Capitol Girl

The world is going to melt.

No one believes me but my brother. Of course not. I'm just that girl who isn't quite right in the head.

Mother sits on our robins-egg-blue couch and adjusts her bright magenta wig. I think that she looks like a balloon. All puffed up by cosmetic surgery. Father snacks on items like cookies and things like that. My older brother has locked himself away in his room. A typical day in our household.

I peer around the kitchen threshold, my cheeks stinging from the ornaments within them. When I was very small, my mother had decided that I was too plain. She carted me off to a scary white room. Two attendants dyed my skin bright tangerine orange. And just last week, she took me back there and had gems implanted in my cheeks and also down my left arm. I didn't even get any anesthetic. It was a very painful experience that still hurts today.

Mother doesn't notice me staring at her, her eyes glued to the sphere shaped television screen. I tiptoe out into the open towards the ceiling-to-floor windows that provide the east wall of our house.

Everything outside looks like candy. Some would call it beautiful. I think it's sickly, like the effects of tracker-jacker venom. The bright colors hurt my eyes.

Outside the sun has begun to set. The light from the sinking sun shines through the buildings, staining the patchwork roads purple and pink and yellow, as though the buildings are made of stained glass. I am entranced. A pair of sturdy arms encircles me, making me jump. I stare up into my brother's green eyes - the only natural color around here. "Dinnertime, Rhine." He says into my ear. His grip on me falters. I hear his footsteps fade into the kitchen.

My fingers are tracing the swirled patterns on our wall. I have decided not to move for a while.

I have used my years to memorize the streets I see before me. There is the box where Janie lives. And way over there is President Snow's mansion. There is where the train brings in the goods from the districts. Father walks up behind me now. "Rhinestone," he says sternly, "It's time to eat now. Go to the table." I reach up and wipe some of the powdered sugar from his donut off of his strawberry red lip.

Dinner is not one of my favorite times. Mother uses her chartreuse talons of fingernails to press in whatever she's been craving. After that, the food comes out of nowhere. Beyond that, it's extremely dull. My brother and I sit together. He's never been one of those older brothers that are mean - like the ones I've seen on TV - he's always gentle, or maybe that's because I'm fragile, from how I've seen him treat his friends, it's definitely natural. It makes me feel happy.

Like every night, he and I stare at our plates until our dinner arrives. Then we look at each other and share a look of exasperation. We're despicable.

Father, as usual, digs right into his soup like the glutton he is. Mother tries to start off real ladylike, but then she gives in and her wig almost falls in the soup.

I take a tentative sip. From the strange texture, I know it's something I've never eaten before. I drift off slightly with the tang of it lingering on my tongue.

I turn around to see Janie. She's special because only my brother and I can see her.

Mother says she is my imaginary friend. I always snort and turn to eat my soup or something else of the sorts. The soup tonight is one of her particular favorites.

I always share it with Janie. Janie is an Avox, that's why she won't talk to Mother or Father. She likes me and my brother.

My particular likeness of Janie is how plain and untouched she is. Straight, orange hair, freckles, and brown eyes. Mine are brown too, but they move freely of each other.

Mother thinks it's awful. I stick my tongue out at her turned back and then act real innocent when she turns back around to face me.

Nobody has noticed that I'd left for a few seconds. Except maybe my brother. From the expression on his face, he was talking about something, and my mother is chattering to father about something. Probably about my brother. He's gotten a job as a stylist or something.

"What for?" I ask him.

"I got a job as a stylist for the Hunger Games." He replies, all calm the way he always is.

Sothat'swhatyou'vebeendoinginyourroomforsolong."Which district?" I ask, really morbidly curious unlike my petty mother.

"District Twelve. I asked personally for it."

I guess the look on my face gives away my opinion on it because his eyes downcast in embarrassment.

"But, but, you won't have a lot to work with," I sputter. "District Twelve is coal."

His lips show a hint of a smile. "I think I can turn it into something better than that."

I consider it. "I knowyou can, Cinna."

After dinner, my brother takes me to his bedroom.

At first, I am brutally surprised at how messy it is.

Cinna is usually so neat and tidy.

There are now sketchbooks strewn across the floor. He picks up one with leather binding.

"This is my particular favorite," he says quietly. I hold it up carefully, frightened to break the fragile leather. On the first page, there is a picture of two faceless people swathed in ugly coal jumpsuits,

"The tributes," I murmur, looking up at him.

He nods, "I don't really like the way that looks though. I'm going to work on some adjustments with my partner Portia. We need to find out who the tributes are first."

Lucky him, the reaping is next week.

I continue to flip through the sketchbook. The designs are so exquisite, I am sure that all of the Capitol will sponsor the tributes.

I realize that I am yawning.

I stand up; give Cinna a hug and skip-hop back to my room. I dream of Cinna and his two nameless tributes, both of them winning their Hunger Games which is when I know that it is a dream because it's impossible.