pinot noir, caviar // { bourgeois + arcardia brunch }

You know, for a girl as seemingly in the know as Bourgeois claims to be, she really doesn’t seem to care less about the fact that she’s in the presence of reality TV royalty.

I’m not saying that to hype myself up. It’s just the simple truth. Young Love In Panem was everywhere. There’s no way she hasn’t at least heard of my mouthful of a name, and yet with the way she’s looking at me, I may as well be Roe Daniels, street rat of Twelve who gets off on rolling around on the ground with poor, defenceless girls.

I’ve seen the other tributes. I know I’m the most beautiful one here – the most well-rounded, as close to a Capitolite as they come – but of course, it’s still not enough. The separation of the table between us may as well be a gaping chasm, for how far apart we are from each other. I’ve never felt so inadequate in my life, and it’s a terrible fucking feeling.

This is about to be the longest five minutes ever.

I gulp down my concoction of sparkling wine and guava juice and signal to a nearby Avox for a refill as I watch Bourgeois rifle through the bowl in front of us, growing increasingly agitated at the incompetency of her event organisers. And I mean, if the questions are that bad shouldn’t you, like, be vetoing them before the event starts? Kinda sounds like bad planning on her part, but I’m not about to open up that can of worms. Something tells me that’ll only end up with my head being detached from my body, or a spear impaled through my heart – I’ve heard the rumours of Gamemakers getting tributes to do their dirty work for them, R.I.P Celeste Brere.

“What’s the biggest lie you’ve ever told?” Her eyes light up as she rolls her tongue across the words in her Capitolite drawl, showing the first hint of genuine interest in what I might have to say. Gossip is a dangerous drug.

I ponder the question longer than I should, wondering what the best way to answer is. I’ve got an arsenal of masks prepped and ready to wear, but they’re not much use when you don’t know which one to choose. The obvious choice is to try and fit in, get on her good side and try and impress her. But the proud part of my psyche tells me how pathetic that would look.

Of course, the logical part is right there to remind me that in a few short days, this woman will be responsible for my life. And truthfully, I’m not below a little bit of grovelling to get ahead of the game. I can play along – show her that girls from District One know how to have fun just as much as her. Try and make her see me as more than just a pawn on her chess board.

“So, I was thirteen – well, thirteen and a half if we’re being specific – and there was this guy – Tyler – that I had this teeeeeeny little crush on. He was a few years older than me, and he was hanging back after training one day talking to his friends so I was stalling just so I could stick around and watch him a little longer – ugh, I know, desperate right?” I roll my eyes good-naturedly at the memory of my teenaged cringey-ness.

“Anyyyyway, I overheard him talking about some sophomore party that was happening that night and I got so excited that I fell over my own feet. Well, he obviously heard me and turned around and saw me and put two and two together and figured out I was spying on him and had overheard everything, but I guess he thought I was cute enough to invite along anyway.”

Pause. Breathe.

“I had to lie to my parents that I was staying at Mirabelle’s house, and then I had to lie to the security guard at the club that I was eighteen. He obviously didn’t buy it, but I guess the long legs helped my case, and he probably just had a thing for blondes. That was the first time I got drunk, and I’ve been getting invites to parties ever since.”

I’m preparing myself for her reaction, knowing very well there’s a 99% chance it will be one of boredom, and I commence damage control before she even has a chance to respond.

“Oh my god, I’m rambling. I’m so embarrassed, I’m sorry!” I make a show of dramatically covering my face with my hands and shaking my head rapidly in mock mortification. I let out a perfectly practiced nervous laugh. “I can’t believe I just told you all of that!” I gingerly peel my hands away from my face and look at her timidly, holding her gaze for one, two, three, before reaching a hand slowly – purposefully – into the bowl between us.

What’s your favourite colour? Okay, so she has a point. These questions are awful. I’m about to lean forward to grab another one when a new idea starts to form.

On the topic of lying:

“Ms. Decadence, what is your biggest regret?” I feign reading the words that aren’t there before folding the piece of paper up tightly and shoving it into my pocket. I lean forward and lace my hands together, looking innocently into Bourgeois’ face. “What is it that keeps you up at night?”