May The Odds Be Ever In Your Favor
Our family sat in silence for about ten minutes, staring absently at the television as President Snow said a few more words, then promptly left the stage. My father looked over at my mother with a glance that seemed to question her, and she responded with a similar look. Together, they looked at Alfie and me.
"I just love you both so, so, so much," was all she could say.
"Mommy, what happens now?" I asked curiously.
"We wait, Effie. We wait. The Quarter Quell has begun," she responded, leaving her place on the couch and turning off the television.
"When do they choose the players?" asked Alfie, also getting up.
"Very soon, son. Then we bet on those who are reaped. The drawing pool for bets will be bigger than it's ever been, I can assure you that," replied my father.
I sat on the couch by myself, mulling over the events slower than anyone else does. Twice the players? What does that mean? Will the Quell last longer than expected? So many questions filled my head, but I settled for the vague explanation my parents gave. All in due time.
The next few months passed quickly from the reading of the card. Teachers in school discussed the reaping. They explained it as a lottery-type of event, where names were drawn out of reaping balls, and the corresponding tributes became contestants in the game. However, an unnatural feeling of excitement hovered about when the teachers talked about the game. We could hear them in private discussing the twist in the Quell. That this had made history. On one occasion, I discussed the Games with Alfie.
"Effie, they go into the arena and one comes out."
What does he mean, one comes out? Where do the others go? And what will happen with twice the number of tributes? Unfortunately, he never said anything else on the manner, at least not in the months leading up to the reaping.
On the day of the reaping, we were off from school again. The teachers told us the day before that we were to watch the reaping with hopes to learn more about the Capitol. A form of elementary history. My mother brought Alfie and myself home and promptly went about decorating the house for the reaping.
"Manners, Effie. Manners, manners, manners!" she shouted repetitively at me as she cleaned.
My father came home before the reaping, and brought some friends along. I had never seen such strange creatures before. One man had a gold stencil pattern intricately woven around his body; his skin dyed an off-white hue. The other man sported a large, purple afro that protruded from his head like a cloud in the sky. My father dressed up for the occasion, donning a masquerade disguise, exploding with light blues, reds, and greens.
My mother dragged me into her bedroom and I gagged from the smell. Something was burning. She forced me into a chair in front of her vanity. She undressed briskly and forced on some earrings that featured peacock feathers as their main attraction.
"What do you think of my dress?" she smiled with pride as she pointed at the bedroom door.
A slender, rosemary dress with holes cut seductively hung there. The collar of the dress rolled into an 'S' shape, shifting all the way to the bottom near the hem. The sleeves or lack thereof, extended out like points along the collar line. She walked to the door and carefully squeezed into the dress, twirling in front of her three full-wall sized mirrors. When she spun to face me, I gasped. She looked delicate. Seductive. Perfect.
She approached me and began to brush my hair with that fine-toothed comb. Knots threatened to snag on my locks, but she bustled through with relative ease.
"Effie, dear. Your hair simply will not go straight," she admitted.
I thought back to the reading of the card, when she uttered these exact words. Verbatim. Then it struck me. The repetition of the Games. This event was going to play a heavy part of my existence. Every single year. They symbolized a ravish occurrence. They brought my family together. They provided a source of commonality. The Games were all anyone who was anyone talked about. The key to popularity lay within the Games. I knew at that moment that I wanted to be part of the Games.
My mother stared at my hair, concerned with its complexity. Then she got a bold idea. She walked over to her closet with tears starting in her eyes. She reached high up into the closet and brought down a small box. Walking over to me, she began to cry.
"Mommy, why are you crying?" I inquired. I turned to face her.
"Oh, Effie. I planned to give this you in years to come. It is an honor, a privilege, a duty. You will look proper for the Games. Perfect," she cried out.
She opened the box and inside laid a powder blue wig. The small artificial locks lay in heaps, frozen with delicacy in a noble way. The wig flew out of the box at the hands of my mother and I saw pink bows sewn into the strands. Beauty frozen in such an odd hairpiece. With all the care in the world, she set the wig onto my head and adjusted the natural hair in accordance. In that moment, we became eternal.
"Oh, Effie," was all she managed to say.
We stared into the vanity, mother and daughter, for minutes before snapping into action. I was glorified, pious, and perfect. That wig contained tradition, a sense of duty with what must be done, what had to be done, and should be done in the future. The wig symbolized the Games.
When the pampering finished, I took a hard look at myself in the tri-mirrors. I was a diva. At six years old, my powder blue wig redefined who I was. My mother's elegant hand had provided me with a dress of magnificent proportions. Gargantuan, really. It was a pea-green piece accompanied with light gloves. Together, we left the bedroom, holding hands. The reaping was calling.
"Hurry, the reaping! It's starting!" shouted Alfie from the living room.
The men, my brother included all hung about room in a glorious manner. The room, complete with my mother and myself, was picturesque. It was something you would see defined in the dictionary as perfect. The decorations my mother placed reflected the important atmosphere. The reaping soon became synonymous in my mind with Christmas.
We took our designated positions on the couch and raised the volume on the television. The broadcasting, similar to that of the reading of the card, was national. Everyone watched Panem in its glory, its finest hour. The reading of the card played yet again, to remind all citizens the condition of our Quarter Quell. My mother looked over at me, reflecting my smile in her pride, and said the words that live with me to this day:
"May the odds be ever in your favor."