District 11 Train Ride
Tuesday, July 7th, 1663 P.A.
Fresia Blodwyn, 15
District 11 Female Tribute
I am undisturbed by the all the camera flashes as the Peacekeepers escort me to the train. The paparazzi have bombarded me throughout my entire life. They have pictures of me from when I was in diapers, when I was missing my front teeth, when I started to go through puberty. Somehow, they even managed to capture the first time I tried on a bra. I don't know how they got those pictures — I was in my bedroom — but I am forever grateful that they censored out my naked breasts.
I guess there's no boundaries when the entire country watches your birth live and in graphic details. The Gamemakers didn't even attempt to censor out anything. I've heard that some schools, both in Eleven and in the other districts, even use the video to supplement their pregnancy unit in their health classes.
Regardless, the cameras don't bother me anymore. I know the Cardinal Rules of Appeasing the Paparazzi, or the CRAP. (Poppi, my mother, is not a fan of such a crude acronym, but it also doubles down as a mnemonic device for remembering each rule.)
The first rule: Candid shots are the priority. Something about capturing celebrities doing mundane tasks drives the paparazzi crazy. Even if the cameras are practically shoved in your face, you want to pretend like you don't see them. Those photographs sell for so much money. If someone wants to spend their life stalking celebrities with a camera, you might as well help them make a living.
The second rule: Real emotions must be displayed. You don't need to display the emotions that you are actually feeling — I usually just imagine what I would be feeling if the cameras weren't around — but they should resemble real emotions. Intermittent smiling is alright, but you cannot be too expressive. Unless you're an actor or an actress, the cameras will see right through your guise.
The third rule: Anywhere is a professional studio. Although the paparazzi love their candid shots, you should always give them a few still shots every so often. You don't want the only pictures of you to be ones where you're scarfing food down your throat or browsing the lingerie section of a store. Pictures last forever. You might as well get a few goods ones attached to your name.
The fourth rule: Prepare for intrusive questions. Nothing is off-limits for the paparazzi; it's like they're immune to embarrassment. (I gained some weight when I was thirteen years old, and a photographer asked me if I was pregnant.) The trick is to answer as few questions as possible. If you don't answer anything, they will either generate their own answers or turn their piece in a commentary about your character. It's better to give them something broad yet unambiguous than to let them defame your character.
When your life is crowded with paparazzi, it's easy to memorize each rule. Even when the cameras aren't shoved right in front of my face, I instinctively embody the CRAP in all public places.
"Fresia! Fresia!" a photographer screams amidst the crowd. "What were your initial reactions to being reaped? Do you think you actually have a chance?"
"Did your mother ever prepare you for the Games?" another one asks. He's the smallest of the bunch, reminding me of a runt in a pigpen. "Off the record, of course."
"Who did you talk to in the Justice Building? Your mother said you had a special visitor, but she wouldn't share any details."
"It was obviously her biological father," a woman in the back answers. "If it wasn't, Poppi wouldn't have been so secretive."
Before I was even born, a conspiracy theory spread that my biological father, Daivian Omari, was not the same man who died in the arena protecting my pregnant mother. The twist for those Games was that only couples — whether they were dating or engaged or married or whatever — could be reaped. Even though Poppi and Daivian were together for years, people thought I was someone else's daughter. The theories ranged from outlandish — that Poppi had an affair with the fifty-year-old mayor — to disturbing — that Daivian's father slept with Poppi.
I've always wanted to correct those rumors, but Poppi told me to ignore them. Apparently, if I try to intervene and say something, it'll just prompt a new wave of theories.
I guess people will find any reason to hold onto their bizarre beliefs.
The paparazzi continue to ask questions until their words seem to overlap each other. I can't even tell who's speaking. Everybody seems to be trying to outshout the others.
Eventually, I raise my hand to silence them. They collectively close their mouths to grasp onto every word I say.
"Thank you so much, everyone." I smile politely. "You have been so wonderful to me throughout the years. Unfortunately, I have to board the train for the Capitol, so I won't have the opportunity to answer all of your questions. But I would like to answer the one question that I expect to be asked a lot in the Capitol, something to put you ahead of the game.
"I am worried about going back into the arena. It's the place where I was born, and I hope that it's not the place where I die." I take a deep breath. "But I am the daughter of a victor, and I want to bring dignity to the Blodwyn name by following in my mother's footsteps."
"And not your father's," someone snarks from the back.
There's a loud slap, followed by, "He wasn't her father!"
I ignore the ensuing arguments — I can only tolerate the conspiracy for so long — and board the train.
Although I technically live in a single-parent household, I always felt like I was raised by two mothers. When I was three years old, Eleven earned its second victor: Amara Copperdust. (Nobody expected Eleven to have two victors before any of the Career districts.) After she moved into the Victors' Village and became our first neighbor, she became a constant presence in our house. Over time, she practically became a co-parent with Poppi.
It's hard to imagine what my life would be like without Amara.
Poppi has always been the logical, straightforward parent. She views everything as a puzzle that she wants to solve. Although I occasionally appreciate her simple perspective, she's hard to read at an emotional level. She's not an expressive person — I've only seen her cry twice in my lifetime — and she often shies away from terms of endearment — she wanted me to stop calling her "Mom" at the age of five. According to my grandmother, Poppi used to be driven by her emotions, but the Games changed her.
Maybe it's because she lost the love of her life in the Games. Maybe it's because the Games seem to change everyone.
Amara, on the other hand, has been the empathic, nurturing parent. Whereas Poppi would give me bandages and antibiotic ointment whenever I scraped my knees, Amara would carry me home and let me cry on her shoulder. She doesn't view emotions as weaknesses, and she knows exactly what to do for anyone in any mental state. It can be annoying at times — it's hard to stay mad at her because she's so understanding — but her emotional capacity has kept this family together through the roughest of times.
I'm actually surprised that the paparazzi never thought that Poppi and Amara were a couple.
They literally look like a couple right now, leaning heavily against each other on the only loveseat in the general lounge car. With their backs turned toward me, I feel like I'm witnessing something private — something intimate — between them. Poppi is covering her face with her hands, her elbows digging into her knees. I can't even see her expression from my current position, but this is the most emotional that she's been in years. If Amara wasn't rubbing circles into her back, I would try to comfort her.
I walk away to give them some privacy. There's no reason to snoop; I trust them enough to tell me anything that is either relevant to me or important for me to know.
"He rigged this." I don't know who Poppi is referencing, but the brokenness in her tone makes me freeze. "He rigged this."
"We don't know that." Amara wraps her arms around Poppi. "It's just be a coincidence."
"I don't believe in coincidences." A choked sound escapes Poppi's throat. "He's mad at me — mad at us."
"He can't blame us for other people's actions."
"He shouldn't, but he does." Poppi slouches even further forward until her head is almost touching her knees. "The mayors aren't the districts' direct link to the Capitol; it's the victors'. We are responsible for keeping our district in order."
"But the district is in order. We haven't seen any activity from the Rebels for a decade."
Even I can see Poppi tense from my position.
"What?" Amara asks. "There hasn't been any activity, right?"
Poppi hesitates. "There's been a rumor."
"About?"
"About the Umeko bloodline." Poppi looks into Amara's eyes. "Apparently, the Capitol didn't kill all the descendants of the Original Traitor like they thought."
Makari Amazu, 17
District 11 Male Tribute
The Arena Baby in the media is not the same as the Fresia Blodwyn who lies beside me in my full-size bed. Everyone in the district knows Fresia. (It's not every year that a baby is born in the arena.) Although the public consensus of her is divided, my part of the district — the poorest part of the district — has a generally negative view of her. We assume that she's like every other famous person: conceited, pretentious, and spoiled.
I never thought that she would be down-to-earth and personable.
"You probably know about me," she says, rolling onto her side to look at me. Surprisingly, her words don't come across as narcissistic; instead, she states them like an unenthusiastic fact, like she just knows that people know her. "But I know nothing about you. What's your family like?"
"They're pretty normal." I shrug (or I attempt to shrug — it's a difficult motion with my right arm propped underneath me). "My sister got married last year, but she still lives at home. Her and her husband want to eventually buy a house together — they just don't have any money right now. Besides, my grandma is really sick and needs constant supervision, so it worked out for the best."
"What about your parents?"
"They, um… They died."
"Oh, I'm sorry." She frowns in sympathy. "How'd they die?"
I wonder if Fresia's experience with the paparazzi has distorted her understanding of appropriate socialization. (I could hear the incessant questioning from inside the train. The paparazzi had no qualms about asking intrusive questions.) In normal society, nobody would ask a stranger about such a sensitive topic.
But I want to give Fresia some leeway. She'll probably be my closest friend throughout the upcoming week. We can work on her socialization later.
"My mom died during childbirth," I answer. "Something happened, and the doctors couldn't save her." There's more to the story, but it's not something I'm going to disclose to Fresia right now. "My dad was killed in the 4th Hunger Games. I don't have memories of either of them — the only family that I've ever known is my grandma and my sister."
"That must be hard."
"Sometimes." I tilt my head. "It sucks not having any memories of them, but I think it would've been harder to lose them if I did."
"I know how you feel." She smiles slightly, but it doesn't quite reach her eyes. "I never got to know my dad. Part of me wishes that I got to meet him, that I remembered him, that I got to see what kind of a dad he would've been. But another part of me is kind of… happy that I never did. It makes missing him a bit easier."
"Like missing a hypothetical person, instead of a real one."
"Exactly." Her smile starts to reach her eyes. "I'm glad you understand."
"Me, too."
There's a momentary pause in the conversation, neither of us knowing what to say. But the silence doesn't feel awkward.
It does get awkward, though, when Fresia randomly snorts.
I raise my brow.
"It's nothing." Despite her words, she seems to be on the verge of laughter. "It's just… I know Eleven is the agriculture district, but it feels like we're the 'Dead Dads District' this year."
A surprised laugh escapes my throat.
"Sorry, sorry," she says, even though she doesn't sound apologetic at all. "I know it's screwed up."
"No, it was funny." I smile. "I just didn't expect you to have the district's dark sense of humor. I thought the Capitol's jokes were all about rainbows and butterflies."
"Really?" She snorts. "Because they watch children kill other children every year. Anyone who finds even the slightest of satisfaction from watching televised murders must have a screwed up sense of humor."
"I guess."
"And besides," she continues, "I am from Eleven. Why would I have the same humor as a Capitolite?"
"You were raised a lot differently than the rest of us," I say gently. (I can tell this is a sensitive topic for her, but I can't really sugarcoat the truth.) "All of your basic needs were guaranteed, whereas some of us go days without a single meal. There are some things that you just might not understand about normal life in Eleven, regardless of how hard you try."
She open her mouth, but I keep talking before she can utter a word.
"But there are also things that I wouldn't understand about your life. I never had to worry about the paparazzi harassing me at any moment, nor have I been compared to a victor from the moment I could walk." I squeeze her shoulder. "I know that there are people in Eleven who think that you have a such an easy life. But just because you had a different life than the rest of us, it doesn't mean that you didn't have your own fair share of hardships."
She smiles. "Thank you."
I close my bedroom door as quietly as possible behind me so I don't wake up Fresia. It's not even that late — at least, not by District Eleven standards — but the stress and anxiety has been constant and suffocating since the reaping. And after dealing with the relentless paparazzi, I wouldn't be surprised if Fresia doesn't wake up until we reach the Capitol.
But I can't sleep.
After everything that's happened to me these last few months… I just need a chance to relax, to breathe, to actually think.
I find comfort in the rhythmic sound of the train's wheels on the tracks as I wander through the empty halls. After living with my insomniac grandma and my hyperactive sister, I have become accustomed to constant noise at all hours of the day. Even if my grandma's pacing kept me up some nights or my sister's cooking woke me up some mornings… Nothing good has ever happened when the house went still and silent.
I eventually find my way into the general lounge car. Although the lights are dimmed and barely illuminating the furniture, I notice the fully-stocked bar in the corner. Bourbon, spiced rum, tequila, gin — most of the liquors are rarely available to someone of my socioeconomic status in Eleven. (And based on their pungent scents, I'm not compelled to try them right now.) Fortunately, I find an unopened bottle of chardonnay that's made at one of the renowned vineyards in Eleven.
"Grab me a glass as well."
A noise that I didn't even know that I could make — somewhere between a gasp and a scream — escapes my throat.
The lamp beside the loveseat turns on. Amara gives me an unimpressed look. "What? I'm not going to let my tribute drink alone." She waves a corkscrew in her hand. "And you won't be able to open that bottle without me."
I grab two glasses and move hesitantly toward Amara. "Isn't this illegal?"
"Each district has different drinking laws." She moves over to give me a spot on the loveseat; instead, I sit on the adjacent couch. It doesn't seem to bother her. "And we're technically on the Capitol's soil, where anyone of any age can drink."
"I didn't know that."
"I wouldn't have known if I wasn't a victor." She uncorks the bottle and pours a third of the wine into each glass. "Each district has its own governing body and legislation. It's no longer the Capitol who has total control over the districts' internal affairs… even if they do have the final say."
She hands me one of the glasses.
I nod in gratitude and take a small sip. It's drier and richer than I expected; nothing like the sweet and sugary wines that my friends usually steal from their parents.
"It's good, isn't it?" Amara swirls the glass in her hand. "I used to walk past this vineyard all the time, but the first time I ever tried their wine was in the Capitol."
"It's expensive."
"For citizens of Eleven." She takes a sip. "But it's cheaper in the Capitol."
I would've assumed that it was the opposite. The Capitol is rich and affluent; they could afford more luxuries than anyone in Eleven. Why would it be more affordable to Capitolites even without their wealth?
"Anyway, we should talk about today and our plans moving forward." She places her half-empty glass on the coffee table and leans back into the cushions. "How are you doing? I know that you were talking to Fresia, but — as much as I love her — she can be a bit… egocentric."
"I'm doing alright."
That's all I want to share, but she raises a brow and gestures for me to continue.
I sigh. "I'm worried and stressed. Not just about the Games, but about everything that was going on at home before I was reaped. I don't know how my absence will affect my grandma or my sister, and I just want them to be… alright, I guess."
"Would it help to know how you family is doing throughout the week?"
I blink.
"I have connections in Eleven who can check on them periodically. If you want to survive the Games, your sole focus should be the Games. Tributes who enter the arena with unrelated stress never survive."
I nod. "Thank you."
"It's nothing." She waves her hand dismissively. "I just want to make sure that you're taking care of yourself and your needs. Fresia and Poppi are not usually emotional, but when they are, it can be a bit… suffocating." She smiles, but I can see the sadness linger in her eyes. "They're good people, but they can forget that other people are dealing with their own stuff. And I don't want you to feel forgotten."
"Thank you," I repeat quietly.
We finish our glasses of wine is comfortable silence.
End of Chapter 11.
Current Tribute List:
District 1
Lorcan Estrelle, 15
Veira Faustus, 17
District 2
Xolani Satine, 18
Honoria Brantlie, 16
District 3
Skagen Matisse, 13
Eulalia Psy, 17
District 4
Tycho Searling, 17
Mayuri Odelle, 18
District 5
Zephyrin Greer, 18
Jenikka Amias, 13
District 6
Kaia Palani, 15
Lark Devereaux, 16
District 7
Juniper Anatole, 16
Bryony Linden, 17
District 8
Octavian Espen, 12
Nadina Windlass, 17
District 9
Havan Thorpe, 14
Farah Cybele, 16
District 10
Taneli Masarie, 18
Laelia Lantbruk, 18
District 11
Makari Amazu, 17
Fresia Blodwyn, 15
Author Note: Thank you for reading this chapter! We are down to the last two tributes!
Q: What do you think about Fresia and Makari?
Next Chapter: The Beginning (D12 Train Ride)