There is a buzzing in my ear that sounds an awful lot like Effie's voice. I can't make out a word it says over the sound of the whirlwind in my mind, but I obediently trot along behind the feathered woman as she shows me and Awren the train. Awren walked slowly at first, trudging along in a melancholy haze. So I waited, and grabbed his hand. This time I think my encouraging smile was slightly more successful, but he did not return it. The grim look in his eyes was that of a terrified child who has steeled himself against all emotions. Still, he did not push away my hand, and so we walk behind Effie together now. Two terrified tributes from twelve tentatively tail Trinket through the train. I smirk at my word play and lean down to whisper this to Awren. With an obvious struggle, the corners of his mouth turn up for probably the first time all day.
I wonder if he laughed a lot before, if he had friends who will now watch his death on live TV. Both of our smiles fade fast, but this is probably for the best given that we have apparently reached the end of our tour.
My mother and his father sit at a table together in a lavishly decorated dining car. I stagger a bit under the luxury and wealth spared on a single room on a single vehicle. The amount of money spent decorating this room could probably feed all of District 12 for years. In the center of the room, there is an ornate chandelier, dripping tinkling diamonds towards the wide table. I resist the urge to fling myself upon the lush couches lining either side of a fireplace at the rear of the car.
The walls are papered with the symbols of the districts. I can see the helmet of District 12, the crossed axes for 7, a fishing hook for 4, and a needle and thread for 8. All the symbols circle around the enormous emblem of our capitol. The eagle spreads its powerful wings, engulfing all of the districts with its radiance and strength. And stealing their children, destroying their families, and watching them starve.
"I just love that your parents are here this year," Effie gushes. "It's like a super-exclusive backstage pass to the home lives of our tributes!" Awren's hand tenses in mine, and I fight the temptation to ball my own free hand into a fist. How can you say that? I want to scream. We are going to die- two innocent kids, and we are about to go be murdered by other children while our families and friends watch on television. We are about to be murdered, and you are excited that you get insider information on our backstories? What kind of a sick and twisted world do you live in?
"I'm sure you're excited to see the Capitol," squeals Effie. "I know I can't wait to get back. The Districts are a little… rustic for my tastes. The Capitol is fabulous though, all the skyscrapers and bright colors, nothing like that horrid brown and gray 12 is painted. All that coal dust… tsk tsk." She trails off in apparent disdain.
It takes every ounce of self-control that I possess to not lunge at her, to resist slapping the condescending grimace from her unnaturally pale face. Beside me, Awren is about ready to murder Effie as well- our first kill of the Games! I look up though, and see my mother is staring straight at me. Ever-so-slightly, she shakes her head at me, no. I relax a bit. What am I thinking? Get a grip Primrose, or you won't even survive to the start of the games. Now is not the time to pick a fight, and Effie Trinket is certainly not the person to pick a fight with. I can't let her ignorance get to me. I try to squeeze Awren's hand reassuringly, but he is having none of that. He jerks his hand away from mine and scowls at Effie. I notice that his father is doing nothing to calm his son down.
Apparently not noticing that anything has gone wrong –or maybe she just chooses not to – Effie claps her hands together and ushers us over to the table. I run my fingers over the dark, smooth wood, and Effie nods approvingly. "Lovely, isn't it? Such a pity mahogany is extinct." I stop admiring the table, determined to not admire anything Effie considers worthwhile. Still, I can't help but gasp when the red-clad servers bring us our luncheon. It's more food than I've ever seen at one time, and even the rolls look like they would cost a week's budget back in 12. It's a good thing the table is so well-crafted, otherwise it might buckle under the weight of the meal. All of us- except Effie, of course, who delicately accepts only a small bowl of a lavender-colored soup- heap our plates with generous helpings of everything. A strange pink fruit with long green tendrils, small fried creatures with eight legs, and a square of fine white bread covered with a red sauce and melted cheese all prove to be delicious, if strange. I am just digging in to a dessert of an enormous pastry Effie calls a "lava cake" when Awren stands up from his chair. He looks around at each of us, as if daring us to challenge his right to stand, then says in a cracking voice, "We need to talk."