The train ride was a time of leisure, but according to Effie, now that we have arrived in the Capitol, it will be "busy busy busy days!" until the games start. She explains that we will have a schedule packed with training, interviews, and strategy meetings. "We're a team!" she squeals. Awren and I do not share her enthusiasm.
However, she was dead on about how busy we will be. The second we get off of the train I am whisked away by a glittering purple and red cloud which is later revealed to be my prep team. All of them have long fluffy names spoken in an accent I can't understand. Not that it matters anyways, I think, by this time next year I will be dead and they'll be fawning over some other poor girl from 12. The two Capitol citizens who have been assigned the task of preparing my body for the games might be comical if I didn't have to endure their company. At the moment, they are obnoxious; clucking and tutting around me like a pair of curious pigeons. Every time I open my mouth to speak, they both shriek with delight at my accent, and a warp-faced woman with spiked purple and black hair is constantly patting my head. I am smothered with shallow questions about my life in 12, and pelted with meaningless tales of parties and fashion atrocities committed by people who I don't know and will never meet.
"And her shoes!" wheezes Arturosious, a man with shoulder-length, red and black spotted hair, and a face tattooed with some sort of serpent. His partner who has identified herself as Isadinalia cackles at the memory.
"They…Were...HORRIBLE!" she shrieks. Suddenly somber, she looks at me and says, "Never, ever wear sequined stilettos, honey. Especially not with a floral gown. They make everyone's ankles look fat, and overall they're never as attractive in real life as they are online." Arturosious nods vigorously, as though this is a lesson that will be important to me.
"Hold on honey," warns Isadinalia, and she pastes strips of cloth to my legs. "This will sting a bit, but your legs are going to feel wonderful afterwards."
"I think this is the best part of the games," Arturosious says. "Watching you poor, unprivileged district children getting the makeover you deserve does my heart good. By the time the games start, I always think that half of you are quite beautiful! Of course, you have so much natural beauty for your stylist to work with… Just look at your hair! And those big beautiful eyes- good gracious they look like they cost a fortune!"
Arturosious rambles on, but I can't hear anything else. There is a pounding in my ears and rushes of blood to my face so that I can't hear, see, or feel anything other than my own fiery rage. It only intensifies when Isadinalia rips the clothes from my legs.
THREE. HOURS. LATER. and I am finally done with the prep team. Every inch of my body has been abused, and my arms and legs throb where they ripped out the hairs. I feel like I've been through the washboard, but Isadinalia and Arturosious insisted that this was nothing at all, and really nowhere near all that they would have liked to have done to me. Thank goodness for impatient stylists. Now, however, I wonder if I was better off with the prep team. What if they're crazy? What if I end up naked for everything? District 12 has never had good costumes what with the whole coal-miner theme, but there is definitely a spectrum of how bad they are. Some stylists don't even try, and just dress the tributes in embellished mining suits. Others have focused more on the pickaxe design- now there was a humiliating entrance! More than once 12's tributes have shown up completely nude except for a light layer of black "coal" dust. I can only hope that my stylist is sane, although I am starting to wonder if anyone in the Capitol is. They can't be worse than my prep team… I think, but then he walks in.
"Primrose? Prim?" He asks, and his voice is soft and friendly. Unlike my prep team he seems to have opted out of facial cosmetic surgery, which makes him look like a real person. As far as I can tell, the only makeup he is wearing is a tiny streak of golden dust above each eye. He could be okay.
"Hi," I say, trying to make my voice sound flat and disdainful. I want this stylist to know that I don't buy into these games, and I don't respect the role he plays in them. "Are you my stylist?"
"Hey Prim," his greeting is warm and sincere, and I can't help liking this man, even though he exists only to dress me up before my slaughter. "My name is Cinna, and yeah, I'm your stylist. What can I do for you?"
This simple question catches me completely off guard.
What can you do for me? How about you volunteer and die in my place? How about you start a boycott on the Games and get them cancelled? One thousand how-abouts dash through my mind, but I decide to voice only one. "Please don't make me go out there naked."
He laughs. It's a deep, rich laugh, not like Isadinalia's fake flutters.