312'

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.(用一个胶条从我的腿上拔汗毛)

“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 vowels,
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 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 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.(他边摇着桔红色拔毛夹子，边在嘴上抹着紫色的唇膏) “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 lotion
that first stings but then soothes my raw skin.

Then they pull me from the table, removing the thin robe I’ve been allowed
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.

(他们三个围着我，用镊子除掉我身上的最后一点汗毛。

我知道自己应该感到害臊，可我却没有。在我看来，

他们根本不像人类，不比三只颜色古怪、在我脚边啄食

的鸟更让我害臊。)

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

distress for me.

“But don’t worry,” says Venia. “By the time Cinna is through
with you, you’re going to be absolutely gorgeous!”
“We promise! You know, now that we’ve gotten rid of all the hair

and filth, you’re not horrible at all!” says Flavius encouragingly.

“Let’s call Cinna!”
They dart out of the room. It’s hard to hate my prep team.
They’re such total idiots. And yet, in an odd way, I know
they’re 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.

I’m taken aback by how normal he looks. Most of the stylists they interview on television are so dyed, stenciled, and surgically altered they’re grotesque. But Cinna’s closecropped hair appears to be its natural shade of brow


He’s in a simple

black shirt and pants. The only concession to self alteration

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 can’t help thinking how attractive it looks.

371'

“Hello, Katniss. I’m Cinna, your stylist,” he says in a quiet voice somewhat lacking in the Capitol’s 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.

“It’s 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.
“You’re new, aren’t you? I don’t think I’ve 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. Newcomers generally end up with us, the least desirable district.

“I asked for District Twelve,” he says without further explanation.

“Why don’t you put on your robe and we’ll 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. I’d need to shoot a second turkey to trade for an orange. Goat’s milk would have to substitute for cream.

We can grow peas in the garden. I’d have to get wild onions from the woods. I don’t 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 can’t even guess what’s in it.

Days of hunting and gathering for this one meal and even then
it would be a poor substitution for the Capitol version.

What must it be like, I wonder, to live in a world where food appears at the press of a button? How would I spend the
hours I now commit to combing the woods for sustenance if it were so easy to come by?

What do they do all day, these people in the Capitol, besides decorating their bodies and
waiting around for a new shipment of tributes to roll in and die for their entertainment?

I look up and find Cinna’s eyes trained on mine. “How despicable we must seem to you,” he says.


Has he seen this in my face or somehow read my thoughts?
He’s right, though. The whole rotten lot of them is despicable.

“No matter,” says Cinna. “So, Katniss, about your costume
for the opening ceremonies. My partner, Portia, is the stylist for your fellow tribute, Peeta.

And our current thought is to
dress you in complementary costumes,” says Cinna. “As you
know, it’s customary to reflect the flavor of the district.”


For the opening ceremonies, you’re supposed to wear something that suggests your district’s principal industry. District
11, agriculture. District 4, fishing. District 3, factories.

This means that coming from District 12, Peeta and I will be in some kind of coal miner’s getup.

Since the baggy miner’s
jumpsuits are not particularly becoming, our tributes usually end up in skimpy outfits and hats with headlamps.

One year, our tributes were stark naked and covered in black powder to represent coal dust.

It’s always dreadful and does nothing to
win favor with the crowd. I prepare myself for the worst.

“So, I’ll be in a coal miner outfit?” I ask, hoping it won’t be indecent.
“Not exactly. You see, Portia and I think that coal miner thing’s very overdone. No one will remember you in that.

And we both see it as our job to make the District Twelve tributes unforgettable,” says Cinna.
I’ll be naked for sure, I think.

“So rather than focus on the coal mining itself, we’re going to focus on the coal,” says Cinna. Naked and covered in black
dust, I think.

“And what do we do with coal? We burn it,” saysCinna.
“You’re not afraid of fire, are you, Katniss?” He sees my expression
and grins.