From Coals to Pearls
My father gives me a look of disbelief. He obviously does not favor the District 12 tributes.
"Are you sure? You don't like any of the Careers?" he asks quizzically.
"Maysilee and Haymitch," I repeat.
My father laughs and leaves the room. Where he goes, I do not know. I immediately head for the window, hoping to catch a glance of a tribute train rolling into the Capitol. Citizens are still heading over toward the rock structure, so I assume the trains will arrive shortly. As I turn back to the television, Alfie runs in through the front door.
"Effie! The train station is packed! Let's go and watch the tributes arrive," he practically pulls me out of the house.
We run through the streets of the Capitol and I take note of the vibrant blues, greens, pinks, and reds that seem to radiate off every surface. Large, god-like structures hover over the city. Luxurious. Alfie pulls me along the streets and we slowly entangle in the crowd. Our hands separate for a brief second and in a panicked frenzy, I struggle to grab hold. Soon, I'm shoved by camera crews, trampled by Games advocates, and yelled at by drunken men.
"Effie, look!" Alfie points over the spectrum of people crowding the train station.
I look over and see a tribute trolley pull up to the station. Out step a handful of brightly dressed Capitol attendants. A man and a woman who stare about the city with a look of knowing swiftly follow them. A glance of familiarity. A bright, cheery male escort follows and I recognize him as a pseudo-celebrity. At the end of the line walk four children whom I recognize as the District 11 tributes. All of them are dark-skinned, under-fed, and have a glance of hopelessness in their eyes.
Something about seeing the tributes in real life causes me to gasp. It's almost as if they were aliens from another world. They sport no fashionable clothing, no vibrant colors, and definitely no cheer. Like the living dead, the tributes drag themselves off the train station platform.
"Hey, District 11! Over here! Look this way!" yell countless camera crews, flashing lights in the faces of the surrounding mob.
The tributes remain on their unwinding path, never once glancing at the camera crews. Clearly, our splendor has no effort on them, those ungrateful, malicious creatures. As they pass by me, I harbor a newfound hatred for them. How inconsiderate! You're in my city, my world, and you can't ever muster a glance? Ungrateful imbeciles!
"Hey, District 11. How long do you think you'll make it?" asks one drunk man.
The female tributes continue on, but the male tributes stop. One boy, a little bigger than his companion, eyes the drunkard with a curious glance. His fellow tributes places a dark hand on the shoulder of the afflicted, then walks away. The boy remains at a standstill, daring the drunkard to continue.
"I don't think you'll even last a day," laughs the perpetrator.
He turns to leave. The moment afterward stains the impressionable like a gunshot wound. The tribute lunged over the Capitol citizens, thrashing his skinny arms about wildly, hoping to wring the neck of the drunkard. In response, the man simply shrugged his shoulders, laughed again, and continued on his way. Two Capitol attendants seized the boy by the arms and twisted him forcefully away from the crowd. The boy shot everyone a look of hatred, a burning desire that screamed death for anyone who dared to mock him.
"Barbarian," spat the drunkard with a parting wave of his hand.
I clung to Alfie with desperation, terrified in one sense, but astonished with fury in another. This boy, this barbarian, he challenged us. He took no notice of our gracious splendors, our efforts to provide a sort of comfort has been for naught.
"Come on, Effie. Let's go home. I don't want to get into anymore trouble," whispered Alfie, dragging at my arm.
"No. I want to see District 12!" I cried out in protest.
"Come on," he repeated.
I stood my ground. Alfie attempted to drag me against my will. I fought his attempts for a while, until I gave in. He pulled and tugged me all the way home, despite my protests. By the time we got home, I was so distressed that I ran to my bedroom and stayed there all day.
By night, I have not let go of my anger toward the District 11 boy. My mother corrals me for the chariot rides. The next big, big, big stop on our road to the Hunger Games. Only, she provides me with a surprise.
"Effie how would you like to come with us to see the chariot rides live?" she asks, suppressing a grin.
I howl with excitement and jump into her arms. This morning was only as small slice of what the pre-Games had to offer. Tonight will be the real thing. Deciding not to tell my mother of the train station fiasco, I accept her offer.
We make our way to her bedroom so she can properly adjust the powder blue wig. My mother dons a similar blue wig and makes a joke about matching. Her evening gown is a silver piece, emblazed with real diamonds along the collar line. The cut in the dress creeps up to mid-thigh level and threatens to expose her if she gets careless. She has fashioned me a dress of silver and gold. A puffy skirt with a tight blouse that accentuates everything. I have to be the most fashionable six-year old that the Capitol has ever seen.
"Effie, darling. You look ravishing. Let us keep in mind the three P's. Prim. Proper. Perfect. Mind your manners," her directions are law.
My parents and I head out to the City Circle. Alfie, as per usual, has made us late. He runs out of our house with a handsome suit and thick eyeliner and joins our family on our voyage. When we get close to the City Circle, I take the hands of my parents, knowing all too well that I will be lost without them. Because of Alfie, we're late. The City Circle has filled in record time, showing no opening. Together, we huddle on the outskirts of the circle, watching in awe.
District 10 passes by upon our arrival. The tributes, all four of them, look scared. Weak. Useless. District 11 does nothing less than infuriates me at their passing. The crowd audibly hisses at the lunging boy, recognizing him from the spectacle he has made out of himself. Fool.
District 12 concludes the chariot ride. We stare with awkward glances at the tributes. They sport coal miner outfits that scream obscenities. Complete with headlamps. As if to light the way to the City Circle. The audience suppresses a laugh at the tributes expense, and my father shoots me another quizzical glance.
Smiling, he picks me up and lifts me onto his shoulders. I get a better glimpse, and notice the beauty within the coals. I notice Maysilee Donner has an inner beauty that I've overlooked. Strong and confident, she waves to the Capitol, seemingly appreciative of the splendors she has received.
"Aren't they lovely, Effie?" asks my mother with tears in her eyes.
Silently, I nod. The audience, on the other hand, ravishes on and on about District 1.
"You know, if you put enough pressure on coal it turns to pearls," my father replied quietly, his strong arms and shoulders holding me up.
Pearls? Like hidden treasures. I can see that now. As I'm pondering this metaphor, I notice Haymitch in the back of the chariot. He's almost sulking, but I've mistaken his look for a sneer. He seems disgusted. Or quite bored. Possibly both. When he passes by, someone calls to him, a female reporter. Then, Haymitch looks right past her and into my eyes. Then he blows me a kiss.