Daisy's POV
"What? What the heck is up with this?" I screech in confusion, looking in horror at my rather unfortunate outfit.
"It's your costume," one of the people on my prep team, a woman with 5-inch long nails and electric green hair sighs. "We didn't design it. That was all your stylist. I, for one, think you should stop complaining. It could be worse. You could be naked or something."
"Yeah, but…!" I sputter. "Really? A giant, walking piece of charcoal?" Yep, that's right. There's pretty much a giant flat box on me, except it's really heavy and sculpted to look just like a lump of charcoal. Not the ordinary misshapen chips that most of the district gets, but the more evenly square ones for the rich merchants. If they even have bonfires for fun in the Capitol, I'll bet that's what they use. My entire body's covered, apart from small holes where my hands stick straight out at a 90 degree angle, my feet barely stick out in thick black boots, and my head pops out the top. I can't move my arms, and I can't exactly walk, only hop around (probably falling flat on my face) with tiny little movements. My stylist was wrong. It really couldn't be much worse.
"How are you one to talk?" another stylist says, containing giggles. I really have no idea what gender they are. "I mean, you're the young girl wearing a huge fake mustache."
"That's different!" I say indignantly. "This is just stupid!"
"Deal with it," Green-hair mutters, beginning to put makeup on my face. It's itchy and weird to have people putting stuff on my face, but I know that to complain would just be seen as annoying. When she lets me look in the mirror, I see my stupid costume, and I see that they've applied a bunch of black makeup around my eyes, and even given me black lips. I look seriously depressed. I just can't believe that in order to debut the District 12 tributes to the country that's about to watch them fight for their lives, they're making us look this ridiculous.
I cheer up a little, though, when I see that my District companion, Alex, is dressed and made up exactly the same way I am. It's really funny, though, because he's a boy, and most boys seem even more out of place in makeup than I do. I start to crack up, and he just glares at me. But we're all in the same boat here, so he sees the humor in the situation, and manages a smile.
When our stylist sees the two of us in her outfits, she claps her hands together and smiles freakishly. I don't know if she's gotten extra teeth implanted into her gums or what.
"You all just look so… striking!" she says, throwing her arms out to the side flamboyantly. "So poetic!" What's poetic about lumps of charcoal, the world may never know. "Well, then, off you get!" she chirps. "Stylists!"
Just then, the stylists rush in, holding me and Alex between the three sets of shoulders. They carry us on our backs for a while, until they artfully plop us back on our feet in the carriage.
"Smile and wave!" the third stylist squeals. "They're going to love you!"
I don't have time to think of a reply before the horses attached to our chariot take off, and suddenly, the whole country can see us. Everyone in the stands bursts into hysterical laughter when they see us, between my mustache and us being dressed as coal lumps. Like they're ones to say anything. Oh, well, might as well work with what you've got. I wave to the crowd, smiling under the -ouch- blinding lights above us. Alex pathetically takes a hop towards me, and tries to hold my hand. Disgusted, I realize that I can't reach his face, so I slap his fingers as hard as I can. Boys are so stupid. Alex looks at me, hurt, and discreetly shakes his hand in pain. I roll my eyes. Stupid, and wimpy. If he thinks I'm going to be his girlfriend or something in the arena, he can think again.