CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Ms. Trinket's schedule has just one word to describe this Saturday's agenda: makeover. It's in all capital letters and followed by two exclamation points. When I'd read it for the first time last week, I'd been wary. But I can't imagine it being worse than the emotional torture of this past Wednesday, so I'm not dreading it too much as I dress quietly in the dark and head out to catch the bus.
I arrive at school first again, but I've remembered to wear more layers and it's not as chilly out today, anyway. Peeta and Ms. Trinket arrive at nearly the same moment, saving me from having to make small talk with either of them. But a third vehicle pulls up to the front of the school as well: a large black van. It looks like the same one every television kidnapper uses. There are two more of the vans idling at the curb.
"Good morning!" Ms. Trinket's voice rings out. She gives a cheery wave in my direction and a smile in Peeta's, then hurries in the direction of the van. She leans through the rolled down driver-side window and teeters there on her heels (which are cotton candy blue today, paired with a blue and green tweed suit) for nearly five minutes, blond curls moving vigorously. I am too far away to hear what she is saying to them. Peeta must be, too—or maybe he's just polite, I don't know—because he joins me on the stairs.
"Hey," he says. "Ready to get madeover?"
I roll my eyes in answer. Then I ask, "Who's in the van, could you see?"
"The windows were shaded, but I'm guessing whoever's doing the makeover," Peeta replies. "I hope so, anyway. Whoever it is has to be better than Ms. Trinket, right?"
The idea of Ms. Trinket doing our makeovers hadn't really occurred to me, actually. The idea is horrifying.
When Ms. Trinket finally bustles up the steps, she's beaming. "We're going to have so much fun today," she enthuses as the vans turn down the alley beside the school.
"Are those vans here for us?" Peeta asks as she fishes her keys out of her hideously bright green purse and sightlessly holds it out to Peeta to take while she puts the key into the door lock.
"They are," Ms. Trinket says, still working on the lock. "I've sent them around back with my spare key, so they can start preparing for your style consultations." She smiles brightly over her shoulder at us. "I do love this part. And you two are very lucky. Cinna—oh!" The lock finally releases. "There we go!" Ms. Trinket pushes the door open and ushers us in, before taking the purse back from Peeta's arms.
She continues to chatter as we head for the auditorium but, walking behind her, I can't make most of it out. It fills the silence, I guess. By the time we get to the auditorium, there are half dozen people on stage already doing—something. We're mostly down the aisle when Ms. Trinket squeals.
"Cinna, darling!" she exclaims, scurrying the rest of the way to the stage steps.
"Effie," the man who must be Cinna greets her warmly, taking one of her hands between the two of his and smiling. "How are you?"
"Just wonderful, with you here," Ms. Trinket gushes, then turns and beckons us over. "Children, this is Cinna. He's here to help us with the . . . presentational aspects of the pageant. First impressions are so important, don't you think? Cinna, these are Peeta Mellark and Katniss Everdeen."
If first impressions really are important, then I'm screwed; this morning I just pulled on my jeans and an old flannel work shirt that used to be my father's. Peeta's better off; his jeans are nicer and his shirt looks new.
Cinna, on the other hand . . . I don't know what I'd expect from a makeover expert, or whatever he is, but I wouldn't have expected someone Ms. Trinket selected to look this, well, normal. Cinna is average height—he's at eye level with Ms. Trinket in her heels—but his build slender, almost delicate. He's dressed in black: soft-looking long-sleeved shirt and slacks with a drawstring waist that fall to the top of his black canvas shoes. He's beautiful, but in an androgynous sort of way. His skin is smooth and his expression tranquil as he turns his smile to include me and Peeta, as well.
"I'm just so pleased to you fit us in," Ms. Trinket is saying. "I know you're so busy, I almost couldn't believe it when I heard your message."
"I was pleased to be able to be here," Cinna replies.
"Cinna is one of our most distinguished graduates," Ms. Trinket says to us. "He styles some of New York's most prominent residents. And he's agreed to assist us this year in ensuring you both are able to put your best foot forward at the competition." I assume in an appropriately fashion-forward shoe.
For the next few hours Peeta and I are going to be separated, which I'm grateful for; we're directed to opposite sides of the stage, where makeshift dressing rooms have been set up. Inside, the walls of my dressing room are black, but inside there are a dizzying array of—things. Two walls are lined with poles full to bursting with more colors and fabrics than I've seen in my life, probably combined; the full width of a third wall is covered with a mirror and a long black counter that holds an army of bottles and implements I wouldn't be able to identify if Prim's life depended on it. Cinna, along with two silent, very brightly colored assistants, comes with me. So, unfortunately, does Ms. Trinket.
"Please tell me you can do something with her hair," Ms. Trinket says first off.
I scowl, running my hand over it as I'm herded onto the stool in front of the counter. "What's wrong with it?" I ask.
But I know what's wrong with my hair. I always cut it myself, for one. It's shorter than most boys', for another. Probably there's more. Split ends, or something.
I tell myself I don't care what my hair looks like, but clearly that's not true, because I can feel myself start to panic. I don't want my hair to look like Ms. Trinket's, or either of the assistants'. One of them has long, unnatural red locks; the other's hair is bleached blond and choppy, streaked with blue.
Or maybe I'm just feeling claustrophobic; the room is small, and there are five of us crammed in here. I focus on keeping my breathing steady. It's just hair.
"I don't want to do much," Cinna says to me. (We both ignore Ms. Trinket's "Are you sure?") "We'll just clean it up a little. That sound already to you?"
"Fine, do whatever," I say, but I'm relieved and I'm sure Cinna can tell. I'm surprised he cared to check.
Cinna murmurs instructions to the assistant with the blue streaks before taking Ms. Trinket and Red Hair out with him, I assume to check on Peeta.
Blue Streaks covers me with a black cape. "I'm Venia," she introduces herself as she sprays my hair down with water.
Venia chirps the entire time she works, but she never seems to expect a response and I tune her out. Having to stare at myself in the mirror the whole time is a little like torture; it's something I try to do as little of as possible. My face is . . . my face. Looking at it isn't going to change it. It isn't going to make me look more like Prim or my mother, who before my father died was beautiful, blond and blue-eyed and happy and fair. In the morning, I make sure my face is clean and my clothes are correctly fastened. I don't wear make-up or creams. I barely even bother with a brush.
Whatever Venia does to my hair takes a lot longer than when I cut it myself in the bathroom mirror at home. A lot of hair falls to the floor but the amount on my head seems to remain roughly the same as she lifts and snips over and over again. Eventually she puts down the scissors and picks up the blowdrier.
As my hair starts to dry, I can tell that it looks . . .different. It's shorter, but not a lot shorter. It's longer at the top and front, I notice, than in the back. Once it's dry, Venia spends an unbelievable amount of time combing fingers coated with something sticky that smells like melon through the strands, pushing my hair this way and that while she frowns. I honestly can't tell much of a difference no matter what she does.
She's still doing whatever it is she's doing when Cinna returns (without Ms. Trinket, thankfully) and after a few suggestions from him and a few extra scissor snips from Venia, my hair is finally in good enough shape to be left alone.
"Not too bad, right?" Cinna asks.
"Sure," I say, and I'm telling the truth. It's somehow both neater and choppier at the ends than it was before, but the change doesn't feel too drastic. There's hair falling around my face and into my eyes now, hair that I normally push back, but I figure I still can, once I wash out the stuff Venia put in it.
Cinna smiles. "Then let's move on to the clothes."
The next however long is in large part a blur. I spend a lot of time standing awkwardly in my bra and underwear while Venia and the other girl, Octavia, hold various pieces of clothing in front of me. I spend just as much time putting things on and taking things off. I'm used to not having much privacy, from New York, and from sharing a room with Prim, but it still feels strange. Finally, Cinna seems satisfied, and I just have to put back on his final choices and hold still while Venia and Octavia mark things in what seems to be white chalk and insert various pins. There's a long red dress and what I think might be a pair of leather pants that I'm intrigued by despite myself. There are a few tops and pants, another shorter dress or two, and some sort of jacket. None of it fits right, but I guess that's what all the chalk and pins are for. They also measure what seems like every inch of my body, twice, including my feet—for shoes, apparently.
At the end I feel dazed. I'm looking forward to slipping back into my jeans and workshirt, but Octavia takes them from my hands before I can start putting them on and replaces them with a black dress I'd tried on earlier, the one thing that actually fit.
"Just until after pictures," she explains merrily, but before I can ask, she's left the room with Venia on her heels.
"Pictures?" I ask Cinna, the only person other than me who's left.
"For the pageant program," he says with a slight smile, probably at my expense. "Thank you, Katniss."
"What for?"
"I can tell this wasn't any fun for you."
I hope I don't look as shell-shocked from the last hour or so as I feel, but I probably do. I'm sure most of Cinna's clients are happy to be trying on tons of clothes and having people fuss over them. It just makes me uncomfortable.
"Sorry," I mutter. I like Cinna, I think; I don't want to give him trouble. It's not his fault I'm here. And I'm positive this process could have been much worse.
"That's alright," he says. "I like a challenge."
Then he tells me there's one last thing for the day, before the pictures: makeup.
I just want to test some colors, while I'm here, and try a few things out. I'll snap a few shots of the results, so I can match them up to outfits back at the studio, and make sure we have everything we need with us on the day of the pageant.
"You'll be there?" I ask. I'm surprised.
Cinna smiles warmly as he gestures me back onto the stool. "Portia and I will be, yes. Portia's in with Cinna right now, but she'll be the one taking the pictures of the two of you for program submission."
When he sits down on another stool he pulls out from beneath the counter and puts out his hand, palm up, I warily place mine in it, and he begins testing colors on the skin where my thumb meets my wrist. He's quiet as he works, which normally I would appreciate. Having someone else focusing so narrowly on me—even just my hand—unnerves me.
"Do you usually do this part?" I ask, and he glances up at me with a smile.
"I don't, but I wanted to get to know you a little better."
The idea startles me. "Why?"
"To help me design for you more effectively. And because I was intrigued by Effie's description of you."
"How did she describe me?"
"Stylist-client privilege," Cinna says, turning to grab a bottle and a white spongy wedge from the counter. "Let's just say that what she said didn't make sense to me. It intrigued me."
"What about Peeta?"
He sprays the bottle's contents onto the sponge.
"He was easier to understand."
I think about Peeta eating lunch with me and Madge on Thursday, and what Madge said to me after. I'm not so sure Cinna is right.
"Look up," Cinna says, and starts to apply the makeup below my eyes and over my cheeks. We both stay silent as he smoothes the wet, cool sponge over my skin, aside from his short, murmured instructions to turn my head or press my lips together to stretch the skin around them.
"Why did you sign up for this competition, Katniss?" Cinna asks as he sponges along my jaw line. I have my head tilted up, so I cannot see his face.
"Ms. Trinket must have told you," I reply cautiously.
"I'd rather hear it from you."
"It was this or detention. Maybe suspension. Ms. Trinket and Principal Underwood left it kind of vague."
"Surely either of those would have been an easier sentence for you than this."
"Probably, " I concede.
"Is it the college money?" he asks.
"A little, maybe," I say. Just not for me.
"There," Cinna says, and I drop my chin. He studies me for a few moments, and then he asks, "May I give you some advice, Katniss Everdeen?"
"Okay," I say cautiously. I can see now, in this light, with him so close, that he has applied a light sheen of gold at the outside corner of each of his eyes.
"Start taking this very, very seriously. The people who run this pageant—they're dangerous people. Whether or not you win—whether or not you even try to win—be careful."
I am immediately on alert. "What do you mean dangerous?"
"I mean powerful and short-tempered. It's an unfortunate combination."
"Is that why you're here?" I ask. "Instead of in New York, working on people who actually want to be made over?"
"I'm here because I wanted to give back to my alma mater," Cinna says calmly. But even I can tell that's not the whole story, and that he wants me to know that.
"Close your eyes," he says, lifting a makeup brush, powder clinging to its bristles, "and hold your breath."
NOTES
A very delayed chapter, I know! I've been working on the next, like, half a dozen chapters simultaneously, and it's taking a little longer to get things in the right places than I'd originally anticipated. I promise there's more Peeta/Katniss plus a major pick-up in plot pacing coming soon!
You guys always make my day/s with the review-leaving, as always. :)