Nothing Personal

District Eight Interviews

Cherry was first up. She drifted to the chair, almost falling on the hem of her dress several times. It was obvious that she was meant to be playing up the sad and humble angle, though her stylist had been in a gothic mood and had added black lace wherever he thought it was appropriate, and the finished effect was intended to give her a damsel-in-distress kind of look, right down to artistic smudges of eyeliner.

The dress itself was deep blue and swept down her body, trailing behind her in a slight train. It had originally been strapless, but immediately after she'd put it on it was obvious Cherry wasn't comfortable and he'd quickly added black lace sleeves that covered her hands, with a button sewn above her left palm in a quirky nod to her district. The hems were also laced. The blue material shimmered and made her legs look endless, and the train flowed perfectly. After a bit of protest, he'd managed to get her to wear her hair loose and it cascaded in a mouse-brown waterfall over her shoulders, bringing out the natural colour of her lips and eyes so startlingly that back home, people didn't recognise her at all. He'd also added sombre black shoes with dark blue soles and a decent enough heel to give her a bit more height. It was the perfect outfit for a beautiful, elegant girl.

Cherry wasn't beautiful or elegant. She was gangly and awkward and kept twisting her ankles in the heels. The dress felt like it was going to fall off despite the sleeves, the lace itched and her legs felt swamped in the material. She was used to making clothes; she could have improved it in at least five ways, but everything happened so quickly there was no time to argue. She wanted to sit down and not move, like she'd done at her reaping, but Fiona had already done that.

When she eventually got to the chair, she reached down to take her shoes off, but the expression on Martina's face instantly stopped her. She tried hard to focus on not pushing her hair back off her shoulders, or itching the lace, or fiddling with the familiar button, or any of the rest of the numerous things she'd been told she was doing wrong.

She tried to stay still and look sad. At least the second part was easy.

Martina stuck out her hand, her nails like claws. After staring at it for a second, Cherry took it. It was warm and damp and uncomfortable. She wiped her hand on her dress the moment Martina let her go. "Cheryl, sorry, Cherry," began Martina, "It's lovely to see you."

"It's a shame I can't say the same for you," Cherry replied, then instantly regretted it. She hadn't been thinking. Well, she had. She'd been thinking about not ripping the delicate lace or rubbing her eyes or moving her hands too much. "I'm sorry," she added, "I didn't mean...it's just quite a bad time." That was putting it mildly, but if she tried to say anything else she'd only get it wrong and end up blurting out something really stupid.

She realised that she was crossing her ankles and set them straight again.

"It's no problem, honey," Martina soothed, "I can't imagine what you're going through right now."

Cherry was silent while she thought of something to say that fitted her sad image without making her look weak. "It's the not knowing," she confided eventually, "It's not knowing what the arena is going to be like or what weapons there are going to be." She stopped short and tried to remember what she'd been told about crying. The arena. Tomorrow she'd be in the arena and by the day after she could be dead. Could be. It was the not knowing, alright.

A tear dripped down her cheek and onto the dress, making a little smudge.

"Oh, honey, please don't cry! We've had enough tears today!" Martina urged. Cherry wiped her eyes, scratching herself with the lace. Her fingers burned to itch it.

"Not as many tears as there'll be back in the districts," she pointed out.

Silence. She'd hit the no-go zone. She felt the horror of it in her gut, but her mind had gone blank of everything except for not crossing her ankles and she had no idea how to redeem herself. She blinked at Martina, her watery grey eyes appealing for help.