“All right, enough,” he says. “We’ve got to find another angle.

Not only are you hostile, I don’t know anything about you.

I’ve asked you fifty questions and still have no sense of your

life, your family, what you care about. They want to know

about you, Katniss.”

“But I don’t want them to! They’re already taking my future!

They can’t have the things that mattered to me in the

past!” I say.

“Then lie! Make something up!” says Haymitch.

“I’m not good at lying,” I say.

“Well, you better learn fast. You’ve got about as much

charm as a dead slug,” says Haymitch. Ouch. That hurts. Even 

Haymitch must know he’s been too harsh because his voice 

softens. “Here’s an idea. Try acting humble.”

“Humble,” I echo.

“That you can’t believe a little girl from District Twelve has

done this well. The whole thing’s been more than you ever

could have dreamed of. Talk about Cinna’s clothes. How nice

the people are. How the city amazes you. If you won’t talk

about yourself, at least compliment the audience. Just keep

turning it back around, all right. Gush.”

The next hours are agonizing. At once, it’s clear I cannot

gush. We try me playing cocky, but I just don’t have the 

arrogance. Apparently, I’m too “vulnerable” for ferocity. 

I’m not witty. Funny. Sexy. Or mysterious.

By the end of the session, I am no one at all. Haymitch

started drinking somewhere around witty, and a nasty edge

has crept into his voice. “I give up, sweetheart. Just answer the

questions and try not to let the audience see how openly you

despise them.”

I have dinner that night in my room, ordering an outrageous

number of delicacies, eating myself sick, and then taking out 

my anger at Haymitch, at the Hunger Games, at every living 

being in the Capitol by smashing dishes around my room. 

When the girl with the red hair comes in to turn down my bed, 

her eyes widen at the mess. “Just leave it!” I yell at her. “Just 

leave it alone!”

I hate her, too, with her knowing reproachful eyes that call

me a coward, a monster, a puppet of the Capitol, both now and

then. For her, justice must finally be happening. At least my

death will help pay for the life of the boy in the woods. But 

instead of fleeing the room, the girl closes the door behind

her and goes to the bathroom. She comes back with a damp cloth 

and wipes my face gently then cleans the blood from a broken 

plate off my hands. Why is she doing this? Why am I letting her?

“I should have tried to save you,” I whisper.

She shakes her head. Does this mean we were right to stand

by? That she has forgiven me?

“No, it was wrong,” I say.

She taps her lips with her fingers then points to my chest. I

think she means that I would just have ended up an Avox, too.

Probably would have. An Avox or dead. I spend the next hour 

helping the redheaded girl clean the room. When all the garbage 

has been dropped down a disposal and the food cleaned away, 

she turns down my bed. I crawl in between the sheets like a 

five-year-old and let her tuck me in. Then she goes. I want her 

to stay until I fall asleep. To be there when I wake up. I want the 

protection of this girl, even though she never had mine.

In the morning, it’s not the girl but my prep team who are

hanging over me. My lessons with Effie and Haymitch are

over. This day belongs to Cinna. He’s my last hope. Maybe he

can make me look so wonderful, no one will care what comes

out of my mouth.

The team works on me until late afternoon, turning my skin

to glowing satin, stenciling patterns on my arms, painting

flame designs on my twenty perfect nails. Then Venia goes to

work on my hair, weaving strands of red into a pattern that

begins at my left ear, wraps around my head, and then falls in

one braid down my right shoulder. They erase my face with a

layer of pale makeup and draw my features back out. Huge

dark eyes, full red lips, lashes that throw off bits of light when

I blink. Finally, they cover my entire body in a powder that

makes me shimmer in gold dust.

Then Cinna enters with what I assume is my dress, but I can’t 

really see it because it’s covered. “Close your eyes,” he orders.

I can feel the silken inside as they slip it down over my

naked body, then the weight. It must be forty pounds. I clutch

Octavia’s hand as I blindly step into my shoes, glad to find

they are at least two inches lower than the pair Effie had me

practice in. There’s some adjusting and fidgeting. Then silence.

“Can I open my eyes?” I ask.

“Yes,” says Cinna. “Open them.”