"I'm a liability." - Liability (Reprise) by Lorde
A Song for Snakes and Rats
Interviews
Male Tribute from District 1, Chime Chaminade
My suit jingles when I move. My stylist certainly thought it was clever, since my name is Chime, but after listening to jingling—the constant ring of something in my suit—my head hurts. Aches, even. I'm ready to get out of it. To be done with this part of Games.
Avanelle sits next to me on her stool in her see-through gown. I find it fitting for her, since she's left nothing for the imagination since the reaping. Seems her stylists took the no undergarments angle and is determined to milk it dry. After all, sex sells well in the Capitol. Yet, I'm thankful that's not where my story line goes. I couldn't see myself doing that well. . .especially exploiting myself.
I sit back down on my stool, the suit jingling and jangling when I do. My head pounds harder, faster. I have the need to press into it with my middle and ring finger.
"Settle down, Tinker," says Avanelle.
I glare at her. Always with the Games. Never serious. Never really thinking about the representation we must uphold for District 1. It's embarrassing, frankly, the way she conducts herself.
Rowena shuffles next to me, situating herself closer to Nile. You only need common sense to tell that they're distancing themselves from Avanelle and I. Who knows why. Maybe because Blest won last year and their mentors are brainwashing them to betray us first, ensuring our loss of double victory. Or it's because they're terrified of Avanelle's unpredictability and childlike demeanor. It could be both, I guess. District 2 and 4 aren't all that complex. They're usually soldiers and swimmers, not thinkers. So, I could see it being a mixture of both.
I turn away from Avanelle. "You know they're taking us out first." I try to whisper it, because now isn't the time to set this trap. But hey, if it does anything, maybe it'll at least knock her off her game so she isn't all that impressive in the interview. Cold, I know, but everyone is competition at this point. I'd be stupid not to cease every opportunity.
"You mean you," she says. "You're the one who scored an eight, Jingle Bells. "
I find my hands twitching. My pulse raises. Something in my slows, too, and I want to launch my fist down her throat. But I tell myself I can't. I have to be calm. Collected. But she knows my weak spot, knows my triggers—my pride, respect. Yet, a part of me shouldn't be fazed by the score. It wasn't part of the plan, but I can make it seem that way.
Blest won with an "8" after all.
Still, I find myself exhaling more than I'm inhaling. I find my hands shaking a little as I think about how my score is the lowest. An "8". Even some of the outer tributes did better. How? What did they do? Throw weights around? Strip naked? They had to do something to boost their scores. To make themselves seem more desirable than a tribute from District 1.
"It's called strategy," I say back. But I've taken too long to respond and I know it. I know Avanelle thinks I had to think of an excuse, a lie. But then again, who cares. Avanelle will only ever be a name and district partner to me. Nothing past that. My kids will barely know of her. She's a footnote in my story. Period.
The lights bounce off of the stage to our left and there's an explosion of applause. Orpah Livingston takes the stage, walking, wearing her giant bronze necklace and gaudy, flowing dress. She smiles and waves to the crowd. When she has a seat, she doesn't waste time getting into the show. Before I know it, Avanelle is being called and she's sauntering across the stage, looking elegant and mystical, instead of well, monstrous and eccentric. . .
It doesn't matter. No one matters, but you, I tell myself. Go to your place. Block out the distractions, the noise. Find that place. And after a second of breathing, I'm there, instead of listening to Avanelle giggle and laugh. I exhale. I picture myself back in District 1 with Blakely—my best friend— and family. I picture us not at a viewing party, but together, sitting down, eating sliced bread and cheese and tart jam. I picture myself laughing at some joke Blakely has made. I picture myself a victor, and rubbing that in her face playfully. Then I picture myself married, with a wife, and surrounded by more people. But it's not the other mentors like by Luster or Blest or Harmony, but others. Investors. People who actually have power in District 1. People who I can usher into making that changes that I believe are needed.
Sure, I'm privileged, never living in the slums, or past the Gates—the community of the wealthy in District 1—but that doesn't mean I don't want change or transformation for our district. It doesn't meant that I down want us to bring home more victors, more wealth. I want my win to bring something more than just a congratulations from the Capitol. I want it to bring awe and more accomplishments, more wins. It's a dream of mine to have the Capitol come and vacation at District 1 one day. It sounds delusional, I know. But I think it's possible one day, if we continue to hold ourselves to the highest standard of living, of winning, of recruiting, of building our District.
That's why Avanelle can't win. It's why she wasn't selected as volunteer. She doesn't have the class, the elegance, the performance a victor needs. And she can't be groomed like some of the others who won by luck. . .Blest Rinear.
"Next up we have the marvelous Chime Chaminade!" Orpah laughs. "Let's hope he rings our bells tonight!"
I wait for the applause, the laugher to break before stepping out on the stage. I want my jingling to be heard. I want to make the grande entrance Luster has instructed me to make. When I finally get to the seat, Orpah is smiling ear to ear. She looks at me like some of the mothers did back in District 1. It always made me uncomfortable how often I caught some of them staring, almost admiring us trainees while we ran or trained shirtless.
"Chime," Orpah begins. "Tell us. The eight. What's your thoughts on the score?"
"I'm just grateful to be here," I say. Luster says I should work humility and gratitude. It's a stretch for me. But I'm not above performing to get a little praise. "Really. I didn't think I was going to make the cut."
"The cut for what?" she asks.
"To volunteer," I say, adding to the lie. "There were just so many amazing competitors. It was close."
"I don't know much about that process," Orpah admits. "But I'm glad you're here with us." She looks at the audience. "Come on, show Chime how happy we are that he made the cut." An applause echoes through the stage, brining a smile to my face. It's the first one that's been genuine all night, I think briefly, before shoving that thought away.
"So, back home," Orpah begins. "What's it like for you? Any romances? Dreams?"
"I'm a little shy," I say, knowing that she'll love that. "I mean, I just get nervous sometimes. Around her. " I look down, planning it. "I don't know what I'm trying to say. Sorry, what were you asking? Romance?" Orpah is smiling at me, intrigued, living for the gossip. The humble boy from District 1, an angle not rarely worked. "I'd like one. With her. My friend. But I don't know, the Games could change that."
"How so?" Orpah asks.
"If I could home," I begin. "When I come home." I correct myself, hoping to sound confident. "I guess I'm worried that she might not look at me the same. She might think me just a victor now." Someone in the audience awes. "And I don't want what we had to change if I win. I liked how it was with just us." This sells it. Orpah can't stop smiling and several people in the audience are awing and clapping and assuring me she'll love me for me.
I accept their praises and words with gratitude like I'm supposed to. But when the buzzer goes off, announcing my time is up, I think about what it would be like to win then go back home to someone you liked or loved or whatever. I wonder if anyone here tonight really has that to look forward to. I wonder if that's a motivation that could bring someone else home instead of me.
Female Tribute from District Three, Allegra Mulinari
"You'll be great," I say to Kian. He sits there, fidgeting with his hands. I fight the urge to reach over and touch him, adding to the comfort of my words. A voice in my head tells me that I need to stop focusing on Kian, that I need to focus on my own interview that is approaching quickly as the boy from District 2 wraps it up with Orpah Livingston. She's attempting to flirt with him, asking him how weight he can toss around, but the boy, Nile, isn't really about it. He just answers flatly, leaving little room for the flirtatious behavior of the old woman to continue.
It makes me nervous to follow the tributes who Orpah Livingston is betting will win. She hasn't been shy about it, either. She even said she thinks he'll be rejoining her soon as the buzzer sounds.
I swallow down the saliva building in my throat. The nerves build, threatening to show, threatening to make my hands shake and my underarms sweat, but I attempt to control them.
"Next," Orpah Livingston says. "We have the female tribute from District Three, Allegra Mulinari!"
I'm walking across the stage now, the lights blinding me. How did everyone before me not squint? How did they see? I don't know. But somehow, I manage to find the chair and sit down. Orpah shockingly doesn't really give me time to adjust, time to let the nerves settle, before she's barreling into our introductions.
"How's your stay in the Capitol been so far?" she asks.
Good. Fine. Excellent. Words rank through my head and I search for the one what will definitely be most pleasing to the audience. Since this interview isn't really about me. It's about them. And I need to give them what they want. That's how you earn sponsors. You make them feel like they need you to return home.
"Wonderful." I gush, smiling. "There's just so much here. The food. The showers. The technology." She just looks at me, confused. "It's just humbling, really. I never expected to see so many of our designs from District Three being used here in the Capitol."
Now, she smiles. "Oh, silly me. Technology. District Three. Now, I get your fascination." She lets out a loud laugh and the audience follows. It makes me sweat that she immediately didn't get the connection. Ignorantly, I thought that most of the Capitol people knew the production of the individual districts, but I assumed wrong and now I'm embarrassed about it.
"What's been your favorite invention to use?" she asks. I look in on her face, noticing the smoothness, the lack of wrinkles. It's strange to see a woman of her age missing them. Back in District 3 so many people I know are covered with them, young and old, but here in the Capitol it seems the majority of them are missing any real sign of age or stress or living. They seem molded and painted and welded to some strange level of their idea of perfection.
I guess it's a lot like the inventors in District 3. Everyone has a vision for their own invention, and to someone else, it might seem strange. I try to keep that thought in mind when it comes to fashion and make up and body disproportion here in the Capitol.
"The food tray," I say. "My mother and father are both engineers that worked on that design."
Orpah beams. "Oh! That's lovely, dear!" She glances down at her belly. "If you can't tell, I love that invention!" The crowd lets loose with laughter. "So tell your parents I said thank you!"
"You can tell them yourself," I say, hoping it doesn't sound sarcastic, but sweet. "They're watching now."
Orpah blinks just as second, caught off guard, before going back into the performance. I wonder if she wasn't expecting me to say something, to ask her to thank my parents here, instead of taking the chance to do so when I return. Because who knows, I might not return. And where would that get me? At least now my parents get something. They finally get an acknowledgement from the Capitol for all they do.
"Thank you, Mr. and Mrs. Mulinari for your incredible minds." She smiles and waves at the camera. "Now, speaking of minds. Allegra, do you consider yourself cunning?"
"Of course," I say quickly.
"Good," Orpah says. She gestures to the audience. "We love a cunning woman, don't we?" The crowd yells in response, hollering and shouting my name. I do my best to smile, taking in the praise, even if more than three quarters of the people in this auditorium won't remember my last name after the games are finished, even though the majority of them won't bet on me. They're only coasting through the interview just like I am, waiting for it all to be finished.
"So, tell us of home," Orpah says. "We know your parents are engineers, but is there anything else special about home."
It's home, I think. That's what makes it special.
"I wanted to do research," I say. Because I know there's no boy, no romance in my life. Perhaps I can make out like the boy from District One, Chime, and use sentiment to draw them in. "Before I was reaped, I hoped to work in the Research Facility, testing inventions before they came here to be used by yourselves."
Orpah smiles, but its not the same one she used with Nile. I can tell she's not interested in my life like she was his, but still, she's trying. Or is it acting?
"Tell us more about that, dear," she asks.
"Well, I'm hoping that even after I return I'm able to work there," I say.
"Doing research?" She laughs. "But you'll be a victor. Won't that ordinary life bore you?"
"I've never thought of research as ordinary," I say. "But no." I smile. "No, I don't think it will bore me."
"So humble," she says. "Much like Chime from District One. I love it!"
I clench my teeth together at the mention of another tribute during my interview time. My mind shuffles through responses, attempting to phase something that's accepting of the compliment, but also at the expense of Chime. I need a way to direct the spotlight off of his so called humility and back to me. As if the angle is original to me.
"Well, thank you," I say. "I just think it's comforting knowing that I'll be able to go back to helping you all here after my victory. After all, that's my dream. Not winning the Hunger Games. But helping you all!"
Orpah reaches for a tissue. "Stop it. You're going to make me tear up, dear." She wipes at her face anyway, even though there's nothing there. "So sweet."
The buzzer goes off and I'm struck by the amount of applause that follows me off stage.
Maybe it worked. Maybe I charmed them just as well as the others. Maybe they really believe my whole spill about wanting to help them more than I want to win the Hunger Games.
Of course, that's a lie.
At this point, I just want to get home. I just want to forget this happened, that my name was reaped, that I was brought here, that I had to stop living my so called ordinary life to be apart of this dreadful show.
Male Tribute from District Four, Yorik Questor
"If its too much, you don't have to address your grandfather's passing," says Shelly. I only nod, not really knowing what else to say, what else he really expects from me. After showering, after putting on the suit and makeup and little gold shells they've insisted I wear. Someone said they were my grandfathers, but I've never seen him wear them. Still, I keep them on, not wanting to admit that there's this closeness to him with them around my neck. A childlike part of me wishes he would have past something down to me. The part of me that wishes I was ten and he was giving me the shells for the first time after telling me that they were going to protect me from harm. Maybe if that would have happened my name would have never been drawn. Maybe someone would have volunteered in my place.
But that's childlike thinking, I remind myself. And you're not a child. You haven't been for a while. I look over to the stage, watching Nascha talk with Orpah about back home, about her fiancé that's waiting for her to return. She's attempting to paint some love story, but anyone who knows love, knows that you don't cross your arms, your legs, like you're cradling yourself when you talk about it. You don't look down constantly when the name of the person you're marrying is mentioned.
I suppose that's where Nascha and I are similar. She hates her fiancé. I hated my grandfather. It's something we share even if she denies it, even if she's never mentioned it. When you've been around enough damaged people, you know how to find them in the shadows when the lights are on. So that's how I know we're similar.
It makes me hate her a little less, knowing she's just as wounded as I am by District 4. That her life isn't as glorious and beautiful as she tries to paint it out for everyone.
The buzzer goes off and Nascha is walking off the stage, waving her goodbyes. The transition is fast. My name called before I can blink five times. And then I'm blinded by the lights, wanting to put my hand in front of my eyes.
The brightness reminds me of being underwater while the sun shines down. There's this moment when you come up for air and you can't see. The sun completely blinds you. It seems that way now, as I walk to my seat. I'm blinded. By the lights. The applause. The screaming of my name.
"Yorik," Orpah says. She gestures to the velvet chair. "Have a seat, please."
I sit down, only remembering to smile after I've felt the cushion beneath me.
Orpah wastes no time reaching out to me, grabbing my hand and intertwining our fingers. "Thank you for your bravery." She begins. "I know." She looks down. It's strange knowing these people, these sick strangers, these Capitol citizens, will miss my grandfather more than me. It's strange that so many of them knew him better than I did. They saw him smile more. Saw him cry even. "I know this is hard. But we're going to brave it together."
"Okay," I say.
"Can we start small?" she asks.
"Okay," I say. I should smile more, I remind myself, but then I tell myself we're addressing death and grief and smiling would be weird.
"How's your mother?" Orpah asks.
I press my teeth to my tongue, preferring to bite down on it, filling my mouth with blood, rather than talk about my mother on national television.
"Processing," I say. "I mean, she's probably grieving now."
"For her father, you mean," Orpah says.
"And her son, too," I say. I look at Orpah, finding this strange confidence, this bizarre need to shake her up, because this isn't really personal for her. Talking about my family's death is only for the show, but it's real to me, even if our relationship wasn't good. "I could be buried next to him, you know?"
Orpah laughs. "That's not the kind of thinking you need." She squeezes my hand. "You have to think positive. That you'll return. That you'll be there to brave this pain alongside your mother."
"But what if I'm not there?" I ask. Yorik, you're pushing. Stop. There's the edge.
"I don't think you should think like that," Orpah says. "Think about the legacy you'll leave. Honoring your grandfather, Yor, with a victory of your own."
"I don't know if that would be honoring," I say. I'm falling now. Over the edge. Saying too much. Ruining my chances of sponsors and definitely showing the world how not to conduct an interview. I should have milked the grief, the dead grandfather act, but I'm tired of that being the only thing about me.
I'm not one note. I'm not just a Questor.
"Why not?" Orpah asks. "Do you think your grandfather would want you to die?"
"No," I say, shaking my head. "Of course, not. I just don't think returning is guaranteed because he was a victor."
"Interesting," she says.
"If anything," I say. "I think it makes me more of a target. Being related to a victor."
"You have such an, uh," Orpah smiles. Even she seems loss of words. "Interesting." She flounders. "Way of thinking, Yorik."
"Thank you," I say even though its sort of a back handed compliment.
"Is there anything else you want our audience to know?" she says. She smiles and I can tell she's relieved to have this interview come to a close.
"I'd like everyone to know that I'm more than just a victor's grandson, I guess."
"Why is that?" she says. "Are you not proud to be his grandson?"
No, I'm not. But I can't say that. "Because that's not the only thing you need to know about me. I'm more than just a Questor." She nods her head, as if she's registering, relating, but I doubt it. "I'm also just Yorik."
"Just Yorik," she repeats. "I love it! Such a good reminder to the people about individualism! And how we can conquer anything, even the death of the love one, when we know who we truly are!" She nearly shouts it all out and the applause is wild. Overpowering.
The buzzer goes off and Orpah stands me up, giving me a hug. When she's wrapped around me, lips near my ear, I hear her whisper, surprised it doesn't get picked up in the mic.
"Way to miss an opportunity."
And then we're separating and she's holding my arm in the air one last time, shouting my name. But I don't think I'm there. I'm processing her words, wishing I could say something back, wishing I could say, "I didn't miss anything" before I'm stepping off the stage and back over next to Nascha.
As I sit there, I think more on her words. I think more about the opportunities I've ceased here.
I made an anti-career alliance.
I've made a strategy to take down the careers.
And if anything, that's something different. That's something big enough to make my own name for myself in these Games.
Female Tribute from District Six, Tressa Whitelock
Errol is yellow, eyes sagging. If it wasn't obvious he's detoxing at the reaping, it is now, with the sagging skin in the face and the glassy eyes.
"Tressa," Errol says. He looks at me, as if reading he judgment in my eyes. "I just want to say." He looks down, hands shaking. "I won't be upset if you leave me." The shaking in his hand is trembling, uncontrollably. "I'll get it. I'm a liability."
I swallow down the guilt, the annoyance; everything and anything that bubbling up before, because I'm already too loyal to this boy I've barely known. It's a flaw and I know it. I just hope it isn't the flaw that ends up being the death of me.
You could always use him as bait. The thought is so dreadful, so hideous that I blink furiously, thinking that the movement will send it away. It doesn't. It's like a rose, budding, blooming, growing, and I can't not see it in the garden of my mind.
"We'll be fine," I say dismissively. I turn to look at the stage as the boy from District 5, Jeriah, stumbles over his words. Orpah does her best to make the boy seem confident, but even she's having a time. And as much as I hate to say it, I'm lucky that Errol isn't that pathetic. At least he has some bite to him.
"Tressa," Errol begins again. "I'm getting worse."
"We'll be fine," I say again. I can't think about him right now. This moment can't be about his addiction. So much of the Games seem to revolving around him and his addiction. But I'm determined to show District 6 in another light. I'm determined to stand out as Tressa Whitelock. Strong. Loyal. Determined. A protector to the weak, I think. And that fits as much as I don't want it to, because that's why I'm here. Because of a friend who could barely function because of her seizures and headaches.
Maybe morphling would have helped her, too. Maybe that would have been the lesser to choose of the two evils that plagued her—seizures or drugs.
"Let's give a welcoming applause for the female tribute from District Six, Tressa Whitelock!"
I pick up my gown, wrapping the silks in my fist. I've never walked in something this long before. Even the jewelry around my neck feels unnaturally heavy. As I step across the stage, I swallow down the nerves. I try not to focus on the trembling in my toes, which makes walking in the heels harder. I know I'm wobbling, like a dog would if you put shoes on his feet, but I can't help it. Everything is foreign in this place from the shoes to the food.
"Have a seat," Orpah says. Thankfully, I do. "By the way, you look beautiful. Absolutely gorgeous."
"I feel unrecognizable," I say. It's true. The make up painted on my eyes and lips makes me look more stranger than self. I wish my stylist had chosen a more natural look, but she insisted that I be glamorous, not gloomy.
"Well," Orpah says. "I think you look beautiful. Absolutely breathtaking."
I look down at the gown, wondering is this really what someone finds breathtaking. There are so many other things I would say are breathtaking, and sparkling thin cloth would not be one of them. Like, witnessing a jet take off for the first time, or witnessing dandelions getting blown by a passing train. Or seeing baby birds take their first flight out of roof rafters. Those things are all breathtaking. Not me in some puffy cloth.
"Thank you," I say.
"So," Orpah says. "I'm going to get straight to it. You're a volunteer." I nod. "Which, and I could be wrong, but that seems like a first for District Six."
"I'm not sure," I say. I try to think back to anyone volunteering before me, but can't. "But you're probably right."
"Probably." Orpah smiles. "Now, dear. Can you tell us why? We're dying to know the relation."
"She was a friend," I say. I accidentally use was instead of is and I know Orpah catches it.
"Was?" she asks. She places a hand over her mouth. "She didn't die, did she?" There's gasps from the audience. Someone let's out a cry.
"No," I say. "She didn't die. We just aren't as close as we used to be."
"So you're no longer friends," Orpah says. She gives me an inquisitive look, and I know where this interview is going. "Yet, you volunteered for her? Why?" She lets out a laugh. "Wanted all the glory for yourself?" She makes this weird face between a frown and a smile. It annoys me.
I force myself to laugh, because the alternative is slapping the powder off Orpah's face. How could she say something so incredibly sensitive? No one, but Districts 1, 2, and 4 really see glory in winning these Games. The rest of us just want to survive through it.
"No, not exactly," I say finally. "I just know her struggle."
"You're talking about the seizures," she says. She frowns. "Yes, we witnessed that. How sad."
The "how sad" angers me more than the "wanted all the glory for yourself" comment and I don't really know why. Maybe because of the inflection in her voice doesn't really match the word. Maybe because I know Orpah isn't really genuine and could honestly care less.
"So, you volunteered?" asks Orpah, filling the silence. "Because you knew your friend didn't stand a chance." She looks at the crowd. "I respect that."
I don't really care if she respects it, but still I say, "Thank you."
"And did you talk to her afterwards?" she asks.
I think back to the goodbyes, knowing that Alex would not be present in the goodbyes. There would be no thank you on her end to extend. And it didn't make me sad, it didn't make me angry, either. Besides, I really don't remember much of the goodbyes, anyway. I was too fixated on the thought that I'd volunteered for her. I kept replaying it over and over and over and over. . .It'd seemed like I'd blacked out. I couldn't remember anything, not the volunteering, not the walk to the courthouse, not the goodbyes, or the hugging my mother and father before the train.
I just remember the train ride. That's when I feel like I left auto pilot and returned. And by that point, there was nothing I could really do about volunteering besides to try to get back home.
"No," I say. "She wasn't able to talk."
Orpah frowns. "I hate that." Then she nearly jumps in her seat. "Wait! I bet she's watching now!" She smiles so wide, showing all of her straight teeth. "You could say something now! You could pretend like this is the goodbyes!"
This probably is my goodbye, I think.
"Okay," I say. "Alex, I just wanted to say that you don't owe me. So, don't feel bad. Don't feel guilty. You were a sister to me. And if I could go back, I'd do it again." The last part might not be one hundred percent true, but I know it really goes a long way with the Capitol. And if that one sentence gets me a box of matches or a can of beans, then I'll use it for all its worth.
Orpah reaches for the tissues. She pats her eyes delicately. "That was beautiful."
"Thank you," I say. But again, I feel like I'm going on auto pilot. That I'm in over my head just like I was at the very beginning of the reaping.
I volunteered for a girl who was a sister to me, but is now a stranger.
I linked myself to a boy who was a past drug addict.
I might have done better to wrap a chain around my leg at this point.
Male Tribute from District Seven, Proteus Anche
I wrap my fingers around the buttons on my jacket, fastening it up.
"She's not going to like that." Rahni says.
I don't say anything back, but instead keep fastening the other button on the jacket. My stylists didn't think to put anything underneath it. I'm shirtless. Again.
It's embarrassing knowing my parents are watching this, knowing they've already seen too much of me at the parade already, and now they're seeing full stomach and nipples.
"Sex sells," Rahni says. She nudges me. "And you're sexy, Pro."
I swat her away. Rahni's trying to patch things up between us, I know it. She thinks she stepped too far with the Alys admittance. And whose to say she didn't, because she doesn't know if Alys is manipulating me. Just because Rahni thinks that and assumes that doesn't mean that's Alys intentions at all. Some of us don't use guile as a go to. Some of us aren't planner or plotters. We're just players at this point.
I glance over and give Rahni a smile. I don't want her to think that there's this distance, this uneasiness between us. But I can't help it. Every time I see her now I keep thinking about the moment that our alliance is going to go Career mode and start killing each other. I've witnessed it in previous games, Careers turning on other Careers. It happened last year for example. But I guess I didn't think it was a possibility with us. We just seemed like friends. We seemed like more than Careers with the laughing and talking and wanting to just survive together. Who knew everyone else was sharpening knives, ready to jam them in my back. I didn't.
But that's not a surprise. You're always the last person to read the room. Too busy in your own head or lost in space or just thinking that because you think this way, because you're naive, everyone else is to. But that's not the case, Pro.
Rahni is called and she gets up, wearing a dress and swinging back cascading curls. They must have put something in her hair to make it that length. It doesn't look fake, though, which I find strange, because all the wigs here in the Capitol look too bright or too burnt or just too ugly to be natural. But I like Rahni with longer hair. It softens her up. At the last second, I think to wish her luck, but stop myself because she's already out on the stage, shaking hands with Orpah.
To pass away the time, I fiddle with my buttons. My mind bounces back and forth, back and forth, if I should unbutton the jacket, if I should go the route that my stylist intended. I mean, it worked for the parade, right?
And Rahni is right, sex sells. It's known that attractive tributes get more sponsors. So, it's not a sin to use that to your advantage. But I just don't want this to be me. I don't want to be that tribute that the audience drools over. I don't want to be like the girl from District 1, Avanelle, with her see through gown and exploiting herself. I want there to be more to my interview than my body. I look back at Denim and Sesame. Both are in full suits, no skin showing. Then I look over to Blair, who is wearing a suit of his own size. I'm not jealous of him, of having to come in this arena at twelve years old, but I do wish I was as unnoticeable as he is to everyone. I wish I was average. I wish I hadn't eaten so much or worked on the farm. I wish cutting wood hadn't sculpted me. It isn't like I really thought about my muscles much until here at the Capitol. They just grew with time.
Applause, signaling Rahni interview is over, brings me back to attention. Quickly, I fiddle with the buttons, undoing them. I hate myself for caving, but then my name is being announced, and I'm standing, telling myself that my parents will understand that I'm willing to do anything to get back to them.
Orpah Livingston doesn't drool over me. But her eyes do linger, roving over all the open skin that's out for her gaze. It makes me uncomfortable, watching her watch me, but I smile. I try not to think about how it's my own fault for undoing the jacket.
"Proteus," Orpah says. She glances down at me. "Please tell us what you do at home?"
"Work," I say. "I mean, we have have a farm. I help."
"So that's how you've remained in such." Her eyes are on me again. I smile, but they're not on my face. Her eyes are on my chest. My stomach. "Exquisite shape."
"Take it off!" someone yells from the crowd and I feel heat rushing to my cheeks.
"Stop it, you animals!" Orpah laughs. She glances over at me. "Don't mind them. They're tame."
I laugh, but it's awkward and tight.
"So, a ten," Orpah says. "Were you shocked? Hate to say I wasn't." She smiles at me, widely. "I almost wore my wooden choker tonight."
"Wooden choker?" I asked, confused.
Orpah laughs. "Yes, wooden choker. I got it from District Seven years ago." The crowd starts to applause and it confuses me because he's said nothing really. "It's beautiful, really. A shame now that I didn't put it on."
I try to come up with a joke. "Well, we can stop the timer and you can go get it."
Orpah laughs, although it sounds a lot like my own. Forced. But then she's slapping her hand on my knee and squeezing. It sends a shiver up my spine, feeling her fingernails against the thin fabric. I'm suddenly very aware of how thin the jacket and suit pants are. Of how my stylist insisted I didn't wear underwear, either.
Orpah squeezes my knee, harder. "I wish I could." She pouts and the audience boos. "Really, I do. But the show must go on!"
I shrug. "I tried." I force out another, hoping this one comes across more authentic and real.
"So, back home," Orpah says. She still keeps her hand on my knee. Chills run up my spine, lingering at the middle of my back, before shooting up to where my neck is. "Besides, work, what are you interested in?"
I try to think back to what else I do. Feed the chickens. No. Milk the cow. No. I should talk about friends, but there's no one that comes to mind, no one I would give the satisfaction of mentioning on television. Maybe I should talk abut how much time I spend alone. You should talk about how many hours you spend inside your own head, searching, asking yourself when it's going to be time that you stand up for yourself, that you stop letting everyone talk at you. I don't let people talk at me, I counter quickly. But then I think about Rahni and how she basically spoke at me, not with me. I think about my stylist, how she insisted I leave the jacket buttoned down, showcasing my muscles. I think about my father who only ever wanted a "Yes sir" and nothing more.
I think about how the weakest muscle in my body is my tongue. I think about how of every body part I should want to showcase to Panem, it should be that one. Not my pecs. Not my abdominal. But my words. My thoughts.
"I'm getting that you're all work and no play, dear." Laughs Orpah. Sweat rolls down my side. I feel the saliva thickening in the back of my throat. No one really talks about the nerves. No one really says how hard this is to do when you've only ever spoken to people, verses an audience.
"I enjoy books," I say.
Oraph eyes shoot up. The crowd laughs as if I'm telling a joke.
"Books?" She says. She gestures to the crowd to stop laughing. "Okay." She holds back a smirk. "I'm intrigued. What kind of books?"
I think about all the ladies that come over during the week to gossip and "read" books with my mother. I think about how I really enjoy when they actually talk about the literature. I've always wanted to read more. But my dad insists literature is for women. I wonder what he must be thinking of me now, if he's even watching. I'd say he's probably out working on the fence that keeps in the goats, making sure no foxes or coyotes get in like last year and take out some of the new babies.
He's never said it. But I think those goats are worth more to him than I am.
Female Tribute from District Ten, Alys Tarwyck
I look at Proteus. He slumps in his stool. His interview wasn't bad. It just wasn't breathtaking or bold or beautiful or any of those things that make the Capitol audience toss their jewels and roses at you.
He looks over to me and I fight the urge to look away. This is manipulation, Alys. You understand that. You've understood it from the moment you laid eyes on him. So whatever this is that you're feeling right now—call it pity—has to go. You know where pity or sympathy or empathy can get you in your life. These Games have to be done the same way you operate back home. If you want to keep your life, you're gonna have to approach all this like you did the company.
And they say all is fair in love and war. But I say all is fair in love and war and survival.
When my name is called, I walk across the stage, head straight, smiling. I've made sure to place a ringlet across my shoulder. I make sure I cross my legs when I sit down. This interview isn't just an interview. There can't be a mistake, a hiccup, in front of Orpah. She could very well be the reason I come back here.
"Alys, dear," Orpah says. "You look radiant." She points to the ringlet. "And those curls. I'm jealous!" The crowd awes and yells in the response. I have to remind myself that it is shallow here. That what they love is shiny and nothing but special.
"I love yours!" I say, smiling. "I wish I had the volume." Orpah beams, grinning, while fluffing out her hair more.
"Stop it," she says. But from the way her hand goes to her hair, she's signaling for more compliments, more praise, which the audience gives her by shouting and hooting and yelling. I swear someone says, "I love you, Orpah!" Orpah only waves in their general direction, before looking back at me. "Okay, enough about me. Let's talk about you, Alys. Tell me something interesting."
"I own a ranching company," I say. I've kept this information under my hat until now. But it feels good to finally say it, to finally showcase my strength, because I know from the way Zenna and Rahni look at me, that they don't find me strong. Admittingly, I am one of the weaker links in the group. They haven't said it. But I know it.
"Really?" Orpah says. "But you're so young, how?"
"After I lost my parents," I say. Orpah reaches out, touching my hand. "I took over the business."
"I love that," she says. She gestures to the audience. "We love that, don't we? An independent woman taking over a legacy!"
I sit up a little straighter with the phrase woman and independent. If I were talking with my grandmother, I don't necessarily know if she'd call me a woman. More than likely, she'd say I'm still a young lady or young girl. And truly it bothers me that she doesn't see me yet as a woman, knowing how much I've been given, knowing how much has been taken from me.
I like to think you don't become a woman with age, but with experience and suffering and hardship and victory.
"Besides this legacy," Orpah begins. "Is there anything else exciting in your life? Love perhaps?"
I laugh. "No, not really."
"Well," Orpah says. "I imagine once you return the suitors will flock." She laughs loudly. "You'll have to beat them away with a stick!"
"I'm too busy for love," I say, laughing a little.
"Too busy!" Orpah shouts. "Nonsense! There's always time for love!" Orpah gestures to the crowd. "So tell us! There has to be someone whose caught your eye back home."
I smile. I don't necessarily know how to play this out. There hasn't been anyone back home who has caught my eye, but I don't think that's going to do anything for sponsors by admitting. Besides, I have to make myself rootable. I have to give people details of my life, whether those are things I want to share or not. It's strange I had no problem talking about the cattle ranching business, but when it comes to love, I'm befuddled. I'm caught off guard.
Frankly, I know I'm already past the years of the girls my age, who I know wouldn't have an issue naming a boy they'd love to marry or kiss or have children with. But I can't think of anyone. Not to mention, I don't even know if I want children. Panem isn't a kind place for the young and whose to say I want to bring anyone else into this cruel world.
Then it hits me. Leon Murlock. He's a friend. We're close, getting drunk together often after my parents accident. But I hadn't seen him lately—months, really. And he didn't come in for the goodbyes, not when I had all my family to compete with. Plus, my grandmother would have frowned at a booze mule coming in to wish me luck. So his absence does make sense there, I guess.
Leon and I go far back, though. Him selling alcohol and me buying it. That's something that makes me squirm a little. The thought of anyone finding out how much I love the taste of white liquor, of how I miss the floating that comes with draining half a bottle.
"Enough with the mystery!" Orpah shouts. "You're killing us with the suspense, Alys!"
Really, I'm killing you? Ironic.
"Well," I say, leaning in closer. "There is this boy." I turn on the school girl charm. "Leon Murlock. But my grandmother doesn't approve."
"Forbidden love." Orpah pouts. "Awe."
"He's, uh," I try to think of something to say besides alcohol. "Rough around the edges."
"So a bad boy?" Orpah says. She nudges me, smirking. "Can't say I blame you." She stands up, pointing to the crowd. "Raise your hand if you've ever fallen for the bad boy?" There are so many hands raised in the audience that I don't bother to count. Orpah turns to me. "See, we've all been there." She turns back to the audience. "Now, raise your hand if you regret falling for that bad boy?" To my surprise, there aren't many hands raised.
"If that's not your sign to go for Leon!" Orpah says. "I don't know what is!"
The buzzer goes off as Orpah pats my hand. I smile, hoping that's enough for them to believe that I've taken their advice, that I'm actually going to go for it. When in all actuality, I have no intention of having anything with Leon besides a glass of white liquor.
"Alys Tarwyck, everyone!" Orpah says. "May we wish her luck! With the bloodbath and the bad boy back home!"
The applause follows me off stage. I walk past District 1 and 2, where the girl, Avanelle, makes a snort. It doesn't bother me. She's only jealous. What bothers me is the look in Proteus eyes that he gives me. I don't quite know what it is that he's feeling. Betrayal. Hurt. Manipulation. His eyes are glassy, like he's ready to tear up. It confuses me. We flirted, sure. But he can't have thought it was anything more than that. We're destined to die. We're competition at the end of it.
"I didn't know you had a boy back home," says Rahni. I turn to her. Saliva builds in my throat and I attempt to swallow it back down. "Leon sure is lucky."
I should say something, how it was a lie, part of me gaining sponsors, but then they're calling Blair and he's walking past me. I look back over to Proteus, hoping that he's somehow smiling, but he won't even look at me.
Sure, I may have gained sponsors tonight, I think. But I may have lost an ally, too.
A/N: I hope everyone had a Merry Christmas. We have one chapter until the bloodbath, so that's exciting. If honest, I'm really struggling with who I'm going to take out. There are so many characters in this story that I see growth and plot lines for. I have a few of the bloodbaths picked, but at this point, I could really toss away my outline—meaning its anyone's game. Unlike last SYOT, I had Blest picked from the form. With this one, there's a few tributes who I'm framing up to be a possible victor. Same as last time, I'm dropping notes just like they do in Survivor, haha.
Really, deaths will come down to whether I can write the tribute, if a creator reviews, what I have in store for plot, and believability. All play a factor in deaths to come. Please don't get angry or upset if your tribute dies unexpectedly. We all signed up for this. There can only be one winner after all.
Questions:
1) Out of these six, who do you think is destined for the bloodbath? I'll give you a hint, one of them is a bloodbath.
2) Least favorite tribute and why?
3) Most likable tribute and why?
4) Who do you think will have more casualties in the bloodbath? Careers or Anti-Careers?