The 55th Hunger Games

Chapter 9

       

That night I lie in my bed and cry. I cry because everything is so unfair! The games will kill me, and I will be forced to watch as kids who I have trained with over the last three days die in front of me. I am sure I will see an awful lot of death, and that will be enough to keep me awake for the next year, even if by some miracle I manage to win.

I tremble and shake under my covers, wishing the days will slow their quick pace. I have only two more days left of ease, then I will be in the arena frightened and hungry, wondering how many days or hours I have left before my life is brutally ended.

I wish with all my heart that I still had Cole's band with me for comfort, and I am even now starting to wonder whether I will get it back. Maybe my prep team lied to me and Marigold has it placed away somewhere as punishment for disobeying her instructions on the chariot.

It seems like a very long time before I fall asleep, and when I wake, the sky outside is a light forget-me-not blue. The city is colourful and busy with excitement, defying my sad mood.

After breakfast, Krissy arrives and leads me into the very same room I had talked to Samantha in the other night. It is now lit brightly with cheerful sunlight spilling through the massive window. There, Krissy reminds me of the public interview tomorrow night and explains that she will teach me how to present myself.

I only notice then that two chairs are set up in the room, facing one another on a slight angle. Krissy tells me to sit down in one of them, and almost immediately squeals in horror. I jump and look at her.

"Taslim," she explains in a patient tone. "Now how do you think the audience will perceive you if you go and slouch in the chair like you just did?"

I only raise my eyebrows at her in puzzlement.

"Like this," she says, walking over to the other chair. "Do you see how I stand straight and hold my head high? Do you see how I hold my shoulders in place and smile?" Then she gently lowers herself down onto the seat. "Do you see how my back stays in line, Taslim? Notice how I'm still smiling."

I nod, but her smile could not look much faker. It is one with lots of shining gold lipstick and very white, even teeth. And though her eyes are tattooed to look as though she is always smiling, the shape of her eyes themselves do not show even a hint of the smile her mouth is showing me.

She stands promptly.

"Now you try it again."

It takes me a very long time to get it right and many reprimands. She then elaborates on the smiles and gets me to say a series of things while keeping it on my face. If I let my fake smile drop for a moment she snaps at me. If I say my words too stiffly through my smiles she snaps at me too. And just to add to the fun she decides to teach me how to shake someone's hand properly. It seems that my current handshake is 'sloppy'. So I must grip her hand over and over again -while smiling- and shake it firmly. But if that sounds simple, you would be very much mistaken. She begins to snap at me because my hands are cold.

Like I could really help that!

In the end she just ends up turning on the heaters full blast until the room becomes a sauna. My face is red, and my hair grows damp with sweat, which means it must be hot, because it takes a lot for my cool skin to overheat.

By the end of the four-hour session I am hot, exhausted, and irritated. Not to mention hungry. I step gratefully out into the cool air outside the room. Then I head straight to the dining room and fill my plate with food.