Chapter 5
How did my request for help from Effie turn into homework for me? Oh yeah, I have the list of potential sponsors under lock and key – well actually, button and flap to be more accurate – of my pajama shirt.
I go to my room after breakfast and head into the bathroom with the notepad Effie gave me. I don't even want to think about what any Capitol guard/observer will make of this action, if they are watching on the "hidden" cameras I suspect are in my bedroom. Surely the government – read that as President Snow – of Panem has more important 'fish to fry', as it were. I pull the potential sponsors on the pieces of paper from the pocket of my pajamas, and I write them and their personal information down on the pad – noting with a number in the margin the district mentor I received the recommendation from, in case I need them for an introduction. I then flush all of the pieces of paper I received last night down the toilet and tear the newly created sponsor list off the pad.
I peruse the list for several minutes, and I decide to organize it according to my personal familiarity with the names. The people I've actually met before – surprisingly about a third of the names, hello to twenty-four years as a mentor - go to the top of the list, followed by the names I've heard of but have never met. Finally I add the rest of the names to the list. I'm hoping Effie is familiar with the people in the last two categories. In all, there are almost thirty names on the list. In my experience that means that I will be lucky to get about one-fourth of them, or about seven or eight, for sponsors. That's so much more than I've ever had before. I tuck the "master list" with the annotated district numbers into a safe place after I make a second copy of the revised list for Effie, and then I take my shower and exit the bathroom.
After I emerge from my shower and dress in one of my dapper Capitol suits – who knew I could look so good? – certainly no one from my district has ever seen me this way, I meet Effie in the living room with my duplicate lists. I explain my "ordering" of the list and ask if she knows the people from the bottom-up. Why am I not surprised that Effie "knows or knows of" almost everyone on the list? I've always known that she was a full Capitol fashion-plate, but I never really contemplated the extent of the meaning of that. When she explains her knowledge of these names, I begin to wonder about her background/upbringing for the first time – wow, how shallow have I been for fifteen years. As long as I've known her, I never explored her as a person. Perhaps there is more to her than a simple Capitol functionary.
Also, it seems she has totally embraced the hope, if not downright optimism, I'm garnering from these two tributes. I'm realizing that it has been total snobbery on my part that has never let me see the woman who may actually care behind all that Capitol frippery. I mean… I mentor these kids year after year, but she's the one who actually pulls their names from the reaping bowls. Anyone with any decency at all, and I'm just figuring out that includes Effie, would, and maybe should, emotionally crater under the weight of that obligation. Suddenly, the clattering of her heels on almost every surface seems somehow less offensive and annoying.
Well armed with list in hand, Effie takes off to begin securing Sponsors. Her determination is really inspiring. I had told her to leave the top ten potential sponsors to me, and I began making a few phone calls to them. I was happily surprised to learn that they had all witnessed the tribute parade (who didn't in Panem?) and were all excited about my tributes. Somewhat disturbing were the off-hand comments about the tributes individually. It seems that some of the interest in either her or him was related to the kind of activities that Finnick is forced to pursue. Well, I'll face that bridge when I come to it. That excitement didn't necessarily translate immediately into money into the Sponsorship fund, but it was a start. I set up meetings with the most promising potential sponsors – approximately five from the top of the list. Considering that I'd never been able to secure more than three sponsors per Hunger Games in the last twenty-three years, I felt incredibly encouraged. Anything that Effie could come up with would just be icing on the cake. I giggled internally as I thought how my baker's son tribute would appreciate that train of thought. I do love a good pun.
By the time all of this work was done (much more than I'd ever done for any tributes I'd had to date), I realized that it was approaching late-afternoon, and I hadn't had so much as one sip of alcohol. Well, fuck me. The most surprising aspect of this epiphany was the fact that I hadn't even noticed the lack of alcohol. Less than half an hour later, Effie arrived in our suite with terrific news about her contacts on the list. She had gotten most of them to agree to a meeting, and two of them to commit funds for Sponsorship outright. Well done, Effie! Who knew that after all these years, all she needed were names to pursue! Or… maybe she just needed tributes she believed in, tributes who had made an impression from the outset.
Just then, the elevator dinged the arrival of said tributes from their day of training. Actually, the whole notion of actual, official Hunger Games training was rather a joke. How do you teach otherwise ordinary, innocent children to kill/murder and fight for their lives in the space of three days? But I digress. Both of them look apprehensive, sweaty, and tired when they arrive. Effie guides them towards their rooms for showers before dinner. I have an internal chuckle wondering if either of them has figured out the complex shower system. I guess I could explain it to them, I am their mentor after all, but it's much more fun watching the uninitiated try to figure it out. I'm guessing the boy, who is obviously from the blond-haired, merchant class has some experience with showers, but I'm pretty sure seam-girl does not. The whole shower system here in the Capitol is like an experiential IQ test. We'll see just how intelligent our tributes are…
About a half hour or so later both tributes emerge from their respective rooms, showered, clean, damp-haired, and redressed in casual clothes. When they arrive at the dinner table, I smell huge wafts of roses and vanilla. Funnily enough, the vanilla is coming from the Sweetheart and the roses are coming from the Kid. Har-de-har-har-har. What do you know, the town kid is having more trouble with the showers than the seam kid.
We all sit at our places at the dinner table awaiting the serving of our meal. I ask them how the first day of training went. I'm not at all surprised to hear there was an altercation involving the boy, Cato, – he's been on my mentor radar from the moment I laid eyes on him. Katniss explains the incident with the knife and relishes the notion that the little twelve-year-old from Eleven stole it and, by extension, bested him. She follows with wondering just how "dangerous" he is. In mentor-speak, how much do we need to worry about him? I think, "Good question, Sweetheart." However, I respond, " he's a career. Do you know what that is?" I'm pretty sure that everyone knows about "careers", but not everyone knows all about them.
She responds, "he's from District One." Just as I suspected – knowledge, but limited knowledge.
I decide to enlighten them further, "or Two. They train in a special academy until they're eighteen. Then they volunteer. At that point… they're pretty lethal." No use in sugar-coating it for them.
Effie tries to further assuage them, but with limited success, "but they don't receive any special treatment. In fact, they stay in the exact same apartment as you… And I don't think they let them have dessert… And you can!" Wow, that's a relief, and such a special treat. Apparently Sweetheart and the Kid can have the chocolate covered strawberries, while the careers can't. I'm sure they will sleep much better tonight knowing that little tidbit of information.
The Kid looks disbelievingly at Effie with slightly raised eyebrows. Apparently the magic appeal of those strawberries isn't as great as Effie believed. "So… how good are they?" he asks, apparently keenly aware of the shortcomings of the Capitol's obligatory (and pretty much worthless) three-day tribute training program.
Everyone in Panem knows the win ratio of the games. So I respond honestly, "obviously, they're pretty good… they win it almost every year…"
Effie huffs, as if I've let some deep, dark secret slip, " Almost…" she adds, shaking her head side to side. As much as my admiration/affection/opinion of Effie has grown in the last day or so, she's still a Capitolite. Most of them believe that the games are somehow set up fairly, and that the tribute training is actually meaningful. Just as they have been, no doubt, taught to believe that the Hunger Games serve an important civic or cultural purpose.
I decide to throw them an informational bone, "they're arrogant. And arrogance can be a BIG problem…" I look over at Sweetheart to see if this information is having the proper effect on her; more specifically, on her own arrogance. She thinks I don't see it. I notice her eyes cut a sideways glance at me. I've known those who played things close to the vest, so to speak, but nothing like this. She doesn't want anything about herself to surface before the games. I guess I can understand that. However, I think I surprise her with, " I hear you can shoot." I can't wait to hear/see what she does with that statement.
She equivocates, "I'm all right." That's it? That's all I'm going to get from her? I've finally realized that I've personally observed her trading with vendors at the Hob and merchants in town. She doesn't think I know these things about her. Her illegal hunting in the woods outside the fence in the district is probably the worst kept secret in Panem. I've even seen Peacekeepers buying her squirrels, rabbits, turkeys, etc. I myself have bought gamey pork and venison from the town butcher – that I'm sure she caught/killed in the wild of the woods.
Thank God the Kid chimes in, "she's better than all right. My father buys her squirrels. He says she hits them right in the eye… every time." He says this with such pride. This only supports what I already knew about his feelings for her: he's in love, or impossibly heavily in "like". She looks at him in extreme agitation; as if he's grown a second head, or at the very least, is plotting something against her. No doubt she's wondering where all this praise is coming from… as am I. If she's as good with a bow as I suspect she is, she's going to go a long way in these games. I just wish there was a way I could ensure she gets that bow!
After a few moments of contemplation, she turns to me and responds, "Peeta's strong." I'm reminded of that fleeting look of… something… when his name was called at the reaping.
He looks totally confused at her declaration. After several different emotions cross his face, he quietly asks, "what?"
She continues, "he can throw a hundred pound sack of flour right over his head. I've seen it." If he's thinking straight he will be amazed and delighted that she's obviously been watching him, but he's a tribute in the Hunger Games – facing his imminent death, and he's not likely to be thinking anywhere near straight.
Just as I suspect, he misses the meaningful point of her observations. He adds, "well, I'm not going to kill anybody with a sack of flour." True, I think, because sacks of flour as possible weapons in any cornucopia are about as likely as cookbooks and baking pans, as I'm sure he's well aware. But, Kid, don't underestimate the potential of physical strength, I can't help but also think.
But Sweetheart refuses to give up the possibilities, "you have a better chance of winning if someone comes at you with a knife…" But he violently interrupts her.
"I have NO chance of winning. NONE! All right?" He looks deeply at her and shrugs, and then he takes a moment to collect himself. He continues his rant, "it's true. Everybody knows it… Do you know what my mother said? She said District Twelve might finally have a winner… But she wasn't talking about me… she was talking about you… " All I can think is 'wow, he must have one suck-ass mother.' Finally his shoulders droop, and he adds, "I'm not hungry…" With that remark he rises from the table, throws his napkin onto his plate, and leaves the room. Everyone else at the table, including myself, freezes at his abrupt exit. Effie surreptitiously reaches her left hand over to my right elbow; she gets it; who knew?
I put my fork down onto my dinner plate and bow my head. After all of the positive/hopeful energy I've been receiving from my extraordinary, for once, tributes this year, I feel the first pang of the familiar despondency that is my usual Hunger Games mentoring companion. My fingers interweave with both hands, my thumbs massage my temples, and I close my eyes tightly against this feeling, then open my eyes and raise my head to look at this beautiful, and yes – fiery, young girl to my left. She's very, very deep in thought about something. Oh how I would love to be able to read her mind. The slight crinkle between her eyebrows betrays the seriousness of whatever it is that she is considering at this moment. She's staring at some fixed space in front of her which makes me think she is calculating the worth of some memory. Finally, she comes to some sort of a decision, throws her own napkin onto her dinner plate.
" I'm done, too," she says as she rises and walks out of the room.
I stare straight ahead as Effie leans into me and whispers, "what just happened?"
I can't help the chuckle/snort that escapes me. I lean into Effie and whisper back, "I think they both just got hit with a huge dose of reality…"