Jean Taylor
District 8 Male, 16
Chariot Parade
The horses lurch forward and it takes all the strength in my arms to hold onto the railing on our chariot. Bexley, my district partner, has the same death-grip on the bar, scowling as though that'll make the situation any better.
We don't have a mentor, so we've got approximately zero clue as to what we should be doing. Figuratively, we're going into this blind as a bat. Still, I… I actually think I have a chance at this. The moment I was reaped, it felt like the entire world was conspiring against me, trying to squash me out before I had the chance to really do anything with my life.
Before, I had dreams of becoming a tailor. It might sound stupid to all the kids who dream of bigger things, who strive to innovate and learn about the universe, the science behind our existence, but for me it was always about the creation of clothes, which are the truest outward projections of who we are, inside. It's a hell-of-a-lot stereotypical, especially for someone coming from District 8, but that's what I always had to offer and wished to become. The best tailor of Panem. Especially apt, considering my last name.
It's that hope to create, that unyielding spark within me that aligns with what the residents of the Capitol believe in, that's been keeping me from completely descending into the same soul-wrenching pessimism Bexley seems to be stuck in.
That's probably why I've been able to cope as well as I did. Once I got over the initial shock of being reaped, it's been quite the experience. The food, the escort Lucretia who actually turned out to be a really decent lady, the vast wardrobe array of clothes…everything's been impeccable. If you forget I'm a few days away from participating in a death match, then shit isn't looking half-bad. Does my brain feel sometimes like it's going to fry itself worrying about all the possible outcomes of this? Yep. Absolutely. But there's nothing I can do about that.
On the bright side, I've meticulously surveyed most of the tributes, during the Reaping recaps and the buffet we had, before we got settled into our chariots. I know that I'm not nearly the weakest guy here.
If everything goes wonderfully and I somehow miraculously coast without ever running into those trained psycho-children with a knack for murder who call themselves the Careers, the rest of the competition might not be totally unbeatable. I genuinely like to think that with the right preparation, I might actually be ready for what's to come.
I've even met a couple of nice people out there too, and I'm planning on officially asking them to ally with me, once training starts. I'm being pro-active, that's all, I'm trying to stay positive.
Even though my insides feel like they will burst out of me from the sheer stress of this. I keep it under control because that's what tributes who win usually do. Control is the key.
Geoff from District 9 seems really cool and spontaneous, and he mentioned Logan somewhere along the lines. I still don't know what their skills are, but that's what training time is for. I'm ready to analyze and observe, and I'm sure we'd form an alliance that would fly under the radar, compared to the Careers, but that we wouldn't be counted out of the competition too easily either.
That's kind of my strategy, I think. I've watched the Games enough times with my best friend Safia to know that that's the only way a guy like me could survive. No one thought Triss from Five could do it, but he was extravagant, fun and everyone underestimated him, and I can be kind-of the same?
Not too similar, since he won last year and I don't want to be boring or repetitive…but for god's sake, I'm trying, aren't I!? I think I can be original enough, taking into account what I've seen in previous Games.
As our chariot comes closer and closer to being presented to the crowd, I can't help but grasp at any memory of home I have. I can't stop thinking of Mr. Belcher, the old tailor who I worshipped at first, and then worked for. All I can think of is his face replacing every single Capitolite that is going to be scrutinizing me once our chariot arrives into the designated area, commenting on the fabrics, the folds and the sutures within my intricate costume. Even as I was getting dressed, his characteristic voice and southern accent from the depths of District 11 echoed through my head as I admired myself in the mirror. He's an old man, with bright tasteful clothes and round glasses, and he taught me everything I know.
Whenever he caught me and Safia watching the Games at the back of his little shop instead of helping to tidy it up, Mr. Belcher would rub at his dark shaved face in disappointment. My best friend preferred the action, the stories within the Games, but I was always fascinated by the beautiful clothes, the fabrics which drowned the tributes in riches beyond their wildest dreams, and even though he'd never admit it, I think that's why Mr. Belcher hired me as an assistant in the first place. It was that or the constant loitering, tailing him around with wide eyes, a goofy smile and lots of overly specific questions about all things fashion-related. Either way, while I lack a mentor right now, it's funny that disobeying my employer and sneaking around watching the Games with Safia just might be the thing that saves me here.
With a lurching feeling in my stomach, I realize that if I screw this up, if I die, I won't ever go back to Mr. Belcher's tailor shop. I won't ever run my hands through the fabrics from which the old man fabricated the most beautiful suits, which would then be shipped off to be worn by the Capitol's finest. Safia will cry, surely. I already saw the despair and grief in my aunt and uncle's eyes, so I know they'll mourn. As though our family didn't lose enough members to the Dark Days. These reasons are precisely why I need to figure this out and come back alive.
I need to painstakingly comb through all of my skills and weaknesses, do the same with every tribute here in order to maximize my chances. I need to know everything inside out. But tonight, I realize I can give myself a break. I can indulge a little bit in this fashion show that is occurring before my very eyes. A fashion show of which I am the star…
While our chariot is picking up speed and racing towards the track, a series of neat questions pop up in the back of my brain. I wonder, how many of these suits worn by the Capitolites cheering for us in the stands are made by Mr. Belcher's crafty hands? How many have I personally helped him design? What fabrics did we use, and do these people care, or are their eyes simply on the price tags and not the work that went into creating the masterpieces they wear? My reveries of satin and crepe-de-chine evaporate before my very eyes, as our chariot passes the boundaries of the Parade track.
It looks like millions of candy wrappers are standing, on the edge of their seats. Thousands of fabrics, hundreds of styles and dozens of different hair colors mesh together to create a spectacle of absolutely extravagant colorful cacophony.
My jaw drops at the sight.
"It's so goddamn beautiful," I breathe, even though no one can hear me over the mad screams and whistles coming from the crowd that is overwhelming all of my senses. Now this is what you call an audience.
Pose, pose, pose, pose.
I wave my hands, and I'd be strutting up and down the chariot if there was any space, since I have so much nervous energy to spare. I don't look nervous though. I look like someone who is having the time of their life, absorbing the praise of the audience and reflecting their energy back at them ten-fold. If I'm anything, it's a goddamn amazing performer.
The cameras are flashing, and I'd be lying if I didn't absolutely love the undivided attention I'm getting. I know Bexley hates it, but that's really too bad for her. She might be dead, in a few days-time, a dark voice in the back of my head reminds me. And yeah, I goddamn know that, but I wish she'd have a better time while she's still alive. That's what I'm doing. But I plan on living through this, I remind myself. She probably already made peace with her death, trying to bring everyone else down with her.
I'm planning and figuring things out, even without a mentor. I offered to help her, but she declined. I know she's only a year older than me, but she sulks around like a begrudging parent whose kids have been misbehaving and I'm kind of through with that.
I have my mind on larger things.
As our trusty steeds race on the track, the first chariot begins its ascent to the designated spotlight. All of our chariots must pass there, in order to be admired by the entire crowd.
The District 1 tributes are racing ahead, their beautiful white and silver flowy attire waving in the artificially-created wind. The boy is strong and unwavering, smiling tightly at the crowd and showing off his lean and prominent muscles of his arms. Lycra, I think to myself, as the girl twirls around to take in the crowd. The fabric has to be lycra from the way it hugs her, while still looking comfortable. Little jewels are sewn in a way that reminds me of dew drops.
The District 2 pair look elegant and mature in matching golden warrior outfits. While the previous tributes' gowns were distinctly designed to complement their gender-specific attributes, the armor for the man and woman from the masonry district is unisex. Both look regal and war-like, but the girl does a small dance as the audience cheers for her and screams something I don't quite catch. She's eating up the attention and I can't help but giggle.
The Threes manage to pull off spandex leotards patterned with bright electric circuits. Nothing interesting nor original here. Nonetheless, the boy looks simultaneously frightened and exhilarated, waving at the crowd. The girl is a stone wall, while managing to look strikingly beautiful in the luminescent aura surrounding her. She doesn't flinch at the noise and the clamor. I can't tell from this distance, but I can imagine her eyes radiating the quiet self-absorbed pride that comes with commandeering everyone's attention. The girl's wild hair has colorful wires weaving through it, which light up her entire face. The pair gather a decent amount of cheers.
District 4 has polarizing costumes this year. The girl looks beautiful and fierce, her eyes flitting over the crowd with a condescending look. I can't help but gawk at ripples and waves created by a material that even I can't place. I file this away under one of the cool aspects of the Parade to share with Lucretia and fawn over together afterwards. The girl's dress is a feat of design, engineering and god-knows what else because it honestly looks like real water on her slim form. The boy…well, the poor child has been dressed up as a lobster, decked out with lobster claws and a tail. His dark ginger hair comes out in tufts out of the hole cut out for his face. He looks more embarrassed than terrified, and half-heartedly waves his claw at the ladies who make gestures of wanting to pinch him by the cheeks. They squeak in adoration, so I guess his costume, while a stylistic flop, has earned him a couple of admirers.
The District 5 pair might just have the most creatively elaborate and thematic ensemble of us all. The boy has his eyes in a blindfold and his hair beautifully arranged around his head. In his left hand, he holds a mighty sword, and in his right, scales that he balances loftily for all to see. The girl's different colored eyes are highlighted by the fact that the entire left side of her body is painted in dark colors, while her right is made up to look radiant and beautiful. Together, the pair's costumes are a stylized representation or homage to the gods of death and justice. I'm actually blown away by the concept, and the two tributes pull off the act very nicely.
The girl from District 6 looks like she wants to cover up as much of her skin as possible. I don't see her face, but I see her hunched over as much as she can, trying to assemble together the tatters of her dress in what one could only read as utter distress. Both of the tributes have large black tires around their waists and not much else apart from the white dresses that cover a bare minimum. Large gears look like they have been hastily glued onto their heads as well as on the horses. The boy looks up as though frightened when the crowd cheers weakly for them. He flinches at every flower thrown… It's not a nice look.
District 7 is similarly disappointing, but the tributes hold themselves a lot more confidently. Logan, the boy Geoff talked about, seems to be goofing around, not minding the blandness of his ensemble. I think it's really too bad some stylists don't try harder. There are so many tricks that I know of that can emulate wood or the forest, and heck, I'm only sixteen! I mean…flannel for a parade…come on. The girl is stoic and stands straight, and the crowd eats them both up. They're a breath of fresh air after District 6's perceived lack of showman skills, no doubt.
Then it's our turn! My excitement bubbles over and I wave at anyone and everyone because we've got the spotlight for the next 40 meters. Our Ankara colorful capes billow behind us, the reds, blues and yellows creating patterns to rival those seen in big production movies. We look like royalty, but our crowns are made up of thick silver needles, with golden threads running through our hair and around our arms. If I say so myself, our costumes are tastefully made, revealing just enough while letting us put on our own show. We got lucky this time, because last year, our tributes were decked out in fully knitted dresses adorned with balls of yarn, which literally covered them from head to toe. Needless to say, it looked atrocious. For once, I make the most of it while Bexley glares, her arms crossed against her chest. I don't let my ridiculous crooked smile fall even once, as though my life depends on it. It probably does.
I turn back as soon as we pass the show spot, eager to look at the tributes coming after me.
District 9 is next, and Geoff looks badass in yellow. While his outfit is simple enough, his curly light hair is made up intricately. As is custom, wheat is incorporated into his costume. The little girl's dress is entirely made out of wheat and she seems unable to move much in it, out of fear of having it disassemble before everyone's eyes. She smiles meekly at the crowd though, waving her tiny arms at the Capitolites that pass by before her eyes.
District 10 looks formidable this year, the boy appearing particularly strong. District 10 is the livestock district, and we've had costumes ranging from cows, to cowboys, to poultry, to roasted lamb, the latter of which was equal parts tasteless and morbid. This year, they're dressed as birds, but the stylist somehow made both tributes look phenomenal. They don't look like livestock to me, while still honoring their district's economy. The boy doesn't have much on, and I wince internally because it must not be fun, being paraded near-naked like that. At the same time, damn the guy is jacked! He flexes his muscles and I can literally see throngs of Capitol women swooning. I smirk and look at Bexley, who also looks at me with a ghost of a smile at her lips. The girl is smiling wickedly at the crowd and she looks absolutely breathtaking. She is rocking that feather dress, swinging from side to side and batting her arms in a way that suggests she might fly away. More than ever, I wish I could have my old sketchbook with me, to jot down this design.
When District 10 passes, the excitement dies down a little with it. The District 11 tributes look sad in comparison, ultimately unimpressive. The girl is feisty and attractive, and her costume is beautiful as well, albeit not as original as the previous girl's. I squint at the large screen in order to make out the details. She has a fruit basket on top of her head, cherries hanging from her ears, and a beautiful green flowing dress. I can only imagine how the silk feels on her skin! She is small, but she attracts the attention of the crowd by deftly juggling the three fruits in her hands. Her district partner is tiny and sad, and I attribute the lack of clamor for them to the absolutely depressing aura surrounding him. Nothing really to say there.
District 12 is last, and I strain my neck in order to see them. The tributes look strong, and both are dressed in revealing outfits. Clearly their stylist swears by the motto "when lacking originality, cranking up the sex-factor to a hundred". While the girl seems to enjoy the freedom that comes from the painted-on black dust which covers up strategic areas, the boy stands dark and brooding, his own paint white and starkly disruptive against his skin. It does have a fairly cool effect, if you forget for a second that they're both teenagers standing almost completely uncovered in front of an audience of goddamn old people and screaming kids. They've both got mining lamps on top of their heads, and the girl throws down hers, as though rejecting the mere idea of working in a mine. She then proceeds to blow suggestive kisses at the men and women in the crowd. She has the smile of a shark, and I don't like it one bit.
And like this, all of the districts have passed under the spotlight and the track goes darker as we race to our finish line, where we will listen to the President give his speech. My lips involuntarily recoil at admiring this entire spectacle, because he's going to be there. It would be an understatement to say that President Daemeon is not well-liked in our household.
"Welcome to the Capitol, honored guests."
The President's booming voice commandeers the attention of the entire crowd, as everyone stands and hangs onto his every word. If I was even an ounce more brave or suicidal, I would sneer at the insincerity of his words. Honoured, sure. Thanks for the opportunity to get goddamn eviscerated on live television! But no, that's how you get shot. Any murmur of dissidence gets a bullet in your skull for your troubles, as my mother quickly found out.
I think back to how this parade used to be an opportunity for the Capitol to ridicule the tributes. That's why the stylists so often dressed their tributes into the most awful costumes. There cannot be another reason to waste cloth and fabric in such a grotesque manner, apart from intentionally inflicting the worst humiliation on the tributes, I'm convinced.
I don't remember it, but Safia told me that she watched a rerun where the rebellion-associated tributes were assaulted with rotten tomatoes, dead fish and the likes. The animosity towards the districts quieted down about six years ago, and unless the tributes are especially vocal about their rebellious ties, the Capitol audiences leave it at that. I mean…I saw it for myself. They cheered for us regardless of affiliation, since I'm sure we've got our fair share of Capitol sympathizers as well as rebel supporters in our year. I know for a fact that some of the hostility remains, but I've also seen with my own eyes that the stylists actually try, nowadays, District 5 case in point. I'm sure that if they designed to impress with the chariot costumes, they'll really pull out all the stops for the interviews, and I find myself looking forward to viewing the more classical gowns and suits that we'll all be wearing in a few days short. I strategically block out the fact that the day after, I might be dead.
Either way, I zone out just as the President drones on and on about how awfully the rebellion affected our glorious country, and how we should be honored to be the sacrifice that leads us all collectively into a better future. A pile of stinking District 10 horseshit, if you ask me, but I keep my eyes up, focusing instead on the President's dark blue tie.
Tomorrow training begins.
Tomorrow is when I need to get my shit together and find an alliance that is going to work for me. Even as the speech drags on, I mentally start preparing the kind of conversations I'm bound to have, coming up with witty tag lines and funny retorts to what people might ask.
After all, everything that can go wrong will go wrong, as it's been clearly demonstrated by yours truly being reaped. I might as well form as many contingency plans as possible and make the best out of the time I have before I'm thrust in the thick of it all.
Notes: I don't even know how, but this chapter was SO hard to write. I guess I literally have approximately negative knowledge when it comes to style, fabrics and yada yada so writing Jean was a heckin' challenge, but I did it! Let me know what you think of this young stylistic fiend from District 8. Next up, Bexley. You'll finally know what her deal is, mouahahaha…
Please pretty please, keep reviewing, I know I sound like a desperate broken record but it really makes me happy and lets me gage which submitters are still reading! A big thanks to those that do.
Peace and love.