The Direction Games: A One Direction Fan Fiction

8

8

   Had she been threatened? By my score? I’d told her, our stylists, Simon and Katy everything that had happened in my private session, and they knew how I’d doubted myself before I’d seen the huge number eleven flash on the screen.

   Did Taylor not think my rating was fair for what I’d done? Of course, it wasn’t, but that meant nothing. My score had been based on attitude and, as Simon had later phrased it “heat.” They wanted a show and, seeing what I was willing to do just in front of them – in front of Capitol officials – they’d imagined what I would do for my life in the arena.

   “Today, you’ll each have a four hour session with Katy for the presentation and four with me for instruction,” Simon continued on. “Katy will start with you, Harry.”

   I didn’t really want to know what Katy had in mind that would take me four hours to learn, but she had me working my butt off every last minute.

   Most of it was posture, standing rod-straight while walking and sitting high with my back slightly arched. She said I had developed a tendency to slouch, and duck my head. She droned on about how confidence was key, smiling was required and eye contact showed I wasn’t intimidated by anything. I was nearly aching by the time the four hours were up and we could break for lunch.

   “Just remember,” she said once we were nearly finished with my session, “You want them to like you, and route for you.”

   “They’re not already?” I asked.

   “Not if you continue to lack confidence,” she drawled, “Your score was one thing, but they know nothing of your personality yet.” She stopped me from saying anything more, and led me down the hall from my room to the dining room, where lunch was laid out for us for the first time since we arrived at the Training Center.

   Taylor and Simon were already waiting for us. Taylor seemed content, so I had the mind to assume Simon’s four hour session would be a less painful alternative to the morning. I was wrong.

   After lunch, Simon and I retreated to the sitting room, where it was silent for a long time. He was supposed to be giving me advice, not staring me down. Eventually, he spoke, “What should we do with you?”

   “Excuse me?” I asked.

   “We have to decide which side of your personality to use,” he elaborated. “Will you be mysterious? Bestial? Humorous?”

   In all past eighteen Hunger Game’s I’d had to sit through, in the interviews tributes always had a distinct edge to them. It was how you appealed to the crowd in some way; you would relate to a certain portion of the population, and they would donate.

   “So far,” Simon added, “You’ve been the center of attention; the costumes and the score, but people have to get to know you, and not just your capabilities. It’s how you get sponsors, kid.”

   “What’s Taylor’s approach going to be?” I asked. “Or am I not allowed to know?”

   “She wants to be friendly and funny; the way she normally acts. Then there’s you. You’re either sarcastic, introverted or spacey.”

   “That’s only your opinion,” I stated, fed up with his remarks. It was Simon. He didn’t like us anyway. His job here was to make us likable. But was offending us every second of the day in that description? I didn’t think so.

   “Well, I’m not the one you have to appeal to. I can’t sponsor you and Taylor. You have to pick one identity; hostile and fierce, charming and hilarious, or likable.” He said. “Tell them about your life so far. Make something up and tell them a lie, but appeal to one crowd!”