Five
The Remake Center. Or should I call it 'The Torture Center'? Because staying here for three hours feeling pain is my general idea of torture.
Note: hair-removing is the most excruciating pain in the world. Pinky promise. Venia, a woman with aqua hair and gold tattoos above her eyebrows, is yanking strips of Fabric from my legs to tear out the hair beneath it. And it hurts. A lot.
Venia is very talkative, but I don't pay much attention on what she's talking about. I take time to hear her Capitol accent. It's very weird. People here speak in such a high pitch, like they're always asking a question. Their vowels are odd, their words are clipped and there's a hiss on the letter s. Venia, for instance, barely opens her jaw when she's talking, which is funny.
During these three hours, my prep team has been busy. They've scrubbed down my body with a gritty loam to remove dirt, turned my nails into uniform shapes, and stripped the hair off my legs, arms, torso, underarms, and parts of my eyebrows. My skin feels sore and tingling. The only thing I'm wearing is a thin robe. I don't complain, though. Not only because Haymitch told me so, but because Flavius, Venia and Octavia have been considerably kind. I was expecting less from people from the Capitol, to be honest.
"We're impressed with you," says Flavius. He gives his orange corkscrew locks a shake and applies a fresh coat of purple lipstick to his mouth. "We were expecting a whiner, and we hate whiners."
Great, I think, even these people that don't even know me think I'm weak.
Octavia, a plump woman whose entire body has been dyed a pale shade of pea green, remove the very last bits of hair with the help of Venia and Flavius. By the time they finish, I'm as hair free as a newborn baby.
They admire their work delightedly. Octavia sighs happily, "She's is so lovely!"
"As delicate as a primrose," says Flavius. I don't know why, but I like the sound of that. "Except for all the hair and dirt, I mean," he adds.
"Cinna won't have any problems with this sweetling!" Venia says. "Let's call him!"
They dart out of the room. I sincerely don't know what to think about my prep team. I mean, they're from the Capitol, yes, and people here are the only ones who treat the Games as a festivity, but I do feel that they're trying to help me.
I wait for my stylist anxiously, lying on a table that makes me feel that I'm about to do a surgery. How this Cinna will be like? Probably like most of the stylists they interview on television – dyed, stenciled, and surgically altered – and that worries me. What is his idea of fashion? Most likely the creepy skin tones and bright hair colors they all use here. I imagine myself with pink hair and yellow skin and that makes me want to leave this place running.
Before I can move, however, the door opens and a young man who must be Cinna enters. I'm taken aback by how normal he looks. His close-cropped hair appears to be its natural shade of brown. He's in a simple black shirt and pants. The only concession to self-alteration seems to be metallic gold eyeliner that has been applied with a light hand.
"Hello, Primrose. I'm Cinna, your stylist," he says. The Capitol's odd accent isn't very perceptible in his voice.
"Prim," I whisper automatically. He raises his eyebrows, but not in a rude way, only curious. I clear my throat. "Nobody calls me that. I'm only Prim."
"Prim," Cinna repeats as if he is enjoying the sound of the word. "Okay, Prim. Just give me a moment, all right?" He walks around me, taking in every inch of my body with his eyes. That makes me feel embarrassed, but Cinna looks professional. "Who did your hair?" he asks.
My hands fly automatically to clutch on my two golden braids. "My mother," I say.
"It's beautiful. And in perfect balance with your profile. She has very clever fingers," he says.
The way he talks and the way he looks don't match with the behavior of the other people I've seen here in the Capitol. That makes me ask, "Are you new?" Most of the stylists are familiar, being there year after year after year. Some have been around my whole life.
"Yes, this is my first year in the Games," says Cinna. "I was willing to work with District Twelve."
"Were you?" I ask, sincerely surprised. We're the last desirable district, no doubt.
"Yes." With no further explanation, he says, "Let's have a chat, shall we?"
I follow him through a door into a sitting room. Two red couches face off over a low table. Three walls are blank, the fourth is entirely glass, providing a window to the city. I can see by the light that it must be around noon, although the sunny sky has turned overcast. Cinna invites me to sit on one of the couches and takes his place across from me. He presses a button on the side of the table. The top splits and from below rises a second tabletop that holds our lunch. Chicken and chunks of oranges cooked in a creamy sauce laid on a bed of pearly white grain, tiny green peas and onions, rolls shaped like flowers, and for dessert, a pudding the color of honey.
"Wow," I say before I can stop myself. I'm impressed. Not in a positive way, but in a negative one. Back home, I wouldn't even dare to dream about eating any of these kinds of food. The idea of living in a world where food appears at the press of a button is so unrealistic, so out of reach. How come people from the same nation can be in such different situations? While people here have so much food they don't know what to do with it, the citizens of the poorest districts struggle to have a single plate a day.
I look up and find Cinna's eyes trained on mine. "How despicable we must seem to you," he says.
I blush. "No, no," I lie, feeling so ashamed. "That's not–"
"No matter," says Cinna. "So, Prim, about your costume for the opening ceremonies. My partner, Portia, is the stylist for your fellow tribute, Rory. And our current thought is to dress you in complementary costumes," says Cinna. "As you know, it's customary to reflect the flavor of the district."
For the opening ceremonies, you're supposed to wear something that suggests your district's principal industry. District 11, agriculture. District 4, fishing. District 3, factories. Tributes from District 12 usually end up in skimpy outfits and hats with headlamps, which are always irrelevant according to the Capitol people.
"You see, Portia and I think that coal miner thing's very overdone. No one will remember you in that. And we both see it as our job to make the District Twelve tributes unforgettable," says Cinna.
I get a little apprehensive by that. What does he mean by 'unforgettable'?
"So rather than focus on the coal mining itself, we're going to focus on the coal," says Cinna. "And what do we do with coal?" He looks at me, waiting for an answer.
"We burn it?" I ask, unsure.
"We burn it," confirms Cinna.
A few hours later, I try my outfit on. It's a simple black unitard that covers me from ankle to neck. Shiny leather boots lace up to my knees. There's also a fluttering cape made of streams of orange, yellow, and red and a matching headpiece. Cinna plans to light them on fire just before our chariot rolls into the streets.
As delicate as a primrose, I think. Delicate primroses shouldn't be set on fire.
"It's not real flame, of course, just a little synthetic fire Portia and I came up with. You'll be perfectly safe," he guarantees.
To my relief, he doesn't use much makeup on my face, just a little bit of highlighting on strategic places. Cinna brushes down my hair and redoes my two braids. "I want the audience to recognize you when you're in the arena," he says dreamily.
"As delicate as a primrose," I say. I don't realize I have said this aloud, until I see Cinna smiling at me.
"The delicacy of a primrose and the strength of a katniss," he says. "The perfect combination." I can't help smiling too.
I'm relieved when Rory shows up, dressed in an identical costume. He smiles at me as his stylist, Portia, and his team accompany him in, and everyone is absolutely giddy with excitement over what a splash we'll make. Except Cinna, I notice. He just seems a bit weary as he accepts congratulations.
We're whisked down to the bottom level of the Remake Center, which is essentially a gigantic stable. The opening ceremonies are about to start. Pairs of tributes are being loaded into chariots pulled by teams of four horses. Ours are coal black. The animals are so well trained, no one even needs to guide their reins. Cinna and Portia direct us into the chariot and carefully arrange our body positions, the drape of our capes, before moving off to consult with each other.
I'm a little nervous about the fire. I whisper to Rory, "Do you think it's really synthetic?"
He laughs a bit. "With all this eccentricities in this place, I wouldn't be surprised if there were real flames." But then he sees my expression. "Don't worry," he reassures, "they wouldn't burn us to death. We still have to compete in the Games, right?"
"Right," I say with a sigh. "I wonder where Haymitch is. Isn't he supposed to be here for, uh, support?"
Rory shrugs. "It must be dangerous, though. He has so much alcohol in him. It's risky to let him be so close to our flames."
We both laugh. It's the first time I laugh sincerely since the couple of days before the reaping. The sensation is so good. It's like I'm back to the Seam with Rory. But then I remember that we won't go back to District 12 together. After the Games, either only one comes back or none.
The opening music begins. Massive doors slide open revealing the streets lined with a massive crowd. The ride lasts about twenty minutes and ends up at the City Circle, where they will welcome us, play the anthem, and escort us into the Training Center, where we're going to stay until the Games begin.
The tributes from District 1 ride out in a chariot pulled by snow-white horses. They look so beautiful, spray-painted silver, in tasteful tunics glittering with jewels. District 1 makes luxury items for the Capitol. You can hear the roar of the crowd. They are always favorites.
District 2 gets into position to follow them. In no time at all, we are approaching the door and I can see that between the overcast sky and evening hour the light is turning gray. The tributes from District 11 are just rolling out when Cinna appears with a lighted torch. "Here we go then," he says, and before we can react he sets our capes on fire. I close my eyes shut, waiting for the heat, but there is only a faint tickling sensation. Cinna climbs up before us and ignites our headdresses. He lets out a sign of relief. "It works." Then he gently tucks a hand under my chin. "Remember, heads high. Smiles. They're going to love you!"
Cinna jumps off the chariot. Involuntarily, I clutch at Rory's hand. I feel the heat go up my cheeks, but it has nothing to do with the fake flames. Embarrassed, I prepare to let go, but Rory says, "No. Hold it." I look at him. With those fake flames, he looks eye-popping. I don't have strength to let go of his hand, so I'm actually relieved that he wants to hold mine too.
We enter the city. The crowd's initial alarm at our appearance quickly changes to cheers and shouts. Every head is turned our way, pulling the focus from the three chariots ahead of us. I catch sight of us on a large television screen and am floored by how breathtaking we look. In the deepening twilight, the firelight illuminates our faces. We seem to be leaving a trail of fire off the flowing capes. Cinna was right about the minimal makeup, we both look more attractive but utterly recognizable.
Heads high, I tell myself. Smiles. Just like Cinna told you. Rory's hand gives me the balance I need to carry on. I lift my chin a bit higher, give them my most natural beam, which is not very hard, and wave with my free hand. At home, I don't have a hard time on captivating people. With the Capitol people is not different. They're going nuts, showering us with flowers, shouting our names.
I want to come back and give Cinna a hug. He's made Rory and me unforgettable. Even if I die during the bloodbath on the first day – which will possibly happen –, people won't forget about me. They will remember Primrose Everdeen. The girl who was as delicate as a primrose and as strong as a katniss. The flaming flower.
Someone throws me a red rose. I catch it, give it a delicate sniff, and blow a kiss back in the general direction of the giver. A hundred hands reach up to catch my kiss, as if it were a real and tangible thing. This makes me a little astonished for a moment, but recover myself and keep sending kisses.
"Prim! Prim!" My name is being shouted from every direction. They are treating me like a celebrity.
We enter the City Circle. Rory and I are holding each other's hands so tightly it hurts, but none of us want to let go. Ever. We don't speak, but we know. So we keep holding on.
The twelve chariots fill the loop of the City Circle. On the buildings that surround the Circle, every window is packed with the most prestigious citizens of the Capitol. Our horses pull our chariot right up to President Snow's mansion, and we come to a halt. The music ends with a flourish.
The president, a small, thin man with paper-white hair, gives the official welcome from a balcony above us. Rory and I have more airtime than the other tributes, I notice. The darker it becomes, the more difficult it is to take your eyes off our flickering. When the national anthem plays, they do a quick cut around to each pair of tributes, but the camera holds on the District 12 chariot as it parades around the circle one final time and disappears into the Training Center.
The doors have only just shut behind us when we're engulfed by the prep teams, who are nearly unintelligible as they babble out praise. As I glance around, I notice a lot of the other tributes are shooting us dirty looks, which confirms what I've suspected, we've literally outshone them all. Oh, well, maybe now they give the twelve-year-olds from District 12 some credit. Then Cinna and Portia are there, helping us down from the chariot, carefully removing our flaming capes and headdresses. Portia extinguishes them with some kind of spray from a canister.
I'm still glued to Rory when we get out of the chariot. I don't mind, but I force myself to let go. After all this time, my hand got sweaty and stiff. Rory and I both massage our hands.
"Well, that was a nice show," Rory says. "They've seen the circus on fire. Literally."
I laugh. "Thanks for keeping hold of me," I tell him. The fake fire is gone, and yet I can still feel the heat.
"I needed your hold too," he says, giving me a half-smile.
And again I see myself thinking of how much I don't wanna compete against him. It's so unfair. Rory and I have known each other for what I consider a lifetime.
The arena is not the only thing I have to worry about, I think as we head toward the Training Center. The Hunger Games have already begun.