Chapter IV: The Very Image of a Victor
With Beetee's everlasting support, I am able to calmly deliver Plume's speeches for the rest of the District Tour. I am amazed at how different each one looks, right down to what people wear and the varying degrees of how they react to me. District Ten is sunny, warm for winter, and smells of livestock dung. Something about the somewhat-decayed urban landscape of Eight reminds me of home. Four is bright and energetic, and I give my presentation on a beach. One is like stepping into a fantasyland where everyone is a Prince or Princess, only less so than the Capitol.
My only other hard time is, of course, in Six. Beetee convinced Plume (who may be afraid of him now) to allow me some freedom in what I say in regards to Tatsuya. I wrote something down the night before and let Beetee look over it. He approved. I take the paper with me onstage, and as I speak I don't let my eyes stray from it, because I know what will happen if and when I do. While I am able to control myself throughout my quick eulogy, I do begin to cry when I finally look up.
Tatsuya's face is smiling at me gently from his projected image. Underneath it, a much older man using a cane to help him stand is bowing his head as if in prayer. Next to him is a child no more than five years old, holding his free hand, her long black hair tied underneath a headscarf.
Tatsuya had no parents, I realize. Only a disabled grandfather and a very young sister. Neither one could possibly care for the other, and Tatsuya must have been their livelihood. The only person who could and did take care of them died in my arms on public screens all around them.
I don't mention the kiss that all of Panem saw. I don't mention how Tatsuya had led me on in order to make himself look good for the sponsors. I only say that he was a selfless man with the heart of a warrior who'd died saving me and trying to save his District partner, Alesta.
Beetee knows that when I go to my bed on the train afterwards, for once, I want to be completely alone. I can't believe this horrid Tour is only halfway over.
Aside from Six, the part of the Tour I dread the most is the Capitol party. After being overwhelmed with a ten-course banquet and infinite brightly-colored lights, jewels, feathers, and unnaturally white smiles in District One, I am exhausted.
District One is still lackluster compared to the Capitol.
I only got a taste of it during Training in the summer. Most of the fanfare I was exposed to surrounding the Games was only during the Parade and the interviews with Dionysius Flickerman. Now that I'm here and getting ready for a true evening among the social elites, I'm beginning to wish someone else was here in my place.
Plume draws a solid line at what I wear. No plum dress. No flat shoes. No simple, functional hairstyles. Instead, she and Aloysius design a gown for me out of the luminescent material I'd worn during the Tributes Parade. It has a sweeping, floor-length skirt so wide I may have to walk through doors sideways. There are no sleeves or neckline. The dress is a bright lime green, with a forest green sash going across my chest and knotting at the hip. Giving up on my thin, limp hair, Aloysius calls for a wig, already decorated, for my head. It's laughable, but also heavy and cumbersome. It has thin strings of lights woven throughout, and feathers popping up from the left side, right above my ear. I decide internally that when this is all over, I'm going to cut my hair to my ears.
But even the wig is nothing compared to the heels Plume gets for me. A teal color that complements the dress (even though no one will be seeing it under the yards of tulle comprising my skirt), they bind to my feet and ankles with thin straps, and the heels are easily six-inches high. Within five minutes of wearing them, my calves ache. I hobble around, barely able to keep my balance.
This is going to be the longest night of my life, at least since the night before the Games began six months ago.
After I'm made up to look like a bouffant porcelain doll, I waddle through the door of my room. Beetee is standing in the living room of my quarters, not dressed up at all. He is, however, clearly hiding something behind his back.
He takes a moment to observe me. A smile crawls across his face, and after a moment, a low giggle rises up and escapes. For some reason, this evokes the same reaction with me, and we share a rare moment of genuine laughter at my ridiculous getup.
"Please don't be offended, but you look like a tree," Beetee snorts, making me laugh harder.
"At least I know if I fall in water, this will keep me floating," I reply, gesturing to the comically wide skirt. Beetee's laugh comes from deep in his chest, and that's how I know how it's real. It's a moment I wish I could live in forever. Laughter is a luxury.
Beetee, still chuckling, takes my hand in his and twirls me around. The skirt is so big I can almost feel a wind resistance as I try to rotate once. Then, my heart leaps as I lose my balance. My heel has caught the material and tripped me. Luckily, Beetee catches my shoulder.
Once our giggles have subsided, Beetee looks around as if making sure we are alone. Then, he gestures to me with a finger on his lips, telling me to keep his secret. He takes out my dependable black flats from behind his back.
I grin. "Plume will be angry."
"To hell with her," he answers.
I've never heard Beetee say a word harsher than 'damn' before. It almost makes me want to start laughing again.
"She'll notice how short I am," I mention. Beetee is already digging under my skirts, looking for my feet.
"Walk on your toes until it's too late to turn back," he suggests.
He finds my feet, and it takes nearly a minute for him to completely untie and remove the torture-shoes. My calves cry out in relief the second my heels hit the floor. He slips the flats on, and I finally have a bit of comfort. I almost feel like I can survive the night.
"I can't be with you. Plume is going to guide you through the motions this time," says Beetee once he emerges from under the tent I'm wearing.
I've known this since Plume told me as much this morning, but it doesn't mean I'm not disappointed.
"What advice did she give you about tonight?"
I think back to when she was wrestling me into the dress.
"She said to be the very image of a Victor," I answer. "Be social, dance, eat, and smile."
Beetee nods and takes my hand in his, drawing me close so what he is about to say won't be heard by anyone else who may enter the room.
"Don't…don't worry about being social or polite. In fact, try not to be."
I'm surprised. This doesn't sound at all like what I expect him to say.
"I can explain it later, but don't go out of your way to be desirable to anyone, okay? Don't ask questions right now, but I'll expla—"
"—are you ready for your big night?" Plume calls out, strutting in like a peacock showing off to it's potential mates. She stops as she sees us in our rather close and intimate huddle. She chuckles. "And you wondered why people here think you're a couple!"
Beetee and I break apart, and I quickly remember to stand on my toes as Plume approaches to give me a once-over. She doesn't notice any difference in my height. Beetee nods affirmingly.
"Well, we're on time for being fashionably late, so let's go!" Plume swiftly puts her arm on my back to guide me outside. I manage to catch one last glimpse of Beetee before I'm shoved into the carriage set to take me to the party at the Presidential Mansion.
Beetee's face startles me. It's not a look of hope or assurance. It's a look of concern.
The horns blow the Panem National Anthem so loudly my ears ring as a footman takes my hand and helps me and my giant dress out of the carriage. There is a red carpet at my feet, and the path leads through a large, shimmering iron gate, where everyone is lined up and waiting for me.
Plume arrives at my side, and I look down and realize that she has chosen a leather sausage casing as a dress for the evening. It's so tight that not a single curve of her body is left to the imagination. It's an alarming red color, sparkles all over, and her heels have laces that wind up her legs all the way past her thighs. The sleeves are puffed almost as wide as my dress. Still, as tight as it is, it still must be easier walking around in than mine.
The people who line the sides of the red carpet as we walk by do not hold back. They reach out hands to touch me all over. I'm accosted on all sides with strange hands. They grin like children and act as if I'm the President himself. People wave and shout to get my attention. I look down at the hem of my dress and keep walking with my head down. I feel like a piece of roast being delivered to a starving crowd.
Once the walk is over and I'm officially at the party in the President's courtyard, Plume takes me aside.
"You can do better than that. I can't be glue to your side much longer. Just promise me you'll stay presentable and act cordially?"
I think of Beetee's hint, and I decide to play along with Plume, if nothing else, to get her away from me. I nod obediently, and Plume takes this as a sign to wander off and greet some acquaintances.
I'm alone in the middle of a crowded room where I know no one. Before the Games, this very scenario was what haunted my nightmares more than almost anything else.
The courtyard is enormous. The Mansion behind it is even more gargantuan, with elaborate pillars, carvings, and winding staircases all about. A reflecting pool runs down the middle, with a large fountain spitting artificially-blue water all ways. A sea of neon colors, feathers, dapper coats, teased hair, and thick, cakey makeup reaches out on all sides. Despite being outside after sunset, the party is brightly lit, and the overwhelming noises come not only from the hum of party goers chatting with one enough, but from a grand string orchestra set up near the dance floor, deeper in the crowd.
Looking for a quick escape, I spot the enormous buffet table, and decide to feign interest in food. Maybe people will see me eat and leave me be.
The table is stocked with more food than I'd ever seen in my life. Silver platters of meats, cheeses, sandwiches, fruits, pies, cakes, pastries, appetizers, and flutes of different colors of liquor and wine line the table, each course decorated with vegetable garnishes in the shapes of flowers and birds, and vials of condiments in between each platter. Taking a shiny plate, I act invested in the offerings before me, and fill it up to the point of overflow with the simplest dishes I can find. None of the foods are labeled, but I think I've taken roast beef, rice or some kind of tiny grain pilaf, a pureed vegetable that's orange, a few grapes, and a slice of some kind of pie. The presentation of it all is so detailed and complicated it's hard to identify anything for certain. I also take a flute of pink liquor.
The tables are tall enough for people to stand at, so I try and find one towards the edge of the crowd. I'm fortunate to find one that's empty, and I put down my plate. I am quite thirsty, and perhaps a little alcohol will help me relax…
…I nearly gag on the liquid as I drink it back in one motion. It's not wine, nor is it a hard liquor. I taste nothing of alcohol in it. Instead, it's a too-sweet concoction with a metallic aftertaste. It takes every ounce of my will not to spit it out.
"Oh my goodness, Miss Wiress!"
A lady I don't know creeps up on me and shouts the greeting right into my ear. It startles me so that I almost feel the need to defend myself. The woman, in spite of her lavish blue dress and collar that extends higher than her head in the back, looks harmless.
"You've just arrived, haven't you? Are you that full already?"
I must give her an odd look, because she indicates my glass.
"That isn't wine, dear," the woman says softly. "It's for…well…I guess you'll find out in about ten minutes."
My mouth opens, ready to ask what she's talking about, but she continues without stopping for breath.
"I do hope that you'll dance with my son. He's nearby! Perhaps now? It would be an honor for him to have the first dance with a Victor!"
"S…son?" I stutter.
The strange lady nods and grabs my wrist, yanking me away from my the table and onto the dance floor. So much for hiding behind food.
She brings me to a young blonde man dressed in a suit with a more of a simple design than most people here. The only standout feature of his presentation is a large gold pocket watch hanging from his breast pocket. He looks to be older than Beetee or I but perhaps barely over twenty or twenty-two. He doesn't bear any odd hairstyle, makeup or markings, and other than the slightly garish watch, he isn't wearing any Capitol-style accessories.
He sees the lady approach with me and bows at the waist in my general direction.
"Plutarch, darling! Here she is!" the lady calls out to the young man. She forces my hand into the boy's. "Have fun! No stepping on her toes, son!"
I'm still disoriented as the brash lady, who still hasn't told me her name, abandons the two of us and flutters off on her own. I look up at this Plutarch, and I'm surprised to observe an almost apologetic look about him.
"My apologies, Miss Wiress," he says evenly. "My mother can be a bit insistent. I suspect it's because she wants me to marry well."
There's something sincere about his annoyance at his mother, and I allow him to put an arm around my waste and lead me in a slow dance. However, he can't get too close to me thanks to my obnoxious dress.
"Do you want that?" I ask softly.
"Excuse me?" Plutarch asks.
Of course my voice is too soft! "…to marry well?"
Plutarch nods in understanding. "I don't want to marry at all. I find I don't develop those kinds of feelings for anyone anyway."
I know what he means, but I don't say so. I do take a little comfort in knowing he won't be trying to flirt with me.
"My mother will get over it one day," Plutarch continues. "It's not about romance. It's about station."
"What's that?" I ask. I feel like Plutarch and Beetee have a similar blunt-but-charismatic way of talking. Perhaps that's why I'm responding to him.
"Mother is obsessed with me starting a good career here. Only way to get ahead is through connections when you're my age and don't have a reputation yet."
"You don't seem very…um…interested in all of this," I note. Plutarch smiles.
"You're very observant," he says, almost as if he's taking a mental note. "I'm not one for ostentation, but I know what I want."
"What's that?"
"I think I want to be a Gamemaker," Plutarch replies. Suddenly, my growing trust in the man drops.
I don't say anything, but I don't have to.
"I know you are probably already judging me for making that my aspiration."
I blurt out, "Yes."
Plutarch chuckles and takes a moment to sweep me around the floor. Other dancing couples have to clear away for my dress to follow through.
"Well, in a place like this, you need to be in a position that high in order to make an impression on people," he reasons. "Maybe pride is my sin."
"I think it's the sin of everyone who lives here."
"Sadly, I think that's true."
I look at his watch. It's quite pretty. The face is a shiny white with an almost pearl or opal-like sheen. The numbers are elaborately designed and hand-painted.
"Like the watch? It was my grandfather's," he offers.
"I like clocks," I answer.
Plutarch smiles. "Me too."
Suddenly, an intense wave of nausea hits me all at once. It's almost as painful as the acid rain that burned as it fell down on my in the arena. Without decorum or care, I push myself away from Plutarch and make for the bathroom…
…only I don't know where a lavatory would be located in this giant place. I'd better hurry, because I'm definitely about to—
-I'm throwing up, and throwing up hard into some receptacle that appeared suddenly before me. Pain, heaving, but nothing comes out, as I still haven't eaten anything. All that comes up is a little bit of bile and some of the pink liquid that I now know caused this to happen to me.
Retching on an empty stomach in the middle of a crowded room of Capitol citizens waiting to meet me. What a shining moment of glory at the end of my Victory Tour. Plume will be delighted.
At least I'm doing what Beetee said to do: ensuring that I'm not desirable.