Chapter Eighteen: Cinderella Moment

It's been a blissful few days without Kera. When I see her at breakfast, I have to actively suppress a groan. Palana had taken over, berating me while she was away and couldn't. Maybe now that Kera was back, Palana would lay off, but something told me that wasn't happening. Today was already going to be a very long day, but now it felt like it'd be an eternity. The interviews themselves weren't until the late afternoon, but that left most of the day free for the stylists and prep teams. At least yesterday, I'd gotten to spend half of it with Olivia. 

Like clockwork, the moment I walk into the dining area, her eyes snap to me, looking me up and down, cold and calculated. "Pray, tell, what is wrong with you," she grumbles, head shaking. "I leave you alone for two days, and you fall apart. Are you trying to make my job impossible? It will only hurt you, not me-- you're the one who will look a fool in front off all of Panem." I ignore her-- I don't know what she's talking about, I don't look any different than I had any other morning, but I figure she just needed something to complain about, and I was an easy target. I've barely started eating when she throws her own plate aside, wiping her hands on a napkin and throwing that aside too. "What are you waiting for? We need to get to your dressing room?"

I open my mouth, to say something about how I hadn't even had the chance to eat yet, but think better of it, hurrying to clear my plate, Kera tapping her foot impatiently. When I'm done, she tosses my plate aside too, pulling me out of my chair by the arm, and all but dragging me into the elevator. I was admittedly confused; I had assumed we'd be working in her room again, like before training, but the when the elevator arrives on the main floor, she pulls me outside and to a waiting car.

"Where are we going?" I ask.

"Did you think your interviews were going to happen in the training facility, child?" Kera replies, venom in her tone. "Do you really believe Caesar Flickerman would step foot in that building? Or that the Capitol would let the crowds in, so close to where all the tributes are sleeping? Please, just think for a second before asking stupid questions." I frown, nose scrunching as I look to the ground. Her logic is right, but I still don't like how she said any of it. "The main broadcast lot has an auditorium built special for the games. Hela, Mara and Iza are waiting in your dressing room. The moment this car stops, you get out, and you follow-- we need to hurry and get started."

"Got it."

When the car comes to a stop, I do what I'm told, though I wait for an avox to open the door for me first-- I don't want to look too eager, and give the impression that I'm trying to escape or something. Kera leads the way at a breakneck pace and I jog to keep up, and we go through a labyrinth of hallways, until we get to a door that has her name on it, in bright pink sparkly letters. "In," Kera nags, and I comply.

I choose the path of least resistance, closing my eyes and letting my prep team do whatever they need to do. Whenever they need me to move, they move me themselves, dragging me from seated to standing by tugging on my arm-- I feel like a rag doll. 

I don't know how much of it Kera actually does herself, but she certainly is the general-in-charge, barking orders like a drill sergeant. The prep team do exactly as she says, and when they're done waxing me and doing god-knows-what to my skin, a dress is yanked over my head, and my limbs are carelessly stuffed into the right openings. 

For people who seemed so flabbergasted at how much I'd 'let myself go' the past few days, they didn't seem all too worried about potential bruising. 

One set of hands adjusts the dress more carefully once I'm in it. Another does my makeup, and a third busies itself with drying my hair-- they'd washed it at some point in the process of dragging me around before. It's nothing like when Louisia had done my hair on the morning of the Reaping-- there was no gentleness to their touch. Sharp long nails dug into my scalp and scraped at my skin. They knew what they were doing; there was intention in their touch, but no love or care.

Kera barks more orders, and I assume she shows them some sort of image because the prep team all gasps and squeals, showering my stylist in compliments before there are more hands in my hair again, and the touches get rougher, this time my hair getting tugged along with the nails on my scalp. 

I feel the end coming when the hands slow down, and I only feel one set on me at a time, as opposed to all three. Someone fiddles with my nails. Someone else puts the finishing touches on my makeup. I am laced into shoes, and accessories are thrown on too. And after what feels like an eternity, Kera finally says what I've been longing to hear all day, "I think we're done."

I don't dare move, but apparently, my not moving was just as much an affront as me moving was. "We don't have time for this, Zania, stand up," Kera demands. "Eyes open, let's go. Go look in the mirror, and then we'll head backstage. We're coming up close to call time."

I obey, eyes fluttering open as I turn to the mirror, my gaze locking with someone who should be me, but barely looks like me. The first thing I notice is the shoes-- I had been expecting higher, given what Palana had me practicing in yesterday, but they are only a couple inches high. They are open-toed and strappy, with ribbon laces tied up my calves and ending with a bow. They remind me a bit of golden, heeled gladiator sandals with a weird ballet fusion mixed in, and while the lack of ankle support worries me, as does how thin the heel is, at least they're not too tall. I was fairly certain I'd be okay walking in them. 

My gown ends just above my knees in the front, but flutters back into a long train. It is a deep brown, but dotted with golden sparkles that twinkle when they catch the light. The neckline is very high, but the dress has no back-- just a ribbon that matches the shoes, criss-crossed across the back like a corset tie, keeping the sides in place. 

My nails are much too long to be comfortable, but they look pretty, also gold and glittery, with amber gemstones along the cuticles. My makeup isn't natural by any means, but it's done in neutral tones, browns and golds matching everything else. I can tell Kera has taken heavy inspiration from the Prairies and their fields, but unlike the Tribute Parade outfit, I actually like this one.

My hair is half-up, half down; the upper part is braided back and secured with a golden brooch, and the rest curled into soft waves. I hadn't noticed (or smelled) the lightener when they'd been working on me, but they'd put some highlights in my dark brown hair. I didn't hate them. I have earrings made of yellow gemstones, arranged to look like small wildflowers, and heavy gold bangles sit on my wrists.

I look beautiful. I barely recognize myself at all, but the person in the mirror who claims to be me looks incredible. 

"Yes, well, we did what we could," Kera says, breaking me out of my awestruck stupor, small smile playing at her lips. "I had better plans for your hair, you know, but I hadn't realized you needed to be watched around scissors, like a toddler. Had to improvise a bit there. It's subpar, but it will do."

"Thank you," I say to her quietly, cheeks going pink in shame when she mentions my impulsive decision from the other day. 

"You're welcome." The words shock me-- I'd never thought I'd see the day where Kera offered me any sort of common courtesy. When I look at her, her face is softer. "The shorter hair does suit you. As much as I wish you hadn't done it, it compliments your bone structure."

I smile. 

"We haven't any time left to dilly-dally, though," she announces, pushing past the potential nice moment we almost had full steam. "Go on, it's time. Follow Iza; she'll take you backstage, to the green room. The production staff will tell you what to do from there." I nod, committing her instructions to memory. "Think what you will, little one, but I'm on your side. You'll do great, just remember what you practiced yesterday, yes? Go win over Panem."

She surprises me again, this time by pulling me into a quick hug, but it's over as soon as it's begun, and before I have time to process, Iza has me by the arm and is dragging me back out through the door. I have a hard time keeping up with the heels on without absolutely tumbling, but with luck, I stay on my feet. We traverse yet more hallways, until finally, I'm lead to what seems to be backstage, where a good chunk of the other tributes are already waiting.

On instinct I look around, trying to find a familiar or friendly face, but before I can, a production assistant grabs hold of me, finding me a seat and telling me to sit there until they came to fetch me. And, not wanting to get in trouble, I listen to them. Besides, it's nice to be off my feet. The heels may not be as bad as I'd been worrying about, but I still knew that I didn't want to be standing on them for longer than I needed. I wasn't used to them, and I didn't want to roll and ankle so close to the Games starting. I'd be signing my own death warrant. 

I watch curiously, trying to make sense of the bustle in the room around me. Producers and other crew scramble around, checking equipment and making sure all of the tributes are accounted for. I can't see the stage, but I can hear the audience filing in, excited chatter sounding like an energy-filled buzz from wherever I was in proximity to them. 

For all Kera's talk about us being late, I seem to have beaten Nathan, because its a solid ten minutes later that he's lead over to me by another production assistant, and also told to take a seat. Moray's done a good job with him; he wears brown dress pants and shoes, paired with a light blue dress shirt, top few buttons open, probably leaning into whatever he has going for him that makes people like Palana act like idiots when he's around. I've never seen his hair flattened down like it is now-- maybe it looks good, but I think it just looks weird. It doesn't look like him. He has a tiny yellow flower pin attached to his collar, and I smile when I realize it matches my earrings. I like that we match, even if it's just a small detail.

He looks over my outfit too, frowning a bit, and when he finally does sit down next to me and is close enough to talk, he mutters, "You look nice, but I wish I could have a word with your stylist. The open back is a bit much for a twelve-year-old."

I frown too, a little miffed; I thought I looked nice. "Yeah, well, your hair is dumb," I answer him, eyes narrowing. "I want to talk to your stylist too. When your hair is all flat like that, your head looks too small for your body." It wasn't completely true-- I didn't like the hair because I wasn't used to it. He looked fine. 

He laughs at that, rolling his eyes. "Easy, Nia," he chuckles. "You do look nice. Wish it was under different circumstances, though; kinda ruins it. You look nicer if I pretend you're dressed up to be a bridesmaid at Louisia's wedding or something."

I sigh, looking down at my feet as I kick them, too short to reach the ground from where I'm sitting. Before I can think of a clever retort, the production assistant is back, warning us that we have 10 minutes before the show starts.