The Unloved Boy - Chapter 4

After breakfast the next morning, Finbar drags Lilibeth and I to the Remake Centre, in preparation for the opening ceremony. There, we meet our stylists. I have a middle-aged woman called Adira, who seems a bit too ditzy to have such an important job. She speaks to me for a while, then introduces me to my prep team. I can't even remember their names, but the three of them look more like aliens than humans. Adira leaves, telling me she's going to prepare my outfit.
The Martians wash me several times and get rid of the numerous layers of dirt that coat my body. They chatter away about pointless things like a dance they went to last week and what they bought yesterday on a shopping spree. I zone out, because their conversations sicken me. Just as they go to cover my cuts and bruises with some sort of lotion, Crispin bursts in through the door.
"Excuse me, what are you doing?" one of the Martians asks indignantly in their silly Capitol accent.
"Keep his marks." Crispin says breathlessly. It's one of the only things I've ever heard him say.
"And why should we listen to you?" says a different alien.
"Because I know what I'm doing." answers Crispin fiercely , before exiting the room again.
Although they were pretty brave standing up to Crispin, they're obviously scared of his tough exterior, and they leave my scars alone.
"All done!" one of them chirps. They leave the room, and Adira enters. She circles me several times, eyeing me up and down.
"I can see why your mentor wanted to keep you like this..." she murmurs. She tosses me a robe. "Follow me."
She leads us out onto the corridor. Crispin is waiting on a seat outside. I smile gratefully at him. Adira, however, ignores him completely and carries on down the corridor. She turns into a larger room and sits down on a sofa. I sit down opposite her.
"I know what you're thinking. Why do I want to be a stylist for District 7?" she says in her dreamy voice.
To be honest, it had never crossed my mind. But now that I thought about it, it was quite strange. For the victory parade, the Tributes are dressed up in a costume that somehow represents the profession of their home district. District 1 are by far the most desirable to style. A stylist could have endless fun with satin and diamonds. That's why it's quite odd that Adira wanted to style District 7. In District 7, the Tributes have dressed up as trees for as long as I can remember. Designing tree outfits doesn't sound very exciting.
"Trees, as part of nature, are one of the most beautiful things our earth can offer..." she says, without waiting for me to answer her previous question. "The way that the sun hits the bark and casts shadows... The leaves that blossom out of the branches, adding the most subtle of colours..."
"Uh-uh," I grunt unenthusiastically. Already, I can tell Adira will go off on lots of these rambles. With her purple curly hair, earrings in the shape of frogs and her dress made out of blue tinfoil, the impression of insanity lingers about her.
"Well, your costume's going to take a while, so we better get started. Come on, I'll take you to the makeover room."
Adira takes me to the makeover room, where she dresses me in a tight white all-body suit that covers my feet. Then her and the prep team paint the suit, which takes them hours. I have to admit, they're very good. I'm painted in a range of different browns, and by the end I look just like any other tree. Then they paint my face to match the rest of my body. Adira hands me a ludicrous brown hat with sprouting branches. Bursts of green leaves emerge from the tips. Reluctantly, I pull the hat on, and can feel my dignity slipping.
By the time they are finished, there's only an hour left until the opening ceremony. We go to the bottom floor of the Remake Centre, the stable, where the horses pulling our chariots are getting ready. When we arrive, Lilibeth is already there with her stylist, who looks just as crazy as Adira. We are dressed identically, so at least I draw some reassurance that we will look equally stupid. She gives me a tentative smile, and I can tell the nerves are getting the better of her. The whole of Panem will be watching.
The other Tributes are billowing around. Thankfully, some look just as stupid as us. Especially the pair from District 10, who are dressed up in cow costumes. Two Tributes stand out from the rest of us, however. It must be the District 1 Tributes, judging by their silk outfits adorned with sapphires and emeralds. The male Tribute is even taller than me, and his biceps flex as he eyes up the male District 2 Tribute. He's your typical Career.
But the girl Tribute looks different. She's small and thin and innocent. She looks as though she's better at making daisy chains than throwing spears. She has blonde hair and pale skin that reminds me of an angel.
But before I can look at her any longer, Finbar bounds up to us.
"You look fabulous!" he squeals loudly. I don't know what Finbar's definition of 'fabulous' is, but it definitely doesn't match mine.
The opening music begins to start. A wide door opens up, revealing the crowd-lined street. The whole parade will last twenty minutes, and will need up back at the Training Centre. The other Tributes start to board their chariots, and we follow suit. All of the Tributes are attached to four glamorous horses, which are all so well trained they don't even need to be driven. I carefully climb on after Lilibeth. The chariots are lined up in order of the districts, and the horses pulling the District 1 chariot are already trotting out.
The loud scream of the Capitol citizens increase as they catch sight of the Tributes from District 1. No wonder, they look amazing. As the other Tributes roll out, the clapping and cheering grow louder and louder.
"Good luck!" Finbar whispers up to us, as our horses begin to trot out of the door.
Immediately, I am blinded. The bright lights, neon signs and spotlights all shine in my face. I start to bring my hand up to shield my eyes, but then remember that the crowd will never recognise my face from their programme. So I am forced to squint unattractively to stop the worst of the light from dazzling me.
The crowd go wild at seeing another two Tributes. They begin to chant and clap. They wave flags, posters and lights.
I refuse to smile at them, but I attempt to wave. From somewhere behind me, I hear someone shout my name.
"Jago!" they scream. They're the only person nice enough to have looked up my name in the programme. I look behind me, but the shout is lost in the crowd of screams.
Lilibeth taps me on the shoulder and points at the large screen. It's our snippet of the spotlight. We look just as stupid on the screen as in real life. I look glum and depressed, which of course I am. Lilibeth however, is smiling and waving to her admirers, even blowing kisses. I give the crowd a tight smile, in an attempt to make myself more charismatic. More charisma, means more sponsors.
Sponsors are an essential part of survival in the Hunger Games. The money that the sponsors donate to you help you receive food, medicine and weapons in the arena. The more sponsors and money you have, the more gifts you're able to receive, therefore the more likely you are to win. Unfortunately, a lot of the sponsors aren't too bothered about how skilled you are, rather than how much they actually like you. Usually, that means the good-looking and charismatic Tributes get all of the sponsors. Meaning that the tough guys like me are left in the dark.
From the way Lilibeth is acting, I can tell she'll be a favourite with the sponsors.
After twenty minutes of agony, we arrive at the City Circle, where all of the prestigious buildings are. The chariots stop in front of President Snow's mansion. He steps out onto the balcony, and gives us a short speech. On the screens, each chariot gets a small segment of camera time. It flashes through the different districts whilst the president drones on.
He finishes his speech and the anthem plays one last time. The chariots parade around the City Circle, before going into the Training Centre.
I jump out of the chariot, relieved that it's all over, but knowing the worst is yet to come.