 'Well, she's kind of like a Blow Pop: she's tough on the outside, but if you lick her enough, you'll see she's really soft in the middle!'"
…the fuck? I raise a hand to comment, but I know better than to start an argument with Effie Trinket, who thinks astronomy is fortune-telling. And that District 13 was just unlucky.
"Of course, we can't nail any sponsors down without Haymitch," says Effie, shaking her head. "No worries. I'll drag him to the table at gunpoint if I have to."
My gaze shoots up to hers.
"What?" Effie frowns, idly cracking her neck to the side. "My Taser's out of batteries and I used all my mace on the concierge. "
Effie Trinket may be 90% peroxide, but I'm starting to think that - beneath that curly wig - Effie Trinket is 10% batshit crazy bitch. I laugh conspiratorially. I can deal with that.