The kittens' yowls sound like a bunch of fireworks shooting off into the air, piercing whistles that tickle the insides of your ears.
Then I hear a voice breaking through the noise, saying, "They're here! They're here, Pru! Wake up wakeupwakeup!" accompanied by a heavy boulder repeatedly striking my chest. Finally I crack my sleep-crusted eyes open and see that the boulder is in fact my little brother using my chest as a springboard.
"Finn, get off me, you lousy little trout!" I grunt at him.
I sit up and rub the sleep out of one eye while keeping the other on my little brother. He has gone still and is giving me a watery look and his eyes have gone as big as saucers. The tears are about to spill before I cave and pull him in for a bear hug.
"Come on, Squirm, we've got to go see the new arrivals. Piggy back?"
"Yes!" Finn squirms out from under my arms and launches his little body straight at my back. I catch him against me and hold onto his legs before we trot into the sitting room to see the new additions to the family.
I have always admired this man who looks so much like my own mother, but whom is refined in a way as a diamond is compared to a shard of glass. His clean cut lines accent his sharp cheekbones and defined nose. His gray eyes are mercurial, one minute cool and collected and, in the next breath, burning liquid.
Around the time of his visits the atmosphere of the house is different. My father grows quiet and still. Only recently had I noticed that he also watches my mother closely, the way Buttercup sizes up one of his kittens about to wander off. Mother pretends not to notice but the difference is there. She even scrubs the dirt out from under her fingernails.
"We're going out to the forest," she tells me one autumn morning and already has her bow in hand. Her hunting gear changes her. Or maybe he does. On these days she is alight with energy, a vessel filled with vapors remnant of a fire that has long since been put out.
Gale still has his hand on my shoulder as the green-eyed boy approaches me. My mother has Gale's attention and they are talking about something but I'm not really listening because Green Eyes has eyed the fish I am still carrying on the string.
His lip lifts in disdain.
"What's your name?" he asks me with the sneer still curving his mouth.
I cross my arms and hug the fish a little closer to me, even knowing I'll regret the smell of it later. As soon as I open my mouth to growl my name at him, he goes on.
"Shall I call you Fish Catcher, then? Well, maybe 'The Fish Catcher that Tried' would be more suitable. I'd bet that's the first real fish you've ever managed to hook."
For some reason this puts me on edge.
My mother and Gale are watching the exchange now. Gale has his hand off my shoulder.
"My name is Pruim Everdeen," I tell Pea Eyes, with a lot of emphasis on my surname. I hope he is embarrassed by insulting the daughter of the Mockingjay herself.
"Well, Prune, your hook is knotted wrong and I'd make another bet that your wire was in shambles after the catch and you had to cut that string free of the rest. Not to mention there is hardly any meat on that nearly inedible fish."
"It's Pruim, not Prune. And you, Fish Boy, have never held an axe correctly in your entire life." I point to his small, unorganized mess of logs for the campfire. "You split the wood unevenly. At best you'd be able to use that for kindling, if that. Your stance is all wrong. Your legs need to be further apart while distributing the weight through each axefall."
My mother has gone tense beside me and I can sense Gale's staring. Fish Boy's eyes are just a smidge wide and the sneer is gone from his face.
Surprisingly, he answers not with an insult. Not with a sharp retort. Not with sadness.
Instead he laughs a laugh that is wicked and longing and husky and, for some reason, makes me think of when I was a child and was left wanting my father's display cakes.
I turn my face in shock and because I don't want him to see that I am blushing when I see my mother looking at Gale in this way that leaves me wondering just what sort of past is between them.
"She was the Mockingjay," Oceannick's voice has risen to a violent tempo. "My father died for the cause and gave his life to make sure she lived."
"Not my mother," I insist and raise my chin. "We've all seen the footage. The Mockingjay was a different woman who died in the war. My mother is just a broken, hollow eggshell of whoever she might have been in the past."
His eyes are deep as the ocean and full of understanding when he tells me, "I know how you feel. I'm the only thing that keeps my mother from breaking entirely."
"Well, there's one thing in common. I guess it's a start."