Good afternoon, everyone! It'll be a quick update today, since I've got literally mountains of work to make up from when I was too sick to lift my head off the pillow, much less a pen. As always, my heartfelt thanks go out to those who reviewed last chapter, NutsandVolts and Chlocook.
We've made it to interview day! No, we won't get up to our tributes' actual interviews today, but we do get to have a bit of fun ('fun' because we're not actually experiencing it, I guess) in prep!
14
Interview Day dawns, the sky an opalescent white. It's the first time I can remember there not being sun in the Capitol. Somehow, I'm relieved to know that the weather here isn't as contrived as everything else about this place, but the lack of sunshine can't help but feel like a bad omen.
Deirdre spends pretty much the entire day in her room, being primped and styled by her prep team, having her features erased and then recreated with makeup, completely different from how they'd looked before. Lucretia is gone for much of the day, too—apparently, she's secured something called a 'spa treatment' for herself, to get herself looking fresh for the cameras. You'd think it was she who was getting interviewed for television.
Beetee and I spend much of the morning at the dining room table, swapping notes on our tributes' interview tactics and doing yet another crossword. "Shouldn't your prep team be making their way in any time now?" Beetee asks me curiously, looking around as if they'd suddenly spring into view from nowhere.
"Prep team?" I ask, even though I do recall them threatening—or was that meant to be reassuring?—me with the news that they'd be 'giving me the works' for Interviews.
"Oh, yes, darling," announces Felix's voice from somewhere behind me, his timing impeccable as usual. "Time to pull out all the stops." I shiver, my mind flashing back again to Felix's promises to give me 'the works' for interviews.
"What…what stops are we pulling…pulling out, if I may ask?" I inquire. Felix grins broadly and Beetee quickly disguises his laugh as a hacking cough. Behind Felix, someone—probably Torque's stylist, and likely Beetee's as well, I reason—mutters something about the unhealthy polluted air in District 3.
"The prep team's in with your tribute at the moment…when I go in to dress her, they'll be in to see you. But I wanted to show you your new dress first, so you know how to put it on, in case I get held up."
The fact that this dress apparently requires instructions for me to know how to put it on doesn't bode well.
Felix's latest creation is made of some sort of sleek, satiny fabric. It's not shiny, but it has a certain luster to it in the light. I can't find the words to describe it adequately, and for once I find myself wishing I came from District 8 so that I could feel more knowledgeable about my new outfit. What surprises me most is that there is not a single crinoline, hoopskirt or petticoat in sight. The dress—which is a muted teal color of sorts—has a straight skirt. Knowing Felix, I'd expected a circus tent.
"Felix," I say breathlessly, "I think this is the least fabric I've ever seen you use!"
Felix looks mildly abashed. "One of the other stylists mentioned that the rows are narrow," he explains, "and I didn't want the skirt to tear when you're getting in and out of your seat. But don't worry; I fully intend to show the world that you've got a gorgeous figure!"
He brightens considerably at this exciting prospect, and all I can think is, oh, no…not the—
After yet another painful scrubbing and waxing (there was nothing to wax, considering that they'd just done so a couple of days ago, but they either didn't realize or didn't care) session at the hands of my prep team, I find myself clinging to the footboard of my bed as my hairstylist Cornelius pulls the laces on the infernal corset Felix so inexplicably enjoys forcing me to wear. I wonder how constrictive underwear hasn't managed to go out of fashion in the Capitol yet.
"Got—it," he gasps through gritted teeth. His colleagues let out a cheer. You'd think I had thirty or forty extra pounds on me that have just been successfully concealed.
They motion for me to raise my arms, which I do obediently, and they slip the dress on, zip up the back, and fasten a sash or belt of sorts around my tightly-laced waist. Well, Felix wanted a figure, and a figure I most certainly have now. This dress is so snug-fitting—I'm not sure I'd go so far as to call it tight, but it doesn't leave much room for…well, anything—that I look very glamorous, very sophisticated. Very reminiscent of my tribute, come to think of it. Aurelia, the only woman on my prep team, fastens a glittering brooch to the left side of the dress, frowns, moves it to the right side, frowns more deeply, then returns it to the left side. Cornelius keeps checking his watch as he curls my hair, one long lock at a time, then pins back the sides with jewel-studded hairpins. Horace, the remaining member of my team, coats my face with a thick layer of something that comes from an aerosol can. He pulls out a pencil to darken my brows, stares at them for a good five minutes or so, then puts the pencil away. "No need," he trills foolishly, "they're already dark enough!" Instead, he pulls out a tube of black liquid to draw dramatic lines along my eyelids, which he does studiously, biting down on his tongue unconsciously as he works.
On and on and on. I watch in mild interest as Horace and Aurelia work on my face, as Cornelius sprays stray strands of hair into obedience, and then finally, by some miracle, they all step back. "Done!" Horace cries with the air of an artist unveiling his life's greatest work. I stand in front of the mirror uncertainly, eternally grateful that the shoes they've given me are not unreasonably high.
Aurelia clears her throat and extends a hand clutching a very small purse with no shoulder strap and what appears to be a wadded-up bundle of white fabric. "How do I wear it?" I ask, indicating the purse.
"Poor silly darling!" coos Aurelia, "You don't wear it; you carry it! And put your gloves on!"
So that's what the wadded-up white things are. The gloves are tight-fitting and extend to maybe an inch below my elbow. I raise an eyebrow inquiringly. "Why gloves?" I question them, "it's not cold out."
"To hide those skinny wrists of yours, dear," Horace explains, since this is clearly obvious to everyone but me. "Stand up nice and straight, now, that's it—see, now you look almost like a lady!"
Apparently basking in the satisfaction of a job well done, making me look almost like a lady, they file out of my room, Horace warning me not to touch my face while wearing the white gloves—or, for that matter, at all. I listen at the door, waiting for them to head out towards the elevator, then I finally chance exiting my room.
Everyone is gathered around the dining area, admiring our tributes. Torque is dressed in a dark gray suit, made of a material I've once heard Felix call 'sharkskin', though it doesn't look anything like any of the pictures of sharks I've ever seen in books. It's very faintly shiny and if you look closely, you can see a subtle pattern, the same pattern Felix had done on Deirdre's parade costume. Deirdre, meanwhile, looks absolutely dazzling. Her strapless silver gown is covered from top to bottom in silver sequins and stones. She looks like a diamond, plain and simple. I've seen diamonds here in the Capitol, so I know what they look like. If I were to wear a dress like hers—or anyone else, for that matter—I'd look completely overdone. But Felix must know what he's doing, because aside from a pair of dangly earrings and a single large, finely-wrought silver ring, Deirdre is otherwise unadorned. Her long dark curls are loose again, and her makeup is fairly neutral, excepting the tiny clear rhinestones the prep team has affixed to the corners of her eyes, accentuated with shimmering pale eye shadow. They look wonderful together—eye-catching without being over-the-top. Unlike certain other people…
Lucretia has returned from her spa, her face shiny pink even with all her heavy makeup, dressed to the nines. She is very elaborately outfitted in a dress that was possibly tailor-made to match her newly pink skin. It is made entirely of pink sequins. Though Deirdre's dress is sequined, too, hers manages not to look gaudy or cheap. Lucretia's doesn't quite achieve the same effect. My eyes hurt just looking at it, so I look at a large potted plant by the door instead.
"Are we ready?" asks Beetee, who is staring unapologetically at Lucretia's sequined dress. She seems to take notice. "Do you like it?" she asks, like an overeager child seeking its parents' approval. Her tone is ebullient, almost flirtatious, and Beetee looks quite taken aback.
"It's, um…certainly unforgettable," replies Beetee diplomatically. Torque disguises a derisive laugh as a cough, something Lucretia thankfully doesn't notice. Satisfied, Lucretia leads the way out towards the elevator, leaving us to follow. Beetee offers me his arm, and—feeling rather grand—I take it gratefully. "She looks like she covered herself in glue and fell into a jewelry box…or maybe into District One," Beetee leans in and whispers in my ear, and it's impossible to keep from laughing.
Two elevators arrive at once. The first is rather crowded, so Lucretia literally pushes Deidre and Torque inside and instructs them to wait for us in the lobby. We share the second elevator down with the mentors and escort from District Six. One of them is drinking from a flask hidden in his jacket pocket. He's giving off a powerful smell of liquor. It seems like we can't reach the ground floor soon enough, but the elevator halts again on Level One and we all push back to accommodate the District One crowd. Their female mentor, whose district partner refers to her as Ambergris, is wearing a very provocative-looking red dress, with lots of cut-out sections. I wonder idly how the dress is staying up, and how she's staying in it. She's defying all known laws of gravity here. Before I can reach a conclusion that satisfies me, the elevator comes to a halt and everyone starts filing out.
Torque and Deirdre are waiting obediently outside the elevator doors. Both of them freeze, like a pair of mannequins in a shop window, and stare openly at Ambergris as she saunters out of the elevator. The rest of the delegation from One follows her, followed by the group from Six, the boozy mentor stumbling a little. Beetee nudges Torque slightly.
"Put your eyes back in," he mutters, "you haven't even seen the tributes from One yet; they're usually dressed even more…um, suggestively…than the mentors." He catches my eye and smiles. "Have you figured it out yet?" he asks, and I look politely puzzled.
"Figured out…?"
"How she's managed to keep everything in its place," he clarifies. "Ambergris' dress. I can practically see you trying to work it out."
"If my stylist put me in that thing…"
"I'm sure you'd dazzle us all."
"I'd lock myself in my bathroom and refuse to come out," I protest. I'm embarrassed even by the idea of showing that much skin in public.
"She tries too hard," Beetee says after a moment of reflection. The tributes look lost, but I can see what he's saying, I think. One's never sure with Beetee.
"That she does," I merely reply.
"Tributes over here please!" calls some Capitol man—a surprisingly soberly-dressed one, with a headset on—and we lead our tributes to the backstage area. As we walk, I swear I hear Beetee mutter, "For what it's worth, I think you look much prettier than her, anyway."
It's worth something to me, but I can't imagine for the life of me why this is so. I file it away in the growing collection of Indecipherable Beetee Moments—IBMs—in my mind.
I know, I'm sure everyone was looking forward to seeing the actual interviews, but I had to leave something really good for tomorrow, didn't I? Especially since tomorrow's Friday and all. So take this as a chance to get your bets in-whose interview do you think will be memorable, and whose will be an out-and-out disaster? We've seen some interesting sides of the tributes so far, but now we'll get to know them a bit more. And we're meeting more victors tomorrow! Yay!
As for Ambergris' dress, three words: Double sided tape. And no, I've never tried it. I prefer to spend my time enjoying social occasions, not worrying about falling out of my dress. Guess I wouldn't cut it in District One.
Anyway, I hope you enjoyed today's update and please do me the favor of dropping your review by, while you're eagerly anticipating chapter 15!
Cheers,
Delilah