"Oh," Shaya murmurs, "There are lots of people…" She reaches back and touches her hair. Somehow it's good to see her caring about how she looks. She isn't out of the running for this yet.
"Look, Shaya," Salvador points.
Our arrival is airing live on a big screen attached to a building. I am captured rolling my eyes a bit as Apple and Aulie preen. "You're so stuck up, Mags," Shaya says, but there's a lightness to it. She can say whatever she wants to me if it'll help her blow off steam.
"You were stuck up back home," Salvador counters with his opinion once we've piled into the car that will take us to the Training Center.
Before Shaya can get upset at this, Apple primly interjects that, "I am proud to be seen as believing I am above other people everywhere I go. …You get better service that way."
Shaya shakes her head and Salvador laughs.
When we arrive at the Training Center Nar is there waiting for me. "You ready to be in front of the cameras?" he asks as I attempt to introduce him to my tributes.
"What do you mean?" Haven't I been in front of them enough today already? But I'm not the main attraction (I can't say I'm not glad for that).
"You're on the schedule to go make Games-related commentary with Jack Umber." He taps his watch in a hurrying gesture.
Was someone supposed to inform me of this beforehand and then forgot? Did they tell me and I just forgot? Either is possible. "Umm, excuse me then, everyone," I dip my head to my group.
"Don't fret," Apple waves me off, "I'll handle everything."
I may not be ready to fret, but Shaya looks about to object. Nar raises his hand above his head and snaps, bringing a fancy green car up alongside the sidewalk. Nar holds the door to let me in. "I didn't realize I'd just get scheduled in like that," I comment.
He gives an order to the driver and comes around to take the seat on my left. I try to wave at everyone as I leave, but the windows are awfully darkened. I'm not sure they can see me trying.
After the brief bit of noise at the mouth of the Training Center, the near solitude of the closed car feels thick and oppressive. "…Do you know how Ms. Tosca's doing?" I attempt to make small talk.
"She's still happily with the Games-filming team. Her Victory Tour stuff for you went over quite well so she'll have that gig again this year assuming she wants it."
"That's nice," I respond quietly. I can't say I took to Tosca, but I would rather hear something good about her than something bad.
Nar doesn't seem to feel the need to say anything.
"Thanks for sending me the birthday cards and stuff."
He shrugs. "It's just part of the job."
I feel more and more uncomfortable. I smooth the fabric of my pretty pink and white dress over my knees. I should've asked if I couldn't worn the dress Pal made me to the reaping. Clothes that belonged more definitively to me might have provided a bit more comfort. Though I can't stand myself for thinking this way. If it's not going to help me as a mentor, it shouldn't matter. These are not my Games. Who am I to complain when I'm guaranteed to live?
It doesn't take long for us to reach the television studio, but all the things I've thought about on the way have only made me less suited to make entertaining programming. I follow Nar into the place rather dully. There's all kinds of activity brewing around us, up and down the elevator and every hall we pass through. None of it distracts Nar though, who knows exactly where he's going. I just follow mindlessly along.
But I know we're there when I see Jack. "Hi!" he waves at me, hand raised high, about level with his face. He's wearing layers, as he often does, and the one underneath is a green t-shirt sporting the official District 1 emblem bracketed with the words "First Annual Hunger Games."
I must make a weird face when I read it, because he starts laughing. I'm ready to approach him at that very moment, but Nar diverts me through a door to the left. "First, hair and makeup!" he states firmly, leaving me in the hands of several colorful unknown entities.
The hair stylist directions my attention to a woven bag she has sitting beside her workstation. "I brought my own little Mags along with me today since I thought she might enjoy seeing her namesake," the plum-haired woman informs me.
I stop myself before I can ask, "What?" in my typical confused fashion. There a dog in the bag. A tiny, yippy sort of dog (to the best of my knowledge we don't have any of those sorts of dogs back home, but there appear to be plenty in the Capitol). "Oh," I say instead. "Oh," indeed. What else can I say? Am I supposed to be…flattered? This woman named her dog after me.
I lean down and address the hazelnut-colored dog. "Hi there." That's the best I think I can do.
And it seems to be good enough for the hairdresser. She chatters on about this and that as she unwinds my pinned up hair and brushes it out before fixing it back up in basically the exact same style, except it's all fresh now and she does my own hairdo better than I manage to. "There you go, sweetheart," she pats me on the shoulder when she's finished.
"Umm, thank you." It seems like most of the production people I meet are quick to act really familiar with me. Do they treat everyone like this? Obviously interacting with victors is old hat for them, but that's not to say we have no effect on them, what with my namesake there and all.
The makeup artist takes over with me next. He has considerably more to do than his counterpart. I'm not sure whether it's any help to him that I'm not wearing any makeup to begin with. Everyone has to wear makeup on camera though, he tells me. It just makes you look better. "Jack too?" I inquire, although I'm concerned that I shouldn't be talking while he works on me.
"Of course! We just do our best to make it look natural. It's to make him look his best self. Being all made up isn't really Jack's style."
"No," I agree. He tends toward the plain. It's part of what offsets the Capitol-ish side of him.
For his part, the makeup artist tells me to "Knock 'em dead," when he's done, which doesn't exactly offend me, but is kind of an awkward thing to say to a victor, I think.
"You look really nice," Jack says as I take my seat beside him. "I hope you've been doing well. I haven't heard much about you and I haven't heard from you in a while either."
"You missed my birthday." I'm still slightly thrown by his unusual t-shirt, but I can't imagine we have more than a moment or two of conversation available to us before we go on to talk about, well, whatever I've come here to talk about. The Games, obviously. Just what aspect?
Jack tilts his head a little, one eyebrow lifting. "What? No, I didn't."
"You didn't send me a card or anything," I insist, "…Or if you did it got lost in the mail or you wrote something in it that Nar didn't want me to see."
"I said happy birthday to you and sang you a song on my show," Jack blusters. He seems upset, as well as sort of confused. "You didn't see? …No one called you up and told you to watch?"
"You're on in five, Jack," a heavily tattooed man informs us.
"No," I shake my head, "No one did that."
"What!" he grumbles, incredulous, "I specifically asked that you be informed about it! I thought it was going to be so fun, surprising you. …No wonder you didn't call me up about it or anything. …To tell you the truth I was kind of concerned I'd made you mad since I never heard anything about it."
I should've known Jack, of all people, wouldn't have forgotten about me (it just seemed self-centered to give it too much thought). "Well, thank you for the kind effort."
"I'm sure someone's got it on tape," Jack rubs his forehead (in the back of my mind I wonder if that's going to disturb his makeup), "I mean, it's not anything amazing, but if you don't get to see it, there was no point."
"So, um," I change the subject, "I hope you don't mind my asking, but what are we going to do here? No one told me." Am I that easily forgotten? Do people assume I know more than I do?
"We're commenting on the reapings. But don't say "reaping." Say "choosing" or "selection." The official name is the "Tribute Selection," you know."
"I think I've heard Apple call it that." Jack's done this for a number of years, but not with other victors. With Mr. Bronze and Mr. Zimmer. "…is there some kind of new program format here?" I inquire.
"Oh, this way just worked out best for editing purposes. Bronze and Zimmer'll hardly be denied their take on it, but I wanted to work with you and it didn't seem necessary, or an improvement on the show it'll make, for all four of us to be crammed onstage together."
I have to agree that I'll probably make for more interesting television if I'm not seated with such imposing figures as the official Games commentators. While I seem to ultimately be able to get along with both of them, I'm bound to be stiff in that setting compared to the lower level of formality Jack inspires. Jack makes me laugh. That's probably what he's going for here. I'll make him look good. …though there shouldn't be anything funny about the reapings.
But people can be entertained in a way by sad things too. It's what Jack has made his life about, right? Entertainment?
That's why I'm here. To (because I) play along. "How will it work?"
"They're going to play the ceremonies and we'll watch and comment on it. I know that sounds really boring, but it's all in the editing. And don't worry about having something to say about everything. You and I are kind of just the color commentators. It's Bronze and Zimmer who have to carry the show."
"Ready when you are, Mr. Umber," some kind of cameraman or tech wearing a very elaborate headpiece cues Jack.
He looks to me before responding. "You think you're good to go?"
"I think you like it when I don't know what I'm doing anyway," I posit.
"Perhaps," he proceeds with a smile, "On your mark, Mr. Silverus!"
The tape begins to roll.
The first thing that stands out to me in District 1 is that Jack isn't wearing the shirt he is now- or if he is, it's covered up beneath the dressier clothes he's wearing. It makes me wonder when he busted this nonsense out. I still can't get over the…sheer audacity? I mean, this is Jack, I can't be entirely surprised he'd wear it, but who made it? What have people been saying to him about it?
The setup for the reaping in 1 is very decorative. "That's awfully pretty," I say. "Why thank you," Jack jokes, like he was in charge of it or I was speaking about him (it's hard to tell which he's aiming for here). "I think this is going to be a good year for my district," he carries on proudly, as per his usual deal. He shares new information about his tributes beyond the basic stats shown onscreen. …If viewer sympathies were a bigger factor, I might even think this extra time for Jack to talk up his tributes to the general public were worth the trade off of the time lost face to face with his tributes.
"Samantha, called "Sammy," is vice-captain of her school's girls football team. She's quick and she's smart," he says cheerfully over the footage of Sammy climbing the stage and the onscreen presentation of her generic age-height-weight stats. "She loves animals and has always wanted to come and visit our fantastic Capitol zoos."
"Your tributes in One look so happy," I wonder as the boy takes the stage.
"It's all a matter of attitude," Jack declares, before going on to speak similarly about the habits and talents of the eighteen-year-old boy.
"Two continues its trend of the greatest number of volunteer tributes," Jack informs the audience as the scene moves on.
"Why is that?"
"Not to get down on the rest of us, but over the years I've come to believe that Two has a more developed sense of community spirit and loyalty than any other district."
"You've got to admire that," I agree. Back home they're probably thinking that if they never hear another word from me about solidarity it'll be too soon, but this is the cause I've essentially wedded my life too since the moment I volunteered. Solidarity within 4. …but when I look at Jack I am all too aware of another sort of possible bonds. As a whole, I like my fellow victors.
2 adds to its growing volunteer count with the boy, but not the girl.
Beto's twitchy affect onstage in 3 is more eye-catching than either of the tributes. He has on an even thicker pair of glasses than the last time I saw him. I can't believe that the Capitol can't make a thinner pair or something else to adjust his vision more efficiently. It makes me think he likes to look like that. He's a purposeful sort of guy, in my opinion.
"You look so tiny up there!" Jack chirps as the camera cuts from an establishing shot of 4 to focus on me, sitting in my chair onstage, then standing up to wave.
I don't know what to say about that.
But there are some things I can say about Shaya. "We're the same age," I begin, "She's the mayor's daughter. A volunteer lifeguard."
"So she swims well?" Jack plays along, "Better than you?"
I don't see how it could hurt to play up her abilities. "Definitely. To be a lifeguard, you have to be one of the best."
"Salvador Chavez," Apple reads the second name again, the same way she will every time that this footage is replayed.
"He looks familiar."
"Is there footage?" I pipe up, glancing toward the film crew- I'm not sure if this is allowed or not, but we're not airing live, so how much trouble can it get me in? "I know Salvador. He's part of my…sort of…fan club? Back home. There's footage of him talking to Apple that was taken at the beginning of my Tour. Can you show that?"
"We'll look," the tattooed man tells me.
"He's great," I sigh, simultaneously hating and loving Salvador as he makes the best of this awful situation, chatting with Apple onstage and telling everyone that he's proud to represent our district. "He'd been talking to me beforehand about possibly volunteering, you know?"
"I've got to say, kid's pretty brave for even talking about that," Jack allows. I'm sure that it's considered an unlucky subject to bring up in other districts, just the same as in 4. Jack makes several other favorable remarks about my tributes before the broadcast shifts to 5. I think he's doing it for me as much as for them. (But why? Because we're friends? Is it intended to produce a particular response from me? …Why can't I just accept a good thing as it is?)
The reapings have gained a certain level of interest for me now that I've met so many of the individuals featured at them. Like in 5- there's Shy and there's Mac too. They make a funny pair. Though they may not be family by any Capitol legal standards, it's obvious to me that Mac is a father to her. It's nice that some of us (victors) still have family.
There's a fuss in 6 following the actual name-calling as Teejay passes out while climbing down the stairs. "I worry about him," I admit.
"I've heard it's his blood pressure," Jack lies. I suppose any information about Teejay's drug abuse isn't meant to be out there for public consumption? In 6 there didn't seem to be anything secret about it.
"Ohhh," I sigh over the very young tributes in 7.
"That is unfortunate," is Jack's response to them. "And I guess there isn't anyone out there in Seven these days quite like you."
I can't tell him how I thought Haakon might have been. Last year is over, the last Games are done. Unless a Capitol citizen instigates the discussion, in public, I am the only safe subject of the Twelfth Games remaining.
"Kayta's going to have to work hard with that, but I know he's up to any challenge they throw at him. If the win is his to direct, he's ready to grasp it," Jack goes on analyzing things, "Seven came so close last year- you know that better than anyone, Mags- they are ready for their next victor."
And in 8 Jack picks up on what looked to me like determination in Pal's face, "Think he's got a plan?"
"Well, even if the tributes look kind of unimposing, I wouldn't underestimate Eight," I say mildly. It does look like Pal's thinking something, but I don't want to draw too much attention to him- I worry that by doing so I could ruin his plan. Maybe he wants his tributes to be underestimated. But we haven't talked yet. I really can't tell. He could have ruined himself with his stronger than usual expression anyway.
We treat Luna with respect (I'm afraid if I joked about her she might say something back to me I wouldn't be capable of handling), but laugh a bit at Emmy when she has to be prompted about her own identity. There is less familiar material to work with in 11 and 12 without any victors, but Jack gives a good assessment to the boy in 11- "I think that one can handle himself. We don't all need mentoring to make it."
"Harvest," I put his name to memory, "That's a pretty name."
"Thank you for watching," Jack cheers. "Hmm… Thank you for watching!" he tries again.
It makes me laugh. I'm not used to being so aware of the "this is going to be edited later" effect. "Should I say it too?"
Jack turns his focus away from the camera to me, "Yeah! Let's say it together." He looks forward again, "One…two…"
"Thank you for watching!"
He grins and gives me a thumbs up. Mine is a bit more tentative, but I return it all the same. I hold the pose as long as Jack does. "…Anything else?"
"Is…there anything else you'd like to say?" he prompts me, "…Or ask?"
I can see the bait as clear as day, but I'm going to take it anyway. "Your t-shirt." That's got to be it. What I want to ask and what he wants me to ask. If there's one thing Jack can do, it's certainly setting himself up for the scenarios that he wants to occur. He's a born performer, isn't he?
"We can do that, can't we?" he looks to the film crew, who give him the okay, "Nice. Let's do it then! …Actually, I'm kind of disappointed we don't have that initial look you gave me when you got here to share with everyone."
"…Is that the look you want people to be giving that shirt?"
"It was so sincere." His look is sort of gentle now, compared to the manic cheer with which he approached most of the reaping footage. "I like that about you. You're so honest."
I start to feel embarrassed that the camera is capturing all of this. I can't maintain eye contact with Jack. "Is there a particular way you want me to ask about it?"
He shifts, looking away too, but only to relieve the pressure on me, I think. It's hard to picture anything embarrassing Jack, considering all the things he does without a ripple across his carefully controlled surface. "Nah, ask however you like. Whatever feels natural."
I take a deep breath. "Okay, I'm ready then." I pause to give the editors some space to work with (I don't know if they need it or not or how much is enough if so). "I noticed your shirt right away when I got here. What's that about?"
"Thank you for asking," he stands up and removes his unbuttoned outer layer he's wearing to make the details of the green t-shirt visible for all to see. In the center is the District 1 crest with its elaborate swords and shining castle design (I've never been able to figure out exactly what that means). In all-caps above the crest: "FIRST ANNUAL," and beneath it: "HUNGER GAMES." He turns around to show the back to the camera- I haven't seen this part before, and gestures at it, poking his thumb over his shoulder. There's a crown design and his silhouette. He's identified by name: "Jack Umber."
"Flashy," I say. I am a little bowled over still. What else can I say?
"Thank you," Jack sits back down, "It's brand new. My Games fade further and further into the past, but they still remain fresh in my mind. Maybe they remain fresh in yours too?" he cocks his head, addressing the viewers, "I had several made up in commemoration of the event and if you're interested, I could definitely put in a request for more. I have hopes that the sales of such items could go to support our newest District One tributes, but, ultimately, it's all in the hands of our fine fans such as yourself. Call up Games HQ if you're interested." He winks at the camera.
He actually winks.
"Maybe Mags needs one first," he raises his eyebrows, "What size do you wear? A small?"
"Uh," I gasp, not sure whether to laugh or put my hands over my face or what, "Yeah," I confirm.
"You'll look good in green," Jack says.
"It…" My awkwardness has few bounds. "It matches the color of your eyes."
"Oh, it does! Well, what do you know!"
I do start laughing then, because this is all just so… I also put my head down on the table.
"Cut!" someone calls.
Jack gives me a little applause. "Thanks for all that. It was great, Mags."
"I can't handle this." The imminent deaths, the commercialization, the black humor, that weirdly touching side of Jack that pokes through and gets to me.
"Just let it out," he pats my shoulder.
I wonder if I could get it out better if I laughed or if I cried. Jack gets up to talk with the film crew. I don't pay attention to what they're saying. Everyone leaves me alone on the set until I've pulled myself back together (as much as it's possible for me to do so- it's not perfect). Even after that I'm sitting alone for a while until Jack comes back to see me.
"Here," Jack presses a small disc in a plastic case into my hand, "Happy unfortunately belated birthday."
"Yours is toward the end of the year, huh." I didn't do anything for Jack's birthday.
"Around the time you visited District One," he says. That was it then, he means. …I think. I came and met him there and played along with his games. And for Jack, that would do.
"I'll make it up to," I offer instead, "I'll remember next time."
"Yeah," he nods, "You probably won't be as busy."
There will never be a right time, will there, for the two of us to just be friends. Not the way I think of being around my friends. Casually. But I can't help but think he would like it. Walking on the beach or lolling about in a skiff or going swimming (can he swim?). …Is it bad that I can be distracted from the important duties weighing on me at this moment? Or is it good?
"See ya soon," Jack waves me off.
I turn to see Nar is waiting for me with Apple. Apple's expression is one of her typical ones- charming and charmed. Nar looks serious. …and the best I can tell, it's Jack he's eying, not me. For whatever it's worth, Jack is giving him some kind of look in return- a very different one from the smile he just shared with me. But no matter how much these things concern me, I tell myself yet again: there are other things that have to come first.
Nar stays behind at the studio. Apple heads back to the Training Center with me. My eyes keep coming back to rest on the disc in my hands. "Did you know Jack said something about my birthday back then on his show?"
"I did not."
"I'm a little embarrassed to watch this."
"It's up to you," Apple shrugs. At a moment like this, I find I appreciate her more ambiguous feelings regarding Jack.
I will put off his recording for now. The Training Center looms down the street and divides all the things in my mind. I could be wrong though. Nar and Jack and the Games are all part and parcel, aren't they? Things might be more interrelated than I think.
We go inside. Sunny Lightfoot is squeezing the hands of a scrawny girl in a brown dress. The girl is taller than she is. There's a boy too, of course, whose face looks so green I think he might have been sick on the way over. Teejay's not there. "We'll all do our best," Sunny is telling her tribute, "Mags too," she notices me passing by.
"Why Mags?" the girl asks and looses a laugh that cracks with pain (but it's still a laugh).
I don't hear anymore as the doors close behind us. I still haven't quite taken to the elevator. I sway with the motion, looking down at my feet. "You know, I read everything Nar sent me really carefully. …I still don't think I'm going to be a very good mentor though," I admit.
"All those concerns are just a sign that you care very much," Apple answers. At least she has faith in me.
As we return, my "favorite" is bringing things in for dinner. The Avoxes seem to have their own special service lifts and pathways for taking care of everything with a minimum amount of interaction with the tributes, escorts, and mentors. Apple and I didn't pass any on the way either up or down, but here are two of them now.
"There's a familiar activity," I remark at the sight of the dartboard set up in the sitting room (parlor? I'm not always sure how best to describe these Capitol spaces). …Of course now there's a picture of last year's shark-mutt stuck to the board with a dart through its eye.
"Sal's a natural," Aulie informs me with a puff of pride.
I didn't know. I'm not surprised Aulie's taken to "Sal" though, either the newly inaugurated nickname or Salvador himself.
"It wouldn't kill anyone though," Shaya notes, elbows on her knees and chin in her hands.
"With a little poison it would!" Salvador grins and…jokes? Has a plan that he probably won't end up with the proper supplies for?
"You're too optimistic to die," Shaya sighs at him.
A shadow flits across his face. "Yeah, I wish I were."
"Come and eat!" Apple singsongs, inviting us all to dinner.
My only food advice to my tributes is: "Don't eat anything you know will make you sick." They'll have time to recover before the arena of course, but they might as well not be uncomfortable tomorrow (the work that Erinne and her team will do has the potential to turn toward the uncomfortable side anyway).
Shaya asks if mentors know anything about the arena in advance. They don't. …Or at least I don't (so I assume the others don't). She muses that she may be nice-looking but, "I don't think I'm pretty enough that I could use that to convince anyone to kill for me." She likes the tiny canned sardines and a thick brown bread studded with dried fruit and nuts.
Salvador asks what weapon I think he should focus on in training and go for in the arena assuming he has the chance. I look him up and down. I am far from an expert in this matter (I should probably try and improve my knowledge of this sort because I've gotten myself into a spot where I'm going to be asked this very same question for years and not knowing isn't going to do my tributes any favors). "…Something that's not too heavy for you," is the best I can do.
"Shortsword, maybe," Aulie volunteers more helpfully than I can manage.
"The recap's going to be on in…three minutes!" Apple announces, checking her comm-device.
"I'm not watching this," I bow out, "There's no way."
"Because you're in it?" Salvador asks.
Partially? "Lots of reasons," I answer. It may leave a bad impression, but it's my prerogative as the victor in this group to do what I want, right? "…Make sure and get as good a rest as you can tonight," I tell my tributes, "Getting made over can be strangely, uh, tiring. But if you really need me for something, don't hesitate, of course, to come bother me. Just knock first."
"Well, good night then," Shaya is understandably annoyed by the tack I'm taking, but I just don't think I can handle watching the reapings yet again and this time with whatever dumb commentary I made that they chose to use added in.
"Good night," I sigh.
"She's just worked up," I hear Apple apologizing for me as I close my door.
"I know," Salvador says. "She's never like that."
I lie on my bed and don't do anything for what feels like a very long time. Through the wall I can hear the vague noise of my group laughing. I hope that laughter includes Shaya and Salvador. They could use it. I don't mind if they're laughing at my expense even. I'd just rather they not do it in front of me.
I don't watch the recording Jack gave me. I take a shower and get in bed. I should've brought a book. There's not much good here about being alone for long with my thoughts.
Eventually there's a tapping at my door.
"Yes?" I ask.
The door opens a crack, letting in a tall sliver of light. "I just wondered if you were awake," Salvador responds.
"Yep," I can't help but smile, although I don't think he can see it.
"Okay then. Good night, Mags."
"Good night, Salvador."
No one else comes by. I dream about my Games.
"Be good for Erinne and her helpers. They're nice," I lecture. It makes me feel infinitely old.
"I liked the way they dressed you," Shaya remembers, "I hope I get to wear something pretty too."
"I don't care about clothes," Salvador shrugs.
"I like the dress you're wearing now too," Shaya ignores her counterpart, "Pal Fields made you that, huh?"
"He's even nicer than Erinne," I admit (Aulie laughs).
Shaya looks down and runs her hands slowly, sadly, over her Capitol loaner clothes. "…I think I'll talk to the girl from Eight."
I never thought about what role I might have in securing them alliances.
Spring and Irish are as cheerful as ever, which is good for tributes to be around at this point, I think. "Tell me about your hair," Spring is prompting Shaya as they disappear from my sight. Irish and Salvador are laughing.
"I've got this false kelp theme going on this year," Erinne tells me. "Oh, and I made you some fishing lure hair decorations. They're really bright-colored. They're going to look great on TV."
"Did you see Jack's First Games shirt?" I'm curious to hear her "expert" opinion. "What did you think?"
"Well, first off, I thought he was going to take it off right there on camera and put it on you," she laughs, "But other than that, hmm, just that it was the typical garish bit of publicity that he lives for. I'm glad that we work for you. You're more…low key."
"And yet you're going to put fishing lures in my hair."
"And yet!" Erinne spreads her hands out to the open air.
I'm not entirely sure what to do with myself and no one tells me. I wander back to the front and run into Shy and Luna caught up in a heated discussion while Emmy and Beto look on. Neither of the two watchers offer an explanation to me on their own. So, Emmy or Beto? They're close together and I choose not to choose.
"What's this about?"
"There is a possibility tributes could be sponsored by Capitol citizens," Beto says skeptically, "And there is a difference of opinion occurring over whether this will be so or not during this particular run of the Games."
"Ferdinand didn't tell me so," Emmy murmurs.
"He might not know," Beto tells her in a slower, more careful manner than most of his speech. "I don't know."
"Well…" I consider, pausing as I watch Shy step toward Luna in an angry manner and wonder what would happen if they got into a physical fight (would they get in trouble? would they actually hurt one another?), "It's one thing if it's just us thinking, but we've all heard about it somewhere or other, right? How much talk about it would they allow to fly around without anything happening do you think?"
"Difficult to ascertain. I'm not aware of a comparable precedent."
Kayta shows up and steps between Luna and Shy, clearly the better person than Beto, Emmy, or I because I think we were going to let them go at it. "It doesn't matter what either of you think or have heard anyway," he sighs, stilling Shy by wrapping his arm around her shoulders, "They're going to do what they want regardless. And you know those Gamemakers can turn on a dime."
"She doesn't have to be such a gossipy factory rat about it though," Luna sneers.
"Watch it, grass-cutter," Shy answers in a tense whisper. Is this a history of animosity between them specifically or is this a factory district versus field district thing? (Everyone knows there's a least a bit of both types of work in their own district (well…I think there is?), but they all stereotype basically one way or the other)
Luna gives her ponytail an annoyed flip and turns and walks away.
Kayta lets go of Shy and sighs even harder. "Sponsors or no sponsors, Seven is so screwed."
"Sorry for your loss," Emmy attempts to comfort him.
I suppose her words work in their own weird way, because Kayta bursts out laughing. "In advance, huh? Wow, Emmy, thank you for that!"
"You're welcome."
"Bet', we need you over here," a designer or hairdresser or something I don't know intrudes in our meeting.
"On my way," Beto agrees, but raises his hand to make a slow, deliberate 'gun to the temples' gesture (since he actually does it, I assume it's for our benefit) before following.
It isn't long after before Emmy leaves too, to find Ferdinand.
"So…why do you think they're going to institute the sponsorships?" I ask Shy, "…Or do you not?"
"I think some people know about it," Shy declares, "Jack and the Twos and maybe Pal."
Kayta's thin eyes narrow even further as he squints and considers this. "I have a hard time imagining Pal could know anything that the rest of us don't. The Twos, sure. Jack, sure. Of course, if Jack knew something, don't you think he'd tell Mags…?"
"I don't know," Shy exclaims, seeming to light up. She looks at me, "Would he tell Mags?"
"You know I have no idea," I say.
Shy gives me a moment, like maybe I'm joking.
"Really," I insist (suddenly I can see better how an argument involving her might have started). I agree with them that if any victor know it would be Gerik, Hector, or Jack, but Jack never said that. …Unless the t-shirts for sale said it for him. But he didn't say that just to me, assuming it made the broadcast. They all had an equal opportunity to watch.
"What is Pal doing that makes you think he knows about sponsorships?" I mean, we've barely been in the Capitol to observe one another. Did she hear about something he was up to back in 8?
"Uh," Shy taps a finger against her cheek, "Talking to people. Lots of people. And he's usually kind of shy of Capitol people. Also, he brought some kind of sewing basket and project with him."
"Maybe he's making clothes for his tributes," Kayta tries to come up with another rational explanation.
Shy is unshaken. "Telling people he made their outfits himself could still be a sponsor ploy."
We're not going to be able to come to a satisfactory answer to this inquiry based on what little we know now and if Pal is anywhere at the Spa Center, he's not out lingering in the waiting area with us. Thinking our own thoughts (if there are sponsors, what will I do to attract them?), we retreat to the company we arrived with.
For my part, it's a subdued day, full of waiting and anxious thought. Erinne lets me page through her sketchbook. "Draw me something," she suggests. I comply, but I am a terrible artist and not having any particular idea in mind as I begin doesn't help.
When Erinne returns from the fittings she points out her favorite part. "That's a nice fish pattern."
"Thank you. I just started making, well, scribbly lines until they put me in mind of something." Maybe because she's a designer she can see something in it I don't, though I'd lean toward "she's just being nice to me" as the actual reason for her comment.
Spring puts the fishing lure ornaments in my hair after my tributes have been dressed up but before I get to see their finished looks. It's nice to receive only a minimal amount of fussing of my appearance. I stay in my own dress, my own shoes, my hair as I fixed it. Irish suggests some eye shadow and I acquiesce to this small addition.
"Erinne and everyone have really stepped up the detail level of the costumes this year," Apple informs me, "Compared to the simple blue and white outfit you wore, these ones are considerably more experimental. Obviously they've been inspired to greater heights by their past success."
I'm not sure if experimental is exactly my style clothes-wise, but it's not up to me what sorts of outfits my tributes get (though I imagine if I voiced my opinion Erinne would take it into account to some degree- she's not particularly aloof or stuck-up).
Still, between "experimental" and "kelp" I don't know exactly what to expect and my, "Oh!" of surprise is genuine when I see Shaya and Salvador all kitted out. Shaya's long hair is half up and half down, fixed with abalone pins. Salvador's hair is slicked back- err, down. I'm not sure his hair is quite long enough to say "back" about the direction it's going, but it's smooth now instead of lively.
Salvador is shirtless and Shaya has on an emerald green bikini top, but they sport basically the same bottom- some kind of wraparound skirt or sarong made out of what looks very much like wet, shiny kelp, but is actually some kind of unusual, plastic-ish fabric.
"What does that feel like?" I wonder.
"Go ahead and touch it," Salvador holds part of the fabric out towards me.
"Oh," I'm impressed, "It's pretty silky!"
"Your expression makes this whole get-up almost worth it," Shaya shakes her head at me. Her weird smile gives me the impression that for the moment she's just surrendering to the surreal strangeness around her. 'If I didn't laugh, I would cry,' right? The Capitol is pretty unlike 4 though. Some amount of culture shock strikes me as a kind of inevitability.
"You don't like your outfit?" I ask her.
"Um," she looks at the style team, "Not 'no offense' I suppose, but as little offense as possible?" She turns back to me, "I would obviously never wear this for any other reason and it's not something I would consider regular clothing. …But Irish is amazing with makeup and my hair has probably never looked this good before, which is a such a horrible drag because this is hardly the moment in my life I would've liked to look my best even assuming I'm going to die in the first day of the Games."
"Has anyone not been killed or whatever because they were too pretty?" Salvador muses aloud.
"I don't think so," Spring snorts.
"Everyone back home will still see you looking this good," I remind Shaya, hoping a realistic remark will be better received than some assertion that she won't die that quickly.
"It doesn't mean much if I never see them again," she answers me.
I don't like it, but I don't blame her. I look down and notice that they're both wearing laced up red sandals. Salvador's are flat and Shaya's raise slightly in the back in a kind of- not a heel exactly, it's called a wedge? Her ribbon token is tied around her ankle like an anklet. It looks very pretty, but all the trouble I continue to have making comfortable conversation with her deters me from mentioning it. I can only hope I won't regret refraining from saying so later. (I will live with Beanpole's ghost forever- though this doesn't stop me from living or even happiness, it is with extra company in my mind- will it be the same for every tribute I lose as well?)
"Where will you be while we ride on the chariots?" Salvador wants to know.
"Umm, I'll get you set up and then there's a special box of seats outside the presidential manor for the victors to watch from."
"Has anyone ever fallen off their chariot?" Salvador keeps on asking questions even when he's situated on the vehicle in question.
"You want to know everything," Shaya sighs.
"Even if Mags doesn't know, I'm sure someone knows this stuff!" he insists. He's probably right. The Games are entertainment for those they aren't punishing and many people love trivia (Papa, for instance, loves fishing trivia).
"I don't think anyone's going to win the Games by knowing trivia, Salvador," Shaya is equally firm in reply.
"Oh, don't argue here," Aulie scolds them, "Go out there smiling."
"Please," Apple adds, clasping her hands across her chest. Her own smile is more strained than usual.
"Miss Mags," Nar finds me, Shy already trailing along behind him, "Will you accompany me to your scheduled seating?"
"Uh, sure. Good luck," I wish Shaya and Salvador for what it's worth.
Apple walks alongside me for several yards as I head toward the exit, fretting as though there's something she wants to tell me but isn't sure how to broach the subject. Should I prompt her? Before I can, she decides on her own. "Mags, I hope you let me know if I ever begin to act as if I'm taking you for granted, because I've given a lot of thought about how easy you are to be around today and I think you should know that I like you very much and am much happier to work with you than any other victor."
"Did Shaya do something really frustrating at the Spa Center?"
"No one particular thing, but she is one of the most difficult tributes I've worked with since I took this job."
"I'm sure you'll manage though, Apple," I try to console her in light of her awkward complaint. Sure, it's selfish, but I still think she's trying to be as professional about the matter as possible. It's not a problem specifically originating from Apple, but one of the many unpleasant things coming out of the Games in general. I never found Shaya to be a particularly kind person back home and who would expect her entry into the Games to bring out the best in her?
"Come on, Mags! Hurry up!" Shy turns back and holds her hand out to me, "I don't want to miss anything!"
"Go on," Apple releases me from the unexpected matter of coaching her along with my tributes.
Nar takes on a heart-poundingly fast drive to the victors box then leaves us alone as he hobnobs with some colleagues from Victor Affairs. "Sit with meeeee," Shy pleads until I scoot over along the bench close beside her. She drops her head down onto my shoulder while music plays and we can't see anything related to the tribute parade even on one of the big hanging display screens.
Behind us Kayta asks Pal if he made the costumes his tributes will be wearing here. It turns out he did, though he offers no explanation why.
Hector, sitting in front of me looks back and tells me, "Loved you on the reaping broadcast."
"I didn't actually watch it," I admit.
"You edit well then?" Gerik suggests from behind Hector without turning around to face my way.
I find myself smiling at the back of his head.
"You're pretty much the same on TV as you are in person," Hector notes, "The way you are translates well. I feel right at home watching you. …Though it'd still be nice to see you trip up Jack someday."
"He kind of plays her, huh?" Shy says. "Mags, I would never do that to you."
"You're embarrassing her too," Hector laughs.
"Oh, don't worry about it," I respond, but my stiffness probably shows.
"Jack's too busy being on live television to join us," Hector goes on, indicating the small set of stands we're occupying pretty much on the president's lawn. Beto sits beside Gerik, completing the bottom row (though it would sit at least one more whether it had been Jack or me), though he's reading off a digital tablet and generally ignoring the scene around him. To Shy's right are Sunny and Teejay, who exhibits his usual blurred out gaze. On the third and highest row are Kayta, Pal, Luna, and Emmy. Emmy is fretting about something and Luna has her fingers in her ears to tune it out. What a bunch we are.
The music picks up and the tributes from 1 appear onscreen for our "viewing pleasure" ahead of my actually being able to see them (and even with a relatively unobstructed view- a good thing in light of my tiny stature). Shy lifts her head off my shoulder.
It's a bit hard to hear over all the noise- the music, the shouting, the clapping- but Shy comments on all of the costumes. Is it like being on a very peculiar date?
I pay more attention to the president's words this year than last time, but that doesn't make them any more interesting than they were then. He's a broken record. What kind of cause is that meant to serve? Or he just is, not to any particular purpose.
I meet back up with my tributes, finding them worn out, hair mussed, and makeup smeared. "Doing nothing has never made me so tired," Salvador confesses wryly, "This must be what it's like to be any part of the government but the president."
"I just want to eat and go to bed," Shaya holds her head up with one hand, elbow set on top of the table. I imagine Apple is mentally encouraging her to do just that.
"No one expects you to do anything else," Aulie assures her.
Sleep holds more allure than the meal. Neither of them eats much, leaving us old veterans of the Training Center to carry on alone. Aulie mixes himself some kind of alcoholic drink, but Apple and I both turn down his offers to share.
After several more drinks Aulie suggests that perhaps I can bank on my good relationship with Jack to see if either or both of his tributes might be willing to partner up with mine. I thank him for the suggestion, but there's no way I'm going to ask that. It would…presume too much? I'm not sure if mentors are technically allowed to do that anyway. When I worked with Sparrow, we decided that on our own. Even Beanpole and I were eventually partners of our own accord, though I'm sure Aulie and Apple would've been shocked if we'd done otherwise.
Shaya and Salvador might come together if circumstances keep them around long enough, but I doubt they'll start the Games together. They don't have compatible personalities. And while sticking together might provide more of a boost for Shaya, I think, than it would for Salvador, it wouldn't be worth that much. If it's help they're looking for, there's probably better gathered up here for either of them.
I take a shower and lie in bed. The TV recording Jack gave me lies unwatched on the desk. I think about watching it.
I go to sleep instead.
I am slow to rise. Aulie is answering Salvador's ongoing stream of questions over breakfast while Apple and Shaya eat sitting on the couch instead. I think Apple is just over by her to be polite (sorry, Apple, I suppose that should've been me).
"Do you have any better advice than Aulie?" Shaya quizzes me as Apple and I ride with them down to the basement level training floor.
"What was his advice?"
"Try lots of things and try to make friends."
I resist the urge to say "Worked for me!" and leave them to figure it out for themselves. "Okay, I don't intend to make any mean assumptions about either of you, so don't take this the wrong way, but Shaya, since you have less, uh, firsthand living off the land sort of experience, make sure and look at survival stuff like plants that will supplement your lifeguard training. You don't neglect that either, Salvador, but-"
"I know what I want to do…if I can," he says, saving me the need to come up with a study strategy for him too. He's more likely to have gotten further advice from Aulie than Shaya or at least to have taken it seriously. And if it's the way he wants to go, he shares my tendency to easily make friends.
"Have fun," Apple tells them as they leave.
"I am going to have to get a lot smarter if I'm going to do this for the rest of my life," I sigh.
"You can't win them all, dear," is Apple's lackluster consolation. I don't think she's as invested in this anymore as she was last year or when we began. I probably need to do something about that. Apple did lots of things that helped me out…in her own way. I need my tributes to have every advantage available to them. You may finish the Games on your own, but you don't have to start them that way. "What will you do now?" she asks me.
"Can I go outside?" I inquire, "Leave the Training Center?"
"I'm not sure you should do that on your own," she frowns, a bit pained, "You might get lost and people might bother you. After all, it's not like you know much of the Capitol."
"No, not far," I insist, "I just thought I might take a walk around the building. …Is there somewhere the other victors go during this time?"
"Hmm…I think some of them stay on their assigned floors and some of them with more connections go into the city. I really can't say. Before we had you, I almost never had an occasion to talk to them and it's rare that most of them will address an escort they have no association with."
"I see."
"But you are allowed to go out. I imagine if you stay within sight of the Center there would be no difficulty. There will be security around the building who won't let anyone unauthorized come and badger you as well."
"I guess I'll go walk then." And see what there is to see, right?
"Have a nice time. You come back and meet with Aulus and me for lunch, all right? Or let us know if you make other plans. I don't want to be worrying about you."
I don't hesitate to agree. I plan on continuing to make my part of this whole process run as smoothly as possible. We both get into the elevator, but I get off in the front area of the main floor (the tributes from 1 are also stationed on this level, but there's no sign of them here in the main reception area) and Apple carries on higher for now at least.
I get some looks from the front desk as I go, but no one stops me.
When I come out of the Training Center, leaving my tributes thoroughly occupied with their ad hoc preparation, I find Jack crouched down looking into the planter. I watch him for a few seconds to see if I can figure out what he's up to on my own. Did he drop something in there? Is an unusual bird or bug moving around between the plants (although I doubt the Capitol has any insects in the first place, and, come to think of it, I've never seen a wild bird here)?
As I can't determine his purpose and he isn't moving, I ask him about it. "What's so interesting in there, Jack?"
"Oh, Mags! Hey!" There's nothing surprising about the two of us running into one another here, but he seems pleased by it from the look on his face. It's not just that he's smiling- Jack smiles most of the time- but they way he smiles. Again, it's not his TV grin. I like to think that there's something special between Jack and I, but it's hard to say for sure if I'm not just being deluded about his ordinary sort of performance. We spend far more time apart than together. We don't know anything about one another's lives back home that the rest of Panem hasn't seen on air aside from a few shared remarks here and there.
"It's this clover," he straightens up to stand a whole head taller than me and waves a congenial hand toward the plants.
I squint at the clover, but still don't notice anything out of the ordinary.
"It's all four-leaf clover," Jack explains, but, unfortunately, I'm still too stupid to get it.
"Uh," I give him a sheepish grin, "I…I don't understand the significance of that."
"Huh. Really?" Jack gives me a funny smile that crinkles up his face, "I guess it's different in Four then."
This makes me curious. "So, in One, there's something different about the clover? There's some kind of meaning to it?"
Jack sits down on the edge of the planter, casually, like he's sitting on a fence in a field somewhere or on the side of a boat. I wonder if Jack can swim. I can imagine it. I can see him cutting through the water like a marlin. I stop imagining when he begins to speak (it barely takes a second to dream, doesn't it?). "In One, most clover has three leaves. A four-leafed clover is rare. Finding one is considered lucky." He pauses. "You really don't know that in Four? Ten knows it."
"There's a lot more grass in Ten than there is in Four," I suggest. I saw it on my Victory Tour. It was the first time I realized an abundance of plant life could look like the sea.
"Sorry, sorry," Jack dismisses it, running a hand through the clover, "I didn't meant to sound like a jerk."
"No," I reassure him, "I didn't think you were being a jerk at all. It's just…the other districts are more different than we realize sometimes. …Most of the people who saw the other districts…during the Dark Days…well, they're dead." I start laughing then, nervous over the weird conversation we've managed to have.
Jack looks me in the eye, serious and intent. I wonder what he's thinking, looking at me like that.
"I was thinking that a lucky clover would make a good token. See, my girl this year didn't bring any token with her. She doesn't have any family and she was too distraught to think of asking anyone to get something of hers for her. I told her I'd take care of it. …Thing is, if all the clover in the Capitol has four leaves, what's the significance of it? What's lucky about something you can just make a million of whenever you feel like it?"
"She'd probably appreciated how much thought you put into this for her," I offer. If I were in that tribute's place, I know I would. My own tributes have both brought tokens of their own. Shaya's is a tiny piece of teal ribbon, long enough to tie into her hair, but not enough to choke or strangle anyone with. It's a fragment carefully clipped by her mother off of one Shaya always liked to wear back home. Salvador's is a black pearl his mother dove for.
"You're right," Jack agrees with me, "But I want to do better than that. I want to give her a token with as much meaning in it and good feelings in it as I can muster. I've got to give her as much support as I can to make up for what she was lacking."
"You're a really good mentor."
"I don't know about that," he shrugs and looks back into the clover, "I mean this in the gentlest way possible, but I don't exactly have tons of stiff competition in that category. …Everyone does the best they can."
I think about Emmy Pollack's glassy stare. You never know…maybe she's a really good mentor despite her own eccentricities. Maybe. "Well, you set the bar, Jack," I settle upon and crouch down beside him to examine the clover.
He's right. It seems like every one has four leaves. I have an idea. "Let's try and find a three-leaf clover then. If being rare is what makes it lucky, in a situation like this, wouldn't the three-leaf clover become the lucky one?"
Normal is beautiful compared to the manufactured perfection of the Capitol. Like Jack (what an embarrassing thought that is, I chide myself as soon as I think it). Normal could be lucky too, right?
"Heeeey, there you go, Mags!" Jack leans closer to search carefully in hope that a three-leaf clover might somehow have mutated somehow or snuck itself into the pristine four-leafs. "That's a great idea!"
We're still diligently searching for a three-leaf clover one clump at a time when Emmy and Ferdinand, the hardworking District 10 escort, come out of the Training Center. "Jack and Mags are hobbyist gardeners in the Capitol? How interesting," Emmy remarks to the flashy-looking escort with long hair waxed up to form the shape of a bull's horns over his head.
"I think they're looking for something, Miss Pollack," the escort corrects her.
He's right, just not in the way he imagines. Does he like Emmy, I wonder, or does he just put up with her and her oddness? I hope for both their sakes that he genuinely likes her.
He allows Emmy a few minutes to gawk at us before ushering her onward.
Even though we're barely talking, it's nice to work side by side with Jack. We're running out of ground though. The Capitol may have managed to be too thorough in this matter. No three-leaf clover yet. I feel a little guilty that I may have wasted Jack's time when he could have been searching out a token for his tribute elsewhere or attending to whatever other business takes up his time in the Capitol.
Then he hastily reaches past me and plucks a single stem. "Mags!" he holds the clover out to me like it's some precious and exotic flower, "Look!"
A three-leaf clover, right here in the Capitol. "It's wonderful," I sigh, "I'm so happy you found it!"
"And I'm happy you thought of it."
We stand up and brush the dirt off our hands. Jack holds the tiny snippet of plant carefully between two fingers. It seems so small in his embrace. "I hope it helps your girl," I say. "…I still want one of mine to win though."
"They've got you," Jack promises, "They'll do okay.
"…I better take this inside and put it somewhere safe," he adds, leans down and hugs me, then dashes off with another of his typically cheerful smiles on his face.
I feel…really warm and happy. I sort of stupidly watch Jack as he goes. His outer blue and purple plaid shirt billows out behind him, like a sail filling with wind.
I like him.
Then the guilt comes sweeping in. What a time and place to be happy.