Only one POV this time. Next time will probably have all the rest of the train ride POVs, but we'll see. And I'll be quicker next time. I've been busy.
D7- 15- (Jaelyn Annaletto)
I'm not fond of either of them: Damien or Decon, though I can tolerate Decon. I suspect Damien is bipolar, because when he stepped on the train he was cool and collected, completely at peace with the whole thing—and oh, my God, does that freak me out, this demeanor of his—and then he was scared and wide-eyed, and now, sitting before me at the dinner table, his fists are clenched and his eyes glaring at his plate.
"Damien," Tracy Mishclaine, who is thankfully out her tree costume, begins formally in a soothing (ish), though squeaky, voice, "are you alright?"
He sends his glare up to her, and she raises an eyebrow. I put my napkin up to my face immediately, having the courtesy not to laugh, though my inner and old self is bursting through, trying to make my fall in a ball of giggles at their interaction despite the terror in my wake. I breathe deeply and set my napkin down, now not about to laugh again.
I have to be an adult. I am always the adult. Ever since my father walked out on our family when I was ten, I've been a bit more mature than my age, and now that I'm fifteen, I act about mid-twenties: all grown up. I had to help my mother provide for the family, which as of then consisted of just her, five-year-old Roy (my little brother, who is now ten), and ten-year-old me.
But then we found out my mother was pregnant, and nine months later, out popped another mouth to feed: precious Layla Annaletto. She's now five, and I love her to death with her chestnut curls like my hair but curlier, but I will admit I was quite spiteful towards her at first, not thinking it was fair I had to work more because my mother and Roy couldn't much to feed the girl. And I was merely ten! It's safe to say that we were very poor back then.
"Uh, is there…more? I mean, how many courses will we get?" Decon asks, almost shyly, staring at the Avoxes bringing us even more trays and platefuls of food—any food we like, whether it be a nice cheesecake or a glob of mashed potatoes, which are some of the few delectable things I recognize. And it's all in such big portions. Of course, it's meant to feed three starving children, a Capitol person, and a mentor, but still.
"We still have one more dinner course, I believe, and then desert," one of our three mentors says. There's the oldest of the three but not of all the living victors—the oldest living victor is sixty-two—at age forty-three: Oakland Howard; then the middle, at age thirty-nine: Ella Acres; and finally the youngest of the three, at age thirty-five: Lillian Middleton. The person who informed Decon of the courses was Oakland.
I stare down at my plate, which has creamy white stuff and mushy blue stuff and a slice of cake with far too much icing, and all I can help but think is: This isn't desert?
An Avox sets down and unveils a tray that holds a beautiful chicken—or is it turkey?—and my mouth waters. I now direct my staring at this plate of deliciousness, set my not-desert aside, and retrieve a new plate, pulling at the poultry. I then realize how stupid I look, blush slightly, take a knife, and politely cut myself a piece, and then I eat with the humility hanging over me while Tracy Mishclaine stares at me as though I've killed the president.
"So," Lillian begins awkwardly. "There's the matter of who's mentoring who. Obviously a male tribute has to get a female mentor because we were only guessing about the two females." She shrugs, messing around with her food. Her long, straight, placid hair runs to her shoulders and she brushes it away from her small cup of some sort of soup.
"We can go according to age. The oldest mentor gets the oldest tribute, and so on," Ella suggests, looking up and between Oakland and Lillian. Ella's hair is long and dirty blonde, on the verge of being not blonde at all and completely brown, and her eyes are darker than the brownest mud; all-in-all, she is very pretty considering that she's getting rather old for a district citizen since we never live very long and that she has her Games' events lying on her shoulders.
"Good idea," Lillian says softly. "Ah, your ages…?"
I always thought they knew our ages. Perhaps they'll have found out in the Capitol if we never came to his point where we have to tell them.
"Sixteen," Damien mutters.
"Seventeen," Decon states.
I don't realize it's my turn to say my age, and instead I work fervently on my chicken. I look up as utter silence falls over us except for the sound of the train moving—the slight hum of it speeding by on the tracks—and see that everyone is staring at me: eight pairs of eyes, as two Avoxes watch me as well. I blush harder, bite my lip again, and try to smile slightly. I guess I have to laugh at myself to make it…somewhat better.
"Oops," I say, trying to hide my stupid blush. "Um, I'm fifteen."
Lillian smiles. "I'm your mentor, then, dear," she tells me, and I nod.
Oakland is Decon's and Ella is Damien's.
"The recaps should be on soon," Tracy mentions, looking longingly at the car with the TV. Of course, she wants to see what her wad of tributes gets for competition this year. Maybe she thinks we're not too bad. "But let's all finish eating first." She sends a glare-like-but-not-quite-a-glare look up at an Avox. "Where is desert? I asked for it to be brought with the final dinner course."
An Avox sheepishly nods, scurrying wordlessly off to the kitchen.
"Maybe you forgot," I'm tempted to say. "Or maybe she forgot."
But I don't.
The Avox brings desert along. I can't stomach anymore of the food, and not just because I'm full and it's very rich, but because I don't think I could keep it down knowing it has caused the Avox girl trouble and maybe even punishment later simply because maybe she forgot while trying to wait on us hand and foot, or perhaps—God forbid!—Tracy actually forgot.
Our escort shuffles us into the car with the flat-screen television. We all sit on the couches, and I am fortunate enough to be quick on my feet so that I can slide easily into the armchair and not have to squeeze next to anyone. I, satisfied by my success, watch the television triumphantly as Tracy turns it on and the image of Ema Losjisey talking about the tributes appears.
"…'s tributes are looking good, Acinora!" she exclaims to the other commenter, Acinora Gyrrot.
"Indeed, they are. Daphne and Adelina will be quite the tributes especially, being sisters. Though, Gleam seems hard to beat too," Acinora says, grinning widely. She gives a small motion towards the screen. "Let's show their reactions one more time."
Three girls end up on the stage, one even being reaped. Adelina and Daphne Summerfield are sisters and seem vicious; Gleam Diode seems deadly as well. All three of them are terrifying, and I know I'm going to be hoping largely that I don't end up in a battle to the death with any of them. They could easily kill me. Then again, I hope I end up in battles with no Careers.
District Two is awful—in that give-anyone-nightmares way. Stonesia Zhunder is small but freaky.
District Three produces a giant.
District Four, like usual, has Careers, and it also gives us a little girl. District Four is the least enthusiastic Career district, so every once in a while it hands a non-Career off to the Games.
District Five holds a small girl, a big guy, and an empty-looking girl.
District Six brings an idiot and two strong-looking men.
I sniffle when District Seven comes. Not because I am about to cry, but Decon's head whips around to mine, and something devious flickers up in his eyes at the sound of what could be misconstrued as a weakness of mine.
Two boys and a poor insane girl from Eight.
Three average people from Nine; two are female and one is male.
Three fair males from Ten.
Two small girls and a small boy from Eleven. They don't look young; they just look small.
And an average girl from Twelve, but her district partners—a male and a female—look brutal. The brutal girl doesn't even look big, but she has this Career-like brutality about her that scares me.
I don't think I stand a chance. But I'm going to try to. I have to. Thirty-six people all want to go home, and I'm one of them.