Careers Have Feelings Too | CLATO | GLARVEL |

Chapter 9

CLOVE POV

This Capitol woman will not stop yanking on my hair. The more she tugs, the more angry I get, and her painted alien face is not doing her any favours. In fact, it's making me want to punch her more. Whatever bruise I'd give her she'd probably be thankful for, as it would go quite well with the colour scheme of her look. 

Do they really do this every day? I can imagine this Capitol freak waking up at the break of dawn just to primp her hair and spend hours on makeup. God, there are so many better things to do. Being sat in this chair is exhausting, and I would bet money on looking exactly the same when I come out as I did when I went in. 

Marvel came into Cato's room early this morning, whilst we were sat in there talking. He started complaining about Glimmer and his feelings, so I just sat there until they shooed me outside. I felt like I was back at school, gossiping with other girls. 

What Marvel didn't know is that Cato had been flirting with me before that, a lot. We haven't kissed since that night, but I thought it was going to happen earlier, and I was pissed that Marvel and his sob story ruined it. I've decided maybe, just maybe, Cato is alright, but I'm reluctant to allow myself to be drawn in. It's the Hunger Games. There's no time for it. Besides, it's obvious he's an asshole, and I'm not that stupid. 

At last, the freak is done with my hair. Finally, it walks away and I'm left alone, feeling violated. A minute or so passes, and my stylist comes in. I wish I could be more covered up, instead of wearing this little silky robe that feels like it could be carried off me if a gust of wind came along. 

My stylist is chatting to me, but I don't care. I can't even remember his name. He holds up a zipped up black bag, which I assume has my dress in it, and looks at me excitedly. 

"Are you ready to see it?" 

I fake-smile and nod. 

He unzips the bag, and the first thing I see popping out is an orange ruffle. My heart sinks. Are you joking? As the zip comes down and more of the dress is exposed, I see the tight, strapless bodice and the slightly puffy, awkward-length skirt, and start to feel sick. I'm never going to look scary or powerful in that. I'm going to look ridiculous. 

"Do you like it?" He asks, his eyes gleaming. I want to punch him. 

"Um, yeah, it's nice," I say slowly. "I was hoping for something more... you know, Career-like? Less girly?" 

My stylist looks down at the floor awkwardly, and for a moment I feel bad. I guess he did design it, but at the same time I don't want to be seen dead looking like that. 

"Sorry," he says. "I thought orange would be your colour." 

I roll my eyes. "It's fine. I like it," I lie, and hop off the chair I'm sat on, allowing him to hand it to me so I can put it on. 

The material feels cold and intrusive, and my stylist doesn't turn away whilst I slip my robe off. I try to ignore him, but as soon as I have it on he claps and gasps dramatically. 

"Wow! You look beautiful. Look in the mirror!" 

I turn to the mirror. The person in it is not me. My hands automatically go to pull the strapless top of it up further, but my stylist rushes over and stops me. 

"You look absolutely amazing," he says, fiddling with the bun on top of my head. I want to pull away, but I resist. Just about.  

"Ok, interview time!" He cheers, and I look at him blankly. "Do you know the way?" 

Thank God, I think, as I rush off the way I came. My high shoes create a burning sensation in my feet as they clip-clop on the hard floor, and I purse my lips as I concentrate on not falling over.