Colour Wheel
Disclaimer: I solemnly swear I am not Suzanne Collins.
A/N: This story is Effie-centric and will continue for 18 chapters and an epilogue. Each chapter revolves around a colour, hence the title. It is not a romance story, though you can probably find eventual Effie/Haymitch (if you squint really, really hard and tilt your head to the side). It is dedicated to my favorite English teacher, Ms. S, Who encouraged me to write. Enjoy!
xXx
Year One
Champagne
It is raining and the wind chimes that hang outside of the store are dripping water. Her emerald eyes follow a few drops which burst on the tar of the walkway below. She turns back to the rusting door and takes a deep breath before pulling at the doorknob. It creaks open and she steps in. It's dark inside, lit only by one flickering light in the ceiling. The room is cluttered with odd objects. She can't help but wonder why on Earth she was sent here.
A woman enters the space. Her hair is the colour of sweet cream, as are her skin and clothes. She smiles, revealing perfect teeth.
"Hello. How may I help you?" Her voice is anything but fitting for her looks. It sounds like coarse sandpaper, rough and gravely.
"Um… I was told to come here. I need… help." She doesn't know what to say. Hastily, she adds, "You are a stylist, right?"
"Was a stylist. What's your name, dear?" The woman stares calmly at her, her expression hardly changing.
"Effie. Effie Trinket," says Effie nervously, chewing the lipstick off of her bottom lip. She'd expected a polite, young, and cheery person in a brightly lit, tidy space. None of these expectations have been met.
"Oh, Miss Trinket! You're an escort, aren't you?" Effie nods. "First year?" Nods. "I'm Éclair. Pleased to meet you." The woman – Éclair – extends one hand on which all of the nails have been painted the colour of cream. Effie shakes it and briefly wonders if "Éclair" and the cream colouration are related. She decides, however, that it would be rude to ask.
"Now," says Éclair, "you placed an order for a wig and make-up. What colour were you interested in?" Effie thinks for a few moments. Then she shrugs. Éclair smiles. "You don't know." Effie nods politely and feels herself blushing. How can I have come unprepared? "That's alright," Éclair adds gently. "We'll figure it out." Good. "What are you wearing for the ceremony?" Effie shrugs again, this time less visibly. Éclair is obviously restraining a laugh.
"Okay then," she says, starting from scratch. "What approach are you working?" Effie stares at her feet.
"I thought only tributes had to work approaches. You know, for the interviews?" Effie mumbles sheepishly. This gets a laugh out of Éclair.
"Dear, I was a stylist for ten years," she says, pausing as though she is remembering some detail of her better, more glorious days. "What do they teach you in your escorting classes? How do you not know about approaches?"
"They teach us how to talk and how to report signs of rebellion. They never said anything about these… 'approaches'." Effie hangs her head even lower. How did I not plan this? she thinks.
"Alright. What mood do you want to create? What do you want to be?" Éclair looks Effie in the eyes.
"They told us to act… festive. Like… a holiday. And… bubbly. Bright," the younger woman states. She bites her lip again, smearing more lipstick.
"Like champagne?" Effie nods in response. "Champagne is a colour, you know. How about we use it?" Nods. "Your wig will be champagne-coloured, as will your make-up and dress. We can draw bubbles on it, if you'd like."
"So, you'll make me a walking wine-glass?" Effie jokes feebly. Éclair laughs.
"Precisely. I'll take some measurements now, if you'd like." Without waiting for Effie's consent, she starts off towards a large wardrobe labeled "Supplies" in black ink. "And," Éclair adds in an offhand manner, "don't bite your lip like that. It'll mess up your make-up if you do it at the ceremony." Effie smiles.
xXx
Later, looking back, Effie will find that wearing wine was not a good idea and that she got very, very lucky about the choice of commentators. But now, all she can think about is her speech. She glances out the train's window. The time has come – they zoom by a creek and – to select one brave – a majestic pine forest – young man and woman for the honor – before exotic wilderness gives way – of representing District 12 in the 58th annual Hunger Games – to dusty, grey train station.
They screech to a halt and the door opens. Effie gets up carefully, trying not to mess up her skirts (wrinkly bubbles will not make a good impression). She steps out onto the platform and looks around. Everything is grey. The floor is made of stone that was probably, at some point, white, as were the walls. Dust coats everything, creating a strange film that tints everything grey. Effie finds it dull and very annoying, mostly because there is actually something white and pearly under the layer of dreariness. She takes a deep breath and thinks back to escorting classes. Miss Bellini's voice rings through her head: "Remember, class, that these are the Districts. Keep an open mind, even if they aren't as civilized as us." That's right, Effie, she tells herself. Keep an open mind.
She glances at her watch and finds that she still has two hours to, as she was told, get "acquainted" with the place. She considers it, but decides that it would seem very improper to go about, acting like a tourist. Instead, she decides to find the mentor and get "acquainted" with him. After all, she'll be working with him for the weeks to come and she finds it necessary for them to get together and begin planning now.
It takes her fifteen minutes to find anyone willing to give directions to an escort in a wig the colour of wine. It takes her another twenty minutes to get to the Victor's village, which is where she hopes to find this Mr. Haymitch Abernathy (she worries that he's already off, preparing the Reaping's location). She raps lightly on the wooden door to the house. Nobody answers. She tries again, harder, and finds that the door is open. She enters, nearly stepping on a broken bottle that lies on the threshold. Keep an open mind.
"Mr. Abernathy!" Effie shouts, looking around. As her eyes adjust to the lack of light, she sees that the entire space is littered with broken glass. The same dust that coated the train station has taken over here, too. Effie shudders at how unkempt the place is. "Mr. Abernathy, where are you?" Silence is the only response. Keep an open mind. "Mr. Abernathy?"
"Who the hell are you?" Effie wheels around to the source of the slurred voice. A man is leaning against the frame of a door. Even from a few yards away, he reeks of alcohol, and, judging by the way he looks, it's much stronger than the stuff she's imitating.
"I could ask the same of you," she says, annoyed.
"I live here, kid," he announces, staggering over to the sink. He leans over and retches, causing Effie to stare in disgust.
"You're Mr. Abernathy?" She asks in disbelief. He coughs a few times, then turns to look at her.
"Damn right, but call me Haymitch. You haven't answered me yet." As he speaks, he starts to sway violently and has to grab the marble counter top to steady himself.
"I'm Effie Trinket. The new escort," Effie huffs, still shocked. How do I keep an open mind if this is the mentor? Noticing his confused expression, she hastily adds, "Today's the Reaping. You know that, right?"
"It is, huh? What are you supposed to be?" He examines her and she groans in exasperation.
"I'm an escort. I told you that," she says, glancing at her watch. One hour and fifteen minutes left. He shakes his head.
"No, what are you?" Haymitch inquires, gesturing at her dress and consequently throwing himself off balance.
"Champagne," Effie tells him. He seems to consider this for a moment before turning back to the sink for nearly a minute.
"Pity," he says, turning back to her. "You'd think that the Capitol would have enough resources to dress freaks like you in something stronger. Liquor, maybe, but champagne? Tell 'em to stop screwing around with the weak stuff." He laughs like it's a humorous joke told to an old friend. "Reaping day, huh? Gotta go get dressed. See you later, Effsie Trunkil."
He somehow manages to half-walk, half-collapse out of the room, holding onto the walls in an attempt to stay in a more or less vertical position, leaving Effie mute and dumbfounded, staring after him.
She can almost foresee the course of the Reaping. Yes, wearing champagne was a mistake. Wine makes it much more difficult to keep an open mind.
xXx