Tomorrow
My heart beats quicker for only a second. My father brings me back to the ground and holds tightly onto my hand. The chariot passes by, and Maysilee Donner throws out a lasting farewell wave. Capitol citizens cheer loudly as large, panoramic screens that hang from buildings recap the chariot rides.
"Mommy, what now? What's next?" I squeal, trying to steal a glimpse of the chariots.
"The tributes train for a while. The next you'll see any of them is in their interview," she shouts, but I can barely manage to hear her.
"You're forgetting the scores," my father adds, "The tributes perform for the Gamemakers-the people who design the arena and its surprises. Their scores from the private sessions are shown the night before the interviews."
"Ah, silly me. Of course, dear," my mother laughs.
"Who are the Gamemakers?" Alfie asks loudly as to be heard over the roar of the crowd.
"A committee of Capitol citizens who design the arena. They are hired early, so early in fact that they might already be planning the fifty-first Hunger Games," my father added.
Fifty-first? We haven't even seen the arena for the Quarter Quell! I am astonished at the amount of planning that goes into running the Hunger Games. As a strong advocate of organization, the concept of planning and executing the Hunger Games catches my interest. While Capitol children never go into the arena, there are plenty of positions that we can take that deal with the Games. We had a whole unit in school on Capitol occupations in the Hunger Games field.
We return to our home and there we stay. Every day, I get more and more excited for the interviews. We get further on the road to the Quarter Quell, as every commercial on television reminds us. Banners that hang in the City Circle scream at citizens to 'Cast your vote for which tribute will win the Quell'. Truthfully, the fanfare and ceremony fuels my desire and consumes my mind. Alfie, on the other hand, could care less about the pre-Games ceremonies.
"I don't think it matters!" he screamed when asked.
The day that the scores are released, I run home from school as fast as a Capitol tribute train.
"Are they up yet?" I yell aloud.
Silence meets me. There's always someone here. I cannot be home alone. Strange.
"Hello?" I call out nervously.
I walk into our parlor and see the television sitting passively. I turn it on to provide some sort of liveliness to our otherwise deserted house. For moments, I contemplate going next-door and staying there. My hands are shaking. I've never been one to get nervous at nothing. Maybe the foreboding silence scares me.
"Anyone home?" I call out again.
Then I hear a noise from the kitchen. My hand flies over my mouth to ensure silence. I shut my eyes in fear. A cold sweat begins to creep down the back of my school outfit. I gulp and walk toward the noise. Grabbing the first big object I can reach, a lamp, I continue toward the kitchen. When I am right in front of the doorway, the light snaps on.
"Happy Birthday!" cheers my mother, father, and Alfie.
Happy birthday. Happy. Birthday. The words resonate inside my head like a cannon blast in a rubber room. I almost relieve myself. Instead, I drop the lamp. It shatters on the ground with classy, porcelain shards flying everywhere.
"Effie, dear. Come away from there this instant!" orders my mother, abandoning any pretense of birthday humor.
"Come look at your cake!" chuckles my father.
He guides me over to a handsome red-velvet cake decorated with seven candles and icing that elegantly shapes the border. Looking closer, I notice that that the cake reads 'Happy Birthday Effie' in metallic gold lettering. A bold 'Happy Hunger Games' resonates under it. The rest of the cake features chariots riding about the bottom border.
"You're finally seven! Now I can talk to you at school," smiles Alfie.
That doesn't even make sense. Anyway, I grin from ear to ear. Capitol pastries are Panem's best, undoubtedly. My father cuts the cake into small, manageable pieces and gives me the biggest slice.
"Do not get any of that on the carpet, television, floor, couch, parlor walls," begins my mother, "Eat with your fork, not your hands. You are not a ruffian. Small, delicate pieces. Keep good posture."
I nod robotically and walk into the parlor. My family who has dictated the rules for the remaining pieces of cake joins me. Alfie yields a sizably piece and turns away from my mother to lick the icing.
"Alfie. Use a fork. You're not a ruffian," I say loudly enough for my mother to hear.
She praises me and shoots Alfie a look of disapproval. We all laugh and my father changes the channel to the tribute scores. We catch the last few minutes of a recap of the chariot rides, then commentators-who have captivated Capitol audiences since the Dark Days (har, har), announce the scoring.
A tribute may receive a score of 1-12 based on performance in their private training sessions with the Gamemakers. The Career tributes tend to score in the higher ranges, everyone else averaging middle numbers.
Districts 1, 2, and 4 score a solid nine apiece. All the other districts manage a range of 4-7. Maysilee Donner yields a seven. Haymitch receives a nine.
"Look at those numbers, Effie. He'll be a target, I assure you," says my father.
He records the numbers of the tributes in his notebook, careful to make comments about the tributes we have chosen.
"Do we get to see what the tributes did?" I ask eagerly, eyeing Haymitch's picture with pride.
"Unfortunately, no," says my father, "However, you can bet your buttons that they'll be brought up in the interviews tomorrow night."
We listen to the commentators make more observations at the tributes expenses. I see them as off-color jokes, designed to make Capitol citizens agree with their views. My father and mother laugh at appropriate times, and Alfie tries to follow along.
This moment, eating birthday cake, sitting with my family, watching the pre-Games, reminds me how lucky I am to live in the Capitol. When my father and mother put me to sleep and whisper "Happy birthday, we love you," I smile into my pillow. Tomorrow, I will get birthday presents. Tomorrow, the interviews will commence. I just cannot wait for tomorrow.