The Most Powerful Man in Panem
Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. Students passed by, some glancing briefly on their way into orientation, others gawking and lingering. Hundreds of nicknames pegged my mind as they passed, condemning me to an irreparable reputation. Portia eased out of orientation, quietly closing the door behind her. She leaned up against the wall, shielding me from prying eyes.
"Let's go to the powder room, shall we?" she whispered.
I followed her into a glorified bathroom. The sinks resembled grand fountains, water falling freely from them in heavenly streams. There were pink cushions for sitting next to a large vanity with make-up samples dotted over its marble surface. I took a seat on one of the cushions and crossed my legs at the ankles.
"I just….don't know. He, that man, he just caught me off guard, I guess," I tried to explain.
"Who? Seneca Crane?" Portia asked.
"Please, don't even say his name. I don't want anyone to hear," I pleaded silently searching for other girls in the room.
"Sorry. Do you know him from somewhere?" she lowered her voice.
"I don't know!" I threw my hands up in frustration, "That's the issue. Everything about him seems so fuzzy. He looks familiar. What did they call him? The Head Gamemaker?"
"Yeah, he was inaugurated about two months ago. He was a Gamemaker for a while, but suddenly he changed. It was frightening in a way. One day, he did a television interview with such ferocity that the interviewer almost passed. That man has such a way with words."
"What do you mean?" I asked.
"He used to be a quiet, gentle man. Well, according to the other Gamemakers, at least. Something weird happened to him at home, some sort of family issue, and he lost it. He began designing all sorts of arenas. Arenas with fire, arenas without any source of water, impossible castles that tributes needed to scale. No one is really sure of what happened, but one thing is for sure. Seneca Crane has become one of the most powerful men in the Capitol."
I recalled watching the past Games over the last week. The arenas always seemed to be peaceful places, ironically. Lots of trees cultivated the ground, providing coverage for tributes. Vast lakes invited careers to build camps. Blue skies, birds, all sorts of pleasantries awaited those children in their last hours of life. Nothing like Portia was describing.
"You know, it's funny in a way," Portia chided, "Girls absolutely swoon over him. They follow him around religiously, as if he is some sort of God. Men always ask him for advice. He's very well-respected."
"How is that funny?" I mused.
"You didn't let me finish! It's funny because he never seems to be with a girl. I imagine with all his suitors that he would have a girlfriend or something. He never seems to engage in conversation unless provoked. I think that I have had one conversation with him ever, and it was about something dumb. Well, I was the dumb one."
Portia rambled about him for the better part of twenty seconds. As she spoke, the door to the powder room opened and a squadron of radical females walked in, speaking in excited whispers.
"Oh, that Seneca is so funny!"
"Just imagine what he wears under that suit!"
"One time, Seneca actually said hello to me."
I picked up all their words with a sense of hilarity and anxiety. Why did everyone at this school have to find him so fascinating? Portia continued to assure me that his eyes, when caught, happened to radiate into your very soul. I couldn't stand the incessant chatter anymore.
"I am sure that there are men here who couldn't hold a candle to Seneca Crane," I told her.
"Impossible. Seneca Crane is redesigning the Hunger Games. Pretty soon, the President of Panem himself is going to award Seneca with some sort of humanitarian award. There is a rumor going around that Seneca will supersede Snow as the President one day," Portia deferred.
"You've lost the plot," I muttered to her, annoyed by her swooning.
"I'm sorry, Effie. Maybe one day, you'll understand what true devotion means," Portia giggled.
"Maybe," I stood up to leave with Portia in tow, "but certainly not with that horrible, ill-provoking man, Seneca Crane."
I opened the door as I said these words, and ended up face to face with the name owner himself. Portia let out a gasp, which escalated into a swoon. Our faces turned beet red, hers from excitement no doubt. I, however, was humiliated. How much had he heard?
"Seneca Crane! I don't know if you remember me, Portia, but I just needed you to know that I admired your words. Well, I admired you, too. I mean, I absolutely love you. Oh gosh, not love, like love love," Portia suffered a terrible case of word vomit.
Seneca held up his hands in a defensive position, "You're too kind, Ms. Portia. Of course I remember you. We talked about the multiple shades of grass for a better part of an hour after all. How could I not remember something as descriptive as that?"
Portia laughed nervously, twisting her hands in her skirt. I stood unimpressed with Seneca, holding my stomach tight, hoping that he would leave. The unease and nausea threatened again. Portia smacked me gently, her eyes shifting from Seneca to me.
"Hello," I whispered quietly.
"Effie Trinket?" he quietly asked.
At the mention of my name, my eyes finally dared to meet his. I was so overwhelmed by his words alone, that his glare caught me off guard. He did not look friendly or angry. Instead, he permeated an intense look. I found that I could barely stand without support, the dizziness taking over completely.
"I need to leave," I quickly walked away from them, not daring to look back.
As I walked, I could have sworn he urged me to stay.