bebe seurat / capitol / stylist (fin)

The first B stood for Bebe. The second B in her name stood for bargaining chip. The Seurat home had gradually fallen into disrepair over the years. It'd been disintegrating where it stood long before Bebe was born, ever since her father's investments in the districts went belly up. What little they had left was spent on her older sister, who they sent off to study at the best schools they could afford, while Bebe was still young. She was unplanned for in all respects, but especially financial. Bebe and budget weren't words that coexisted. The industrious, fabulous Dearla married a man with the entrepreneurial spirit to match hers. It helped that he deposited a large dowry into her parents' account too, of course. They elected to pour the money into the house rather than their second daughter, who continued to be homeschooled by her mother until she was high school aged.

The fact that they were homeschooling Bebe was framed as a medical necessity rather than a financial one. Bebe was weak, they said. She was frail. She simply couldn't handle being outside the home for so long. Never mind that the mould in the walls she'd grown up around were what made her sick in the first place. Never mind that as she got older, she grew stronger (though never taller). Bebe's childhood was spent tucked away, spraying perfume to cover the smell of sawdust and playing music to drown out the sound of drills while the house was renovated. Bebe was never able to focus on her work, and continually fell behind. Her mother opened her wardrobe to her instead, allowed her to play dress up to pass her days away instead of learning. That suited Bebe just fine.

At fifteen, Bebe arrived at the academy her sister went to. Dearla's records were inscrutable, as her teachers liked to remind her. Bebe's, on the other hand... well, it wasn't all bad. Despite her limited socialisation growing up, Bebe quickly rose to the height of popularity. The whole world impressed her; she was cute and easily entertained. She laughed easily. None of her grades seemed to bother her. The rest of the students, who'd been grinding since they were kids, were fascinated by her. Bebe had access to a level of frivolity novel even to the children of Capitol elite. Even though her academics were in the gutter, Bebe wasn't stupid. She understood her family's rank, and how they'd maintained it with lies and freshly installed windows and Dearla's preceding reputation. She coasted through school and excelled in other ways, namely in the realm of fashion. The year she graduated, Bebe styled half of her class' outfits on the big day. 

She had plans for her future, which stretched beyond the Capitol's horizon. Unfortunately, for the first time in her life, so did her parents. 

The house and the nice alma mater on Bebe's transcript drained the last few cents from Dearla's sizeable dowry. Now it was Bebe's turn. According to her parents, she needn't worry. They were near retiring age already, and they needed to keep Bebe around to take care of them, like they'd done for her all of those years. They'd chosen a nice man, whose goals aligned with her own. That, she wanted to tell them, was not the issue. Didn't they trust her to choose what was best for herself? They'd allowed Dearla to have her pick of the bunch, and frankly, Bebe had her eye on a few of her peers... but no. No. She'd never be given Dearla's freedoms. Unplanned as she was, her parents had managed neatly slot her into their designs for life. Avoxes were not to be considered, apparently. An Avox was fine to have in the kitchen to cook or to clean the bathrooms, but the Seurat family had a long tradition of taking care of each other in their old ages, ever since the War years and years ago. Usually that responsibility went to the eldest, who'd then inherit the house and everything else, but apparently tradition was able to be bent, just not broken.

Bebe's husband, Bertrandt, was older. Not as old as her parents, but older than Dearla, clocking in at thirty years her senior. She was his second wife. He owned a boutique. Management of it was handed to Bebe, and for a spell, things were good. Bebe wasn't quite satisfied, but she was happy. She redressed the mannequins every day, and had several high ranking customers, but she left the actual business side of things in the hands of the employees that came along with the shop when Bertrandt gave it to her. Big mistake. The little pack of employees who'd always been so polite to Bebe were hired by Bertrandt's first wife, and had it in for Bebe. Numbers weren't adding up, and before long, the place was run into the ground. By the time Bebe took the books into her own hands, there was no use -- and anyways, she could barely do simple addition. 

But Bertrandt had a hefty retirement fund for them all to live on, which was what her parents exchanged Bebe for in the first place. The boutique was only something to placate her. And Bertrandt, who was aging faster by the day, hadn't cared very much either. Bebe was supposed to be a balm to soothe his increasingly weary eyes. He'd taken one look at her sweet little face and known she'd never be able to handle a business, apparently. Now she knew that too, wouldn't she be happy in the Seurat manor, running back and forth, waiting on her parents and her husband? The Avoxes took care of meals and cleaning, all Bebe had to do was keep them company, light up their dark days with her smile. 

That, she supposed, she could do. Her parents never confirmed it, but she figured they must've known Bertrandt was ill when he bought her from them. Just another weight to keep her down.

Her father lived for seven more years. Her mother made it to nine. Bertrandt gave up after eleven. But for her patience, Bebe was well rewarded. Her parents still gave half of their meagre leftovers to Dearla, because poor Dearla didn't have enough of her own according to them, but everything belonging to Bertrandt was hers -- and most importantly, so was their house. Bebe sold the place within two weeks of her husband's burial. Dearla paid a pretty penny for it. Bebe hiked up the price beyond belief; she was still popular, and her affluent friends were more than happy to put in anonymous bids to help her spite her sister. With the old ruins out of her hands, Bebe snapped up a penthouse apartment suite, which she moved into with Claudio; her baby boy. The only thing other than money Bertrandt ever gave her. 

At thirty-three, finally independent, Bebe is setting out on a new venture as a stylist for the Hunger Games. District Twelve is as bottom of the barrel as she could get, but if there's anything Bebe knows, it's how to make the best of a bad situation.