I Choose You
Crush? As if. I simply took notice of his powerful, captivating, and completely heart-stopping features. Nothing crush-worthy there. How silly. Ridiculous, actually. Hysterical to boot. And while I silently laugh about Alfie's assumption, I find I am alone. My mother comes back into the parlor upon my realization and shoos me away.
"Effie, dear. I need to clean up this mess and I am in no mood for any lolly-gagging."
I get up to leave and my mother brushes off my dress. She instructs me to put it in my bedroom, so she can fold it after her cleaning escapade. The wig, however, should be placed with the upmost care on her vanity. Walking to her bedroom, I try to understand more about the reaping. The concept of other districts is nothing short of an absolute shock. I never imagined that there would be others, outside of the Capitol.
Gently, I place the wig on my mother's vanity and turn to leave the room. Before I step outside, something catches my eye. My father has left his list of tributes on his desk. Cautiously, I tiptoe over to the list and take a gander at the forty-eight names. Haymitch Abernathy. Maysilee Donner. Haymitch Abernathy. Maysilee Donner. The names soundly resonate in my head, threatening to explode. I turn to leave, but I am no longer alone.
"Scoping out the competition, I see," says my father, stepping into the bedroom, "I knew you would love the Games. Alfie does not seem to take as great as an interest in them as you have. He views them as a national pastime, a sport of sorts. To you and me, however, it's something much bigger."
Wordlessly, I look at him and question the meaning of his statement. He seems to enjoy watching me ponder over his words and points to the list.
"Tomorrow, I am going to put up a hefty amount of money on the betting pools. People from all over the Capitol will lay thousands on the line in favor of these forty-eight children. You, Effie, are going to help me pick a winner."
He smiles and places a hand on my head. I smile back politely and leave. On my way to my bedroom, I hear my mother frantically cleaning, still screaming about "Bad manners!" I take off the dress and get into bed, awaiting the arrival of my mother to fold and put the dress away. Moments later, she makes her entrance, her wig leaning heavily to the right. For a split second, the room stays quiet.
"Mommy, what happens now?" I ask in a quiet voice.
"Now, the tributes come here, to the Capitol. They stay here to prepare for the Games," she answers, her back turned to me as she folds.
"Will we get to see them? In real life?" I eagerly question.
"Perhaps. However, the time has come for you to go to sleep," comes the worn-out drawl, "Goodnight, dear."
A kiss on the cheek. My head hits the pillow. Out like a light.
The Hunger Games. The Hunger Games. The Hunger Games. They captivate my dreams. Over again, I see Maysilee Donner shy away from her friends, boldly take the stage, and stand in front of her district. Repetitively, I see Haymitch Abernathy in all his glory, that ghost of a smile on his lips, make his ascent toward the stage. This duo has hit me hard.
The next day brings talk of the Games. In the news, the future events are dissected, piece by piece, with every prediction of every action. My family discusses the Games non-stop. In school, we discuss the reaping and a strong encouragement to watch the Games in their entirety springs forth. On my way out of school, I hear two older girls discussing the tribute train that arrived moments before.
"I saw him out of the window. You know that strong one from Four? No, not the ugly one, the strong one."
The tributes are in town. I take careful note of the ebb and flow of Capitol citizens. They appear in a daze, pointing and laughing to the City Circle. I know without knowing that the train station resides close by. That the giant rock formation holds a tunnel that connects the Capitol to the rest of Panem. When I get home, live footage from the station plays on our television set. My mother watches anxiously, letting us know what districts have arrived, and more importantly, what they are wearing. As Seven pulls in, I hear my father arguing with Alfie.
"Father, it's not fair that Effie gets to help you. I should help you," Alfie spits in disapproval.
"You've had your chances, son. You have shown no interest in the follow-up of the Games, nor have your choices paid off," my father adds in rebuttal.
"And you think Effie will do better?" he howls, obviously upset.
"I don't think. I know."
Alfie storms into the room occupied by my mother and myself. He shoots me a dangerous glance, almost hateful, and slams the front door. My mother, shocked at his impolite departure, follows him, her lips pursed tight in anger.
"Effie, come help me pick out tributes," my father appears with a grin on his face.
I follow silently. His strides unreachable by my small steps. Intimidation should not be a substitution for embarrassment or fright. He waits in his bedroom and offers me a seat. I accept and look at those names, splayed out as if I were picking from a menu.
"Who, Effie? Who do you choose?" he waits in excitement.
"I choose Maysilee Donner and Haymitch Abernathy."