The Boy from District Two

Chapter 13

Chapter 13

It’s humiliating, infuriating, terrifying. The whole team erupts into roars, my father leaping to his feet and swearing at the screen. Clove and I are on our feet as well, each yelling every foul word we can think of, and Leta is cursing District 12’s name. Even Julius and Vita are staring in consternation. Only Athene and Lucan stay silent, looking horribly stunned.

It’s not a pleasant night, and I certainly don’t escape my father as I’d hoped I would. If not for the upcoming interviews, I’d surely be dead.

The next day proves to be only slightly less horrible. I’m burdened with instruction from Lucan, harsh coaching from my father, a horrendous fashion lesson from Athene, and a lengthy conversation with Vita; twelve hours in all, and every one of us is still fuming over the girl’s eleven. It’s the day before the interviews, and as such, it’s a day to be prodded and shaped into something the audience will fawn over. Seems a pointless task, since I’m a visible killing machine. I tell Vita this, but she simply waves it aside, setting her piercings to shimmering.

“That’s exactly what I need, Cato Emerson,” she affirms me. “I promised you the other day at dinner that we would discuss your angle. And you hit it spot-on.”

Oh, good for me.

Perhaps the day wouldn’t drag so much if I weren’t shuttled from teacher to teacher so quickly. My head is still fogged with images of Athene’s mile-high hair when my father is snarling into my face, insisting that I pay attention or spend the rest of the night holed up in my room; which sounds perfectly fine to me, but I wouldn’t so much as think about mentioning that to my father.

Athene handles me like some sort of marble statue, marveling at my “robust figure” and “masculine presence.” I just do as she says so my father won’t hound me later. Unfortunately, this includes clunking around in slippery dress shoes, learning how to keep my tie straight, and talking with my eyes slightly veiled. To look sexy, she assures me.

Lucan is less pressing in his handling, but I always descend into a bad mood during his lessons, not just because I’m forced to interact with him, but because Clove is practically glued to my side throughout the ordeal. It’s the one lesson we must take together, and throughout Lucan’s ramblings, I can’t stop thinking about her knives, how scornful she’d acted, how she’d kept her abilities hidden, practically lying to me about her skills. She is not to be trusted, ally or not.

Perhaps worst of all is my time with my father, who is less concerned about coaching me for the interviews and more intent on berating me for everything I’ve done wrong in the past week; the chariot incident with Twelve, snapping at Vita during dinner, refusing to train with other weapons, scoring lower than the coal miner wench. I mostly try to keep him from messing me up before the interviews.

Vita’s instructions are the only ones I find helpful, and even that’s questionable. We spend hours talking about how to look vicious – she’s not forgotten my hankering for that word – and she prepares me for what’s to be done before the interviews. How she’s going to keep my costume sleeveless and rub ointment into my arms to keep the muscles pronounced beneath the stage lights. She’s got her craft down to an art, and I almost find myself excited with what she has in store for me. Dangerous thinking, considering how flat my outfit fell during the chariot run.

Hers is the first face I see when I wake up the next morning, and I nearly leap out of my skin when devil-horned Atilius peeks over her shoulder.

“You’re not much of a morning person, are you?” he observes when I toss a table lamp at him.

The rest of the day is spent rubbing my skin to shining, filing my nails, plucking out stray hairs, gelling my hair into perfectly tapered spikes. Everything I would not do to myself if it were up to me; but it’s not. Finally, Vita shoves me into an interview outfit, which, to my delight, is much like my training attire, a shimmering black vest with matching dress pants and gold-buckled boots. As promised, the sleeves are conveniently absent.