oh the glamorous, glamorous // gryphon

There is a simple peace in her eyes as I touch her hand, which is cold and smooth.
"It's...really fucking great to see you too Adaira, seriously." I smile at the sentiment, but wince inwardly at the swear. Mother used to rap my hands when I was young whenever I swore. It's a reflex, now, not to, and to associate those words with untold punishing power.
"I'd love to be friends with you, and trust me when I say I'm not feeling that way.
I just thought all of this was a dream, and I still thought it was until now."
A dream, I suppose, is better than a trick. I don't dream, and never have, but I've seen in the arena when tributes aren't quite glued to reality.
"It's perfectly fine, Alex. I've never really had a friend to go shopping with, so it's a bit dreamlike for me as well. Shall we walk?"
We do. We stride down the streets of District One dripping with morning light that lands on ornately carved storefronts and buildings. The main shopping street, District Square Avenue, is lined with clear quartz that twinkles. There are hardly any people. The few that are up are laborers and servants. Here, as in the Capitol, most rise late.
I prefer this. I prefer to be walking next to a jeweler's daughter with a bite in her eyes to being by myself.
The windows are filled with beautiful decor for the winter dance season. My favorite shoe shop showcases a pair of white satin boots embroidered with selenite crystals. Inside the stationer's there are lavishly illustrated greeting cards with slightly trite messages hanging alongside paper cranes. The toy shop where I got my childhood toys has a doll so lifelike I almost stop in alarm thinking someone has put their baby in the window. I pass the candymaker, knowing I have to resist my usual winter hazelnut bonbons in order to fit into my dress.
Finally we reach Shimmer's Gleam. Is the tulle dress still in the window? Yes, it is. It is the perfect shade of blue, in between powder and ice, with a bodice gleaming with a silver sparkle you can only see when you look in close. The tulle skirt has a detachable train trimmed with fluffy white lace. Streams of lace cascade down the sleeves, ending in curly white cashmere points like icicles. I would have picked it out myself had Shimmer not made me a custom dress.
"There," I say, pointing. "That's the dress I envisioned for you."

Alex's mouth gapes as we approach Shimmer's Gleam. I love it; she has the look of a child on their birthday.
"I love it. I absolutely love it."
I feel like a little girl, having a friend like this. "Let's go in," I giggle in a way foreign to me since the beginning of my adolescence. "You'll love the party. It's mostly my sparring partners and people my mother likes, but it's a great place to meet people. The dancing is fantastic; there's always live music and-"
Oh no.
The shop is empty except for Velvet, whose massive gold heels are clacking around the marble floor. As we go in, she looks at Alex with disdain.
"Adaira," she says in her awful shrilly voice. "Come for a touch-up for your dress? I thought it was finished. Anyway, Shimm's out for the next half hour. Who's this? Did your mom get you a personal shopper? It's not like you don't shop enough already. Oh my, what's your name? You know, the Lynsens are SO kind, always helping people out. There's always jobs in District One for the drifters thanks to them. Like kids who have to make some money to keep a business running. You're from the training gym, yep? One of Adaira's little sparring friends?"
I can feel my eyes well up with tears and my voice cracking in my throat. I have to handle this with grace and tact. Alex must be heartbroken. What a way, what a way to repay her.
How could I forget who I am? Who my family are? I'm a Lynsen. Our furniture stands in President Snow's hallway. I can't go running around with any jeweler's daughter who happens to do a decent job at repairing my necklace. I'm a Career. I'd win the Games if- I'll win them when I am reaped. All I know is training and shopping for pretty clothes and shoes and nurturing my every deadly, cold instinct until I am a lethal doll.
That's mother talking. Hard work deserves to be rewarded. Good people deserve to be rewarded. That's the only way Panem will ever triumph. That's the only way we won't fall so deep into our pool of blood we drown without understanding what will crawl out of the depths. Monsters. Am I a monster? I am a warrior, but I cannot, cannot be a monster.
"Actually," I say in the iciest voice I can manage, "she's getting a dress for the dance right now."