Warm sunlight streaming in through the tall window is what rouses me from my unrestful sleep. One glance at the azure sky outside tells me it's well past dawn. I'm surprised no one woke me up earlier. It is the big interview day, after all. Maybe they wanted me to sleep off the fury from my outburst yesterday.
Oh, yeah. That happened. I'd almost forgotten for a few blissful moments.
I'm still a bit embarrassed about lashing out at Bobby and in front of Cas. I'm not saying my anger wasn't valid—it certainly was—but Bobby was right. I could've handled it better. I have a bad habit of bottling up my emotions until I reach a breaking point, and the result is usually an outburst of rage. Either that, or a complete nervous breakdown. I guess I should be grateful that didn't happen, at least.
There are still traces of indignation coursing through my veins, but I try to let them go. I'll really be in trouble if I miss breakfast, too. I push myself up to a seat and almost cry out in pain. Every muscle, every joint in my body screams in protest as I move. That's what I get for passing out on the floor, I suppose.
I take a minute to tidy up the room I almost destroyed last night, and then, with an apprehensive breath, I open the door and venture to the dining table, where I see everyone is already gathered and eating.
Here goes nothing.
No one speaks as I approach the table. I don't glance up from the floor, but I know they're all looking at me. I can practically taste the tension in the air. The chair squeaks much louder than I would've preferred as I pull it back to take a seat, wanting nothing more than to shrink down into my shoulders.
I can see Cas' eyes watching me, glinting with concern and care. Even Rowena has a sympathetic expression adorning her face. Bobby has returned his attention to his plate of food, almost acting like I never arrived to the table at all.
This was a mistake. I've messed everything up with my uncontrolled outburst yesterday. Is it too late to retreat back to my room?
I really should apologize. Even though my anger was true and justifiable, there was no need for me to cause such a scene, act like such a brat, and now I've made people worried about me. If I don't say something, this awful silence will destroy me from the inside out. It's unbearable.
I'm just drawing a breath to speak when Bobby cuts me off. "You don't have to apologize," he says, looking up from his plate to meet my wide eyes. He doesn't seem annoyed or upset with me, but rather, understanding. I'm not sure why, but that simple sentence is enough to lift a massive weight from my shoulders. It's like I can breathe properly again.
"I know how stressful this is for you both," our mentor continues. "I went through these exact situations when I was your age, too. Lots of emotions is common. The best thing you can do is just try to approach everything with a level head. It'll help."
I'm not quite sure what to say. This is the nicest I've ever seen Bobby. Is this even Bobby? Who knows. I'm just relieved he doesn't hate me, and as I murmur a sincere thanks, the insufferable tension that hung in the air when I arrived slowly begins to dissipate.
A level head. Easier said than done, but I'll have to give it my all. I'm determined to make it through this day without another horrible outburst. I know I can do it.
After breakfast, Cas and I are set to be handed over to our prep teams and stylists to prepare for the interview later this evening. Before we're separated, though, I grab his arm and pull him aside, hopefully out of earshot of everyone in the apartment. I may not have been able to apologize to Bobby, but I at least want to make sure Cas knows I was never mad at him. The thought of it has been gnawing on my insides all morning.
This is exactly what I ask him as he looks up at me with a curious gaze. "You know I'm not mad at you, right?"
"Of course," he replies with a faint smile, without missing a beat. "You were just mad about all the torture that's being inflicted on us. I get it."
I can't help but return his smile, and his own begins to widen until it sparkles in his bright blue eyes. "I was just worried you thought it was your fault somehow, especially with how I didn't want to talk to anyone until now, and—"
"Dean." Cas breathes out a laugh, looking more gleefully amused than I've ever seen him. "It's okay. I'm serious. All is forgiven."
That's as far as our conversation gets before the prep teams grow impatient and drag us into our separate rooms. But I said what I wanted to say, and I'm so relieved about his good-natured response, in fact, that I don't object when my prep team starts plucking out any stray eyebrow hairs that either grew back or they missed during my initial visit to the Remake Center.
They fix my brows, coat my skin in that same citrus-scented foam from before, cut and file my nails until they're all perfect and symmetrical, and hose me down in the shower at least three times. The citrus smell is so strong that it makes my eyes water, but like before, I will admit that my skin feels fantastic. They then start the long and arduous hair and makeup process. Hairspray, comb, hairspray, comb, repeat until my hair is surely about to fall out. A thin layer of pale makeup to mask any blemishes. A silky gloss on my lips to make them soft and stand out. More glitter on my cheekbones. And finally, the dark eyeliner to bring out the green flecks in my eyes. My outfit for the interview must be fairly similar to the parade if the team did the same hair and makeup on me.
It's almost ridiculous how much solace washes over me when Crowley enters the room with a sleek garment bag. I suppose after listening to the incessant chit-chat from my prep team for the past few hours, Crowley's subtle wit and charm is a warm welcome.
Inside the garment bag is a lustrous jet black suit, vest, and undershirt, somewhat like the one Crowley always wears. All three of the pieces shimmer with silver sparkles in the light. The prep team is already ogling over it, and I haven't even put it on yet.
The interior of the suit is beyond silken. It's like I'm wearing a cloud. The vest hugs my torso, perhaps a bit more tightly than I would've preferred, but it brings out my form, I suppose. But the suit, the suit is so stunning and breathtaking that I'm at a loss for words when I stare at it in the mirror. I sparkle every time I turn, every time I catch the light, and there will definitely be a plethora of bright lights during the interview. I look like a star, shining in the darkness of the universe. It's incredible. I don't know what to say.
My prep team barely has a chance to gush their praises about how amazing I look before Crowley dismisses them with a wave of his hand. They seem disappointed, but they leave the room without arguing, leaving my stylist and me alone.
"Thoughts?" he asks with a smirk as the door shuts, like he already knows what my answer is going to be.
It takes me a moment to regain the ability to speak. "Phenomenal," I manage to gasp out. The glitter on my cheekbones perfectly matches the silver sparkles on my suit, and they shimmer together in beautiful unison. I can't get over how sensational I look. With the outfit and the hair and the makeup all combined, it creates a weapon of fierce and powerful beauty. I don't know how Crowley does it.
"Ready for the interview, then?" my stylist asks, and suddenly my elation begins to dissolve.
"Not really," I sigh. I was so caught up with how striking I look that I forgot why I'm even dressed up in the first place. To sit on a stage and be forced to answer personal questions while the audience praises me, then makes bets on my survival when I'm not looking. At least I had that blissful joy while it lasted.
Crowley seems to pick up on my discomfort. He furrows his brow, takes a step closer to me. "You're upset," he remarks. "What's wrong?"
How he was able to come to that conclusion so quickly is beyond me, but he isn't incorrect. "Everything about the interview," I say. My stomach is starting to twist into uncomfortable knots. "What's the point in getting to know all of us when twenty-two or twenty-three are just going to end up dead in a few weeks anyway? It's awful."
"You seemed to like the parade, though," Crowley points out, although his tone isn't disapproving or accusatory. Dare I say his expression is understanding.
He's right. I did end up enjoying the parade after I got used to the crowd, but this is on a whole different level. "It's not really the same," I tell him. "That was from a distance. People were just looking at me. They weren't trying to pry into my personal life and ask about my family and the things I care about. Now they're trying to get to know me, the real me, the night before I'm sent off to the arena for murder. It's not right."
A faint smirk lights up Crowley's face as he reaches over to smooth a ruffle in my suit. "Nothing about the Hunger Games is ever quite right, darling."
Something about the twinkle in his dark eyes, the deep and reassuring tone of his voice, eases the frenzy in my mind. He's from the Capitol and works with people in charge of the Games, yet he almost seems to have the same opinion on everything as I do. Are those his true feelings? Or is it just to soothe my worries?
"I'll be up front during your interview," my stylist continues before I have a chance to think. Whatever the cause for his encouraging words, I'm glad he seems willing to support me. "If you get nervous, just remember I'll be down there cheering for you. Maybe you can pretend like you're talking to me, or Castiel. You two are close, right?"
I nod.
"Perfect. Just pretend like you're having a chat with him, and the three minutes will be over before you know it. You can do this, Dean. I know you'll be great."
We wait near the dining table for Meg and Cas. We still have time before the interviews begin, but as usual, Rowena wants us there as early as possible, just to make sure we don't miss anything. Her desire for extreme punctuality never ceases to amaze me.
Meg is the first to exit Cas' room, and her own sparkly black outfit is as cutthroat as ever. She flashes me a fleeting but reassuring smile as she pulls Crowley aside to talk with him, leaving me alone at the table. Their voices are hushed, but it doesn't sound like they're discussing anything too important. Still, I can't stop my mind from wandering, and the jitters begin to return with a horrible vengeance.
When Cas finally comes out of his room, though, my scattered attention instantly fixes on him. He's dressed in a counterpart suit, but his is strikingly white and shimmering with even whiter sparkles. He practically glows as the lights reflect off his outfit, and the opposing colors of his jet black hair and dark eyeliner only make him stand out more. He's absolutely radiant.
I struggle to find words again as he approaches, shoulders slightly hunched and a sheepish smile adorning his face. I look at his styled hair, the intensity of his eye makeup and sky blue irises, the brilliance of his pristine white suit, and then start at the top all over again. I don't stop until I see that his smile has vanished and glance up to meet his wide eyes, the ones glinting with an emotion I can't quite discern.
We've locked gazes plenty of times before. Why does this one feel so different? It's like the entire world slows to a halt, freezing us in this one moment in time. My breath hitches in my throat. A small burst of warmth prickles in the center of my chest. I can't look away from his piercing stare, and he makes no effort to move, either.
I force myself to draw a full breath, to supply my burning lungs, when Cas lets his indecipherable gaze drift down to my glimmering vest, his glossy lips ever so slightly parted. "You look really good," he finally says, glancing back up and into my eyes once more. His voice is soft and breathy and laced with a tone I've never heard from him before.
I can feel my heart beating in every limb in my body. The world is still sluggish, but I manage a smile. "Took the words right out of my mouth."
His cheek gently twitches, a feeble attempt at a smile of his own. I barely catch his eyes flitting down to my nose or my lips or my vest or wherever before Crowley suddenly clasps my shoulder, and reality warps back to normal in a violent flash. It almost knocks the air right out of me.
"Ready to go, boys?" he asks, glancing between the two of us.
I feel like I've just been sprinting. It's difficult to regain a stable rhythm of breath. My heartbeat toils to slow and relax. The world around me is back to its regular pace, a fixed rate of time, but for some reason, I can't clear my head. The best I can do to respond to Crowley's question is nod, and even that is a bit of a challenge. I'm not sure what's happening, or what did happen, for that matter. Nothing is making sense to me.
It takes the whole elevator ride to one of the bottom levels of the Training Center for me to feel better again. The stage that's being used for the interviews is set up just outside the massive building, and the audience floods the seats in front of it, stretching out far into the streets. The City Circle is alight with life. Balconies adorn the sides of the packed seating area, filled with the Gamemakers and esteemed guests and groups of camera crews. There are people, cameras, bright lights everywhere, and it doesn't take long for me to fall back into that state of paralyzed fear.
I'm not sure if I can do this.
The tributes from District 1 are receiving some final touch-ups from their stylists before they take the stage. In just a few minutes, the interviews will begin, broadcast to all of Panem, and I'm sickened by the mere thought of it. I can already hear Caesar Flickerman warming up the boisterous crowd, his energetic voice booming through the evening air. He sounds prepared. The District 1 boys look prepared. I am far from it.
Crowley and Meg lead Cas and I to a backstage room while we wait for our turns with the treasured Hunger Games host. A large television screen flashes on the wall so we'll be able to watch every tribute before us, so we'll be able to see how witty and composed and charming they all are, especially my new enemy Cresh, who's probably just itching to get out there and show off for his adoring fans. I try not to think about him too much. He makes my skin crawl.
I can hear the anthem blaring through the walls of the room. It's time for the interviews to begin. On the screen, my blood starts to boil when I see Cresh parading out onto the stage like he owns the place, and Caesar is playing right into his charade. The audience screams and cheers at the arrival of the first tribute. I see Cas sparing a glance at me out of the corner of my eye, clearly trying to make sure I'm all right, so I cast him a fleeting look of reassurance, even though I'm far from it. I just want to get this night over with as soon as possible. Then I'll be happy.
Cresh is rowdy and funny and has the audience completely wrapped around his finger. He'll definitely be getting a lot of sponsors. His district partner is less noisy but equally as charming and hilarious, if not more so. The District 2 boys are a bit more reserved, but they're fierce and sharp and witty with their answers to Caesar's questions. One by one, the interviews drone on for those three terribly long minutes. With each buzzer, signaling the end of a tribute's time on stage, my heartbeat only quickens, nerves only increase until they're swallowing me whole. By the time the District 7 boys are getting lined up, my knees are so wobbly that I have to be seconds away from collapsing to the floor in a puddle of stage fright.
"Relax, Dean," Crowley says, his words slow and gentle. Always with the perfect timing. "It'll be over soon. Just take a deep breath and try to calm down. It'll be okay."
I try to follow his advice, to take a deep breath and soothe my rattled nerves, but it's futile. I'm past the point of being able to relax. All of the tributes have had such a specific demeanor and personality. Bold, brash, witty, endearing, fierce, aggressive, humble, kind, and I still don't know how I'm going to pull off Bobby's suggestion for me. Valiant, protective, caring, maybe slightly snarky if I can manage it. How am I supposed to focus on delivering that behavior when I'm so afraid of stepping onto that stage that I can barely see straight? That my heart is pounding so furiously that I can hear it inside my skull?
The District 8 boys are preparing to join Caesar in the spotlight. It's time for me to get lined up since I'll be the first of District 9 to be interviewed. I'm not ready.
"Just be yourself, sweetheart," Meg tells me, her arms crossed over her chest and a sly smirk on her face. "The crowd already loves you from the parade and for volunteering for your little brother. They'll be eating out of the palm of your hand."
"We'll be up front, too," Crowley adds. "Remember what we talked about, and you'll do great. You've got this."
Remember what we talked about. Deep breaths. It'll be over before I know it. Pretend like I'm just chatting with Cas. They'll love me. I can do this.
"Good luck, Dean," I hear Cas say as Crowley takes me behind the stage, where I can just barely see the second District 8 boy finishing up his interview. He and Caesar stand, eliciting an uproarious applause from the audience, and as he slips past me and toward the Training Center elevators, it's my turn to take his place on the vast stage.
Crowley whispers a final word of encouragement, gives me a small push, and disappears down into the crowd. I'm alone backstage, and I have no choice but to move forward, toward the waiting audience.
Caesar Flickerman calls my name, and I force myself to take the stage.