第19章

  he
  says. “one of them may be rich.”
  i have misjudged him. i think of his actions since the reap-
  ing began. the friendly squeeze of my hand. his father show-
  ing up with the cookies and promising to feed prim . . . did
  peeta put him up to that? his tears at the station. volunteering
  to wash haymitch but then challenging him this morning
  when apparently the nice-guy approach had failed. and now
  the waving at the window, already trying to win the crowd.
  all of the pieces are still fitting together, but i sense he has
  a plan forming. he hasn’t accepted his death. he is already
  fighting hard to stay alive. which also means that kind peeta
  mellark, the boy who gave me the bread, is fighting hard to kill
  me.
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  r-i-i-i-p! i grit my teeth as venia, a woman with aqua hair
  and gold tattoos above her eyebrows, yanks a strip of fabric
  from my leg tearing out the hair beneath it. “sorry!” she pipes
  in her silly capitol accent. “you’re just so hairy!”
  why do these people speak in such a high pitch? why do
  their jaws barely open when they talk? why do the ends of
  their sentences go up as if they’re asking a question? odd vo-
  wels, clipped words, and always a hiss on the letter s . . . no
  wonder it’s impossible not to mimic them.
  venia makes what’s supposed to be a sympathetic face.
  “good news, though. this is the last one. ready?” i get a grip
  on the edges of the table i’m seated on and nod. the final
  swathe of my leg hair is uprooted in a painful jerk.
  i’ve been in the remake center for more than three hours
  and i still haven’t met my stylist. apparently he has no interest
  in seeing me until venia and the other members of my prep
  team have addressed some obvious problems. this has in-
  cluded scrubbing down my body with a gritty loam that has
  removed not only dirt but at least three layers of skin, turning
  my nails into uniform shapes, and primarily, ridding my body
  of hair. my legs, arms, torso, underarms, and parts of my eye-
  brows have been stripped of the muff, leaving me like a
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  plucked bird, ready for roasting. i don’t like it. my skin feels
  sore and tingling and intensely vulnerable. but i have kept my
  side of the bargain with haymitch, and no objection has
  crossed my lips.
  “you’re doing very well,” says some guy named flavius. he
  gives his orange corkscrew locks a shake and applies a fresh
  coat of purple lipstick to his mouth. “if there’s one thing we
  can’t stand, it’s a whiner. grease her down!”
  venia and octavia, a plump woman whose entire body has
  been dyed a pale shade of pea green, rub me down with a lo-
  tion that first stings but then soothes my raw skin. then they
  pull me from the table, removing the thin robe i’ve been al-
  lowed to wear off and on. i stand there, completely naked, as
  the three circle me, wielding tweezers to remove any last bits
  of hair. i know i should be embarrassed, but they’re so unlike
  people that i’m no more self-conscious than if a trio of oddly
  colored birds were pecking around my feet.
  the three step back and admire their work. “excellent! you
  almost look like a human being now!” says flavius, and they
  all laugh.
  i force my lips up into a smile to show how grateful i am.
  “thank you,” i say sweetly. “we don’t have much cause to look
  nice in district twelve.”
  this wins them over completely. “of course, you don’t, you
  poor darling!” says octavia clasping her hands together in dis-
  tress for me.
  “but don’t worry,” says venia. “by the time cinna is through
  with you, you’re going to be absolutely gorgeous!”