Make New Friends…
The feeling was ephemeral. By the morning, I was back to a confused state of mind, searching so desperately for something that I dared not find. Games School was scheduled to begin the next day, so I decided today to shop around and attend an orientation. With my goals set, I awoke refreshed and ready.
I hit the City Circle with time to spare, searching every promising store for something that would catch my eye. In one shop, I found a handsome bag with white and black patterns. It reminded me of the coal-mining district with its asphalt black and gravel white. I purchased it on a whim, reading a note inside that insisted that it was district eights finest.
A light breakfast overlooking the City Circle also proved to be a good idea. I imagined a past that consisted of frequent trips here. Perhaps, even a date or two. This action was killed prematurely due to my growing frustration, a familiar sensation whenever I tried to remember something without a stimulus.
"Excuse me," said a light tap to my shoulder.
I spun around surprised and found myself face to face with a simple looking girl. A second look showed more features that were complex. She had an almost natural skin dye color complemented by low tone eye make-up that emphasized her determined look.
"Yes?" I asked politely, wondering if I knew her already.
"Your bag," she pointed, "Is that from 8?"
"Why yes! How did you know?" I squealed with excitement.
"Fashion is my greatest passion," she explained.
"Would you like to sit with me?" I offered her a seat.
She nodded and sat down, a coffee in one hand. She carried herself delicately and properly, crossing her legs at the ankle as she sat.
"I do love the city in the morning," she mused, appreciating our vantage point.
"Oh, me too," I agreed, "It really emphasizes all the lights and buildings. Look!"
I pointed over to the Training Center.
"The Training Center has an angelic glow to it. You would never notice that from a television set. Those poor people in the districts have no idea what they are missing."
"I agree. You know, it is a real privilege to wake up there every morning, having a wondrous view from your living room," she responded.
"Waking up there?" I frowned in confusion, "You are not a tribute, are you?"
"Goodness, no," she laughed gently, "I am one of the newest inductees into Games School. I want to be one of the greatest Stylists to ever work on the Hunger Games."
I turned to face her, "What a coincidence! I am an inductee as well."
"Portia," she said and held out her hand.
"Effie," I responded, giving her beautifully manicured hand a firm shake.
"Are you interested in styling too?" she asked, taking another drink.
I had never considered styling for the Games. Usually, Stylists were hard to come by. They have to work harder than most people working in the Hunger Games business do. I had heard that they spent as long as four years in Games School.
"I do not think that styling is for me," I finally answered.
"What a shame. You have great taste, Effie," responded Portia.
"Thank you," I mused, grateful that someone had notice my intricate décor.
"Do you live close by?" she asked, turning her attention back onto the City Circle.
"I own the top floor of a nearby penthouse," I chided, "President Snow gave it to me."
Portia seemed impressed by this. We shared fashion tips and little anxieties about school. After breakfast, we decided to scavenge the City Circle for bargain sales and discounts. She introduced me to a shop that sold luxury items, specialized by District 1. I pointed out my penthouse when it came into view. Around noon, she asked me if I would accompany her to the Training Center for orientation. I agreed hastily, finding that her company was pleasant.
The Training Center shimmered in the afternoon sun, a beacon of symbolism in the heart of the City Circle. Portia seemed to know her way around the lobby, directing me straight to the elevator.
"The actual tributes that compete in the Games live on floors one through twelve. The training part of the Training Center is in the basement. I have never been there, though," she explained.
We reached the elevator and stepped in. I noticed that the walls of the elevator were made of a clear material, allowing sight of the City Circle. I imagined the tributes riding up to their respective floors, soaking in the tranquil view before their whole lives were whisked away.
"So you live on the thirteenth floor?" I asked.
"Not quite. The Training Center is actually quite large. A few of the classrooms for Games School are in here. The majority of your time in Games School is spent in the discipline that you decide to pursue. For example, Stylists are sent to the City Circle to gather information on the newest fashions. Gamemakers are sent to the Training Center room to watch the actual tributes train."
"I think that I want to be an Escort," I spoke quietly.
"That could go either way," said Portia carefully.
"How do you mean?" I asked her.
We approached the bottom floor of the Training Center. Portia directed me out of the elevator, and led the way to a common room full of comfortable looking seats. I chose a large, purple armchair with an adjustable height setting. Portia sat down next to me and offered refreshments. I declined politely and bid her continue her explanation.
"You know that Escorts go to the districts, right?" Portia urged, "They take a Capitol train out of the city and view the Reaping live. They also accompany the Head Escorts on the Victory Tour."
"I never knew that," I told Portia.
I imagined going to the districts and meeting the tributes live. The idea was tantalizing both in a positive and negative way. The experience and the event itself would be stellar, the ultimate Hunger Games experience. On the other hand, the districts could be a nasty place for a group of Capitol citizens. After all, did they not try to rebel, forcing the Capitol to implement the Hunger Games in the first place?
We talked for a bit longer, and then went to the location of the orientation. The room was filled with young adults chattering about their current doings. A group of older Capitol citizens waited around patiently for the mass to settle. Portia waved to a few boys who had noticed her, then chose a seat near the middle of the room. I followed her, feeling a bit intimidated. Everyone seemed to know each other.
Portia explained that there were about one hundred Capitol students selected to attend Games School and that of those one hundred, only about half of them ever made it anywhere. I felt nervous at her words, silently praying that I was one of those lucky fifty. Boys kept gathering around Portia, but she declined all their catcalls and interactions to speak with me.
"Attention, attention," roared a man from the group of older Capitol citizens, "Welcome to orientation for Games School. You all have been selected to attend a wonderful journey. The pride of Panem, the famed Hunger Games, lay in your young, capable hands. We wish you the best on your upcoming education here. Please remember, you are the pride and representation of our great Capitol and you should conduct yourself in such a manner."
He directed this last bit at the group of boys surrounding Portia.
"I will not keep you from your orientation. In a few minutes, you will be released to explore the Training Center and ask questions from our representatives. These men and women next to me are alumni, each brilliant in his or her own way. Our escorts, stylists, and prep teams are quite well known, I believe. We have one new member, a young man who graduated just last year and has already claimed the title of Head Gamemaker, Mr. Seneca Crane."
A man on the end stood up with his hands crossed in front of him and nodded to the room. The boys hissed and the girls swooned. I was hardly paying attention at this point, having been too overwhelmed from the words passing by. Now, I noticed the Head Gamemaker and felt that familiar sensation.
He affected me the way that Haymitch Abernathy had.
Suddenly, I felt sick. Fiercely sick. I knew that if I did not leave the room soon, my lunch would reappear. I dashed by Portia, her legs lifting up to allow me passage. I fled from orientation, my hand gripping my chest as waves of nausea struck me.