Disclaimer: The Hunger Games and its characters are all property of Suzanne Collins. No profit is being made from this piece of work. No copyright infringement is intended.
2
"I'll leave you two alone to get acquainted," Plutarch says in parting. I'm aware of the door closing behind me but I'm still in shock at meeting Britney to fully register the fact we are alone now.
"Would you like me to get you anything?" she asks, taking a single strand of hair – almost transparent in the dressing room light – and wrapping it around her finger. She looks nervous and I suppose I'm not helping at all, just standing there gawking at her.
"Humphrey…?" is all I can get out. Britney frowns at me and I feel my face burn slightly having realized how much of a fool I'm making of myself in front of a girl.
"He left," Britney answers me, no doubt thinking I may be an idiot. I certainly sound like one, having just been introduced to her and then calling her by my old PA's name. "Plutarch told me…" she hesitates a moment before explaining, "He's gone to work on an important project in District 11."
I'm quite sad to see Humphrey go. He was an odd man, born and raised in the Capitol with the tendency to color his eyebrows pink. Still, he was good company. And a great story-teller too though he sometimes failed to realize that I am the next generation born after the war and so everything he told me about life during the pre-revolution I'd covered in school.
I shuffle further into the room, hoping that by doing so I'd somehow become less socially awkward. Britney smiles at me, I think it might be a sympathetic smile but my mind tells me to stop being paranoid. I'm not used to meeting new people. I've grown up with only my mother and Nurse Everdeen for company. The children at school tended to keep away from me. I think the fact that both my parents were in the Hunger Games combined with the facts that my father had died in the Revolutionary War and my mother was a little bit crazy tended to put people off.
"I'm sorry," I blurt. "It's too early in the morning to think. How are you, Britney? Is this your first job in television?" And just like that I relax. Being raised by two women may have been frustrating at times but they made sure they taught me manners.
Britney, seeming surprised by my sudden turn-around, blinks and says, "Erm, yes it is actually. I'm a bit nervous to be honest."
"Don't worry about it," I tell her. "You'll settle in just fine. Have you seen my prep team?"
Britney nods and takes me through my day just like Humphrey used to. I don't know why he suddenly left without saying goodbye to me; I don't ask. Capitol people are strange and they do strange things. Sometimes it's best to just leave them be.
Plutarch is with me during the entire day. I like that about him. Being the Head of Communications, he could easily sit in his office all day and do nothing yet here is, day in and day out, on set with everybody else. Sometimes he jokes it's to keep an eye on me, other times I think he is serious.
Britney isn't there by the time I get back to my dressing room mid-afternoon. No doubt she will keep herself scarce while my prep team get me out of this ridiculous bird costume. Apparently they were the largest birds to lay eggs, or they laid the largest eggs. It's hard to remember what they told me in school and I'd always had my doubts over it anyway. We could never be sure about the birds because all we have are fossils to prove their existence. Archaeologists say they became extinct during the Big War. They'd become a big hype in the press since District 11 dug them up by accident a few years back, and Plutarch was adamant at getting them involved in a sketch on his show.
I didn't mind. It's my job after all.
"You'd better cut back on the pudding, Fin," Mira told me, giving my butt a playful slap once I'd changed into a comfortable pair of pants. "We don't want you losing that stunning body of yours."
"Yes, ma'am," I say obediently, laughing with her. Mira has been with me since I first started here – she's another friendly face along with Juppy.
I say goodbye to Mira and her team and head for the exit. I bump into Britney on the way.
"Sorry!" she cries, as I grab her shoulders to steady her. She seems lost in her own thoughts.
"Are you okay?" I ask.
"Yeah," she says wistfully but something about her voice stops me from saying whatever I had planned to say next.
"What did you say?" I ask.
She looks up at me, her cheeks tainted the faintest shade of pink. "I'm sorry," she whispers, her voice back to normal, "Sometimes I just slip. My parents still have the accent and I know I shouldn't use it here but…" she trails off, looking ashamed.
"Hey," I say soothingly, rubbing her shoulders gently. "There's no need to apologize," I assure her. "I've never heard anybody speak like that before. It just caught me off-guard."
I see some unrecognizable emotion cross her eyes before it's gone and she's smiling meekly at me. I can tell by the color of her cheeks that she is still embarrassed so I try to make her feel better.
"I'm not from here either," I tell her. "I've only been living here for three years."
"But I am from here," Britney protests. "I was born and raised in the Capitol."
"Second generation?" I ask. She nods.
"Wow," I murmur, "I can't imagine what that's like."
I try to think how different my life would have been had I been told by my mother that I was never meant to have been born in District 4. I wonder what things Britney's parents have told her about life in their original tribe. I also wonder whether Britney wishes her family could have stayed.
"Let's get out of here," I say suddenly. "We can go and get something to eat."
Britney looks surprised at first but she accepts. I'm relieved to breathe in the fresh air when I step outside. The Television Tower of the Capitol is a new and gorgeous building but it doesn't beat the smell of the fresh air, and the fresh air cannot beat the smell of the salty sea which I miss so much.
"So what Tribe do you come from then?" I ask as we settle into a booth at a restaurant, having grabbed some food from the selection available on the large buffet tables. I'm still not used to paying with coins here. Back home – and still in many of the other districts – we always pay by trade. I'll give you two fish for one of your hooks – things like that.
"My parents come from Tribe 3," Britney answers, keeping her eyes trained on her stew. "I'm from the Capitol."
"Do you like being from the Capitol?"
She doesn't answer. I don't expect her to.
"Tell me about Tribe 3 then," I say, encouraging her to speak more. Part of me is hoping she will slip into the native accent again. It's an odd way of speaking; all fully-pronounce words and optimistic tone.
"Only if you tell me about District 4," she says, bargaining. I smile.
"Okay," I agree. "But you first; your parents still speak in the Tribe's accent then?"
"Yeah, they never could let go of it," she explains. "I like it but it's hard when we go out and they speak to people from around here." She looks up at me, smiling a bit. "They all react like you did and most don't even understand what they're saying."
I look down for a second, slightly ashamed and embarrassed at how I had acted. I look up when I hear her laughing at me. It's a gentle laugh as though she's not sure she should be doing it but can't help it. "Don't look so morbid," she tells me. "It's not your fault you didn't understand me."
"But I did," I protest. "Will you talk like that again?" She looks surprised but then she gives me a small smile. No, not a smile but a smirk.
"Maybe," she says like she is teasing, "If you tell me about District 4."
"What do you want to know?" I ask.
"Tell me about your family," she shrugs casually before taking a bite of a bread roll as if the question is nothing. It probably is nothing…to her.
"I have a small family," I begin, unsure what she wants to know. "I was brought up by a family friend in a way. I don't have any parents."
"Everybody has parents," Britney points out gently. "Do you want to talk about it?" Her tone implies she already knows, or at least has some clue, as to what happened.
"My father died in the war," I tell her. There's no need to explain which war I am talking about. There are only three wars to remember now; the Revolutionary War; the Dark Days; and then - before all that - the war that wiped out almost the whole planet, leaving small groups of stragglers behind to pick up the pieces.
"I'm sorry," Britney mutters quietly, messing with her hair again. I can't tell whether it is just a habit or whether I am making her nervous again. I doubt it's the latter; for some reason I find it easy to talk to Britney and I have a feeling she feels the same way.
"I never knew him," I say, as if this makes the whole thing a lot better. But the moment the words leave my lips, I realize it makes the situation sadder. I've never mourned my father; I believe there is no point in shedding tears over somebody I have never even met.
"What about your mother?" Britney asks. I can see the concern in her eyes, her tactic to change subject tears me away from thoughts of the father I never met. I smile at her because I'm grateful and because I'm refusing to be the only one talking.
"No," I say, leaning back in my seat and crossing my arms. She looks surprised at first and then a little embarrassed as though she has intruded where she shouldn't have. "It's your turn now," I say and she relaxes. "Tell me about Tribe 3."
She brushes a strand of blonde hair that has fallen loose from her ponytail behind her ear. I notice again how pale she seems, almost ghostly. "What do you want to know?" she asks.
"What's it like?" I encourage her. "I bet it's a world away from the Capitol."
Britney thins her lips and nods. "I only know what my parents tell me. They say it rains a lot."
"That's nice. I like water," I state plainly, thinking of the sea back home.
"It's not that kind of water," Britney says, shaking her head. "It floods homes." I frown, unsure what she means. "Everything gets destroyed," she explains. "And it's cold."
It hardly ever rains in District 4 and the sea is always so warm. What Britney is describing sounds like a dangerous and miserable place. I think back to the news this morning; how desperate those people looked trying to get into the country. I think I'm beginning to understand why.
"So," Britney says, shaking her hair out of her eyes and, in a way, dismissing the morbid topic. "It's my turn again; why acting?"
I'm surprised. Our little deal earlier had meant I had to tell her about District 4. But now she is changing it. Now she is asking about…me. It had been a long time since anybody had asked about me, about what I thought. The monthly interviews Plutarch pushes me through just to get more of my face on television are always centered around my home or my relationships or what's happening on the comedy show. Never before has anybody asked why I do what I do.
"You don't have to answer that," Britney says quickly, pulling me back to the present. I look up, having just noticed how long I have been silent for; how long I had been pondering on my thoughts.
"No, it's okay," I say and clear my throat. "Nobody's ever really asked me that question before, and the answer is a little…uncomfortable."
Britney frowns. "What do you mean?"
I sigh, and decide to confide in her anyway. It's been a long time since I was able to confide in anybody. "My mother was…mentally unstable," I say, eyes trained on the white table cloth. I look up briefly to see her reaction but she is still looking at me, concern clouding her eyes. I see no judgment, no disgust, and – most importantly – no sympathy. So I continue, "She was okay most of the time but sometimes she just went off in a sort of…trance." I pause, wonder how much I should tell her before deciding to continue anyway. I've never told anybody this much before. Not Humphrey, not Juppy. It feels good to finally get it off my chest. "And other times she had a child's mind," I say, remembering my mother's face. Her eyes – the same green as mine – were always so wide a childlike. "We used to play a lot of imaginary games together."
"That sounds nice," Britney says. She sounds like she means it. There isn't a hint of patronization in her tone at all.
"Sometimes I pretended to be my father," I say wistfully, unable to stop. "I'd bring in the fish we caught together and pretend I did it all by myself. I used to pretend to look after her…" I stop, suddenly aware of Britney's hand on mine.
"So you act because it's like the games you used to play?" she asks, getting it right the first time. "You do it to remember her."
I nod numbly before I become aware of what she's just said.
"Remember her?" I repeat. "I never said she was dead."
Britney's caring expression falters for a brief moment before she composes herself and looks down quickly at her half-eaten meal. "I just thought…" she trails off. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make assumptions."
"No, it's okay," I say quickly, feeling terrible. "It's just that I've never really talked about it with anyone."
"Oh," Britney says sympathetically. "Well, you can talk to me."
"I know," I say.
It's weird, having this sudden yet comfortable connection with somebody. Part of me wonders whether it's because she's not from the Capitol either – like Juppy. Obviously she was born here but it's clear that her parents still hold the many traditions of their home tribe. She seems to stick out as much as I do. I like that.
"How did she…?" Britney trails off, unsure how to finish the sentence.
I smile at her to reassure her it's fine to ask. I'm twenty-one now, my mother's death feels like a long time ago at this moment. I'm sure by the time I get to sleep tonight, it will feel a lot closer.
"She walked into the sea and didn't stop," I say, smiling sadly.
(*)
I walk Britney back to her house, surprising myself with how dark it has gone. There are no stars in the Capitol – they can't be seen through the thick fog of car fumes – but there is the moon. Tonight it's full, hanging in the sky like a natural lamp and lighting our way home. It's strong enough to throw shadows behind us and glint off the parked cars in front.
Britney lives somewhere between the city and the outskirts of the Capitol. Her house is a small green bungalow, halfway between the one floored apartments in the city and the grand houses on the outskirts.
Part of me expects her to ask me in despite the fact we've only known each other for a day. I shouldn't be surprised when she says a quick goodbye and retreats indoors but I am. I walk the rest of the way to my apartment deep in thought. I'm about to head into my block when I see a little girl running up to me, brandishing a pen and paper.
She only looks about twelve but the glee in her eyes makes her seem even younger. Taking confident strides, she all but rushes over to me.
"Can you sign this please?" she asks almost squeaking. I do so without any bother. I'm used to it now – people asking me for autographs – but this time there's something different.
An older woman catches up to us. I can tell by the red hair that she is the younger girl's mother. I look between the two of them as I hand the paper back with a smile; the girl, so innocent and young; and the woman whose eyes seem older than her face. I think what it must have been like when the mother was her daughter's age, how the only thing she would have seen dominating the television screens was the Hunger Games. Did she sponsor anybody? Cheer when her favorite won?
I can feel myself slowly beginning to resent this stranger. I have to calm down. I have to understand that where the young girl watches Plutarch's comedy show, her mother would have watched the deaths of innocent children. Maybe she enjoyed it. Maybe she didn't.
Burying my feelings, I wave goodbye to them as they continue down the street. All of a sudden the differences have become clear between the innocent and the scarred.
Between me and them.