The Hunger Games - Suzanne Collins [39]
Effie’s knocking at the door, reminding me there’s another “big, big, big day!” ahead. Tomorrow night will be our televised interviews. I guess the whole team will have their hands full readying us for that.
I get up and take a quick shower, being a bit more careful about the buttons I hit, and head down to the dining room. Peeta, Effie, and Haymitch are huddled around the table talking in hushed voices. That seems odd, but hunger wins out over curiosity and I load up my plate with breakfast before I join them.
The stew’s made with tender chunks of lamb and dried plums today. Perfect on the bed of wild rice. I’ve shoveled about halfway through the mound when I realize no one’s talking. I take a big gulp of orange juice and wipe my mouth.
“So, what’s going on? You’re coaching us on interviews today, right?”
“That’s right,” says Haymitch.
“You don’t have to wait until I’m done. I can listen and cat at the same time,” I say.
“Well, there’s been a change of plans. About our current approach,” says Haymitch.
“What’s that?” I ask. I’m not sure what our current approach is. Trying to appear mediocre in front of the other tributes is the last bit of strategy I remember. Haymitch shrugs. “Peeta has asked to be coached separately.”
Betrayal. That’s the first thing I feel, which is ludicrous. For there to be betrayal, there would have had to been trust first. Between Peeta and me. And trust has not been part of the agreement. We’re tributes. But the boy who risked a beating to give me bread, the one who steadied me in the chariot, who covered for me with the redheaded Avox girl, who insisted Haymitch know my hunting skills... was there some part of me that couldn’t help trusting him?
On the other hand, I’m relieved that we can stop the pretense of being friends. Obviously, whatever thin connection we’d foolishly formed has been severed. And high time, too. The Games begin in two days, and trust will only be a weakness. Whatever triggered Peeta’s decision—and I suspect it had to do with my outperforming him in training—I should be nothing but grateful for it. Maybe he’s finally accepted the fact that the sooner we openly acknowledge that we are enemies, the better.
“Good,” I say. “So what’s the schedule?”
“You’ll each have four hours with Effie for presentation and four with me for content,” says Haymitch. “You start with Effie, Katniss.”
I can’t imagine what Effie will have to teach me that could take four hours, but she’s got me working down to the last minute. We go to my rooms and she puts me in a full-length gown and high-heeled shoes, not the ones I’ll he wearing for the actual interview, and instructs me on walking. The shoes are the worst part. I’ve never worn high heels and can’t get used to essentially wobbling around on the balls of my feet. But Effie runs around in them full-time, and I’m determined that if she can do it, so can I. The dress poses another problem. It keeps tangling around my shoes so, of course, I hitch it up, and then Effie swoops down on me like a hawk, smacking my hands and yelling, “Not above the ankle!” When I finally conquer walking, there’s still sitting, posture—apparently I have a tendency to duck my head—eye contact, hand gestures, and smiling. Smiling is mostly about smiling more. Effie makes me say a hundred banal phrases starting with a smile, while smiling, or ending with a smile. By lunch, the muscles in my cheeks are twitching from overuse.
“Well, that’s the best I can do,” Effie says with a sigh. “Just remember, Katniss, you want the audience to like you.”
“And you don’t think they will?” I ask.
“Not if you glare at them the entire time. Why don’t you save that for the arena? Instead, think of yourself among friends,” says Effie.
“They’re betting on how long I’ll live!” I burst out. “They’re not my friends!”
“Well, try and pretend!” snaps Effie. Then she composes herself and beams at me. “See, like this. I’m smiling at you