I'm dying.
Well, not literally. But with each hair ripped from its tiny follicle in my leg, it feels like a thousand burning needles are being shoved through my skin. Why can't they just let me keep my leg hair? It's the only reminder I have of home—well, that and my thick eyebrows, which they have plucked and prodded until they were perfectly arched. When the pungent, fruity-smelling wax is applied onto the tender skin of my thigh, I sit up from the styling bench immediately and smack away the hand of the eager member of my styling team who has the nerve to try to cause me any more pain.
"I'm fine. No one is going to see that part of my body," I growl, still gripping her wrist.
The shocked look on her face—which, by the way, is implanted with whiskers and tattooed with cheetah spots—turns into angered ridicule as she smugly says, "You never know."
To my dismay, the woman slaps the wax-covered strip onto my inner thigh at lightning speed and wrenches the poor hairs from their little homes. Just like how I was wrenched from mine.
I hate the Capitol. They took me away from everything I loved; my lush, green woods, my parents, my small, ratty bed that is simply a mattress on the floor. My curly black leg hair. But the difference is that District 12 is what I've known all my life. I don't know what the Capitol has thrown me into: their ridiculous and opulent fashions, the way they want me to look and speak, and the violence that I will inevitably have to face in the arena. I'm not a violent person; all I know how to do is hunt small game like rabbits or squirrels. I can't even shoot with a bow; that's my brother Jeremy's specialty. I'm fast and can kill small things with my hands, but I won't stand a chance compared to the other kids who've at least been able to practice some fighting skills. Nobody—probably not even my parents—will try to be my sponsor.
I stand alone in the quiet of the private Remake Room, where I was told to wait unclothed for my stylist. As I stare at myself in the mirror, I see someone who is not me, someone that the Capitol has already remade and molded to their image. My nails are filed perfectly and painted coal- black to resemble my district's export. My raven hair falls straight and evenly down my back with neither a hair out of place nor a single split end. Black and gray eyeshadow stretches all the way up to my brow bone, and my lips are a subtle light pink. But despite all of the physical altering, there's still one thing the Capitol can't change, and that's who I am on the inside. I am still the same, lanky, hotheaded Ryenne Fairbridge who can't make a quality roast chicken to save her life. I'm still me.
The door opens with a snap, and I immediately whip my head around to face my stylist, who introduces herself as Juno. She smiles and reaches out to shake my hand, but instead I cross my arms unabashedly across my naked bosom and growl, "Let's not talk. You do what you came here to do, and I'll do what I came here to do."
This takes Juno by surprise as she raises a razor-thin, arched eyebrow, the shiny, rich-brown skin pulling tightly across her face. She is small, probably about five feet tall and thin as a tree branch. I stare at her and wonder if she ever eats; if, like all of the stories our parents have told us about what Capitol citizens do, she gorges and feasts until every last parcel of food fills her tiny stomach and then she purges it with fancy drinks to stay thin. Does she know how we starve? Does she know that some days, Jeremy and I (as well as the rest of our family) have to eat the scraps that Old Hartley's filthy pigs reject?
No, she doesn't, which I realize as she taps a wispy fingertip on her plump lips and says candidly, "Look at you! You're all skin and bones. My God, we are going to have fix this before the Games or… by President Caverhorst, I'll quit my job before I get fired because of you!"
My eyes subconsciously narrow themselves into slits so small that I can barely see. I sink my teeth into my tongue to keep from biting the head off of this woman, but instead of obliterating her right now, I swallow my pride and grit my teeth. "You can fix it…"
Juno paces around the circular platform upon which I stand, the sound of her flat shoes barely clicking on the linoleum floor. I stare at my pedicured feet as she insults me. "You people from the lower districts are such heathens. Someone needs to teach you all manners," she remarks, stopping in her tracks to face me. "But you're right, I can. I made a padded costume just in case. One should always be prepared for the worst."
The worst. I'm the worst. Well, I can't really deny that I'm not a looker, and I certainly don't have a significant amount of physical strength, but both of those inconveniences are because I've starved for a few years now. Blame it on the Rebellion. Blame it on the oppressive Capitol.
Juno retrieves a mock-miner's hat, knee-high leather boots, and a tiny pickaxe in one hand. I begin to think that this isn't the worst she could do to me, but as I notice what she's carrying in the other arm (its puffy skirt completely concealing the upper half of her body), I realize that I am totally mistaken. She holds the heavily-padded atrocity up to my body and I am utterly appalled at the sight of what I will be wearing. The dress is one-shouldered, with stalagmite-resembling studding reaching from the thick shoulder strap all the way across the brown, padded, form fitting torso. There are hideous, long brown wrist cuffs I am to wear, but nothing compares to the repulsiveness of the bottom half of the outfit. The skirt part of the dress is scandalously short and blue, fading to red and brown as it nears my hips. It's so puffy that I feel as though I might float away like a cloud of coal dust. Float from the chariot all the way back home to Twelve. How I would love that.
When I am finished being probed relentlessly by Juno, I am guided to the lumpy mass of flaming black metal that is my chariot, which I guess is supposed to be a metaphor for coal. Pitch black, and lumpy. I've about had it with the stupid coal symbolism.
I almost throw myself into the seat before I realize that there's another person sitting in the spot. It's the boy tribute from my district—oh, what's his name again? Ash? He gently grabs my waist to keep me from slipping off the steps and hoists me into the neighboring spot, giving a soft, deep chuckle. "You 'kay?" he asks, still smiling. I note that he's still holding onto my waist with one hand.
Shoving him away from me, I fold my arms crossly and grumble, "Yeah. Stop laughing at me." A fiery blush rises on my cheeks as I stare at my weathered boots and not at the boy who just nearly saved my life.
I can sense his grin grow larger and wider. "You'll owe me for this in the arena," he jokes. "And my name's Ash."
The blush is growing hotter. "I know, I heard our escort announce it."
"Did you?"
"To be honest," I mutter. "I wasn't paying attention. I really didn't care." There. That should wipe the stupid beam from his face. To be sure, I add, "Still don't."
To my dismay though, Ash chuckles again. "You're something else, Ryenne," he teases. "It's funny to watch you get so heated."
At the mention of my name, I whip my head up to see the speaker, and I become aware that I never really got a good look at him in the first place. Ash is wearing the same costume as me but in male form; same hard hat, same pickaxe, but with a brown, fitted, long sleeved shirt that shows his defined muscles and pants having the same color scheme as my skirt.
He is kind of attractive—okay, really attractive. He looks like a typical Seam kid—like me—with his chin-length, wavy black hair parted and slicked back, and lovely olive skin. What stands out to me, though, are his black-eyeshadow-framed, dark brown eyes, a sight that is highly unusual in Twelve. On average, people from District 12 have either gray or blue eyes, depending on whether or not they are from the Seam or Merchants. But brown eyes…That's something refreshingly new and different. Warm. Kind. Almost…friendly.
Another smile hints at the corners of Ash's lips as I realize that he's caught me checking him out at such a close proximity. I sense my face once again turning red and I quickly turn away from him, embarrassed and angry with myself, as the horses drawing our chariot slowly move forward.
I distract myself from momentary humiliation by watching all the tributes make their ways into their chariots. We must've been really early, considering that the other tributes are just now arriving at their chariots. I watch them load themselves district by district, and the procession begins impeccably fast, each of the tributes' names and faces being broadcast on the huge screen in the promenade. The kids from One are dressed up like Greek gods, but they take on the persona of their costumes and it radiates in their vicious, white-toothed smiles, as well as the eagerness with which they wave to and salute the screaming crowd. The boy—his name is Spekter—is especially terrifying; he is large and extremely muscular, whereas the girl, Marble, is smaller, pretty, and delicate. But from the malevolent glint in her eye, I can tell that behind the fresh face might lurk something more evil than in Spekter. I shudder as the screens continue to broadcast the two waving.
As the event draws on, Ash comments on the ridiculous costumes of the other tributes, but I ignore his mocking remarks and focus on the present. Focus on here and now. Focus on trying to size up the competition.
The jolt of the chariot moving sends me flying back into my seat, but, once again, Ash yanks me up and keeps me from tumbling backwards. Except this time, when his hand lingers on my arm, my whole body tingles with exhilaration and adrenaline as we fly forward at record speed. He slides his fingertips down my forearm and holds two of my fingers with two of his own, all while staring straight ahead at the mass of outlandish Capitol Citizens and waving with a devilishly crooked smile. I am comforted by my fingers in his because it oddly reminds me of home. Something that's from Twelve and is tangible to me, something that I can hold on to. Well, at least for the moment. I resist the urge to pull away from him because he is the only thing keeping me from running away from the chariot right now; I hate being in the limelight. It makes me feel so out of place.
So I smile and wave too, my whole body secretly shaking with the adrenaline rush. The crowd cheers wildly, but not as loudly as it did for the kids from the upper districts. I guess I know for sure now where I won't be getting sponsors.
As we reach the end of our three-minute journey, the small, nervous tremors have turned into full-on shaking, and I realized that my entire hand has found itself clutching to Ash's for dear life. He looks at me enthusiastically, face still ablaze from the thrill of being on public display. But my smile has long fallen since I remembered that we're in the real world again, and that Ash is just some stranger that will have to be killed. He's not my friend or any other variation on the word. I can't think of him like another human being. He's an animal capable of killing, just like all of the rest of the tributes. When I reclaim my hand from his, I have already renounced any chance at developing a friendship with him. Renounced any trust I had in him, any notion that we are anything more than partner tributes.
He gives me a wordless, confused glance. "I don't do friends," I respond. "Especially not when my life is at stake." As I burst out of the chariot to the elevator that is supposed to take me to my floor, I leave behind any trace of humanity I had before tonight.
I, too, am an animal, and I will do anything it takes to survive.