I wanted to upload this ASAP as I'm going on a trip tomorrow afternoon. This will be my first time going out of town without my parents, just me and my friends. You can imagine how excited I am leaving this small town and hitting up the big city. Yay for being 20 years old with little responsibilities! (summer class, you'll just have to wait till Monday)
Dos
Total chaos has erupted.
In one room sits me, Rhapsody, Esteban, and Lulu. Both mentor and therapist are in a race to see who can drive fresh-out-of-the-Arena Giovanni to a nervous breakdown first. Esteban is to my left, shouting (he could easily be heard at a conversational level) tips and pointers he insists are urgent. Nodding my head every few seconds whenever he stops talking, Lulu has the nerve to clamp my chin and twist my face toward her to demand total attention. The phantom woman is to my right, conducting this impromptu test or that emergency assessment. Rhapsody lies in the middle, dolling me up for the cameras and gushing over just how gorgeous I look. And here I am, sandwiched in between it all.
"Remember: Smile. No, not like that Giovanni. You look like a maniac. Look like you're happy to see them…..Yes, that's it. Perfect."
"At the current moment, rate your stress level on a 1 to 10 scale please."
"37."
Hands run through my new hairstyle, the shaggy, slightly disheveled look from before making a reappearance. I want my ponytail back. "Done! My masterpiece is complete. If looks could kill, you'd be a murderer."
Lulu clears her throat. Esteban opens his mouth, shuts it, then opens it again. A short, outraged shout. Eyebrows scrunched in question, Rhapsody smiles, cluelessly wondering what his problem is. Just when I thought they were getting along again.
I intervene before either one can say anything. "Rhapsody, I'm still in my underwear."
A bedazzled man, part of the production crew, bursts into the room, frazzled hair bouncing with each step. "10 minutes people!" He spots me sitting in the styling chair clad in my white briefs and shrieks, shielding his eyes with his clipboard. The Capitol sees kids getting killed year in year out and this one's getting squeamish over me being halfway naked?
"Where are his clothes?" the glittering man utters, clipboard still blocking his sight. Huffing, he struts out of the door before anyone can answer. "Throw something on the lewd boy and have him ready! He's due to be up soon."
Next door, more tomfoolerly is taking place. In the lounge room lies my frantic prep team and a very confused Yesenia. The poor mentor has been given the very unfortunate duty of calming down the three Capitolites assigned to dress me up for the Capitol's viewing. Instead of doing their quite simple jobs, they've decided to shift their entire focus on their unconscious co-worker. The unconscious co-worker who fainted after being slapped with divorce papers from Wife #4. Not that it was high on my priority list but I'm finally told the names of my preparation team: Octavia, Octavian, and Octavius.
What a coincidence.
There are slight differences between the trio. Octavius is the tallest. Octavian has a slightly deeper voice. Octavia is a woman. Other than, the fluorescent orange Capitolites still talk, walk, eat, and defecate in harmony.
Through the mirror's reflection, I watch the drama unfold: Octavia uses a bag of makeup cottons to fan a sprawled out Octavius, who doesn't seem to be coming to anytime soon. Octavian rambles on a mile a minute, Yesenia struggling to make sense of the neon man's jumbled words while calling for help at the same time. I'm over here scared shitless over what's about to happen and my prep team ignores me for their sordid lives?
It's the night of the Victory Interview and all that could go wrong has gone wrong. Well, not everything. Lulu has been implementing various methods to quicken my recovery and adjustment to life outside the Arena and as a Victor. Using one self-help strategy in particular, the "Post Games Victor Happiness Assessment", which doesn't make for a good acronym, I try to count the number of good things that have happened since I've woken up in the underground Training Center holding room yesterday afternoon. "Picking the positives", as she says:
After a few more surgeries, minor ones, I'm not completely fucked up anymore. I'm healthy-looking, attractive even. Granted how I was yesterday, putting me in drag and a forked tongue would have been better.
The sick, sluggish feeling from before has vanished too after Lulu gave me a dose of something round and colorful and forced me to swallow. Not much resisting you can do with two gloved gorillas pinning you down and a white ostrich at your throat, literally.
Picasso has yet to make an appearance. Where and why the drunk has been M.I.A., no one has bothered to ask.
My prep team has finally come to their senses, dragging a dazed Octavius through the hallway. Neither of the three thinks to check on my well-being.
Lulu has lied to me (I've seen the woman twice since our original "talk") and I'll never trust her but I gotta say; the business suit knows her stuff. Her methods work. Some of them do. Already I'm more and more relaxed as I list off the other positives. Or it could be the nerves finally doing me in.
Motioning for his assistance, Rhapsody and Esteban abruptly exit the room. Immediately, alarms sound off in my head. Damn it! I'm left alone with Lulu again! She smiles, placing a hand on my shoulder. Speaking of the devil. Why is her skin so cold?
"About time we're given our alone time."
In what feels like eons crawling by, my mentor and stylist are rushing back inside the dressing room. In their hands lie a long black bag and a shiny box on top. A shoe box.
Lulu has a light flickering in one eye and an ink-splotched picture in the other, distorting the flashlight and shoving the drawing in my face in response to the sudden interruption. My whimpers go unnoticed. "Excuse me. I'm finishing up the last of my tests."
She tries to speak over the ruckus they're creating only to be shooed away, instruments thrown to the floor by a flick of Rhapsody's hand. Was that by accident or on purpose? The sly grin on her face says the latter.
"There's no more time for that," says the teen, knocking over a few cologne bottles in her wake. The bluish liquid seeps on the plush purple carpet. "You've been here, like, forever anyway."
The psychiatrist is not happy with being talked down to. Smirking, Esteban escorts her out before she can retaliate, closing the door behind them.
Now it's just me and Rhapsody. A silence falls over the dressing room, the overhead ventilation humming softly through the air. The spilled fragrance slowly hijacks our senses but neither of us seems to notice. All we can do is stare at each other. Me bare chested, shivering a little under the cool breeze floating about the room. Her in another furry ensemble, a cool blue shawl complete with an oversized bow on top her head. Our little moment ends when she unzips the long bag placed in her hands.
"Your victory outfit," she tells me, unraveling the plastic covering underneath the black bag.
"Oh joy," I moan. I half-expect some ridiculous king's robe from the ancient fairy tales told to the little ones back home, sheared from the finest buffalos of Ten and dyed straight in the blood of newborn calves to fit the Capitol's insanity. What she reveals isn't a foolish get-up or crazy costume. It isn't anywhere near it.
A three-piece suit: silver blazer, vest and dress pants, thin vertical lines decorating it a deeper, darker gray. A simple black button-up, satin material. Finishing it off is a rather fat tie, striped in black and silver. My old interview suit.
"Let's not forget your shoes." Opening the shiny box placed on the vanity mirror's table, she hands me the black boots and begins her work.
Noise envelops us, crashing and tumbling its way outside the purple wooden door. The hurried clanking of stilettos. The chattering and shouting of crewmen running about the place. Esteban and Yesenia speaking amongst themselves close by. I view through the circular window placed by the ceiling-length armoire. It's a tiny thing, barely able to make out the other side, but I get a glimpse of what's waiting out there for me. I don't like what's waiting out there for me. But in here, not a sound is made. For once, there is peace, finally, peace. It's such a badly needed reprieve that I absorb every second of it. Who knows how long this moment will be.
Adjusting the buttons on the shimmering vest, I find myself distracted with my stylist's presence. Her hands are amazingly soft, palms grazing my cheeks to clean up the whiskers of facial hair strategically splattered about my jawline with the cold foamy stuff from last time. Through the fumes of the cologne I catch a whiff of her own perfume. A fruity, feminine fragrance resembling strawberries mixed with her natural musk. Straightening my tie, gold eyes peer up into mine. Rhapsody is so close to me that I can make out tiny details of her that I haven't noticed before. Like the small jewels decorating the tips of her eyelashes. Or the smatter of freckles dotting her tan face, fighting its way through the makeup she doesn't need.
Something comes over me. My lips meet hers. We kiss. A short peck, but a kiss nevertheless.
The teenaged stylist is struck still, hands planted on my crisp shirt collar. I can't read her emotion. Then, a smile lights up her pretty face, cheeks going up like those winged children in the Capitol building designs I've seen around the city. "What brought that about?" she asks me, curious eyes staring into my own.
I shrug. "Honestly, I don't know." I pause, then with a naughty grin. "Did you not want me to do that Miss Rhapsody?" Blushing, she hits my shoulder, shooting me a playful glare.
"I didn't mind at all. It's just…I didn't think you'd be so open to physical affection so soon. You've only been up for two days." A small hand is placed on my broad chest, it moving up and down, matching the rhythm of my breathing. It waves through the blazer to touch my shirt, stroking the silky fabric back and forth.
"I didn't think so either." Since I woke up I've been hesitant of anyone getting too close to me, flinching when a hand touches my body or peering out of the corner of my eye if someone stands too close behind me. For whatever reason, I just feel safe here with Rhapsody. At ease. She has that sort of innocent calming effect about her. A sweet naivety. It's like your problems just wash away when you're around her sometimes. I can't explain what effect the ditzy Capitolite has on me but what I do know is that I like it. It makes me happy. And right now, I think no more on the subject and just enjoy the feeling.
Kissing me once more, Rhapsody turns me around to face the mirror. Minus a few differences here and there, I'm just like the boy who went up to face the Capitol just weeks ago, right down to the purposely unkempt hair and first two buttons undone. Was it weeks ago? Gosh, it felt like years since the Tribute Interviews took place.
"Like you never went in," Rhapsody whispers, staring at my immaculate reflection, breathe teasing my earlobe.
A bitter, emotional laugh comes out. "No amount of fancy suits or pretty dresses can change that."
A harsh knock wakes us up from our trance. "What are you two doing in there? It's time!"
It's Esteban, and he sounds angry.
Looking at each other, we steal one last peck.
Rhapsody runs a finger through my hair. "Kill'em dead out there."
I shake my head, amused by the girl's oblivious ways. "You've gotta stop with the murder references."
Hand covering her mouth, she grimaces at her mistake, which just makes me want to kiss her some more. "Oops. I'm sorry!"
Nearly breaking off the hinges, my mentor bursts inside and drags me away before I can do so. Veined hands gripping me by the collar, I never realized how strong the twenty-year-old was.
"When I say it's time to go, it's time to go. Understand?"
I make sure he can't see me rolling my eyes in the darkened hallway. I hate this version of Esteban. When things get crazy, he gets crazier. From my short time being around the winner of the 58th Hunger Games, I've picked up on a few things about Esteban Ventura. Obedience and respect is expected and demanded from him. He is a stickler for rules. He's not as friendly and cool-tempered as he puts on in front of the cameras. And he clearly hates late tributes. Particularly late tributes who knows how to push the right buttons. I understand that I am his first winning tribute and that I represent him, fine, but does he have to be so high-strung all the damn time? There's no way I'm gonna make this job my life or let everything get to me the way he does when I mentor next year.
Mentoring next…..I sweep the horrible thought under the rug. I don't even want to think about that.
We hurry our way through the swarm of crewmen and stagehands, buzzing about around the long concrete hallway. The closer we get to the main entrance, an open space closed off by a grand curtain, the higher the panic in my body rises. The concrete reminds me of the Arena. Everything is so loud. My thoughts are all over the place, sense and structure gone. Where is Esteban? Where is everyone?
Breathe Giovanni, breathe. You can do this. You're strong. You won the Hunger Games. What is a little interview gonna do to you?
Any confidence I had is incinerated the moment I hear it. I'm sent flying back by the familiar, blaring noise. They've changed up the opening music! It's my song, the song that played in the Arena! The bastards!
I can't do this. I can't do this.
No, no, no, no, no.
"Esteban please! Make it stop. I don't wanna go out there. Don't make me." I don't care if I'm begging, cowering in another man's arms. Just don't make me face the music. Literally. "Please. They've gone too far this year."
When my mentor speaks, he sounds more damaged than I. How does it feel, watching me break down like this? "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry Giovanni but we have no choice. Just…be the character that they want you to be. The Likeable Jerk, remember?"
I only nod in response, face still covered in his leather jacket. A few stagehands whisper conspiratorially a few feet away, ready to run to the gossips and blabber about my breakdown, and it takes every fiber of my being not to unleash my fury on the stupid men.
Caesar's voice booms through the place, making me to jump and accidentally knock Esteban in the chin. He says nothing about it, only rubbing the area for a few seconds before going back to comforting me. "From the deserts of District Ten to the streets of Panem's greatest, I present you your newest Victor, Giovanni Del Rojo!"
"Stay strong, joven guerrero. Puedes hacerlo."
One swift push forward and here I am, raw and ready, thrown to the lions.
For the first couple of seconds, I'm not able to move, awestruck by the grandeur of this spectacular place. You would think with this being my second time coming to the City Circle and seeing it broadcasted yearly on the television screen would numb me to its effects, but no, neither could have prepared me for this. So much applause, so much fanfare, so much excitement. For what? Congrats on killing off a few kids and almost dying in the process?
Two hands strap on my arms. For once, I'm thankful for the loud music beating on my eardrums for they drowned out the not-so-quiet shriek I let out. Slowly, I'm guided down the carpeted path to the front of the stage, Peacekeeper at each side. They must have realized I needed a bit of "assistance" getting to the platform. How ironic; just how it was on Reaping Day. If I keep this up, it'll be a running gag surely used against me. I can see it now:
'He can win the Hunger Games, but can he make it to the stage by himself?'
Stage coming closer to view, I spot rows of something sitting past the glistening Caesar, past the elaborate throne set out for me, past the horde of lights and cameras locked on the talk show star's looming figure.
In the corner of the stage sit twenty-three empty interview chairs placed coincidentally behind my throne. Their chairs. Three weeks ago, they were filled with the faces of my competitors. Now they stare back at me, accusing me of my crimes. Do they know what I did to their occupants? Typical Capitol, going above and beyond to make you its bitch. They know no limits. They really don't.
"Why hello there Victor Del Rojo!" Flickerman's theatrical voice breaks me out of my thoughts. Bright lights shine overhead, blinding my view of the sea of people spanning out at the bottom. When did I get on stage?
Twisting his thin lips, the talk show host decides to start the night off cracking jokes. Does it look like I want to laugh, Caesar? I'm not in the mood for humor but it's the best option I've got right now. "Say, I think we have a copycat on our hands, eh audience?"
Caesar compares his glossy get-up to mine, which is pretty similar in design and color, minus his silver updo. I dutifully play along and the crowd gets a great laugh out of the whole act, the two of us picking and preening each other in mock surprise. The music thankfully comes to a close and eventually everyone settles into their seats, ready for the show to begin.
"Shall we review your Games?" Flickerman's signature smile gleams in the stage lights above.
Like I have a choice in the matter. I lean back in the cushy velvet, shrugging my shoulders. Act like the Likeable Jerk. That's what they want. "Go right ahead."
Lights are dimmed and the audience falls silent. In the brief second of quiet, I stare up at the night sky, illuminated by the tiny stars and full moon. A sharp wind pierces through the layers of clothing I have on, chilling me to the bone. Oh, all the things I could be doing right now, things that I truly love, instead of becoming Panem's newest celebrity. Seeing my family. Ivan. Maya. District Ten. Home. Just a few more hours in this place. Just a few more hours and I'm free forever.
Too soon is the silence over. Panem's seal then the words 'THE 61ST HUNGER GAMES' pop up on the gigantic screen to the right of us.
I grip the side handle to stop shaking.
Let the Games begin.
I stop breathing when it appears. One by one we're lifted into the Arena, standing impatiently on our plates. To describe the feeling of watching my own Games in one word would have to be surreal. It is just so bizarre seeing myself up on the big screen and remembering exactly how I felt at that moment, and having it radiate through the screen and infect me even after it's over. How I masked my terror with cockiness, like I'm doing right now. Or how much joy I took in seeing Sofia's petrified face in response to the unique Arena we were thrown in. Worse is seeing the others so alive and healthy. Sly Radiance. Stoic Domitia. Sleazy Virgo. Scheming Eli. Determined Chiffon. No one having any idea what horrible deaths await each and every one of them.
If this is hard for me, I can't imagine how the dead tributes' families are holding up.
The gong rings and the madness begins. Unlike the first-person view of years past, the editors decided to give us a birds-eye view of the action, allowing me a front row seat to all the action. Simultaneously, the faces of every non-Career light up in realization that heading to the Cornucopia would result in certain death and everyone flees the area.
Except Nace and Wanda.
Wanda tries to move away but she is too taken over by another asthma attack. Orazio ceases the opportunity for murder. Like an crazed beast, the Career sweeps in, snaps the girl's neck, and propels the poor tribute towards the back of the golden horn, corpse doing somersaults off the metal.
He smiled throughout the entire thing.
Nace's fate isn't any better. Trying to maneuver his way inside the horn, the brown-haired guy soon becomes the second kill of the 61st Hunger Games, taken by complete surprise by a hidden Valor and mercilessly hacked away with his lumbering axe.
I wonder how his parents feels, seeing how stupid their son was. Did he not notice everyone abandoning the Cornucopia?
The cameras zoom out to the rest of the bloodbath. Penelope loses a frightened Virgo once the Nine door closes in front of her, immediately zoning in on her new prey: a crouching Clay from Twelve. Surprisingly, the thin boy decided to take the offense, bare hands and all. Challenging Oliver from Eight, it only resulted in him getting jerked away and given a broken nose by the bigger boy. Regaining himself, he springs up off the floor, narrowly escaping the Career's grasp and taking refuge in the Twelve tower. Creek and Domitia fare the same, allowing three other tributes to slip through their hands. Throughout the pandemonium, Chiffon and Eli are like quiet mice, smoothly arriving to the Eight building without incidence. I have to nod at their stealth. Smart thinking.
The same can't be said for me.
I flinch when Koring knocks me to the ground, readies his foot over my head, then gets impaled by Radiance's spear. The audience lets out a collective 'Ooh', including Flickerman, turning towards me for my added input. I stay silent. In the Arena, seconds felt like hours, but witnessing it again his death happened just like that.
While the first day wraps up, I catch a glimpse of myself on one of the screens off to the side. I seem nonchalant, bored. Unimpressed. Good. I don't want to seem entertained by this. They should see how much I really hate being here, the people at home. How no Reaping or pretty costume will change me. I'm still district, through and through. The crowd around me may be too entranced by the playback video but my tiny act of defiance won't go unnoticed with the people of the districts.
Just enough to be seen, not enough to cause concern.
The Victory Review drags on and on for what feels like an eternity. I'm in and out throughout the process, gradually losing the willpower to pay attention. Scenes flash by. The second bloodbath. Tottie's and Lavender's death. Me teaming up with Chiffon and Eli. Ramona's death. The wolf pack's daily hunts and coming up with nothing to show for. Tributes faring off in the other buildings. Most lay low, acquiring supplies and avoiding the numerous traps and tricks set in the steel towers. My time in the Games seem comfortable compared to what others went through. Cecily nearly bludgeons Valentino to death with her sizable wooden club until she is restrained and gives way to reason. An alliance is formed, but that doesn't stop old memories and bitter feelings from rearing its ugly head.
Isaiah has it worst out of everyone; almost hourly is he subjected to a new trap, horrific setups chipping away at his body and mind. Whenever he goes to pray, something else is unleashed on the boy. They show a starving, mentally unstable District Nine stumble upon Sofia hiding high up in the grain tower, life spared only by the food she has to offer. A shaky truce is enacted just to be broken hours later, Isaiah stumbling upon Morgana and nearly strangling her to death. My district partner flees before she's next.
Chin in my hand and humming the national anthem, the next scene sends me back to reality. Escaping District Nine, my acne-ridden district partner comes across a room filled to the brim with water bottles. The door literally opens the moment she passes by. Water bottles sitting perfectly in place, lined up one by one, waiting for a gullible tribute to bite.
Why didn't I go inside the Nine building?
Having no other options, Sofia takes the bait, though she isn't totally stupid. Peeping her head through the doorway, she pokes in a toe. Then a foot, a leg, an arm. Seeing nothing jump out to rip her to shreds, Sofia bolts inside, grabs the first two she can spot, and leaves. To make things more ominous, the door slams close and locks itself, returning to its unassuming position.
I wait for the moment she spikes the bottle given to me, just knowing I'm about to witness her betrayal.
It never comes.
The scrawny Community Rat takes two sips of the bottle she shared with Eli and goes on her way.
Wait a minute.
If Sofia didn't poison the water, then who did?
Skip the rest. I don't care about Dmitri's fight against bird muttations or Domitia and Penelope's arguing. I need to see who tried to take me out of the running. Was probably that coward Eli, his conniving little ass.
Time flies (more like crawls by) and Sofia appears on the screen again. This time, it is for an entirely different reason. She is even worse off than what I remember her to be, hiding out in the Three building, so far gone by the events of the Arena and her betrayal of our alliance. Too out of it to see Eli greet her at the doorway. So the Six boy really was the one to finish her off. At least he doesn't prolong her suffering with a flashy kill or any type of torture. Eli hesitates, lets out a long sigh, then proceeds with the killing. She's delivered a quick, precise end: grabbed by her curly hair, the dagger pierces her jugular. Just one long, agonizing scream and the deed is done.
Soon, it's down to the final four: Domitia, Radiance, Valentino, and me. My fingers tap the golden throne impatiently as my haggard Arena self takes on a limping Radiance. Even as the final blow is dealt to Valentino's mutilated body and the screen goes black, I'm still staring at the screen, waiting.
That's it? No explanation given? Stop clapping Capitolites. Stop cheering and laughing Caesar. We're not done. I demand answers.
Caesar yells through the clapping. "And that wraps up another exciting year of the Hunger Games!"
"No it doesn't," I say. Somehow Flickerman hears me through the cheering and shouting. Giving me a subtle glance that politely reads 'Shut up and play along', the silver man's smile broadens as he pats my shoulder a little harder than what I expect.
The crowd dies down and Caesar begins the mandatory interview. "I know you're just dying to give the audience and viewers at home intimate details on your time in the Arena."
Well actually Mr. Flickerman, I'm just dying to give the Capitol a very big 'Fuck you!' but I'll hold that thought for another time. I slouch in my posture, daring to hang one leg off the throne handle. "Wait, that was the Arena? I thought it was a warm-up."
Caesar squints his eyes before quickly joining in in the laughter. The man did not find my comment too humorous. Yes Flickerman, I will be difficult. I will not make this easy for you.
The rest of the interview continues on, and everything falls into a sort of system. Caesar says something charming and charismatic, I say something rude and sarcastic, the audience falls in love with me, rinse and repeat. No matter how hard I try to make them not like me, they do it anyway. I'm beginning to get when realize something: this is the perfect Interview angle. I can be a straight-up bitch to the cameras and they actually like it. They actually encourage it. What were past Victors thinking? Nice guys don't win over the crowds. The Capitol likes to be criticized, mocked, and belittled. As long as you disguise it as good fun of course.
Hook, line, and sinker.
By the time my Victory Interview over, the audience is hooting and hollering and Caesar is two seconds away from wetting his pants in laughter. Even I'm laughing a bit, snickering at the stupidity of these people. These aren't jokes you idiots. I'm openly insulting every single one of you and none of you bastards can see through my poorly constructed façade. This is too easy.
"Oh my goodness!" Flickerman wipes off the sweat forming on his forehead. "This one, this one's a keeper. Audience, don't you agree?"
Holding up my arm, I receive a standing ovation. A standing freaking ovation for making a fool out of them. They're eating right out of my hands.
My bravado is compromised for a second when the music from earlier starts up. I clear my throat and pretend to enjoy the song, commenting to Caesar on what great memories it brings up. In his finest suit adorned with jewels, the Panem seal, and a single white rose, President Snow teleports to the right hand side of the City Circle and makes his way to the stage, accompanied and heavily guarded by a squadron of Peacekeepers. Can't have Mr. President all alone with a mass murderer.
Too bad.
"My, my, my," he speaks when he reaches me, running a cold finger through my hair to make way for the crown. Naturally I twitch. Not only is this the president of Panem inches away from me, there is something off about the old man's scent. What is that awful smell? It's like the scent is on his breath. Is that roses and…..?
Gently, he places the shimmering crown on top my head, running yet another set of fingers through my hair. Does the old man want me for himself or something? Looking me dead in the eye, the corners of his mouth go up in a grin. The grin of a person who knows something you don't.
"You are quite the character, Mr. Del Rojo. I'm sure my citizens will enjoy your infectious personality for the years to come. Congratulations on your remarkable win. Until we meet again."
Patting my shoulder once, he and his posse leave the stage. Caesar puts out his hand towards Snow only to left hanging by the bearded man, knocked away by a Peacekeeper.
What was that all about?
"You really did play up the Likeable Jerk role Giovanni," Esteban tells me, sipping from his glass of sparkling juice.
We're back inside the Training Center, having one last dinner in the Capitol. In the morning, it will be time for me to pack up and board the train to District Ten. The thought of getting back to my home, to seeing everyone again…I still can't believe it's really going to happen. It feels so unreal. I'm really going to see my family again!
The edibles may be tame this evening but the guest list certainly isn't. The whole gang is here tonight: Yesenia, Rhapsody, my prep team, Dante, who was Sofia's stylist, and her prep team are gathered to see me before I make my leave. Lulu invited herself to the soiree, happily feasting on her third plate of a thing called tofu. Everyone is here, except Picasso. He still has not surfaced. I guess an escort's job isn't that important once the Games are over, but I would imagine him at least popping his head in to congratulate me on making him a success. Esteban's not the only one who should be celebrating bringing back their first winning tribute. Maybe Snow fired the charcoal man. Or he had one too many drinks and killed over while the Games were going on. I ask if anyone knows where he is and everyone just shrugs their shoulders. Picasso and I didn't get along and probably never will, yet I wouldn't wish any ill will upon him. He was my escort. He played a part in my success. Anyone who helped me lived is on my side.
Sucking on a chicken bone, I respond back to my mentor, innocent voice set to the max. "Wouldn't you want me to give it my all?"
Esteban is not swayed by my act. "Yeah, well you were a little too believable up there. Think of how you'll be received by the crowds."
Yesenia swats her younger colleague away. Victor Ruiz takes her job far less seriously than Esteban does. I'm not sure if that's a good thing or bad thing. "Don't listen to the Debbie Downer. You did just fine up there Giovannni."
Rhapsody nods her head in agreement, squirrel cheeks full of mashed potatoes and salad. "Mhhm. You had me rolling Gio. I couldn't stop giggling."
"Being mean just comes naturally," I wink straight towards Esteban. He rolls his eyes, hiding his amusement.
Finishing up my cake, a three-layer white chocolate raspberry creation, I stop the jokes and get serious. "There is this one question that's been eating me up on the inside."
Esteban looks up from his plate. "Shoot."
"Why did Sofia poison my water bottle in the Arena?"
The chit-chatting stops. Forks are down. Drinks are pushed away. Faces go grim, particularly Dante's and his team's. Only the soft opera music from the ceiling speakers can be heard in the now muted room. Was what I said wrong? A forbidden question? I don't understand why everyone is giving me that look, that 'How could he bring that up at a time like this?' look. This is the perfect time to ask, when everyone is around to answer.
Esteban is caught off guard. Clearly, he was not expecting me to ask him that. "Does it matter? You won."
"Of course it matters. She damned near killed me."
"But Giovanni-"
Yesenia cuts him off, soft, wizened voice chirping in. "No, no Esteban. Let him hear the truth."
Straightening up in her seat, I prepare myself for the answer. If I am to live with the memory of my district partner, I need to know just what her intentions were that first day I saved her from Chiffon and took her under my wing, even after we promised not to save each other before going in. The truth needs to be revealed. I deserve that much.
"Sofia didn't poison your water bottle."
My mouth flies open. Under the table, a hand grips my own. Rhapsody.
"Then who did?"
Yesenia smiles, thin wrinkles pressed against her mouth and forehead. She has been a Victor for quite some time now, has been through tribute after tribute. She is used to answering difficult questions. Numb to it perhaps. "No one dear. It was the Gamemakers' doing. That scene where Sofia stumbled upon the room filled with water? Every other bottle held a different poison we were told."
"It was simply the luck of a draw."