Chapter 43:
My prep team freezes, shell-shocked and horrified. It saddens me that their reaction is to the tribute's ugly (yet appropriate) words, and not to the Capitol's ugly sentencing. Octavia's jaw drops about three feet; Venia quickly sits and begins fanning herself with an oversized makeup brush. Flavius is the only one coherent enough to speak.
"What did they say?" he asks incredulously.
"They said, 'Fuck the Capitol'," I repeat, eyes prickling with tears. But at the same time, through my sadness, I'm smiling. It's fun to say that out loud, especially in front of my uptight prep team- they react all over again. And I realize that Peeta is right- it isn't over. I think about everyone I know back in District 12, what they all must be thinking after hearing that, what I would have thought after hearing that for the first time, if I hadn't wanted to rebel already. The tributes will die, but they've just assured us all that the rebellion won't. For that, I'm infinitely grateful to them.
Having seen enough, the prep team flicks off the TV. That they wanted to watch the fanfare of the execution ceremony more than the gruesome deaths themselves relieves me to a certain extent; it allows me to look at the prep team in a slightly better light. A sense of closure seems to wash over the room. The prep team finishes my makeup and calls Cinna in. Cinna is to finish styling my hair as well as dress me. But as soon as he sees my face, he calls the prep team back.
"She's a seventeen-year-old girl, not a streetwalker!" he says, in a raised voice I'm not sure I've ever heard from him before; he looks anxious. "That's entirely too much eyemakeup!" I'm forced to sit there for another half hour as the prep team works frantically for the next half hour to correct their mistake.
Finally, I'm presented to Cinna again and he deems my makeup beautiful. "I'm sorry that I was so irritable," he apologizes to me calmly, "but this has been a very stressful day- on a lot of levels. I'm sure you can relate," he shoots me an understanding look. "Anyway, the prep team has a difficult time seeing natural beauty. I don't want you to look like anyone other than yourself. I want Peeta to see the real you," he explains, and then finally gives me a smile, running his fingers through my hair, getting started.
As Cinna works, Prim is escorted in to begin work with the prep team….with my mother! I want to jump up and crush her with a hug; unfortunately, Cinna has a firm grasp on a section of my hair; he greets my mom by kissing the air but otherwise makes no move to let me go. Instead, I just smile at my mother as she approaches my side (out of Cinna's way) and leans in as close as she dares to give me a half-embrace. She looks beyond thrilled that both of her daughters are still alive. In fact, she seems so happy that we're okay that she no longer seems upset in the least that her seventeen year-old daughter is about to get married (or perhaps she has simply come to the realization that there's nothing she can do about it).
Prim, on the other hand, is sullen, her big eyes red-rimmed and glassy, and says little as the prep team begins to fix her hair. My anger at the Capitol once again begins to rise; the old Prim would have absolutely loved the opportunity to get dolled up, have her hair styled by a team of people, wear a fancy dress, and be a maid-of-honor. But I try to push the negativity aside as quickly as possible; this is the first time in a while that our family has been in the same room together, and I have every intention of trying to make the experience pleasant- at least for my mom. Unfortunately, I don't have the ultimate control- I try to engage them both in conversation but only my mother responds- Prim just sits stiffly with her arms crossed. Seeing her that way reminds me again of myself, the first time I met my prep team. I try to shake it off.
When Cinna finally turns my chair around, so that I am looking in the mirror at my reflection, I am completely blown away. It is unlike any look that they've ever given me. I don't look like an intimidating warrior, or a beautiful otherworldly creature, or a little girl- I look like an angel. Soft features, pale glowing skin, light pink lips. My hair is gorgeous- it reminds me a lot of the style my mother gave me for the reaping, but with carefully placed ringlets instead of braids, elevating its sophistication. I look like the most beautiful possible version of myself. I look like a bride. And I'm not even in my dress yet.
"Do you like it?" Cinna whispers.
I can't think of anything to say in response- I just nod my head vigorously. My mom, who is getting her hair styled by Octavia, immediately bursts out crying. Even Prim looks over at me from under Flavius's busy arms, and I can see her eyes soften as she gives me a genuine smile. "You look beautiful, Katniss," she says. The other emotions aren't gone, but she's managed to push them back for a second.
It means a lot, and I find myself fighting tears- and I can't even figure out why, they could be for so many reasons. "Thank you," I whisper to all of them.
Cinna helps me out of my bathrobe and into my dress- the long-sleeved satin one with pearls, and carefully adds my veil, shoes, and jewelry. He shows me my reflection in the mirror again.
"So, the dress, shoes, veil, and earrings are your something new…." He begins.
What he's saying sounds familiar, but I don't entirely know the tradition. I'm intrigued. "What else is there again?" I ask.
"Well," Cinna replies, "You need something old. Like this," he flourishes my mockingjay pin, affixing it towards the neck of my dress, almost like a brooch. It looks a little out of place, but I could care less- it completes me somehow. I clasp it tightly in my grip, bringing it to my lips, kissing it.
"Thank you," I say again.
"I'm glad you like it. You can thank your sister," Cinna smiles. "It's also your something borrowed."
"So that leaves…." I pause. Old, new, borrowed. Finally, a flash of recognition. "Blue?" I ask. I think back to how I would remember that. A previous wedding at the Capitol?
"Yes, that's right," Cinna affirms. When I look at him questioningly, as if to say, 'Well, where is it?' he responds by lifting the bottom of my dress, revealing its many underlayers. Cinna points to an area that looks darker and texturally a little out of place, and I realize it's because he's sewn on a couple of patches. Both blue. I recognize them immediately. The first- the blue from my mother's dress that I wore on Reaping Day. The second- blue from Prim's snowsuit that she wore in the Quell. I gasp.
Meanwhile, my mom and Prim had approached; apparently they had managed to wrangle themselves away from the prep team's grasp for a minute. When I see that they're right behind me, I give them a group hug, wrapping an arm tightly around each one of them. That they sacrificed those garments so that I would have a silly tradition fulfilled is so incredibly selfless of them. But it means something else- they'll be standing beside me at the altar, but now I'll feel like they're with me all day, even when they're not around. "Thank you, they're perfect," I repeat. My mom kisses me on the cheek and bawls until the prep team warns her that her makeup will take twice as long. Prim's eyes are still sad, but she does her best to flash me a smile.
I am ready, and my sister and mother are not, and at this point it's after 2:30, so I am whisked away for a private photography session while Prim and my mother are attended to by Cinna and the prep team. I space out while the photographer takes my picture again and again- why do they need so many shots?- and why do they need me from so many angles? I could care less, and I can't bring myself to smile brilliantly like the photographer instructs. But I do smile genuinely when Prim and my mother are escorted back to me to be a part of the shoot- I'm thrilled that we'll get to spend a little more time together before the ceremony. Prim's bright blond hair is now in a stunning hairstyle, and her makeup young and fresh; my mom looks as pretty as I've ever seen her. But my smile fades when I look at their red dresses. The red is the color of blood.
We have our pictures taken until an attendant at the Capitol tells us that it's time to head towards the Training Center, where they apparently have transformed the execution stage into an altar for the wedding. We oblige, and I wonder if they pulled it off. When we get there, there are a couple of minutes to go before the ceremony is supposed to start and we're told to just hang tight in a curtained area off of the stage. Capitol workers are running around at top speed, one of them was assigned specifically to check on the three of us. As in, make sure our makeup hasn't smudged, that our dresses are immaculate, that we don't have a hair out of place. But we don't have to do anything but wait. After a minute, a florist comes to meet us and hands us gigantic bouquets of flowers. Prim's and my mother's are red; mine are, of course, white. But President Snow took mercy on me, or doesn't want to distract me or something, because these particular roses are odorless. Thank God for small favors.
They tell me it's time to slowly follow the carpet up the stairs to the stage, one step at a time. I give Prim another quick hug and kiss before she is sent out. My mother links her arm in mine, grasping my hand tightly, so I'm left to hold the roses with one hand- and they're heavy. We slowly begin to walk.
That's the thing about not getting caught up in wedding details. I don't notice or care about the type of runner that we walk on. I don't listen to the music- I don't even know what song is playing as my mom and I slowly step up onto the stage. I don't pay any attention to the expensive floral arrangements, which seem to be everywhere. We pass row after row of seated people on long pews, but I don't once look at them- I doubt anyone that I care about is sitting there anyway, they're all in front of or beside me. I don't concentrate on the multiple photographers snapping pictures, flashbulbs erupting. I don't take time to examine the even more elaborate floral arrangements at the altar, take a look at the minister or whoever will be performing the ceremony, or even acknowledge anybody else on stage.
All I see….is Peeta.