My name is Santana Villanueva. It is my job to make this Games the ultimate show.
"You asked for me, President?"
"Take a seat, Santana."
I sit in the President's study. It's a lavender room with plushy carpet and floral wallpaper, and today, the thermostat is turned up, making the room emit a cozy and homely vibe.
"Purple is a lovely color, isn't it?" President Snow, who has been growing old and trying to cover it, twirls a pretty pink rose in his fingers. He must have noticed my staring at the pretty room.
I nod quietly. Our President has this weird vibe to him. It's humbling for me to be around him, so much that I can't do much but look at my feet and mutter one-word answers.
"Purple is the color of my daughter's hair. It's such a lovely and peaceful color."
He crookedly smiles at me, "I'm sure you're wondering why I asked for you."
I nod, "Yes sir."
"I'd like to introduce you to someone."
She walks in right then.
She is tall and skinny, and she wears baggy jeans and a hoody that is tied around her waist.
I immediately hate her. She pushes the glasses up her nose and sits down without a word.
"I'd like you to meet Marx. She will be your new Co-Head Gamemaker."
I'm immediately on the edge of my seat, "What?"
"Now, now," he seems amused, "Her resume was absolutely outstanding. This is one of the good ones, Santana. I… know… you can handle it."
I nod, "Yes sir."
Co-Head Gamemaker? This is a bunch of crap.
How old is she? 20? I force a smile on.
"Of course. I fyou don't mind my asking, how old are you?" I try to mask the sinister tone in the question.
"Nineteen," she says, in a high, squeaky voice.
When I was 19, I was just an associate! I'll bet those periwinkle eyes are fixed on my job!
"Onto other matters," he says.
This idiot of a girl just cocks her head to the side and listens.
"It's Year 81." We all grin.
Oh, that stupid, ignorant, IDIOT CHILD! I grit my teeth as the President explains, "The Hunger Games were predicted to go for 80 years, and none more. Well, we made it to 81: and it's going to be the ultimate show, if you will."
I grin and repeat, "The ultimate show…"
"It's your job, Santana and Marx, to create the ultimate show of an Arena that will never leave us bored."
I grin. "Can do, President. And I promise, you'll be on the edge of your seat."