Chapter 9

Betrayal. That’s the first thing I feel, which is ludicrous. For

there to be betrayal, there would have had to been trust first.

Between Peeta and me. And trust has not been part of the

agreement. We’re tributes. But the boy who risked a beating

to give me bread, the one who steadied me in the chariot, who

covered for me with the redheaded Avox girl, who insisted

Haymitch know my hunting skills . . . was there some part of

me that couldn’t help trusting him?

On the other hand, I’m relieved that we can stop the pretense

of being friends. Obviously, whatever thin connection we’d 

foolishly formed has been severed. And high time, too. The 

Games begin in two days, and trust will only be a weakness.

Whatever triggered Peeta’s decision — and I suspect it had to 

do with my outperforming him in training — I should be 

nothing but grateful for it. Maybe he’s finally accepted the

fact that the sooner we openly acknowledge that we are enemies,

the better.

“Good,” I say. “So what’s the schedule?”

“You’ll each have four hours with Effie for presentation and

four with me for content,” says Haymitch. “You start with Effie,

Katniss.”

I can’t imagine what Effie will have to teach me that could

take four hours, but she’s got me working down to the last

minute. We go to my rooms and she puts me in a full-length

gown and high-heeled shoes, not the ones I’ll he wearing for

the actual interview, and instructs me on walking. The shoes

are the worst part. I’ve never worn high heels and can’t get

used to essentially wobbling around on the balls of my feet.

But Effie runs around in them full-time, and I’m determined

that if she can do it, so can I. The dress poses another problem.

It keeps tangling around my shoes so, of course, I hitch it up,

and then Effie swoops down on me like a hawk, smacking my

hands and yelling, “Not above the ankle!” When I finally 

conquer walking, there’s still sitting, posture — apparently I 

have a tendency to duck my head — eye contact, hand gestures, 

and smiling. Smiling is mostly about smiling more. Effie makes 

me say a hundred banal phrases starting with a smile, while 

smiling, or ending with a smile. By lunch, the muscles in my 

cheeks are twitching from overuse.

“Well, that’s the best I can do,” Effie says with a sigh. “Just

remember, Katniss, you want the audience to like you.”

“And you don’t think they will?” I ask.

“Not if you glare at them the entire time. Why don’t you

save that for the arena? Instead, think of yourself among

friends,” says Effie.

“They’re betting on how long I’ll live!” I burst out. “They’re

not my friends!”

“Well, try and pretend!” snaps Effie. Then she composes

herself and beams at me. “See, like this. I’m smiling at you

even though you’re aggravating me.” “Yes, it feels very 

convincing,” I say. “I’m going to eat.” 1 kick off my heels 

and stomp down to the dining room, hiking my skirt up to my 

thighs. Peeta and Haymitch seem in pretty good moods, so I’m

thinking the content session should be an improvement over

the morning. I couldn’t be more wrong. After lunch, Haymitch

takes me into the sitting room, directs me to the couch, and

then just frowns at me for a while.

“What?” I finally ask.

“I’m trying to figure out what to do with you,” he says.

“How we’re going to present you. Are you going to be charming?

Aloof? Fierce? So far, you’re shining like a star. You volunteered

to save your sister. Cinna made you look unforgettable.

You’ve got the top training score. People are intrigued, but no

one knows who you are. The impression you make tomorrow

will decide exactly what I can get you in terms of sponsors,”

says Haymitch.

Having watched the tribute interviews all my life, I know

there’s truth to what he’s saying. If you appeal to the crowd,

either by being humorous or brutal or eccentric, you gain favor.

“What’s Peeta’s approach? Or am I not allowed to ask?” I say.

“Likable. He has a sort of self-deprecating humor naturally,”

says Haymitch. “Whereas when you open your mouth, you

come across more as sullen and hostile.”

“I do not!” I say.

“Please. I don’t know where you pulled that cheery, wavy

girl on the chariot from, but I haven’t seen her before or

since,” says Haymitch. “And you’ve given me so many reasons 

to be cheery,” I counter.

“But you don’t have to please me. I’m not going to sponsor

you. So pretend I’m the audience,” says Haymitch. “Delight

me.”

“Fine!” I snarl. Haymitch takes the role of the interviewer

and I try to answer his questions in a winning fashion. But I

can’t. I’m too angry with Haymitch for what he said and that I

even have to answer the questions. All I can think is how unjust

the whole thing is, the Hunger Games. Why am I hopping

around like some trained dog trying to please people I hate?

The longer the interview goes on, the more my fury seems to

rise to the surface,