Chapter 5
I've been waiting in the small, pale blue room for over an hour when a petite lady walks in, toting a notepad and a large something wrapped in canvas. I quickly stash my paintbrush, which I have been rolling back and forth between my fingers impatiently while I waited, in my jacket pocket; the woman doesn't seem to mind. I take in her absurd fluorescent red hair, piled high on top of her head in the shape of an egg, her arms, which have vines twirling up them in intricate patterns, and most bizarre, her teeth. Each one has been serrated to look like half circles, and tiny flowers weave their ways across the surfaces. She is wearing a formal pink suit complete with a gigantic flower that blossoms on one shoulder and wraps around her body and a pair of impossibly high matching heels. Her eyebrows are missing, having been replaced with drawn on red lines, and her eyes are an unnatural shade of fuchsia.
As she strides towards me, one "eyebrow" raised high, she stares me up and down, taking in every detail in my appearance, and clucks despairingly. I know I'm a mess; I haven't brushed my hair or bathed since yesterday morning, but what was she expecting, a supermodel?
"Hello, dear, I am Portia Seelie, your stylist," she says in her whiny Capitol accent as she reaches down to shake my hand before conspicuously wiping her hand disgustedly on her pink skirt. "And you are Peeta Mellark. Well, we have some work to do don't we? Please change into this." She holds out a blue paper gown the same shade as the tiny room and stares at me expectantly with piercing and unnerving pink eyes. For a moment I stay unmoving, awkwardly unsure if I am supposed to take the gown and change in front of her or if she is going to leave the room. When she makes it clear that she is not going anywhere I snatch the gown hurriedly and switch clothes as quickly as I can.
"May I have those clothes back when I am finished today?" I ask meekly, thinking of my paintbrush in my pocket. She gazes at me strangely.
"You will be provided with all clothes you could ever desire while you are here," she snaps, but then sees my pained look. "But, yes, those clothes can be brought to your room." I sign involuntarily as Portia mumbles something incoherently about district youths and their attachment to everything.
"Alright, I am going to bring in your prep team and then I will see you later." She seems happy to go. I hear mumbles outside my door, and then a very energetic trio enters the room. They introduce themselves as Tarquin, a young man with nails ending in sharp claws and narrow cat eyes, Quirinus, a middle-aged man with blue-black curls and sharpened front teeth, and a girl, Pomona, who has sparkly skin and a non-existent nose under a relatively normal shade of brown hair. They get right down to work.
I am scrubbed until my skin aches, slathered with ten different conditioners, oiled, shined, and manicured. Quirinus shaves my face, which I don't understand because I barely have stubble, and then covers my face in a strong substance that burns where it touches skin. The same is done to my chest.
"The Capitol doesn't like the boys to look older," is all I get in explanation for this process. Finally they step back and look at their finished product. My hair glows gold, my skin is smooth and shiny, and I am clean. I get nods of approval from my whole prep team, and then they take their leave and I am alone again. Quirinus gives me a thumbs up as he exits the room. I can barely hold back the warm pricks in the corners of my eyes, but I know I have to. I have been in worst situations before. But this time it's different. My family, my friends, Katniss; they are all gone. I am utterly and totally alone.
A quick knock interrupts my reverie and my head snaps up just in time to see Portia dart back into the room. Her eyes shine in approval, but I'm too shocked to respond. I am positive that her eyes were pink before. Now they are violet.
"Can you hear me?" she snaps. "I said, take off your gown and close your eyes." I quickly do as I am told, stripping and shutting my eyes quickly. Portia does not seem like a person I would like to make angry with me. I feel a cool material being zipped up around my body and there is a clunk as something heavy is set down in front of me. "Okay. Look."
I do not recognize the person I see in the mirror. I am in a simple black unitard with splashes of black and silver glitter sparkling across the front. A very clunky pair of boots sit in front of me, and Portia gestures for me to put them on, which I do. They weigh a ton. She turns me around again and begins with my make-up. Bronzer, eyeliner and mascara, and a large quantity of black and silver glitter are applied to my exposed skin. When I see my reflection again I nearly laugh out loud.
Ridiculous. This is how I look and how I feel. I look like a large black fairy. The glitter has been splattered across my face, outlining my cheekbones and accenting my neck muscles. My eyes are dark with make-up. I can't believe I will be going out in front of the whole of Panem dressed like this; like a girl. It's shameful. But Portia is smiling happily so I pretend like it's the most wonderful costume I have ever seen. Just to make her happy.
"You are coal!" she explains, clapping her hands together like an overly excited toddler. I turn to look at her again, being careful to hide the disgusted thoughts that are bubbling in my stomach, and trip over my own feet in surprise, sitting down hard. Her eyes are light orange. What is wrong with these Capitol people? I just can't wait until I have to present myself to a whole crowd of them.
I am forced to eat lunch with her and detest the experience, even though the braised lemon chicken and creamy winter squash soup are divine. While I eat, she prattles on about the Games, and how excited she is to be a part of them this year. She is new, which I now understand is why she is stuck with 12, just like Effie is. I can tell how much she desires to be in with a better district; she makes it observantly clear. Apparently the Capitol doesn't think that District 12 is much of a player in their Games.
When lunch is over, I am herded down an elevator and into a large, brightly colored room decked in lavender drapes, orange walls and a maroon wooden floor. Most of the other tributes are already assembled, and I am relieved to find Poppy already here. I am not completely alone. She is an exact replica of me: the same black unitard flecked with glitter, the same clunky pair of boots. Her hair is pulled away from her face with a glittery black ribbon that is nearly invisible in her dark hair. Her dark hair that is the exact same shade as Katniss's.
I shake myself away from dreary thoughts of Katniss and run up to the tiny girl. She is standing with her stylist, a relatively normal-looking young man who introduces himself as Cinna, who immediately embraces Portia, his face aglow with praise for a job well done. I restrain myself from snorting. Yes, a job well done if you were trying to dress us as evil fairies. Poppy looks on the verge of giggling, too. She looks dismayed at our odd appearance as well, even though she doesn't look half as bad as I do. I flash her a freaked out look and we both erupt in laughter. Silence is palpable in the air as every person in the room turns to stare at us. Obviously laughter isn't common during the Games. Everyone shoots us venomous, odd looks and then turns back to their own conversations. A collective gasp echoes throughout the whole room. The horses and chariots are being brought out. It is almost time.
District by district, we are helped into our chariots, matched by a pair of horses. Our horses are the same dull black splashed with glitter as our unitards.
As we are helped up into the chariot, Poppy slips her hand into mine. Her face is drawn with nerves, her eyes wide and frightened like a small animal. My stomach flops and my feet jiggle nervously. The thin doors that connect us to the Opening Ceremonies are all that stand in the way of us and the entire population of the Capitol. District 1 is released and we hear an immediate roar of approval from the crowd. 1 is always a favorite – they make luxury items for the Capitol – expecially in their costumes tonight. They wear white fur coats atop a jewel encrusted outfit. The rest of the districts are counted off and then suddenly, we are the only ones left.
"Remember, smile and wave!" Cinna screams as we are whisked away and gallop away through the doors. My ears are first assaulted by the blasting music that resounds around the way. Then I take in the sights; extravagantly colorful people line the streets shrieking uncontrollably, roses shower down on the preferred tributes like rain. It is too much. I grip Poppy's hand for reassurance and then begin what I have been told to do. I smile until my face aches. I wave until my hand feels like it is about to drop off. Some of the crowd adores us, but many are booing. A delicate red rose is tossed to Poppy, which she catches daintily and tucks into her boot. A tomato is thrown at me and barely misses my head. The crowd has apparently conflicting feeling about us. I wonder if that is a good thing.
The chariot ride lasts minutes as we loop around the City Circle and then come to rest in front of the president's mansion. The music ends with a dramatic chord and President Snow steps up onto the balcony above us. He is a tiny and corpulent old man with hair the color of salt and eyes like dark beads, staring into your mind. The eyes of a snake. I shudder involuntarily at the sight of him. He welcomes us, the tributes, as is custom and the anthem plays, signifying the end of the ceremonies. The chariots make a final loop around the Circle and are ushered into the Training Center, where we are surrounded by our teams.
Our prep teams are there, immersing us in mounds of congratulations, as are our stylists, who pat us on the back. Everyone wears smiles. Even Haymitch, who has bothered to show up, nods in approval. The rest of the tributes ignore us, which is just fine by me, except for the small girl from 11, who smiles at Poppy. I'm happy to find that at least Poppy will have an ally in the Arena.
"You did really well out there," I mention to Poppy as we are being led through a wide hallway. "Didn't even look nervous or anything!" She smirks, and then unexpectedly launches herself into my arms. I start in surprise, but accept the hug.
"I trust you," she whispers, her soft hair, so much like Katniss's, tickling my ear. I can't help it; I break out into a smile. She beams back at me and we walk together, arm in arm, following our escorts.