“It’s beautiful. Classic really. And in almost perfect balance

with your profile. She has very clever fingers,” he says.

I had expected someone flamboyant, someone older trying

desperately to look young, someone who viewed me as a piece

of meat to be prepared for a platter. Cinna has met none of

these expectations.

“You’re new, aren’t you? I don’t think I’ve seen you before,”

I say. Most of the stylists are familiar, constants in the everchanging

pool of tributes. Some have been around my whole

life.

“Yes, this is my first year in the Games,” says Cinna.

“So they gave you District Twelve,” I say. Newcomers generally

end up with us, the least desirable district.

“I asked for District Twelve,” he says without further explanation.

“Why don’t you put on your robe and we’ll have a

chat.”

Pulling on my robe, 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.

I try to imagine assembling this meal myself back home.

Chickens are too expensive, but I could make do with a wild

turkey. I’d need to shoot a second turkey to trade for an

orange. Goat’s milk would have to substitute for cream. We

can grow peas in the garden. I’d have to get wild onions from

the woods. I don’t recognize the grain, our own tessera ration

cooks down to an unattractive brown mush. Fancy rolls would

mean another trade with the baker, perhaps for two or three

squirrels. As for the pudding, I can’t even guess what’s in it.

Days of hunting and gathering for this one meal and even then

it would be a poor substitution for the Capitol version.

What must it be like, I wonder, to live in a world where

food appears at the press of a button? How would I spend the

hours I now commit to combing the woods for sustenance if it

were so easy to come by? What do they do all day, these

people in the Capitol, besides decorating their bodies and

waiting around for a new shipment of tributes to roll in and

die for their entertainment?

I look up and find Cinna’s eyes trained on mine. “How despicable

we must seem to you,” he says.

Has he seen this in my face or somehow read my thoughts?

He’s right, though. The whole rotten lot of them is despicable.

“No matter,” says Cinna. “So, Katniss, about your costume

for the opening ceremonies. My partner, Portia, is the stylist

for your fellow tribute, Peeta. 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.

This means that coming from District 12, Peeta and I will be in

some kind of coal miner’s getup. Since the baggy miner’s

jumpsuits are not particularly becoming, our tributes usually

end up in skimpy outfits and hats with headlamps. One year,

our tributes were stark naked and covered in black powder to

represent coal dust. It’s always dreadful and does nothing to

win favor with the crowd. I prepare myself for the worst.

“So, I’ll be in a coal miner outfit?” I ask, hoping it won’t be

indecent.

“Not exactly. 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’ll be naked for sure, I think.

“So rather than focus on the coal mining itself, we’re going

to focus on the coal,” says Cinna. Naked and covered in black

dust, I think. “And what do we do with coal? We burn it,” says

Cinna.

“You’re not afraid of fire, are you, Katniss?” He sees my expression

and grins.

A few hours later, I am dressed in what will either be the

most sensational or the deadliest costume in the opening ceremonies.

I’m in a simple black unitard that covers me from

ankle to neck. Shiny leather boots lace up to my knees. But it’s

the fluttering cape made of streams of orange, yellow, and red

and the matching headpiece that define this costume.