What can we do? What can I do? …Can I kill? Maybe I can kill a stranger in self-defense. I won't know unless I find myself in that situation. I don't think there's anyway though that I could kill Beanpole.
"Ms. Gaudet," a Peacekeeper sets her hand on my shoulder and guides me off the platform and into the Justice Building. It's my first, and probably last, time inside it. There are watercolor paintings of sailboats on the walls. Beanpole is being lead along behind me until I'm pulled aside to sit in a small room by myself.
I feel like I've inherited Papa's tremor, except it runs through my whole body, not just my hands. How well do I remember the nice little things about home? Because I am never going to make it back there again. I'm glad to have a place to sit down. The rattan chair creaks as I settle my weight onto it. They're probably processing Papa in right now. Every tribute is given an hour to say good-bye. The less people one has to say farewell to, the more time one gets with those people, I suppose.
…I hope that my school friends will keep the pact we made about this a few weeks ago- the same one we remake in some form every year. If I were picked, I asked them not to come to leave me more time with Papa. Azzie wanted everyone to visit if it were her. Tylina said she'd leave it up to us.
I wonder what, if anything, this room is used for when it's not being employed for this sad and dramatic purpose.
The door opens and Papa comes in. He takes the other chair, pushed aside into the corner and pulls it up close to me. "You're brave like your mother," he says right off. "You do all the things that she would do. The things that I never could."
Papa has never seemed cowardly to me. "You're brave too," I answer back.
"No." There are depths to his look as he says that single word that I'm not sure I'm even meant to understand. I'm nervous that he's going to ask me now why I did it; what I was thinking, and I'm not going to have any reasonable answer to give. What I said on the stage, was that really me? But he doesn't ask that. Even if that question occupies his thoughts, it's too late and nothing I say will make any difference in regard to whether or not I go away to the Capitol and the Games.
"Mags," my father says, "Margarete." His face is very pale. "If you don't come back, you'll understand if I have to go with you, right?" Maybe this is what he means when he says he isn't brave. When my mother died, he had me to keep going for. If I die, he's just a middle-aged fisherman in an empty house and an empty boat. His supposed cowardice during the rebellion keeps him on the outs with many of the men.
I'm starting to feel a little dizzy as the enormity of this burden congeals over me. It's good that I'm sitting down. I wouldn't want to faint- to look so weak (even if I'm not on camera now), to waste the time I have left with my father. "I," I stammer, "I hope you wouldn't but…" It's bad enough that I'm forcing Papa to watch me go. Whatever he does after me is up to him. "But I can't say I wouldn't understand."
"Thank you," he holds my hand. Is his grasp really that warm or am I feeling abnormally cold? The air inside is as mild as the weather outside.
I don't have any other family members to talk to. We can afford a few moments of silence. Though eventually I have to ask it. "…Do you think I can win, Papa?"
"You want my honest opinion?"
That makes it sound like his answer will be no. I tense up a bit. "Of course."
"I think that maybe you could."
That isn't the answer I'm expecting. He actually smiles- I must look so incredulous. "No," I protest.
"Yes," he squeezes my hand, once purposefully, then a slight aftershock of his tremor follows it, "I think you might be able to. But if you do win, that might be the hardest thing you ever have to do. Mags, you're so kind."
"You're imagining yourself in my place," I say, because Papa is the kind one here. He's the kindest person I know.
"It would be the most amazing thing I've ever seen," he shakes his head, "If you could win and still stay kind."
I can't know what I'll do in the arena until I'm there. That's what all the victors say. I don't think I'm half as kind as Papa thinks I am, but I can't see myself any other way than I am now. "I'm not sure how realistic that would be, but, of course, I want the same thing." More silence follows, as we agonize inside our own minds. I'm not good at knowing what to say at moments like this. Papa is better, but this is a particularly difficult situation. It's no wonder that we're silently reeling at what has happened- at what I've done- like this.
"Mrs. Beaumont and her little girl are here too. So, this is probably good-bye for now."
"Oh, uh…" It makes sense that they want to talk to me, but after volunteering I became so caught up in my own wild thoughts (and second-guessing?) that it became less about Faline and more about me (and Papa and Beanpole and all the other people who were tied more directly to these Games through my actions or otherwise). "For now," I say.
Someone taps on the door. Papa gives me a tight hug, but I can still feel his hands shaking, and kisses me on the forehead before he steps away. A Peacekeeper opens the door and he backs away, but never turns his face from mine. "I'll be watching you every moment they allow me," he promises.
"I'll be thinking of you," I reply, and wiggle my fingers again in the tentative sort of wave I offered during the ceremony. It's not a goodbye forever wave. It's just goodbye for now.
The space Papa occupied is soon filled by Faline and Mrs. Beaumont. Faline is teary. Her mother, though outwardly composed, is, I can see, trembling with nervous energy. It only takes a few more seconds before both of them are hugging me. "You saved me!" Faline gasps out.
"I guess so," I agree, and, feeling very weak, hug her back. …What is it like to have a sister?
Her mother releases me first, and when it looks like I'm still not breathing, she puts her hand on Faline's shoulder and subtly convinces her to do the same. "…You're my hero. Really," Faline reiterates the importance of what I've done for her in the context of her life. "If you win- If you win, Mags, you'll be everyone's hero."
"Ha ha," I laugh awkwardly. What do I say?
"Whether or not you win," Mrs. Beaumont says, "What you said at the reaping puts some pressure on District Four. It goes against most people's instincts to volunteer, even for someone they're close to. Individually, that's a terrible burden to bear but, communally, we have to take responsibility somehow."
"No one should feel forced to volunteer themselves," I pipe up. That no one should actually be forced to volunteer goes without saying.
"When you get back," Faline says, "You can use all the free time you'll suddenly have to work on it."
"Get a head start on thinking about it before I'm back then," I sort of joke, "You're going to be my assistant on this. It's hardly the kind of problem one person can solve by herself."
Faline starts sniffling again. I wonder why I haven't cried any. I think it's just so startling. Just because, intellectually, I know this is real doesn't mean it's sinking in. I'll probably cry a bunch when District 4 is receding behind me.
"Do you have a token?" Faline asks through the tears she's wiping on the shoulder of her pretty lavender dress.
"I hadn't thought about that." Every tribute is allowed to wear a token into the arena, but I'm not sure if all of them take advantage of this tiny concession. For some tribes, I think it might actually be better not to avail themselves of this opportunity. Thinking too much about home can be a liability. I can't know now if I am one of those tributes who will ruin themselves by being unable to mentally leave their district behind (although to the viewers at home it may be obvious from the moment I set foot in the arena).
The winner of the Third Games, Hector Auric, talked a lot about how his life in 2 was in his thoughts as he fought. "I just told myself to do what I did in Two," he explained in the interview that proceeded his crowning.
"And what is it you do in Two, Hector?" the flashy Jeff Zimmer prompted him.
"I swing a sledgehammer and break rocks."
And what do I do? I go to school and I fish. I've never heard any victor claim that something they learned in school led to their victory (not to imply that it didn't, but obviously not consciously), so should I approach this like fishing? I find there's something creepy about that as a strategy. It's one thing when little kids chase fish around in the shallows. Most of the time when you're catching fish, you're tricking them.
"Take my ring then," Faline pushes what would have been her token upon me. It makes sense for me to take this now that I've stepped into her shoes, so to speak.
The ring is salmon pink. It was carved from a piece of coral. I think that might be what Faline's family does- make coral jewelry. Is it popular in the Capitol? Faline wears the ring around her middle finger, but my hands are bigger, so after examining it I slip it onto the ring finger of my right hand. "Thank you. It's really beautiful."
"…After your Games, you and I will be friends, right?"
I hope this little girl can get over her disappointment. "Yeah, of course." Doing otherwise would hardly be my decision.
The Peacekeepers enter without knocking, but my visitors don't resist. "Come back soon, Mags," are the last words I can make out from Faline.
I don't have much time to reflect on the things we've said here before Apple appears to collect me. Beanpole isn't crying when he joins us a second later, but he keeps sniffing in a way that lets me know he was.
It makes sense to cry at a time like this. I think most of the girl tributes cry and many of the boys do as well. The winner of the Eighth Games, from District 9, didn't shed a tear from her reaping day until her crowning, at which point a single tear ran down her perfect chestnut cheek. "As distant as the moon," they described her, "As cold as the hoarfrost." Sunny and Shy and Emmy, the other female victors, all cried at some point. Sunny Lightfoot, from 6, was pretty much hysterical for most of her time in the arena, but by her crowning she was calm and poised.
There's a car waiting for us behind the Justice Building. "Cool wheels," Beanpole perks up enough to note.
"If you like this, you would love the car I own back in the Capital," Apple sighs, "I'll have to get a picture of it to show you. I don't think our schedule will allow for a ride."
"If he wins, you should let him drive your car," I suggest, trying to cheer him up.
"You can drive, Jean Paul?" Apple regards him with one perfectly arched raised eyebrow.
"Uh, I can sail a boat," Beanpole offers, "How much harder could it be?"
Apple, Beanpole, and I all pile into the backseat together. The two of them bicker a bit about cars and make Peacekeeper Bryant, a regular in District 4, not one of these rushed in with the camera crews, laugh at them. I've only ridden in a car a few times in my life. They aren't very common in 4. The ride inland to the train station is quick compared to a walk there, but bumpier because of the speed involved. The cameramen are set up on the train platform. I can see the eyes of several curious cameras trained on our car as we arrive. Some are the same ones from the reaping ceremony, others are different. We get out of the car and Apple chats with one of the reporters. None of them ask us anything, and I assume they aren't supposed to.
"Come along," Apple guides us up onto the train. I've never been inside a train before, let alone ridden one. Trains are for the transport of goods and Capitol business. I've visited the station before as a kid though to watch them come and go.
There's that train whistle. We'll go in a second. I realize that some of the cameras can still see us through the window. How should I react? I decide to try and give them a smile. The train jerks to a start and I stumble, but at least I don't hit the ground.
"Are you okay?" Beanpole asks me.
"Fine," I shift my weight and stand up straight again, "Just stupid."
"Admitting that one is foolish is a necessary step to proceed in acquiring some polish," Apple tells me, "It's like finishing school." She laughs at her own private joke.
"Is it, uh, going to be a long ride to the Capitol?" Beanpole inquires.
Not at this speed, I'd guess. Trees and hills and vast empty wild lands are passing us by. I can't even be sure we're still in District 4 anymore. There are scars from missile impacts evident, dips in the ground although they're covered over in clumps of short, thin plants.
"Only a few hours," Apple informs us. "We'll have a nice lunch together on the train, but dinner will be in the Capitol."
Nothing much to say to that. "Oh, okay." Beanpole sniffs again. Just because he's stopped crying doesn't mean his runny nose wants to cooperate.
"The two of you are at your leisure until lunch," Apple dismisses us. "Have a look around, relax, have a seat," she gestures in an empty, florid manner.
"What are you going to do?"
"I am going to tune into the live selection broadcast and hope that I can still catch a little of that pompous fool Selenius Prime in Seven."
A name like that has got to be Capitol. "The escort with the blue facial tattoos?" I ask.
"The very same!"
"Is he your rival or something?" Beanpole chimes in.
"Since finishing school," Apple half scowls, half smiles. I can see she takes some pleasure in the annoyance.
"Well, don't let us keep you," I encourage her.
"Thank you then, Margarete, Jean Paul," she curtsies and excuses herself, heading forward into the next car.
"What kind of guy would have a rivalry with a lady like that?" Beanpole wonders aloud after a moment of silence has elapsed in Apple's wake.
"One who cares a lot about his hair," I offer my best guess, which makes both of us snicker. "Maybe it's about Kayta Hiro."
"Seven's got a victor and we don't."
If we did, that person would be with us right now, giving us tips or whatever it is victors do for their tributes at this point. In 6, the tributes each have their own victor to work with, as the only distract thus far to have a matched set- one male and one female victor. 2 has victors also, both big, powerful guys. I wonder if they work with their tributes each year the same as the ones from 6 or if they have to trade off or something.
"He carves miniatures animal figurines, doesn't he?" Beanpole reflects further.
"'Net-ski?'" I try to recall the peculiar word that he used to describe hem.
"Yeah, something like that."
The districts with victors have an edge. We won't be left completely to our own devices, but the person who will coach us is in the Capitol. He or she is just a cog in the machine, not some tortured reminder of what the Capitol plans on doing to us. Tributes with victors to talk to get a head start. Obviously, based on the spread of where the past eleven victors have come from, it's possible to win without one though.
"Can I ask you something morbid?" Beanpole drops into a chair and slouches over.
"Uh, go ahead." No point in avoiding the truth of the situation. I keep seeing Papa's sad face over and over in my mind. Should my biggest hope at this point be, "Please let me die in a quick and not terribly painful way?"
"What moment out of the past Games sticks with you the most? I think everyone- everyone around our age, at least, has gotta have one. The one you have nightmares about where you're part of the situation."
"What's yours?" I ask in reply. Beanpole definitely has one after telling me all of that.
"I'm a wimp," he states, "I have too many. You were making me think about Kayta Hiro though. …Stabbing that guy from, uh, Eleven, I think, and his sword getting stuck between the guy's ribs and him putting his foot against the dying kid's chest to help him pull it out. …I think I'd be a little scared to meet Kayta. …Maybe a District Four victor would be different, since they'd be one of ours and all, but I don't know… I'm not sure it bothers me that we don't have a victor to help us out."
"Jack Umber," I say succinctly, "Spitting out his teeth."
"Out of everything that's ever happened in the Games, that's it for you?" Beanpole isn't accusing or really laughing at me, but it's clear that we've been effected by the Games in different ways.
"Well, of course it's impossible to know entirely why something freaks you out if it didn't actually happen to you, but I think part of it is that I had my first loose tooth around that time and it made me sort of nervous. Then I see, in high definition detail, as this guy gets punched in the head and smacked around with a board and spits out two of his teeth in a handful of goopy blood. It took me a very long time to stop being afraid of losing my teeth after that."
"It is the stuff you see when you're little that's really seared into you, huh? I mean, I remember last year's Games just fine, but the year before that? The whole thing's kind of a blur of tall grass and Pal Fields going camouflage. But Jack and Teejay and Hector and Kayta? And the kids who died around them? I don't think I'd forget them even if I lived to be one hundred."
"The Capitol wants you to remember." I'm not sure exactly what I even mean by it. That's just how it is.
"They want me to have nightmares?"
"Sure? Why not?" I let out a wry laugh.
"Stinking Capitol." Beanpole pulls his legs up into the chair and leans his head on his knees.
I'm aching to do something. All sitting around will do is give me more time to freak out. "I'm going to check the train out," I state my intent, "You want to come?"
"Maybe I'll catch up to you. I'm just not feeling it, Mags."
"Oh, okay." Beanpole's more sensitive than I am, and probably smarter too. Little wonder it would get to him. There isn't anything I can really do for him though. I feel bad as I move to follow Apple's footsteps to the next car. There are two compartments, one on either side of the hall. A hand-written card on the door to the right reads "Margarete." The one on the left says "Jean Paul," as I expected.
I double back to the train car I came from, "There's a room for you, Beanpole." It would be kind of sad if he didn't even hear about it.
"What?" he lifts his tousled head and eyes me, confused.
"Really," I encourage him.
He hops to his feet and strides after me, his curiosity piqued. He rushes ahead to reach the door. "This must be Apple's handwriting." Well, it is in green ink, so… Beanpole flings open his door and looks inside the plush, but modest compartment, "Huh! How about some comfort before we die? Thank you, Mags, this is exactly what I wanted."
Now I'm the one who's confused.
"A pillow to put my head in," he explains and promptly enters the space provided for him and lies down on his stomach on the bed with his face in the pillow, leaving his door wide open. It scares me. I can picture him dead like that. I abandon my exploration now to go into my own room and close the door. Not to imply that I think I'll survive, but seeing that, I'm left with the eerie feeling that Beanpole won't either. I hope I don't see that.
I walk over to my bed and lay down, staring up at the gray ceiling. I'm not even going to entertain the idea of a scenario where either Beanpole or I are forced to kill the other. Frankly, the other tributes would have to be incompetent for it to come to that. …I'm not sure I could even give Beanpole a mercy kill, like one of the guys from 2 did for his partner when her stomach was slashed open.
What's the better thing to do? Try to strategize, even with so many unknown factors awaiting in the arena, or do my best not to think about it? I think if I had a past victor here to talk to, that's the thing I would want to ask him or her most. If I don't make up my mind, I won't fully commit either way and all I'll end up doing is wasting my time.
What did you do, Emmy Pollack? What are you telling your tributes, Luna Vetiver? What would you suggest to me, Jack Umber?
Actually, I think I know what Jack might say. This is evidence that he has been on television too much in the past eleven years.
Thinking about something so borderline ridiculous reignites my spirit of curiosity. I start up slowly, examining the room I'm in. There's a bathroom with a shower, a painting of some flowers I can't identify on the wall, and even clothes in the drawers of the dressers. I assume that since Apple didn't directly tell either of us to change, she considers us at least presentable. Still… I wonder… Even if the drawing is rigged (sometimes Rylan and Azzie and I would discuss this possibility), they couldn't have known an unrelated entity would volunteer… Would these clothes fit me? I pull out a puffy white dress and hold it up against myself. It looks like it would. And I may be on the slight side, but there's a large difference between Faline and me. Interesting.
I fold the dress up and put it back. I want to keep wearing my own clothes as long as possible.
The Capitol is inland and up in the mountains though. It makes me wonder if I should look for a sweater. I don't like being cold.
I short through the available garments. The best thing I can find is a floral scarf. I toss it around my shoulders and resume my investigations, leaving my compartment for other parts of the train. In the next car, there are two spaces set aside, but the doors are locked. They'd probably be used by victors, if we had any. Next is a dining room. A pretty Avox with really long blond hair is setting the table for lunch. I've never met an Avox before. They're made by, and work in, the Capitol. THe look she gives me is so neutral I can't guess what she thinks about me.
"Sorry to interrupt," I apologize, brushing around the edge of the room.
The Avox shakes her head and carries on with her work.
For some reason I feel kind of embarrassed. The moment I'm in the next car I pause and take a deep breath. And then I see Apple is sitting there on a small couch. She's taken her eyes away from the television to look at me. "Margarete?" She does that eyebrow-raising thing again.
"Really, you can call me 'Mags," I tell her, coming forward and around the couch to sit down with her. I keep some space between us. Apple has been nothing but hospitable, but it's not like I really know her. And she's Capitol too and probably twice my age at least. It's nothing personal, but there's blood between my people and hers. Suddenly, I find I'm wondering how Apple was affected by the Dark Days.
Onscreen, the District 9 reaping is going on. Their victor, Luna, is wearing a trailing headdress of feathers and examining her nails. The whole affair appears to bore her. Her behavior has the plump woman beside her, presumably the mayor of 9, squirming uncomfortably in her seat. The mayor and Luna share similar coloration, but in every other regard, they hardly seem like they could be more dissimilar.
"What's she like?" I ask on an impulse.
"Denia?" Apple thinks for a moment that I mean the jewel-clad escort. "Oh, Luna," she realizes. "She is not a very nice girl. I wouldn't encourage you to have anything to do with her given the opportunity."
I snicker. "Who's acceptable, then?"
"Are you making fun of me, Miss Gaudet?" Apple pushes.
"No, no," I rush to say, "I'm just curious."
We sit in silence as a chubby girl is called and takes her place onstage. The boy who's picked passes out. "Laurence Vetiver." He has the same last name as Luna. The camera cuts to her sienna red face, which is suddenly three shades paler. Her previously narrow eyes are as googly and wide as a squid's.
But there's a volunteer. Fortunately for Luna's nephew? Cousin? Brother? Luna grits her teeth, but color returns to her cheeks. After some investigative questions, it's determined that the boy who was called is Luna's brother and the one who took his place is her cousin. Is a victor's family member reaped through bad luck like the rest of us, or is it fixed? This is only the second time I have seen the close relative of a victor called. The other was the sister of Teejay Atticus. She tripped and sprained her ankle right off at the Cornucopia. It must have been awful for her family to watch and the bad start probably only added to the agony. She survived for three days. …There haven't been related victors yet.
"Sunny and Shy and Pal are all commendable young people," Apple answers me belatedly after the District 9 drama has played out in front of us. Luna's brother has been revived, but still looks pale and woozy.
"If one of us wins, Beanpole or I will automatically be your favorite, right?"
"Of course. …Even if you are rather cheeky."
The scene onscreen has shifted to District 10. There are a lot of hats in evidence in the crowd. "Well, come on now," Apple stands up and directs me to follow her, "Let's have some lunch." She instructs me to sit down at the dining table and wait while she goes to retrieve Beanpole. The blond Avox is standing to the side of the car with a tray and a dark-skinned male Avox has joined her. I stare uncomfortably at the table until Apple returns with Beanpole trailing behind her. I think about Papa. Is he having lunch on his boat or is he too upset to eat?
When Apple takes her seat, she gestures to the Avoxes, who come and pour our drinks. It's a blend of orange juice and some other fruit I can't identify. There's a bowl of soup and a chicken sandwich set before me. Apple encourages both of us to eat whatever fruit and crackers we like from the various bowls on the table. I feel like I'm at Mayor Current's annual New Years' party with so many things laid out for me to choose from. After several large spoonfuls of blueberries, it occurs to me that I should probably be careful not to make myself sick. There's more food on the table than Beanpole, Apple, and I are intended to eat. …Will the Avoxes eat when we're finished?
"So much for lunch conversation," Apple remarks. From the look on her face, I think something about the way we eat amuses her, but it's not like she hasn't met a dozen District 4 kids before us.
"Sorry," Beanpole wipes his fingers on his napkin, "I got carried away."
"The food's really good," I add.
"I thought you might appreciate a meal that didn't contain fish."
Ugh. I wish I were eating fish. I wish I were home frying fish in batter or stirring shrimp in a pan or salting squid to dry. If I get the opportunity to eat food more like the stuff back home, should I take it?
"And if you two are ready, there's also desert." The Avoxes clear away some of the dishes to make room for a fairytale sort of cake covered in cherries and pineapple slices and flakes of coconut.
"I would have been happy eating just this," I announce after my first bite.
"You would get sick if I let you eat nothing but this cake." I detect a hint of remembrance and regret in Apple's tight, toothless smile. "It's too sweet." This probably isn't the right time to ask about it. Beanpole's been eating just as heartily as I have and I don't want to upset him unnecessarily.
And even with that warning, I still eat more cake than I should. The Avoxes smile when Beanpole and I thank them for the great meal, but Apple tells us that it's not necessary. Beanpole protests that our families taught us manners. Our families both go way back to Norleans, a city the existed sometime before Panem, or so says Mrs. Mirande. It shows in our names. Honestly though, the roots of everyone in District 4 are all mixed up, so I'm not sure how much it matters where the forefathers of my father came from, because the ancestors of my mother came from more than somewhere else anyway.
Beanpole and I both go along with Apple this time and see the District 11 reaping is in progress. Beanpole points out a man in the crowd who looks like Mr. Kiet, the school principal. District 11's Mr. Kiet lookalike keeping wiping his fat face with handkerchief does like ours does. We stop joking around though when the selection process begins. My stomach shifts unpleasantly from all the fancy food. It's a bad combination.
I excuse myself to wash my face and lie down on my bed. I stare at the painting on the wall because looking toward the window as the country rushes by only makes me feel sicker. Eventually I close my eyes. I wish I could go to sleep until I feel better, but as emotionally exhausting as the day has been so far, I can't manage it. I decide that I'll at least spare myself the last of the live reaping footage. The recap tonight with all the chipper announcer commentary will be easier to swallow. I'm interested in what remarks will be made about Luna Vetiver and her family in 9. Alternately, I hate to think of how awkward and embarrassing it will be to watch myself volunteer.
When I do return to the parlor sort of compartment, Apple's watching a rather raucous gossip program and Beanpole is sleeping with his head on an arm of the couch and drool pooling by his cheek. With how bothered he was, I'm surprised he can nap. Maybe the big meal put him to sleep.
Jeff Zimmer, one of the hosts of the Games- the personable one who always interviews the tributes- was photographed out having dinner with a woman whose (insert scandalized gasp here) gray roots were showing! Apple tsks disapprovingly over this and invites me to sit down with her. I sit politely through the show until it cutes to commercials.
"Do you have a favorite tribute?" I ask. If Beanpole can sleep through this silly show, my regular speaking voice shouldn't disturb him any.
"Between the two of you?"
"No." Either way, I don't want to know that. "I mean overall. Of all your time working as an escort."
"Oh," she sighs, "When you go through the training program for this job, they tell you not to get too attached- the odds are against it turning out. But just being told that doesn't cut it for some of us. …And there was this tiny little boy. Simon Belair."
I didn't know Simon, but I remember. I remember Cela, his sister, the only family he had. She drowned herself the day he died.
"Oh, his big green eyes and his messy blond mop of hair. I wanted to take him home with me."
"You let him get sick eating cake," I guess.
"Well, he wasn't even five feet tall. I didn't see any way he wouldn't be slaughtered. Might as well let the boy have his cake."
I wouldn't like to be an escort. I wonder what made Apple sign up. Competition with her old finishing school rivals? The desire to be on TV? She rustles around in her shimmering handbag. It looks like it's covered in iridescent fishing scales. I bet she reserves this as her "visiting District 4" bag.
"I don't show this to people back him because it would be seen as terribly sentimental of me and maybe a tad unprofessional, but I imagine you'll understand."
From between a few slices of plastic- I can see that one is an official identification card- Apple pulls a photograph. In it, Apple, fixated at that time on a different shade of green than she's sporting now, sits beside Simon Belair. Her smile is huge. His is tentative. "The audience ate that boy up," she tells me as she gives me time to study the photo," But no matter how much the audience screams and wails, once the Games begin, there's no influencing what goes on in the arena."
"I'm sorry," I return her memento and she tucks it carefully away.
"We're- well, some of my friends and I- we're circulating a petition to institute some way for the feelings of the viewers at home to have an impact. Two other escorts have signed it. We're hoping some victor support for it might attract signees with deeper pockets."
"Sounds…" What? "Interesting."
"I mean, as an escort, I probably wouldn't be allowed to make a direct contribution, but someone could."
"Just people in the Capitol, or back home in Four or wherever too?"
"Anyone with a telephone and a bank account. …It could help pay for the Games." Apple seems proud to be involved in such a well-developed endeavor. "It's just not fun to watch with the odds stacked so high that the biggest, meanest brute put in there will win."
"They don't always," I note, but being pretty far from a big, mean brute myself, I wouldn't be adverse to something that could even the battlefield.
"I prefer the clever ones." This explains her liking for Shy Evert and Pal Fields- they both worked a bit of the brains over brawn angle in their Games (her third "nice victor," Sunny Lightfoot, didn't meet the "big, mean brute" criteria either, but as far as I could tell, she had basically no strategy of any kind).
The compartment suddenly dims. My eyes shoot to the window and are met with darkness. "It's a tunnel," Apple explains, "It will take us straight through the mountains to the Capitol."
"So we're pretty close. …Should I way up Beanpole and tell him to wash his face?'
"That would be excellent, dear."
I try to think of something funny to whisper in his ear as a wakeup call, but nothing comes to mind. "Hey, Beanpole," I nudge his shoulder, "We're almost there." He groggily staggers off to wash up and get himself together.
He's back in time not to miss a moment of our entry into the Capitol's grandeur. It comes in a blast of light. I blink at the brightness. We leave the tunnel and find ourselves back under a beautiful blue sky. The Capitol is pristine and colorful. Unlike in District 4, there are no indications that war ever marred this fantastic landscape. …Maybe it didn't. Beanpole gravitates to a window and, gradually, I sidle up beside him.