Roses

I had reached the elevator when a strong grip pulled me back. Half of my brain ordered me to keep walking, but the other half demanded I stay and turn around. Conflicted, I let out a noise similar to that of a car tire squealing. The grip held me tight, daring me to face the owner in the eye.

"What was that all about?" they spoke.

Portia. It was only Portia, her tones light and full of empathy. She must have awakened from Seneca's spell just in time to capture me. I turned to her now, conveying a look of embarrassment in my cheeks.

"I'm sorry," was all that I managed to say.

"May I escort you home?" she asked with a concerned air about her.

I nodded and she took my arm, leading us to the magnificent elevator that waited. We did not speak the entire way up to the ground floor. I could hear her steady breathing, no doubt executed due to Seneca's former presence.

"I can tell you really like him," I spoke after what seemed like ages.

"Who doesn't?" she rolled her eyes, "Like I said in the powder room, he is one of the most powerful men in the Capitol. But, he would never fall for someone like me."

"You don't know that," I turned to her seriously.

She laughed, dismissing the idea, "Besides, he was definitely more interested in you than me."

I let that sink in and said nothing more. We left the Training Center, and I directed Portia to my penthouse. We were greeted in the lobby with cheers and congratulations, canon of my neighbors. The elevator took us to my floor and deposited us in front of my grand door.

"This is where you live?" breathed Portia.

"The President instructed me to live here," I calmly replied, finding my keys.

"The President!" Portia squeaked.

"Nice fellow, smells a bit odd though," I commented.

The penthouse was cool. Too cool for my liking. Cooler than I remembered leaving it. Portia took the opportunity to examine every nook and cranny of the place, marveling over the gold statues and potted plants that lined random parts of the room. She had a conniption over the 10-gallon fish tank in the powder room.

I checked the thermostat, residing in the living room, and noticed that the temperature had gone down almost ten degrees. Annoyed, I raised it again and thought nothing more of the matter. I instructed Portia to join me on the couch as I made us drinks with my portable blender. She immediately obeyed, eager to enjoy a bit of my ravish lifestyle.

"I cannot believe that you live here!" Portia gasped after I handed her a drink.

"Calm yourself, dear. It is not that great. I mean, the amenities are lovely, but I occupy this space alone. I sleep alone. I eat alone. It isn't like living at the Training Center where you could dine with whomever you pleased," I explained.

"I'll bet that if Seneca Crane knew about this, he would rush on over," she jested.

I shot her a disapproving look and she apologized. I turned on the television and my disc of the Hunger Games began.

"Ah, studying I see," Portia noted.

"Studying?" I queried.

"Yes. Entry-level students have to take a placement exam to find where they belong in school. The exam has questions dating all the way back to the first Hunger Games. They range from very easy, to difficult such as who won the second Quarter Quell."

"Haymitch Abernathy," I instantly spurted out.

Portia choked on her drink.

"What?" she said.

"I just…know, okay?" I snapped back at her, "I am not some kind of Hunger Games genius who knows all there is to know about victors or stylists or head Gamemakers."

I pronounced those last two words with disapproval.

"I just cannot believe that, Effie. You knew automatically who he was and which number Games he won. That cannot be a mere coincidence," Portia responded.

"Well, it is. I promise you that I know nothing more than that. I will probably fail the exam and be asked to leave Games School once they realize my inferiority," I told her.

She laughed gently and reassured me, "You will be stellar, Effie. I just know it."

Portia finished her cup, placed it in the dishwasher, and bid me good-bye.

"Come find me tomorrow. You know where my room is."

I nodded and dismissed her, placing my own cup in the dishwasher. The thought of taking a Hunger Games exam made me queasy, so I decided to watch another Game. This time, I watched the Forty-Ninth, the year before the second Quarter Quell.

I must have fallen asleep with the television on, because when I wake up, the victor is being announced. The television, however, was not the cause of my premature wakening. The temperature has lowered again. Goosebumps stand out of my skin, distorting my rather flawless features. I got up slowly and walked over to the thermostat. Again, the display read five degrees lower than normal.

"Portia," I spat annoyingly.

The nerve she had to change my room setting. I crossed over to the television angrily, and turned it off. I went into my bedroom to change into attire that is more suitable. As I was lifting my shirt over my head, I recalled that Portia had stayed clear of the thermostat for the entirety of the evening. Perhaps, she had gone over and turned it as I gathered the materials for drinks. Nevertheless, I would have heard or felt the temperature lower.

Confused, I sat on my bed. An odd smell drifted to my nose. The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end. The smell was coming from my bedside drawer. It was not an unpleasant smell, just something of a dull, unlikeable smell. Carefully, I opened the drawer and found a single rose laying there.

I could not remember having spotted the rose upon my initial arriving. Clearly, it had wilted. From its decimation, it had gained an unpleasant odor. I was relieved that this rose was the cause and not something more. My conscious at rest, I picked up the rose and disposed of it posthaste. Then, sleep beckoned.

The following morning, I reported to the Training Center. The conclusion of orientation told students that placement exams were to occur at the end of the week. I walked now to Portia's, in search of a study friend. She opened her door with an eager grin on her face.

"Good morning!" she bubbled and dragged me inside.

For the next half of an hour, we went through all her clothing deciding on something for her to where that was appropriate for studying. She was looking for something that she called "library chique". Never in my life had I seen so many clothes. It was no wonder that she wanted to become a stylist. She definitely knew material inside and out.

"Effie, be a dear and hand me that chartreuse blouse," she ordered without even looking at the clothes next to me.

I handed her what I believed to be the blouse. She laughed and showed me the correct blouse, which happened to be buried under half of her other blouses.

"I shouldn't even be helping you after what you did yesterday," I criticized her as I faced myself in her grand mirror.

"What are you on about?" she spoke, coming out of the closet with clothes hanging off her.

"You thought you were all tricky in my penthouse, changing the temperature like that," I explained and laughed for good humor.

"I never touched your thermostat!" she defended.

At her words, I froze up. My suspicion had been correct. I did not recall seeing her anywhere near the meter, but I had to be sure.

"I won't be mad at you if you did," I reassured her with the hopes that she would confess.

"Sorry, Effie. I wouldn't even know how to work one of those things," she spoke.

My brain searched for an explanation. Perhaps the meter was simply malfunctioning. I decided that I would have a word with maintenance when I arrived home. Portia threw on an outfit and stood in front of the mirror.

"How do I look?" she asked.

"Like a librarian ready to check out more than books," I snorted.

"Ah, perfect," she smiled.

We crossed over to the official library of the Training Center, one of the biggest in Panem. There were manuals that covered everything that would be on the Hunger Games exam up for use, so Portia and I each grabbed one and began to quiz one another.

"Alright, Effie. Why isn't cannibalism aloud in the Games?" she questioned.

"Um, because it is absolutely vile?" I answered and we both laughed.

"No. It has something to do with television laws and the amount of gruesomeness displayed on television," she answered back and we laughed again.

"Isn't that a bit ironic?" I questioned, "I mean, they flat out show tributes dying all the time, but a bit of cannibalism sends the Capitol into a frenzy?"

"I guess so. I think that the Capitol is scared of people getting ideas. Who knows, you could be walking down the street one day, and someone could try taking a bite out of your leg!" Portia answered.

"Alright, here is one for you," I began, "What are the Head Gamemakers responsibilities?"

"Well, obviously being a major hunk is one!" Portia giggled.

I tried laughing too, until I remember who the Head Gamemaker currently was.

"We do a lot more than that. For example, I choose the arena and all the obstacles that make up the current Hunger Games. Additionally, I approve all decisions made by the Hunger Games council and report directly to the President himself. All while looking very proper, I might add."

We both spun around at the voice.

There he was with all his greatness displayed. Today, he wore a grand suit with a red tie down the front. His beard has been shaved into an intricate pattern for the occasion. Portia noticed him immediately, and let out a gasp. I followed her eyesight and met the strong glare of Seneca Crane. He winked at me and left the room.