I'd never given much thought to the tribute interviews before. Until I found myself being prepped for one. My stomach swirled, but not because of the interview.
Zara had made me a mermaid-style dress (Didn't see that coming, I thought sarcastically). It shimmered in various shades of blue, green and brown, flowing to my ankles. Raven curled my hair and twisted it into a messy bun. As for Tristan, his suit featured the same colors, while his usually untamed, wavy, dark hair had been slicked back.
Thea would've killed me for saying it, but her brother couldn't have been more handsome.
As we waited for interviewing to start, the girl from District 1 tapped me on the shoulder.
"Your name is Mags, right?" she asked. "I love that dress on you! Oh, and if you forgot, I'm Whitney."
Whitney, a petite blonde, wore a knee-length, strapless dress, covered in brown fur. She wore it so well that I had to wonder if she did any modeling.
"Thanks, Whitney," I replied.
Gemma, the girl from District 2, said, "I agree with her. I wish I could wear that."
The girl from District 3 nodded, and they all offered me smiles. I returned the smile genuinely. We had less than twelve hours before we transformed from teenage girls to killers, so I relished any moment to act normal with other girls my age. Something as simple as complimenting each other's dresses? I only wished tomorrow would be that easy. Tomorrow held unknown terrors.
The interview host was Wendy Harlequin. I guessed she could've been around fifty years old, but she hadn't aged much in the past eleven years (Just think of her as the original Caesar Flickerman). Wendy dyed her hair differently for every appearance, and today, it was minty green.
After Whitney, Gemma, their district partners, and District 3 were finished with their interviews, I stood in the wings offstage.
"From District Four," Wendy Harlequin announced, "give a warm welcome to Mags Wader!"
You never get a second chance to make a first impression, I reminded myself. I couldn't look nervous. No tribute who earned a 10 should look nervous. But I didn't want to be cocky. So instead, I went for a humble, girl-next-door image. That really is me, in a nutshell.
"First, congratulations on getting a 10 for your exhibition," Wendy said as I sat down. "Were you surprised?"
"Yes," I admitted. "I would've been happy with a 7, but I guess I impressed them a lot. Didn't know I had it in me." Giggles came out of my mouth, and the audience began laughing with me.
"Can you tell us what you did to wow the Gamemakers?"
"I don't know if I should..." I flashed a devious smile. "But I can say that you don't want to cross me. I will kill anybody that tries to attack me." I meant it, too. What else would I do? Let somebody kill me? Definitely not.
Wendy raised her eyebrows at the audience. "This girl means business!"
To that, the Capitol people gave a hearty round of applause.
"There's something else I've been dying to know," Wendy continued. "Your district partner, Tristan; he's the brother of the girl you volunteered for, isn't he?"
"Yes."
"What's your relationship with him? Is he... that special someone?"
Every pair of eyes was trained on me, desperate to drink in some Hunger Games gossip.
She had to go there, I thought. "Um... not exactly."
"What do you mean, Mags?"
"Well... we're pretty close friends-"
"Ah," Wendy commented, nodding to herself. "The best-friend's-brother dilemma. Let's be honest; woman to woman; I'd bet my whole wardrobe that he's in love with you. So why not make a move, girl?"
If I could've seen myself in a mirror, I'm sure my cheeks would be as pink as a newborn baby's skin.
"All I know for sure," I replied, "is that I care about Tristan a lot, and I'll never lay a finger on him in the arena."
"Even if you were the last two tributes left?"
"Yeah," I said instantly.
Everybody joined in a chorus of "Aaawww!"
"Thank you for your time, Miss Wader," Wendy said, "and may the odds be ever in your favor."
If I had to speak to that woman again, it would be too soon, I decided.
*********************************
I went up to the fourth floor with Tristan that night, the interview still ringing in my ears. Neither of us talked. We stared at each other awkwardly.
It was I who broke the silence.
"What Wendy asked me about you... that was kinda embarrassing. Sorry you had to hear that."
"It's done," Tristan said. "Water over the bridge. She can think what she wants, but we know the truth. You said some nice things about me. I wouldn't ever try to hurt you, either."
He'd said that in his interview, too, but when he told me this, face to face, it reassured me that our friendship wouldn't be tainted by the Games. No betrayals for us.
"Thanks, Tris."
Even so, I felt sweat forming as we hugged goodbye, and I held him a little tighter than normal. I wondered what kind of tribute Tristan would become. What kind of tribute I'd become.
No victor escapes the arena with their sanity intact.
I felt like a zombie the next morning; not dead, yet barely alive. I even dressed incorrectly. My sweatpants went on backwards, my shirt was inside-out, and I forgot to put on a sock.
"Let me help," Isabelle offered when she came to see me.
"No," I muttered. "I'm changing as soon as I leave here. Doesn't matter."
Isabelle wasn't deterred. "Listen to me, Mags; it does matter! You're still promoting your own image when you walk out the door."
"Okay. Help me, then."
Like a good older sister would, Isabelle didn't complain, and I looked much more presentable as we strolled to the hovercraft hangar.
"One last thing," she said; "Don't forget who you are."
"Never," I answered, moving closer to hug her, and she hugged me back. I found it extremely hard to let go.
Now, as I write this, I think Isabelle was passing a torch to me, victor to victor. Neither of us knew I'd win yet, of course (and thank goodness she won't have to endure the Quarter Quell- she died ten years ago).
My arena uniform didn't give much away as far as climate; it was a t-shirt, cargo pants, boots, and a windbreaker jacket. But I could at least deduce that this place wouldn't be frozen tundra.
Zara pulled my hair into a ponytail, and her blue eyes met mine. A stray tear trickled past her cheek.
"Well, Mags," she said, "you've been wonderful. Kick that arena's ass!"
I stretched out my lips in a smile. "I'll do my best. Thank you, Zara."
I was still half-asleep while my tracker was injected (though it stung horribly); still half-asleep in my launch tube.
It's just a bad dream, I kept telling myself.
When I came out of the darkness, I got my first look at the arena. Instead of wilderness surrounding me, I saw... an abandoned city. There were plenty of tall, imposing buildings. Some of them could make good hiding places, but some of them had to be booby-trapped, I was sure. On further inspection, I discovered trees in the distance.
I almost didn't find the Cornucopia. That is, until my eyes scanned upwards. Our Cornucopia rested at the top of a skyscraper. Oh, goody. Getting stuck in an elevator with murderous kids would be fun. Not.
The countdown reached its final ten seconds.
Ten... nine... eight-
BOOM.
Blood. Flying onto me from the right. I looked over my shoulder, and I saw the girl from District 9. Or... what remained of her, lying dead on the ground. She'd left her platform way too soon. Must have forgotten about the bombs planted underneath us. I tried to play it calm, but really. There was no calm in my life anymore.
-five... four... three... two... one.
BONG.
If nothing else would awaken me from my stupor, that certainly did the trick.
The strongest, my dad would say, are the ones who fight against the tides. They take anything life throws at them.
Then bring on the waves, I thought.