henley pleat // d8 // fin.

I was eleven when my father died in a factory collapse.

Our neighbor was the one who'd come to tell us. Most of the people in our building worked at the same factory, and her husband had been there, too — in tears, she'd come to my mother to beg her for help in the search for survivors that might be buried in the rubble.

Mom went, of course, and me and my sisters were left in the house. I distracted them, because I didn't know what else to do. When they asked why mom left, I lied to them. She needed to go to work, I told them. She's heading to the market. She's visiting Uncle Cas. I played with them, and made dinner for them, and watched the clock on the wall, waiting for mom to come back, our father in tow, bruised up, but alive.

The next time I'd see him, it would be at his funeral.



I was sixteen when our fortunes changed.

It started when designers from the Capitol and District One started moving to Eight, and with them came more jobs. Better jobs, safer jobs, well paying jobs. The best seamsters and seamstresses would be recruited from factories, and go from making clothes for peacekeepers and the poorer districts, to making clothes for the rich and famous.

Mom was one of the first seamstresses to be hired. I remember the blush high on her cheeks and the beaming smile she'd worn coming home from work the day she'd been recruited. I remember how she'd kissed father's picture on the mantel, before announcing to us that we'd get to move out of the tenement soon.

She'd been proud. Proud that her daughters would never go to bed hungry again. Proud that I wouldn't have to keep working in the factories to keep providing for us, that my sisters wouldn't have to working with me. Proud that we'd be able to afford a real house, with enough rooms for all of us.

She'd been prouder still that rather than make what others told her to, she could bring her own designs to life, now. Rather than work for others, she'd be working for herself.

Of course, in order to sell them, she needed someone to wear them, to show how well they fit, how good they look. And as she's been making clothes for me since I was born, I was the obvious choice of model.



"A little to the left," the photographer instructs, gesturing with her hand.

I do as she asks and turn, keeping my hands on my hips. Chin up, shoulders straight, gaze fixed on the lens of the camera that's pointed on me. My shirt with its embroidered golden leaves, the corset cinched around my waist, and my long, flared trousers are all made of the same shimmering green fabric.

Mom likes me best in green. So do the photographers.

Snap! Snap! Snap! I lower a hand, and look to the side. Snap! Snap! I reach up, touching my chin. Snap! Snap! Snap! I lift my arms, and fold them behind my head. I hold the position as the photographer takes a final series of photos, then lowers her camera.

"I think we've got enough now," she assures.

And with that, I finally reach up, and let my hair down from the tight, painful bun it had been pinned up in.

I'm sore. I'm tired. I'm sweating. I've spent ten hours being photographed, in a room that's too hot and stuffy for the winter clothes I'm wearing.

But if this shoot turns out as successful in the Capitol as mom hopes it will, it'll all be worth it. We've been given a chance by the Capitol to make things better for ourselves. To never suffer again, to never starve again. I'd work ten hours doing this over working ten hours on the factory floor for a pittance, over living and dying like my dad did.

So I'll keep pushing.