Name Dropping

I threw the door open and left his office. He made the motion to get up from behind his desk, but thought better of it and sat back down. My face grew hot, my cheeks glowing bright pink with emphasis from my rouge. I ignored Portia's calls and headed back toward the golden elevator with the intent to speak of nothing with anyone.

"Hey hot-heels, where you headed?" Portia skidded up behind me.

"Away from here," I responded sternly, killing Portia's giddiness.

"What happened?" she asked.

"Nothing, I have a very pleasant encounter. I just realized that I need to go home. That's it, I promise," I rushed out, wishing she had stayed back.

We reached the lobby of the Training Center, and I left without a word of good-bye. Portia shot me a curious look as I stormed out, no doubt feeling hurt. I crossed the grand gardens that exemplified the Training Center and headed out toward my parent's home. The cobbled, colored gravel glowed with splendor as my rushed feet stomped across. After fifteen minutes of heated pacing, I reached their house. Two bold knocks on the mahogany door caused mother to fly out onto the patio.

"Hello, dear," she gushed, "We weren't expecting you."

"Who is Seneca Crane?" I asked, inviting myself in.

"Why he is the Head Gamemaker, of course," mother explained, "He is quite masterful. He designed the arenas for the past four Hunger Games. Quite extensive, I might add."

"I mean, do I know him?" I snapped.

"Did you run into him? Did he say something to you?" mother looked concerned.

"Yes. No. I don't know," I sat on the couch in the parlor, my hands resting on my cheeks, "Where is father?"

"He is in the attic, rifling through some old papers, trying to find out pieces of this grand puzzle," she answered, "Tea, dear?"

"No thank you," I said, heading for the grand steps.

The attic was a rustic, depressing place that I avoided like the plague. Little did I know I spent some quality time up there as a child. Now, the whole entity seemed disgusting. Father lay bent over in concentration, examining boxes with fervor.

"Did you find anything useful?" I pleaded to his back.

"I think I am on the right track. We were married, your mother and I, around thirty years or so, making me quite old," he explained.

"Anything about picture boy? My brother?" I added curiously.

"Nothing yet," father responded grimly, "You here to assist?"

"Afraid not. I am here to add onto the puzzle. Seneca Crane. Ring any bells?" I crouched next to him, placing my delicate hands away from anything that could possibly pass diseases.

"Isn't he that Games fellow? The one who designs arenas?" he inquired.

"Yes. I think that I know him from before," I looked over at father.

Father's eyes had dulled from the attic light. The now appeared gaunt and soulless, somewhere between giving up and lost. The sight frightened me so much, that I had to look away.

"The only thing to do is to look. Our past leads us to the future," he shrugged his shoulders.

I decided to help him. I crossed the room to tackle the plentiful boxes that dominated the other side of the attic. In the first box I opened, a spider crawled out.

"This is vile," I cried out, causing father to laugh.

The second box yielded mortgage statements, official papers from the President, licenses, and car ownership packets. The third revealed hideous lamps that should never see the light of day. The fourth had a fleece made from District 8. I was exhausted by the time I had packed and labeled the fleece.

"Hopeless," I spat, "The whole endeavor will amount to nothing."

"Keep your chin up and your hands nimble," father advised.

I let out an audible sigh and continued to sift through the boxes. Eventually I came across a box of pictures. Curious, I dragged the box out and felt the contents. Hundreds of waxy pictures taken on older cameras. There were photos of dogs, houses, glorious fountains with powerful jets, and Capitol citizens. Finally, I came across one of a younger version of me and my brother.

"I found photos," I announced to father, who opened a box of decorations.

"Anything useful?" he asked, coming over.

"Here is a snapshot of brother and me," I showed him.

When I turned the photo toward him, I discovered untidy scrawling on the back.

"Wait a minute," I whispered, moving the back of the photo into some distant attic light.

Effie and Alfie getting ready for school

"Alfie?" I spoke aloud.

Images flashed through my mind one after another. I envisioned playing on swing sets, trips to the park, dinners with the extended family, toys on the floor, and a whole mess of other things. I tried to make sense of this mind vomit, but the spell was gone as quick as it had come on.

"Alfie," I confirmed, "That is his name."

"I remember him," father agreed.

He grew silent and began to look through the pictures. I decided to leave him alone and went downstairs, said good-bye to mother, and left. The City Circle had a registry. The registry would have the names and addresses of all Capitol citizens. That was where I needed to go.

The registry was an old, brick building. It belonged in the historic part of the Capitol, not the City Center. I found myself slightly repulsed by its inferior structure, bulging sides, and decaying bricks. The whole structure smelled of mothballs. I entered the single paned door and found myself face to face with an old secretary.

"Hello," I greeted him, "I am searching for my brother."

"Identification?" the wizened fellow asked.

I dug around my purse for the identification card the President left me. I showed it to the man, who leaned over the desk with thick spectacles. He confirmed my identity and sat back down.

"Name of person in question?" he repeated.

"Alfie Trinket," I answered.

He typed at a snail's pace. The registry behind the desk had some sort of machine that produced codes. The device beeped several times before announcing the results with a ding. The old man shifted his spectacles and pulled an intercom device toward him.

"Citizen number 201891411520, extension code 112695," he announced.

I tapped my fingers impatiently on the desk, annoyed at everything. Ten minutes later, a man walked out of the small door behind the desk. He crossed over to the old man and handed him a folder. The old man overlooked the folder carefully.

"Here you are, miss," he handed me the folder; "We have made a copy of the records for you."

"Thank you," I received the packet and left the registry.

I decided to go to my penthouse and look up the address. My parents seemed too fragile at the discovery of the pictures to have anything to do with this packet. I would look at the address and ask them tomorrow if they would wish to accompany me. I reached my penthouse and greeted the people in the lobby.

My penthouse was unusually dark. I figured that maybe a light had blown a fuse. Maintenance would be called first thing tomorrow. In my bedroom, the window laid open, cool breeze blowing through. I froze and closed it instantly, not recalling it being open upon my departure.

I sat on my bed, fingering the opening to the folder. Just as I peeled back the protective stamp, my nose caught the fragrance of something familiar. Roses. I looked around the room hastily and spotted the cause. A rose and note lay on my bedside table. I threw myself across the bed and tossed the rose away. I had to turn on the light to read the message:

You would be wise to stop now.