Although I'm nearing my mid twenties, I have yet to move out of my mother's house. She had a mental breakdown a few years ago watching the Games, and I decided to live with her a while longer, to try to ease her pain.
Now they're back again. This is the sixth time. My mom still hasn't caved and given them what they want – me. I'm not entirely sure why they want me, yet, but I have ideas. And even though my mom still says no, they've been more insistent. It's been around five years, I think, since they first came, but this is the second time this month.
"No! I said no the first time you asked and I'm saying no now. I don't want him anywhere near your wretched Games!"
The way she phrases it – your wretched Games – makes me wonder if perhaps these are Gamemakers, these people. Every time it's the same – the large, dark haired man, the small, wiry and 'I'm better than you all' woman, and the uncertain, ferrety young man.
This time, I'm in the living room as my mom serves them pot roast. Pot roast is one of my favorite of the Capitol's dishes, but I will only get the leftovers, seeing as I'm not being allowed in the same room as them anymore. Not since their second visit, my last year in high school.
"So, how is school going?" the large man, obviously in charge, asks as he lounges across our couch. I sit on the floor, papers strewn out around me.
"It's boring," comes my response. Clearly not what he was expecting. "But I like chemistry. The other day we spent class lighting things on fire."
Most Capitol kids don't have to go to school if their parents don't want them to. But I wanted to, so my mother signed me up for a private school for the kids who actually care. The only problem is that English bores me to tears, history is depressing beyond belief (in addition to being wildly inaccurate), and I can do the hardest trigonometry problems in my head faster than the teacher can on the board. But chemistry is exciting. Just yesterday I stayed after to talk to my teacher about the possibility of creating synthetic flames, that would look and act like fire with the exception of actually burning what it comes in contact with.
"Mr. Heavensbee, would you like something to drink?" my mother asks. Clearly she is only just tolerating his presence. The man replies, "Please, call me Plutarch. And some coffee if you'd please." As my mom bustles off to get coffee, he turns back to me. "So, young man, what did you think of the Games last year?"
"The costumes needed work," I respond. They did. They were terrible. Why would you put District Three in giant light bulb costumes? If you must use light bulbs, make them look more like Caesar Flickerman's interview suit. As an added bonus, Caesar would get a laugh out of it.
Plutarch just chuckles. "Well, that's what we're here for." I know a puzzled look has crossed my face, but before he can say anything about it, my mother walks in. "No! You may not talk to him about it! My son is staying just where he is!"
And so I have. Each time they show up at the door, I let them in and disappear into my bedroom before they can try to drag me in to whatever they're trying to drag me into. Originally I would spend these hours alone looking at my secret books. Now, though, I spend it designing some myself.
My sketchpad sits on the coffee table as I look down at the design I have just drawn out. A red, yellow, and orange outfit that is supposed to look like it's going up in flames. It never quite comes out right, and my mind drifts back to that day I asked my chemistry teacher about synthetic flame. I may have no other choices. Not that anyone will ever wear my outfit. It is designed for District Twelve, in memory of Xander, who killed my aunt but tried to save my dad. But of course they will never wear it, because they only wear what is designed by the Games' stylists.
Wait a minute…