Little Butterfly. That's what my father always called me.
Out of three children, I was the happy-go-lucky one. The one they could rely on to take bad news calmly, not bursting into tears like my sister, or shouts like my brother. The one they didn't have to worry about. The one they could trust to do everything expected of her. And I didn't let them down, not once.
As I grew up, I came to realize the importance of light-heartedness and frivolity as a shield. As I progressed through school, I made sure to get middling marks: not low enough to displease my parents but neither high enough to make me a target of mockery among my peers. After graduation, I took an office job in the Games[ building, and somewhat to my surprise, eventually managed to reach my current position as Escort for the Reaping.
This gave me many opportunities to see the inner workings of how the Games are organized. It is far more complex than I'd ever imagined as a girl. From the hairstyle of the escorts to the wording of the mayor's speech, all the way to how to turn a traumatic or embarrassing moment into a photogenic one, it takes a lot of work to put together a successful Reaping.
In addition, I got a glimpse into the inner workings of our esteemed President Coriolanus Snow. A complex man. And I got a sense of who he considers his most dangerous enemies? Who are those who think for themselves.
Which Hunger Games' victors are most likely to become targets of Snow's wrath? The bright ones. The ones who see through him. Of course, it's not made public, but Snow has ways of punishment, subtle and otherwise, to keep the Victors in line. Disposing of loved ones and making it look like an accident is the vilest, but he has others.
So, you see, in these turbulent Panem times, being underestimated is an asset. Who could possibly find a butterfly threatening?
The day I received my Games Assignment, rain was coming down in sheets, a nasty day indeed. Tributes from other districts sometimes come to the Capitol believing that our weather is artificially engineered, but it's not. We may eat, live and dress better than the other Districts, but we get the same weather. That day, I'd bundled up in a mackintosh, which I hung dripping from a hook in the waiting room and took a seat as instructed. So as to hide my anxiety, I picked up a magazine from the coffee table and pretended to be absorbed an article about the latest dance craze. Of course, I'm eager to find out my District Assignment, but it doesn't do to look too eager.
After awhile, when I've moved on to a piece on a new plastic surgery that will make you resemble your cat (no thank you, I'm a dog person), I hear an ahem, followed by, "Ms. Trinket, Mr. Crane will see you now."
About time, I think, though of course, I know Seneca's a busy man.
"Ms. Trinket, how are you today?" he says warmly, remaining on his feet until I've sat down. Such a gentleman.
We exchange a few minutes of social chit-chat, then he gets down to business. "I understand that for the past four years, you've been assigned to District 12, am I right?"
Of course, he already knows this, but I nod. In my lap, my freshly manicured fingers cross themselves. Surely, this time will be different. Surely, the powers-that-be will have noticed what a valiant job I've done so far with the least promising District and see fit to reward me.
"...the same one again."
"Oh," I say, struggling to hide my disappointment. Mother's words flash through my mind, a reminder from childhood. Turn that frown upside down! Then with prom queen poise, I beam, groping for appropriate adjectives. "Fantastic! District 12 is so...quaint in their customs. And their Tributes are so...plucky. "
Seneca smiles back at me, relieved that I'm not going to make a fuss. He knows perfectly well that by "quaint", I mean "backward,' and by "plucky," I mean, "have the etiquette of hungry wolves." "Well, you did such a terrific job last year, Ms. Trinket, even our President was impressed. I know there isn't much to work with...but we can always rely on you."
You bet your boots, you can, I think, though it does occur to me that there's a disadvantage in being seen as reliable. "Of course. I'll do my best."
And that's that.
To understand my disappointment, you should know that in other Districts, the Reaping is treated properly: as a celebration of sorts. Districts 1, 2 and 4 even have the advantage that someone will often volunteer to take one of the chosen Tribute's place. Now that's not hard to spin at all. But District 12 has only had two winners that I can remember, and the only surviving one, a man named Haymitch Abernathy is well, usually alcohol-enhanced on these occasions. The odds of him stepping up to volunteer are low. The odds that a Tribute will return triumphant are abysmally low, and so the whole occasion is dealt with there with gritted teeth and strained smiles. Not a lot to work with.
District 12 is a mining district, known primarily for its coal production. If you do something to a lump of coal (though I've forgotten exactly what), it will transform into a diamond, a jewel that we in the Capitol prize. So I guess the lesson there is that the most beautiful things can come from unpromising material.
I must keep that in mind, and do my job to the best of my ability. Still, I can't help but feel disappointed.
Again I hear Mother. Precious little is free in this world, but a smile always is!
OK then, Mother, I will smile. I will do my darndest. And hopefully, this year will be my last for District 12.
Let's hope.