Cookie Crumbs
"Mommy," the little girl chirped. "Mommy."
A woman swiveled in her silken chair, not looking up from her shiny red nails, which she was stroking lovingly.
"Yes, dear." She flicked her hand at a pale statue standing in the arched doorway, which came to life long enough to fill her crystal glass with a green liquid.
"Mommy, are those people for real? Or is this just a movie?"
No response. Nails clicking against nails.
"Mommy, are those people dying? Like…"
The woman looked at the child sitting in front of the television.
"Like, for real?"
The woman took a drink of the green liquid. Her silky chair hissed as she shifted her position.
"Yes, of course, dear. Haven't you been listening in school?"
This was a threat against the small one's intelligence. Of course she had been listening in school.
"Yes, Mommy. It's because of the Un-rising."
"Up-rising. Yes, dear." Nails clicking against crystal.
The television, which had been showing silent footage of a sick tribute hunched by a dying fire, spoke up.
"What's this?"
A face emerged from behind the stunted Joshua trees which hid the miserable tribute from the sandstorms that scourged the landscape. The commentator lowered his voice.
"Unknown to Cedar, she has company. Will this turn into an alliance, or…"
Cedar did not cry out. The thick branch to her head knocked her out at once, and she crumbled over, half-falling into the sizzling coals. The attacking tribute continued to batter her with the club. The commentator's words dyed away, then turned into a chuckle.
"Or not. You know, folks, it's just that skill—that decisive ability to turn anything into a weapon—which has bought Streak so much sponsor approval."
The little girl pushed herself up with her hands and scooted back from the television. From her new vantage point, she wrapped her arms around her knees.
"Servant," said the woman in the silk chair. "Fetch me a blanket." The statue dipped its head and disappeared through the doorway.
"…had similar plans," the television continued. "And although Streak certainly knows he wasn't the only tribute to see that fire, he doesn't seem to suspect how close the others have come. It won't be long before he gets a chance to prove his worth to those sponsors." The commentator paused ominously. "But first, these messages. Stay tuned." The Capitol seal exploded onto the screen, and then faded as a dazzlingly colorful woman appeared and, accompanied by equally flamboyant music, described the wonders of her new long-lasting Flink-Flash Skin Dye.
"Mommy, may I get a snack?" The woman's eyes were closed. Her eyeshadow glittered like diamonds, and her curved red nails rested against the blanket on her lap.
"Mmmhmm." This meant yes. The little girl pulled herself up from the floor and walked through the arched doorway to a small, cushiony-pink room. She addressed the servant in the corner.
"Jebs," she piped carelessly. "Jebs, can I have some cookies?" The servant bowed his head and disappeared. The little girl looked at the pink wall, which was printed with butterflies. In the center of the wall was a photograph of her family—father and mother, herself, and her two brothers. The picture sat in a frame of gold with a pearl at each corner. She stared, her little mind transfixed with a speck of dirt on the upper-left pearl, until Jebs reappeared holding a plate. He bent down silently and allowed her to take a fistful of cookies. Before she had removed them from the plate, she hesitated and looked up at Jebs. He remained stoic.
"Jebs." It was barely more than a whisper. The servant glanced at her, a nervous look in his eyes. "Jebs, are you from the Capitol? Or from one of the districts?" Jebs shook his head and held the plate closer to her. But she stamped her foot, just a little. "Jebs, I want to know." He glanced toward the doorway. The woman was watching the television, oblivious to their words. A commentator with purple hair twisted into a single spike was chattering bouncily about a temporary sale on sponsor gifts. Jebs looked back at the little girl. He held up his gloved hand, pushed it forward twice, and then held up a single finger. The little girl cocked her head.
"Eleven? You're from District Eleven." The servant nodded slightly. The girl's hand removed the slightly crumbled cookies from the platter, and the servant stood up. The girl thought for a moment, then stood on her tiptoes. "Jebs," she whispered. "Jebs, if that was your home...why didn't you stay there?" Jebs' eyes slowly turned red and wet. He struggled with a sound, something between sobbing and coughing. With a quick bow, he turned away.
Panem's Anthem blared loudly from the adjacent room.
"Come along, dear" droned the woman. "The Games are starting." The little girl walked slowly toward the television. Jebs had not turned around fast enough. She did not let her mother see her face as she slipped past her and sat on the floor in front of the television. But when she tried to stuff one of the cookies in her mouth, she let out a little sob that spewed crumbs on her lap.
"Don't make a mess. What's the matter, dear?" The woman in the silk chair did not avert her gaze from the television. The screen showed a pack of allies moving through the nighttime silence toward Streak, who was arranging his supplies in the ashy sand near the dead fire.
"Mommy—Mommy…"
One tribute made a few motions to another, who nodded and pulled out a knife with a hooked tip.
"Mommy," she sniffled, "I don't want to watch right now. May I go to my room?" The woman sat up straighter in her silk chair, which hissed back at her.
"Why, dear! Certainly not. You know the president likes us all to watch." The girl scooted herself and turned toward her mother. There were tears on her face.
"Mommy, did Jebs have a mommy and daddy?" Her mother's eyes widened, but she smiled tightly. "Why, dear," she said. "You're not to talk to the servants, or about them. What's gotten into you? Now hush. Look, it's getting exciting." The girl looked back at the screen.
Streak heard a noise and was standing with his back to the coals, clutching his tree branch and looking around him.
The little girl held her breath, quivering.
"Folks," murmured the commentator, "the bets are coming in like mad on this one. If you've picked the winner of this fight, be sure and send yours in." The woman's nails clicked as she picked up a shiny black square on her armrest and began typing rapidly.
Streak whipped around, facing an invisible threat. The girl's body was tense.
Fwwwwrrrrrr…the hooked knife whizzed out of the darkness and buried itself into Streak, just below his throat. A strange squealing sound seeped out of his mouth, and he faintly grasped at the knife, stumbling to his knees.
The girl's mother sighed. "I knew I shouldn't make decisions at the last minute. I just got so excited. Anyway. I only bet thirty." She set her device aside with another little sigh. When she looked back toward the television, the little girl was facing her, crying.
"Why, dear!" she exclaimed. "You musn't get so upset." The little girl stood up, her back to the television.
"Mommy, I don't want to watch anymore!" she declared with a stamp of her foot.
"Now, now. Calm yourself down." The woman strained her neck to see past the little girl. The allied tributes were going through Streak's supplies. "Move, dear. I want to see." But the girl stood firm, tears running down her face. The woman pushed her blanket off her lap but did not stand up.
"Really! Enough already! They're only Games." The girl stared for another moment, then walked away past her mother. She marched through the doorway into the cushiony-pink room.
"Effie!" called the woman. "Effie, come back here! You're supposed to watch!" Effie kept walking, her chin quivering and her lips pursed stubbornly.
But when she threw her handful of cookie crumbs into the waste bin, she sat down on the floor and burst into tears.