fighting for the spotlight [october&fraser] 10th

o c t o b e r      r h a p s o d y      f r a y

o c t o b e r      r h a p s o d y      f r a y

oh, my god, amber really is an idiot.

“i’m fraser birk,” he says pompously. “don’t tell me, you have a sister called september and a brother called november?” i am trying to be gracious, but an eye-roll slips past my defences. this is perhaps the least creative, most unfunny joke i’ve ever heard, and trust me when i say i’ve heard it. seems like this guy shares a braincell with my least favourite classmate in the third grade. i decide not to share with fraser birk that my baby sister’s name is, in fact, january, because in truth i don’t think he’s mature enough to handle it.

he shakes my hand excessively hard, like he is trying to prove a point. i raise my eyebrow at him. i have the sudden urge to wash my hands rigorously to remove any traces of prat-sweat. 

“and yes, i do run district seven all by myself,” he says. i am about to congratulate him on his accomplishment, but he continues talking without taking a breath. he doesn’t seem to be the kind of person who pauses to let others speak. that’s probably a counter-productive quality in a leadership role. i wouldn’t know - my talents are more celestial, more nuanced, more ethereal than politics. getting people to like me is something that comes easily for me, a feature of my disposition. for fraser, it seems like it’s a perpetual battle against the sheet force of the pole up his ass. i don’t doubt he’s putting up a really good fight. 

“don’t tell me! you’re a princess, in… one?” he casts a look at my ugly boiler suit. i’d rather he didn’t. it’s not my best look, but i’m trying to make it work. i have adjusted the waist a little to flatter my figure, but the whole getup is still vaguely reminiscent of a garbage bag. he corrects himself before i can correct him: “no, definitely not the princess type. i bet you’re a poor girl, yearning for so much attention.” he might be the mayor’s son, but clearly he has no eye for class. he continues, gaining traction with each word. the camera is trained right on him as he plummets himself further into the unfavourable hole he is digging. the spectators are loving it. i can see them curling up their toes in annoyance. “i bet you’re starved of it. i bet you think you deserve it, but no, you’re just not special enough.” 

with this final line, the onlookers wince visibly. i look up at him, giving my very best victim face; fluttering lashes, perhaps a tiny trickle of a tear. they are loving it. they are on my side. of course they would be - but this was far too easy. maybe eventually one of the other tributes will give me a run for my money, but fraser birk is basically playing for my team, with how hard he is trying to be hated. he hands me their support on a silver platter. i haven’t even said anything. 

“take this as debate practice - this girl came over here to take my spotlight and i am not going to let go of it… without a fight. just like district seven.” 

oh, he has gotten his spotlight, for sure. he’s eaten it up and spat it right out. cast himself directly into the villain role, destined to be pushed aside by the heroine. personally, i am not so desperate for attention that i’m willing to take any sort. in fact, i am here only for the very best. thanks for that, fraser birk. 

although there a million snarky things i could toss at him in return - he is an all too easy target - i don’t need to. here, shown in this camera angle, he is bubbling with vitriol, and i am innocent. there is no need to tar the narrative. he has dug his own grave, and i do not need to get my hands dirty. 

“you do sound awfully important. i hope this experience can help you with some of that insecurity, though. it’s a shame, when you’re doing so well, that you’re feeling so bad about yourself.” i give him a sympathetic little smile. “i’ve heard great things about you.” this is actually true: amber has told me things that are frankly unbelievable, having met the kid.