Capitol // Zoë Van Zandt

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“Welcome, welcome! Today is a very special day on the Good Morning, Panem!” The journalist’s voice was booming in my ears from backstage, watching his award-winning smile as his face was virtually projected to all of the Capitol. The lights reflected off his well makeup covered skin, giving him a heavenly glow in the blinding heat and light from above. “Today, we have with us award winning author, award winning actor, award winning broadway star, award winning journalist, award winning director, and three time winner of the “Best Overall Capitolian Award! Ladies and Gentlemen: Zoë Van Zandt!”

The roars from the crowd in the room, in the Capitol, in all of Panem rang in my ears as I pranced on stage. The host of the show – some no name, so don’t really worry about whatever it is – tried to speak but nothing could quench the fire that my presence caused. I was a superstar. Everyone in the world adores me. Not one household in all of Panem can’t help but talk about how wonderful Zoë is; How glorious my hair waved over my shoulders as I pranced over to the host of the show. He kissed my hand (like the peasant he was), and we had a seat. The audience was still in shambles at my sudden appearance, and I think one girl had started hysterically crying before the noise finally was silenced by the producers. I was touched by the multiple signs with glowing hearts drawn on them, screaming the world’s admiration for me. I am a superstar.

“Not to start off on a bad foot, Mister, but my names “Zoë. Not Zo. It’s a hard “e” sound. Kind of like Zoey, darling.” Before he could even mumble, I hush him again. “Oh, don’t worry, pumpkin. Everyone makes mistakes.”

“So, Zoë Van Zandt. One of the most brilliant minds and acting personalities we have in the Capitol since-“ I knew where this was going. I instantly cut the man off, and wave him off to cut his words short. “Obviously,” I speak a little more loud than a soft whisper, my eyes gazing into that of what’s his face. I’m the best acting personality in the world since myself, if that makes any sense, Mr...” I give a sheepish wink at the host, and then an award winning smile to the audience. They break out with vicious screams of admiration once again, and I wave my hand down. “Calm down, my sweet pumpkins!” They obey me, but with a disheartened tone. They hate the idea of stopping their screaming and admiring; I kind of hate it, too.

The host looks relived that I have stopped his own audience from absolutely rioting at my presence in his studio program. He begins to talk, but I can’t really focus. I just catch a little bit of the last sentence…

“We’re all dying to know. Who’s the real Zoë Van Zandt?”

“Well, my darling peach,” (I think it’s clever and darling to call people by the name of nice tiny fruits, just ever so darling.) I begin, my eyes glancing into his teasingly. “It’s all here in my new novel, “A Series of Fortunate Events: The Zoë Van Zandt Story written and illustrated by Zoë Van Zandt, published by Zoë Van Zandt.” I reach behind my chair and pull out the largest novel I have ever written. My face adorns the cover of it, and I mimic the smile from my photograph. The audience seems to go into tears once again, but I have to cut them off.

“Would you guys like me to… read a little excerpt?” They go hysteric. I have them in the palm of my hands just like a glorious moisturizing lotion. I sweetly clear my throat, shifting in my seat and crossing my legs ever so lady like. It was always good to act like a lady:

“Zoë August Carmicheal, a 26 year old renaissance woman, was born on August 21st. She was born to the aristocratic family of Carmicheals with three other sisters. All of her sisters were obviously jealous of the young Zoë – even at a very young age. The younger years, where girls sit around and think of boys and paint makeup on their puppies and dye their hair various colors were ruined with the jealousy her sisters possessed. It wasn’t Zoë’s fault that she was really, really, really ridiculously good-looking, and she shouldn’t be persecuted for this. Regardless, one night her sisters ended up dying her hair the most unattractive teal color and chopping it off. This, hands down, was the worst night of a young Zoë’s life. She cried, and cried, and cried for days. Tantrums were thrown, of course, and sooner or later her sisters got their comeuppances.

At the age of seventeen or eighteen, Zoë had her first heartbreak. She fell in love with this brute of a man. He was sweet and wealthy and attractive and strong; Everything a young girl like Zoë wanted in a relationship. After a shotgun wedding in the Capitol, and a long relationship of two months, a week, three days, four hours, and twenty five minutes, the relationship took a sour turn. Long story short, however, Zoë ended up getting half of his earnings and parental rights to their pup – Regan. This was the best day of her life, by far. This gave her the money she needed to jump start a career in broadcasting and journalism and the ability to live life as glamorously as she wanted to.

Her family, however, soon became lower class. Zoë couldn’t be related to someone who was simply average in the Capitol. Could you imagine Porsche (a fellow debutant of the Capitol, mind you) telling all of her friends about how “the glo-o-orious Carmichael’s hit a rough patch”. Zoë could already hear her drawling voice echoing laughter at her, and it just wouldn’t do – not at all. So, Zoë did the reasonable thing and cut off her peasant family and changed her last name to Van Zandt, because two worded last names were definitely in right now. Currently, she stays at an apartment closer to the center of the city. She hasn’t spoken to her family since they became middle class, and her dreams of ruling the communications of the Capitol and Panem are underway.”

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My eyes twinkle at the audience as I finish a brief history from my novel. They yearn for more, but I must resist to feed their temptation. “You’ll just have to wait and read the rest of my story, my little peas!” (Vegetables are always darling nicknames, too) They cry out for me, but the host rudely interrupts their applause and continues with the interview.

“I feel as if you skipped so much, Zoë. Did you not win the Most Eligible Bachelorette twice?” He asked curiously.

“Three times.” I respond, coolly.

“Three times?”

“Three times.” I smile at him darlingly, and wait for the no name, pompous man who got a television talk show only because his father was the inventor of some no name, pompous make-up company to continue our interview. God, I can’t stand people like him who haven’t had to work a day in his ugly little life.

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Zoë is a nightmare. She’s been bratty since she was able to wobble on the marble floors in the parlor, but age has taken a toll on her behavior. She has grown up privileged, and yearns for a constant reaffirmation that she is top tier. Zoë has a sweet voice, which only hides the nasty thoughts running through her beautiful little head. She was voted “Most Likely to Cut Your Throat in the Finale” in secondary school. In her secondary school, they voted on superlatives that related to the annual Hunger Games, some ranging from “Most Likely to Die First” or “Most Likely to Get Lost” – very sweet simply stuff among classes.
Zoë had a way to trick people into doing what she wants. The manipulative blood coursing through her traversing veins seems to concoct the most diabolical ways of control. For example, how she tricked her ex-husband into marrying her and then giving her all of his fortune and his dog.

Zoë is controlling of the world around her, needing to be a “Type A” personality at all times. Notes and pictures with scribbles written on them lining her bedroom, usually trashing other Capitol socialites. Her need to be the best and perfect controls her private life, well, privately.

Sometimes, it was believed that Zoë’s pants were equipped with the Capitol’s heating pad technology due to the way it seemed that her behavior changed from fake and sweet to angry and tyrannical. Though she appears sweet and kind, it is believed that she has one of the worst tempers in all of the Capitol. She is constantly calling other people “peasants”, and looks down upon nearly everyone she comes into contact with (unless they are just as attractive as she is in her own head). [/color]

“Well,” I muster up the face to return back to reality. “I would say I’m down to earth and… modest.”

“Oh, my dear!” The annoying, peasant host rang out to the audience. “You are simply an amazing woman.” Sighs of amorous admiration escape from the audience once again. They love me. I bat my eyes at a couple of men sitting in the front row, blowing a kiss out to them in a cute manner. They began to fight over my kiss as if it is a tangible thing, almost murdering one another for a chance to grab my eternal love…

“So, my dear. What are your upcoming projects?”

“Well, Mister. I’m writing a little column on the Hunger Games, with hopes that one day I’ll be the host of them!” I wink at the camera. “Watch out, Caesar!” The crowd laughs and sigh amorously and scream my name while the two men beat each other to a pulp, still attempting to pocket my airy kiss…

BBBBBRRRRRIIIIIINNNNNNGGGGGG

What is that?

BBBBBRRRRRIIIIIINNNNNNGGGGGG

This no name, pompous man was ruining my interview with his ringing, annoying tone. Absolutely ruining it.

BBBBRRRRRIIIIIINNNNNNGGGGGG

I guess I’m transported to a new world. Wherever I was abducted to is much brighter than the studio was. The screaming of the audience is replaced by a whining ring, ringing so loud it drowns out any thoughts I can even begin to think. Now that I think of it, I don’t even hear the audience anymore. I don’t hear the annoying voice of that host guy. All I can hear is this constant ringing in my ear. My eyes open, and my bedroom ceiling greets my eyes. I close my eyes once again, and sigh. Why did I have to be dreaming? At least in my dream I was an award winning something instead of just some columnist for the local newspaper. It would appear the only thing she couldn’t escape from in her dream would be the blog on the Hunger Games and other Capitol socialites.
I slide from my bed gracefully, sitting up and standing quickly. I take a little prance (similar to the prance onto the stage in my dream)into the bathroom.



Zoë is about 5’9 in height and a small waist. She possesses a thin frame with brownish-blonde natural hair. Any imperfections on her face were removed clinically, but rather than being perfected by Capitol doctors, she decided to keep all the characteristics of her face. She felt like she was classically beautiful enough, yet still quirky looking, to get a gig on television as a host or something. Zoë once considered getting her height reduced because she feels like she towers over some of the other Capitolians, but she has yet embraced her height in comparison to other women. Her eyes are an odd brown color, with perfected eyebrows to line them.

Clothes are the center of the world for Zoë. If one steps out on the street in an ugly ensemble, you better believe she will spot it a mile away and write the ugliest review (a social homicide here in the Capitol, mind you.) She tries to keep herself invested in the fashion trends going around the Capitol. She enjoys being the center of attention, so her clothes must make a statement louder than any other human being in the Capitols. She usually likes to keep her hair in the latest style, also. Social style is a contributing factor in what she wears.

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