Chapter 2:
I sit as still as possible as my prep team gushes over me. I have always been conscious of my looks to a certain degree so I suppose I am cleaner that most tributes that they deal with. They fawn over my shiny, strait, black hair and coo over my smooth olive toned skin. "We have a fabulous idea!" They croon. "Just wait until we get your stylist in here, it's going to be magnifique!" I wonder if Cato is subjected to the same torture as I am. Probably not, Cato is so handsome; they probably don't even need to touch him. I try and smile sweetly at the prep team, as insufferable as they are it's crucial that they get this right; the crowd has to love Cato and me.
After what feels like ages my stylist finally makes an appearance. He beams at me, thankful, I suppose, that he doesn't have to dress a dirty, undersized tribute. He instructs me to close my eyes, I comply and I feel smooth fabric rustle over my skin. I open my eyes and a girl so beautiful it makes my heart stop looks back at me. My hair is silky and soft in smooth curls around my face, my skin is perfect with just a hint of pink in the cheeks, and my dress seems to be made completely out of pale grey silk. It fits my figure perfectly and the bottom is artfully ripped into strips. I look like a siren, dangerous but beautiful. I smirk, perfect. "I will make sure they keep wind on you at all times." My stylist tells me, demonstrating the effect he wants with a small fan. I nod and swallow all nerves. "Is it time to go yet."
He smiles at me, "Yes it is, come along."
I meet Cato at the chariot, he is wearing a suit of the same fabric my dress is made of. He looks so strong. I would sponsor him. I want to hug him, kiss him, talk to him, at least touch him, but he shoots a fierce glare at me, reminding me that we are not lovers here. I glare back at him. Two can play at this game. Our stylists help us into our chariot. "Smile or growl," Hisses my stylist, "Just make an impression." I nod tersely, my angle is fierce and proud so I throw a mocking smile onto my face, raise my chin, and prepare to greet my fans.
Immediately I hear shouts of "District 2! Clove, Cato!" I smirk at the audience, sending them into an even greater excitement before. The promised wind is on me constantly, sending my dress and hair flying out around me, I feel like I'm flying. For a few moments it doesn't matter that this can only end in the death of my love or my own death. For a moment I am filled with nothing but exhilaration and drive. For the first time since I arrived in the square with Cato, I am happy. Suddenly the roaring crowd stops. I glare at them quizzically, what's wrong? I want them to cheer for me but they aren't even looking at me; they are transfixed by something far behind me. I crane my neck around to see what they are staring at. It's a girl, an insignificant girl from district 12. Not beautiful, not special, but radiantly shining. Fire wreaths around the girls neck and in her hair, I growl, a low and menacing sound. How dare she! How dare she steal my glory, how dare she try to take what is mine? I don't care if Cato won't talk to me in public, I lean over to him and imperceptibly I whisper, "She's first." Cato's thoughts seem to be in line with mine because he nods vigorously.
Once the chariots have stopped we stand and listen to President Snow. I don't even have to glance at the large TV screen to know that the cameras are all on the girl for District 12. This infuriates me to no end; if it wasn't for President Snow I am fairly certain I would tackle the girl, Katniss. As soon as President Snow is done talking we are wheeled back to our rooms. All the stylists are talking about the fire, all of the tributes are seething about it. As soon as we are away from the cameras Cato gives me a strong look. I glare at him and avert my eyes. I know that look. He can sense when my temper is about to get the better of me. He wants me to reign it in. "Save it for the arena." He mutters so only I can hear. I nod distractedly as if it is foolish of him to even suggest that I would do anything but. We arrive at the elevator before the other tributes. I press the button sporting a large number two. I wait for the door to close and for the elevator to begin its rise. Then I explode. "How could she! Oh, she will pay, as soon as I have my hands on those knives…" Cato lets me rant; he knows I will quiet faster if I'm left alone. For some reason this infuriates me more, I turn on him. "And you? Do you not see what she's done to us? She has stolen our sponsors." He starts to chuckle but the glare I give him is so ferocious that he quickly composes himself. "Oh Clove," he speaks with a trace of amusement in his voice, "She can't steal our sponsors if she's dead."
We say good night to each other and go into our separate rooms. I toss and turn, thinking of ways to kill the girl on fire. If because of her Cato and I have to struggle, even the tiniest bit, then she will rue the day of her birth. She is not worth loosing love. She is not worth anything. She's from District 12; I shouldn't even know her name. Cato's words resound in my head, I'm sure that they were meant to be comforting, but they only fuel my anger. He's right, there will be no sponsors lost after I send a perfectly aimed knife directly through her heart at the cornucopia. No one loves a dead girl.