They're in the kitchen, talking to my mom. Trying to convince her of something. I press my ear to the door, trying to understand what they're saying. "He's not a kid anymore, if he wants to do it he can do it," a voice insists. They must mean me, but do what?
"No, he's too young!" Mom replies. "I don't want him involved in those… those despicable…"
I back away. Me, and the Games. I don't want to know anymore, so I slip down the hall to my bedroom. An hour or two passes, while I flip pages in a secret book of mine. It's actually a book that I created on my own, at night, using the laptop my mom got me when I turned seventeen. It holds pictures of every Games' opening ceremonies – every tribute from every district since I first arrived in the Capitol.
I admire the costumes these young, innocent boys and girls – mostly younger than me now, older when I started this book – are wearing. Their interview outfits are in another book, stashed under my bed. No one may ever find out about these secret treasures of mine, I think, as I stroke the pages. A girl in silk, a boy in velvet, a pair in feathers and another in bark. The things people can design.
Not for the first time, I wonder why we were invited to the Capitol. Whatever it is, the people downstairs must have something to do with it. Vaguely, I wonder if they're still downstairs. Might as well use hunger as a pretense for getting into the kitchen.
I walk slowly down the hallway and don't hear a thing. No TV, no running water, nothing. But the kitchen door is still closed, and I know the guests haven't left. Pressing my ear to the door, I don't hear conversation at first, but then my mom asks, "Why him? Why my son?"
Before the guests can answer, I knock on the door. After a moment, it opens, but my mom isn't the one who opened it. It's a large man with dark hair whom I've never seen before. There is another man and a woman at the table, sipping tea with my mom. "Hey, Mom. Can I have something to eat?"
"Excuse us," she says to the guests, leading me to the fridge. She hands over an apple, some cheese, and some bread – simple, but possibly one of my favorite meals, because while here it's basic and drab, it used to be a delicacy at home.
I turn towards the table, and the man who opened the door says, "Mrs. Ricca, why doesn't your son join us?" Although that's not technically her name - she and my father never married - my mom agrees, and I sit next to her at the table. But whatever they were talking about now, these people don't mention it. By the end of the meal, I don't even know who they are. And then they're gone and I don't see them again for over a year.
