ta 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 hasnˇt 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。
5
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。 ¨Youˇre 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 theyˇre asking a question？ Odd vowels； clipped words； and always a hiss on the letter s 。 。 。 no wonder itˇs impossible not to mimic them。
Venia makes whatˇs 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 Iˇm seated on and nod。 The final swathe of my leg hair is uprooted in a painful jerk。
Iˇve been in the Remake Center for more than three hours and I still havenˇt 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 included 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 eyebrows have been stripped of the Muff； leaving me like a plucked bird； ready for roasting。 I donˇt 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。
¨Youˇre 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 thereˇs one thing we canˇt stand； itˇs 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 lotion that first stings but then soothes my raw skin。 Then they pull me from the table； removing the thin robe Iˇve been allowed to wear off and on。 I stand there； pletely naked； as the three circle me； wielding tweezers to remove any last bits of hair。 I know I should be embarrassed； but theyˇre so unlike people that Iˇm 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 donˇt have much cause to look nice in District Twelve。〃
This wins them over pletely。 ¨Of course； you donˇt； you poor darling！〃 says Octavia clasping her hands together in distress for me。
¨But donˇt worry；〃 says Venia。 ¨By the time Cinna is through with you； youˇre going to be absolutely gorgeous！〃
¨We promise！ You know； now that weˇve gotten rid of all the hair and filth； youˇre not horrible at all！〃 says Flavius encouragingly。 ¨Letˇs call Cinna！〃
They dart out of the room。 Itˇs hard to hate my prep team。 Theyˇre such total idiots。 And yet； in an odd way； I know theyˇre sincerely trying to help me。
I look at the cold white walls and floor and resist the impulse to retrieve my robe。 But this Cinna； my stylist； will surely make me remove it at once。 Instead my hands go to my hairdo； the one area of my body my prep team had been told to leave alone。 My fingers stroke the silky braids my mother so carefully arranged。 My mother。 I left her blue dress and shoes on the floor of my train car； never thinking about retrieving them； of trying to hold on to a piece of her； of home。 Now I wish I had。
The door opens and a young man who must be Cinna enters。 Iˇm taken aback by how normal he looks。 Most of the stylists they interview on television are so dyed； stenciled； and surgically altered theyˇre grotesque。 But Cinnaˇs closecropped hair appears to be its natural shade of brown。 Heˇs in a simple black shirt and pants。 The only concession to selfalteration seems to be metallic gold eyeliner that has been applied with a light hand。 It brings out the flecks of gold in his green eyes。 And； despite my disgust with the Capitol and their hideous fashions； I canˇt help thinking how attractive it looks。
¨Hello； Katniss。 Iˇm Cinna； your stylist；〃 he says in a quiet voice somewhat lacking in the Capitolˇs affectations。
¨Hello；〃 I venture cautiously。
¨Just give me a moment； all right？〃 he asks。 He walks around my naked body； not touching me； but taking in every inch of it with his eyes。 I resist the impulse to cross my arms over my chest。 ¨Who did your hair？〃
¨My mother；〃 I say。
¨Itˇs 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。
¨Youˇre new； arenˇt you？ I donˇt think Iˇve 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。 Newers generally end up with us； the least desirable district。
¨I asked for District Twelve；〃 he says without further explanation。 ¨Why donˇt you put on your robe and weˇll 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。 Iˇd need to shoot a second turkey to trade for an orange。 Goatˇs milk would have to substitute for cream。 We can grow peas in the garden。 Iˇd have to get wild onions from the woods。 I donˇt 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 canˇt even guess whatˇs in it。 Days of hunting and gathering for this one meal and even then it would be a