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There is a slip of paper in the boys’ reaping bowl that has been marked with a tiny red dot, and Effie Trinket is the only one who can see it.
Not the ash-faced miners of District 12. Not the high-tech cameras of the Capitol. Only Effie, and maybe one other person, knows the papers have been tampered with.
But that other person is sitting snugly at the Presidential Palace while Effie bears the mammoth task of picking the right name.
It is easy enough for the female tribute.
After all, there was only one piece of paper to pull out.
A few days before the reaping, President Coriolanus Snow summoned Effie for a discreet meeting in his mansion’s garden. Effie had been floored by the rows upon rows of impeccable roses, all in different colors.
The president spoke to her as he tended to a bush of orange roses.
“Miss Trinket, you’ve been a valuable escort to District 12,” President Snow said charmingly.
“Thank you for such a high compliment, President Snow,” replied Effie. “I hope the recent Victory Tour was to your liking.”
The president hummed in response. “The public marriage proposal was a hit among the Capitol citizens. I don’t think Caesar Flickerman has drawn that many views in quite some time.”
“Oh, I can hardly take credit for that. That was all Peeta.”
“He’s always been a smart boy.”
“He sure has.”
“It’s a shame that he’ll be going back in the arena for this year’s Quarter Quell.”
Effie felt the pleasant smile on her face freeze. On the seventy-fifth anniversary, as a reminder to the rebels that even the strongest among them cannot overcome the power of the Capitol, the male and female tributes will be reaped from their existing pool of victors.
There was only one female victor from District 12, but there were two males.
Stupidly, Effie had responded, “I’m sure that’s still up for debate, President Snow.”
The president fixed a steady gaze on Effie. “Of course it is,” he said quietly. His unspoken message was loud and clear.
He plucked a rose from the bush he had been fretting over. “I think this color suits you quite well,” he said as he handed her the flower. She took it and hissed softly when the thorns pricked her fingers. If the president noticed, he didn’t say anything.
“I would love to see you in this shade of orange at the reaping,” he went on. “I’m certain you will continue to be the exemplary escort that you are, Miss Trinket.”
Effie couldn’t bring herself to thank the president that time around. Thankfully, he didn’t fault her for it.
That’s how she ended up in a dress of orange butterflies, a wig of metallic gold, and prescribed contacts that could discern the smallest imperfections on paper.
Escorts talked about it in conspiring whispers. ‘Fixes’ didn’t happen frequently. If they did, critics, fanatics, or even the average district dweller might begin to take notice. It only ever happened when the government sensed some form of dissent and wanted to nip the problem in the bud. It was almost always some teenager taking too much tesserae, so most districts were none the wiser when an insurgent or an erring citizen was thrown into the games.
This was the first time Effie had been asked to essentially ‘fix’ the result of the reaping. And by President Snow, no less.
For a moment, she considers defying orders. If she pulls out the wrong paper then that will be that. Maybe she can finally be as brave as Cinna has always said she is. Her fingers brush against the unmarked slip of the male tribute, but then she freezes.
She thinks of her parents. She thinks of them back in their posh apartment in the Capitol, likely watching their television with bated breath. She thinks of her mother, who was also once an escort for District 12, and Effie tries to absolve herself of guilt by thinking, You, of all people, should understand.
Effie has no intentions to tell either of them, of course, about what she has to do. If she doesn’t play her part, Effie’s parents would likely pass away from some fortuitous incident; just as every person who crossed President Snow had perished one way or another.
She is doing this for them, Effie tries to convince herself.
She snags the piece of paper with the red dot.
In her head, she recites the Lord’s Prayer and apologizes to Katniss Everdeen a thousand times over.
“The male tribute from District 12—” With shaking hands, she unfolds the name. It comes out from her lips partly as a gasp, partly as a sigh. “Haymitch Abernathy.”
For a second, she’s afraid she’s made some sort of mistake. Had she made the wrong pick? Had her eyes deceived her?
She realizes, immediately, why this was meant to be.
She is barely through with Haymitch’s name when Peeta Mellark proclaims, his voice as pure as the driven snow, “I volunteer as tribute.”
Rules are rules.
Days later, Effie receives a gorgeous bouquet of orange roses in the mail.
She leaves it to wilt in the corner of her living room. She is too scared to throw it out, even as it stinks up her entire apartment.
She lets the smell of decay serve as a reminder of who President Snow is, of what the Hunger Games truly stand for.
She finally builds up the courage to toss them when Haymitch tells her about his plan for alliances. She refuses to grieve her tributes any longer. Not when they’ve still got some fight left. Not when she can finally do something to keep them alive.
Effie Trinket had escorted approximately eight District 12 tributes to their deaths. She was not about to do it again.
That same night, Effie purchases a solid gold bangle with patterned flames.
It will belong to Haymitch throughout the training period. Effie is the one who will make sure that Finnick Odair is wearing it when he enters the arena.