The Worst Things in Life Come Free to Us
Chapter 1– Sorry
I, Katniss Fern Everdeen, am on fire.
There are flames coming out of my hair, flickering off my black jumpsuit, forcing their way out from under my boots. If I'd ever wondered what it was like to be a piece of coal, I'd know the answer. I'm on fire, but I'm not burnt to a crisp. Cinna's amazing creation has let us, District 12, the lowliest and smallest of all the Districts in Panem, become the stars.
Watching from inside the building prior to our entrance, I thought that the crowd had gone crazy for the chariots from 1,2, and 4, the traditional Career districts that always manage to gain so much support. But their headdresses and feathers can't compare with the once-in-a-lifetime sight of two teenagers on fire.
Every eye in Panem is literally fixed on us. The announcers' magnified voices have gone silent in awe of our dramatic entrance. There are huge screens broadcasting our every move on either side of the promenade, but some of the other tributes have turned around in order to get a better look. It's the second time in my life that I've been the center of attention. The first time was yesterday, when I volunteered to save my sister.
Beside me, Peeta is glowing too brightly to look at, so I have to turn away. Before I do, though, I see there's a strange look in his eyes, almost of longing. What? But I can't focus my attention on Peeta, there is too much going on. People are throwing things at us, flowers, coins, candies, gifts. It's as though our fire has convinced the people of the Capitol to toss out the contents of their wallets. I feel a brush against my arm, but ignore it as it's probably just the fire burning itself out. The audience roars up a bit higher. Someone with good aim manages to lodge a flower into the chariot, and I reach down to pick it up. It's a pretty flower, an orange rose with a white ribbon. Prim would love it.
The screams of the people of the Capitol suddenly turn into laughter. What happened? Have I managed to somehow tear my jumpsuit? Bewildered, I whip around to make sure I haven't exposed my ass to all of Panem. Thankfully I haven't, but when I face Peeta, I find the cause of the commotion. My district partner has had his hand extended, as though he wants me to grab it, and is staring at me expectantly. Clearly, he thinks we should be holding hands.
From the point of view of the audience, it appears that I've declined Peeta's invitation. By picking up the flower, it looks like I have ignored him. Which was completely unintentional, but it's too late now. I sniff the orange rose, which brings a smile to my face, and Peeta, looking very sheepish, is forced to put his hand down. Just then, someone with a megaphone, their voice loud enough to be heard above the clamor of the rest, yells out, "Katniss!"
Involuntarily, conditioned from years of responding to even the smallest sound while hunting, I find myself whirling around again, and as I pivot, my arm holding the rose swings out and smacks Peeta in the face, nearly knocking him out of the cart.
"Sorry!" I yelp, and reach around to steady him, tripping over myself in the process in my clunky-heeled boots. At this, the audience is hysterical, and even the announcers are struggling to control themselves. I feel incredibly embarrassed, but vow to keep it together. This wasn't the kind of impression we were supposed to make.
By this point, we've reached President Snow's mansion, and take our place among the semicircle of tributes. But the audience has yet to quiet down, even as the President emerges on the balcony to give his speech. He has to wait a full minute before it's quiet enough, and even then the odd titter rings out. He looks thoroughly irritated, which is justified considering that he's been upstaged by a couple of tributes, some fake fire, and a stupid flower.
I've heard the speech before-it's the same every year. So while Snow gives us his address, I look at the faces of the tributes that are broadcasted on the giant screens. I can tell that Peeta and I are receiving more than our fair share of airtime. The other tributes have been told to smile so as to attract sponsors, but our escapades have led many of them to start glaring openly at us. A few look amused, probably glad that it's not them being laughed at. My face goes red to match Peeta's, who looks like he wants to crawl off and hide.
"Sorry," I whisper, but he doesn't respond, apparently listening to Snow's speech. I have to fight the urge to grimace. Why today of all days do I have to be as clumsy as Haymitch? Luckily by this time the parade has ended, and our chariots start heading toward the building. The audience applauds as the doors close behind us, just as the last of the sparks of our costumes flame out.
Haymitch and the stylists rush towards us, with Effie tottering behind in her high heels. Cinna extends a hand to help me climb down from the chariot.
"Careful there, Cinna," calls Haymitch. "Wouldn't want her to knock you out."
Cinna smiles as I jump down. "Well, you certainly made an impression," he says.
"You were impossible to ignore," Portia adds as Peeta joins us on the ground.
Haymitch looks as though he can't decide whether to praise us or tell us off. But Effie, having finally caught up, makes the choice for him.
"Well, I never!" she begins angrily. "Never in twenty - in years of escorting have I seen such embarrassing and ridiculous…" Her blue wig is off center, and she yanks it into place before continuing her rant.
But before she can go on, Haymitch cuts her off. "Can we just go to the apartment now, sweetheart?"
Effie looks surprised, and more than a little miffed. "Of course," she sniffs, and begins to totter off toward the elevators with Haymitch striding after her and Peeta following along behind.
"It's alright, Katniss," Cinna says. "We'll be up in a bit for dinner." Stylists from various districts are waving him and Portia over, doubtlessly to congratulate them on their innovative designs.
"I loved the fire. Sorry I made a fool of myself," I tell him. Cinna nods and smiles, and I turn around and head for the elevators. As I go, I pass the pair of tributes from District 2, still donning their golden headdresses. The girl glares at me with blatant dislike, but the boy looks more interested than hostile as he stares at me. Our eyes meet for a second before Effie calls out "Katniss! Hurry along!" and I have to trot to meet the elevator in time. I can still make out the faintest strains of what sounds like "District Twelve! District Twelve!" coming from the audience, though I hope it's my imagination. Before the elevator doors close, I see that the Career boy is still staring at me openly, and I can't imagine why he isn't just laughing like everyone else.
…
After an incredibly awkward elevator ride where no one says anything whatsoever, I see the apartment where we'll be staying for the first time. It is unlike any building I've ever seen. The dining room alone is so vast that my entire house could fit inside it easily, with room to spare. The entire place is outfitted with the latest technology and furnishings in the newest style according to Effie, who can't resist bragging about it despite her apparent resolution not to talk. She shows us our rooms, which are equally grand. We have an hour before dinner, she tells us, so we can do anything we want until then.
I don't know about Peeta, but I'm going to take a shower. But before I can get the remains of my formerly - flaming costume off, I need to apologize to him.
"I'm so sorry," I say.
Peeta looks down. "It's fine, Katniss," he says. "It wasn't your fault."
"I hit you in the face." I really do feel terrible about it.
Peeta decides to look up. "It's fine," he repeats. "And about the handholding thing, Haymitch told me we should do it."
That's strange. Why didn't Haymitch mention it to me? But I'm not going to get into it. "See you at dinner," I say.
"Yeah." Peeta heads toward his room, and after a moment I do the same.
Once I get inside, I decide to take a shower. But before I can peel off my clothes, I realize that I'm still holding onto the orange rose. I debate tossing it in the toilet, but end up leaving it on the sink. I can decide what to do with it later.
I throw the charred-looking black jumpsuit on the floor and wrap myself in a fluffy white robe. Then I sit on the side of the tub and take my hair down from the intricately braided updo my prep team created before the chariot ride, and wipe off the black eyeliner they smeared on.
For a minute, I feel like crying. Peeta and I looked like total jokes during the parade, despite our amazing costumes. But then I remember the crowd cheering for us. Even though it may not have been the entrance Cinna intended, our silly actions have more than likely gained us some sponsors. And with sponsors, we'll have a prayer of winning the Hunger Games.
There are hundreds of buttons in the shower, so I amuse myself by punching different combinations until I finally settle on one. After the airwave has dried, detangled, and combed my messy hair within seconds, I am clean, fresh, and smelling of cucumber-citrus. I pick out a soft orange shirtdress to wear from the thousands of options in my closet, and wonder how many people in District Twelve could be fed with the money spent on buying all these clothes, most of which will never be worn.
District Twelve makes me think of my mother and Prim, and I unexpectedly choke back a sob. Surely they'll be watching me on the broadcast tonight, making a flaming fool of myself in front of all of Panem. What will Prim say? She thinks I'm strong, brave. A real contender to emerge from the Games alive. Not some foolish twit wobbling around and hitting her District partner in the face.
I hear a knock on my door. "Yes?" I call, expecting Effie.
Instead, it is Cinna.
"Dinner is ready," he says, gesturing toward the dining room. I get up and join him.
"Sorry about the parade," I say ruefully. After all, we were supposed to make a stunning first impression, not a humorous one. But Cinna seems to be in good spirits as we take our seats at the raised glass table.
"Not at all," he says with a slight smile.
"You two are the talk of the Capitol!" adds Portia. "And you certainly hit it out of the park!"
The joke is pretty bad, but it brings Effie out of her funk. This prompts her to share a story about the time her friend Heptus lost his wig in a punch bowl. Her story isn't particularly amusing, but I guess you have to live in the Capitol to understand it.
Haymitch, already half-drunk, counters with an incredibly rude joke I've heard boys in the Seam tell. It's the kind that I cover Prim's ears for, and my own as well if I could. Instead, I try to catch Peeta's eye from across the table. He's staring into his water glass, and seems intent on ignoring me. I sigh inwardly. Peeta's reaction is pretty justified, but I wish we could just get past what happened tonight and focus on what lies ahead.
Luckily we don't have to hear the punch line of Haymitch's joke, because our food arrives. Silent, pale-faced men and women bear huge silver trays loaded with food, that, if appearance and smell is anything to go by, is of even higher standard than that which we had on the train. Roast duck, cucumber soup, rice yellow with saffron, stacks of vegetables, long loaves of bread, fruit cocktails in cut glass. Drinks of every hue, including the red juice that Haymitch is so partial to.
I must be staring open mouthed, because Effie says, "It's rude to let your mouth gape open, Katniss." I shut my mouth and begin loading my plate, taking care to use the manners that mother taught me. As a little girl, before my father died and her mind fragmented, she taught me how to hold silverware and cut my food properly. At the time, she'd said jokingly, if you're ever feasting in the Capitol, you'll need manners. It's ironic now.
The food is delicious, and I probably don't engage in the conversation as much as I should have because I'm so focused on the contents of my plate. But I can't help but notice the sad, hungry, longing looks on the faces of the servants. For a second, I almost want to offer them food but realize that would probably be against the rules, as well as very rude. One of the girls looks almost familiar, like someone from a dream, but I can't place her. She's pretty, with thick red hair and huge eyes.
"Oh!" Effie says, clapping her hands excitedly. "We have a special dessert planned!" She seems to be in a much better mood due to the amount of food and alcohol she's consumed. Right on cue, the quiet servers bring out a flaming pudding, complete with blowtorch. It looks fantastic, but the fire reminds me of our costumes, and I feel embarrassed again.
"Thank you!" she chirps happily, raising her glass. "A toast to Cinna and Portia's genius!" I realize that Peeta's cup is empty, and I go to refill it. The familiar-looking servant girl realizes it at the same time I do, and our hands bump into the water pitcher at the same time, knocking it over. As she grabs it, I get my first good luck at her face, and I remember where I saw her. "I've seen you before!" I gasp before I can stop myself.
I saw her two years ago, when she was trying to escape from the Capitol. Gale and I hid in the forest while the Capitol shot the boy with her – her friend? Boyfriend? Brother? – to death, and took her away on a hovercraft. And now I remember why she, and all the other servants have constantly pained expressions, and stare so longingly at our meals. They are Avoxes, who have had their tongues surgically removed. Rebels that have been caught and punished by the Capitol.
Gale and I didn't try to save the girl. We said there was nothing we could have done to help. Nothing without risking ourselves, that is. But if I'd known this was her fate, maybe we could have tried harder to help.
I felt bad after the mess of a chariot ride, but that was nothing compared to this.
Effie begins, "Katniss, you can't-" but I cut her off.
"I don't know her," I say quickly. "I just think she looks a bit like…um…that girl from District 5." They look nothing alike, of course, except for the red hair. But it was the best I could come up with under the circumstances. Peeta gives me a look, but I shrug. Haymitch is too intoxicated to care.
After that, I'm eager to leave the table, so I take a serving of pudding and turn on the wall-sized holovision. The set is tuned to a recap of the tribute parade, so I flop on the couch and watch. After a minute Peeta joins me, but he doesn't say anything and he stays on the other side of the couch.
These aren't the same two hosts who provide live commentary during the parade on the screen. This is a gossipy late night commentary program. The hostesses are just commenting on how lackluster the majority of the tribute costumes were this year, using District 5 as an example.
"Seriously, moons again?" moans the orange skinned woman on the left.
"I know, right?" drawls the dog-eared woman on the right. "I'm so over it."
Feeling left out of the conversation between Haymitch and the stylists, Effie decides to join us.
"Is that Emilia and Aurelia at 11?" she asks. "Because if it is, change the channel."
I have no idea who or what Emilia and Aurelia are, so I don't do anything.
On the screen, the girl from five is being shown. She looks nothing whatsoever like the Avox girl; she reminds me more of a fox than anything. Luckily Effie doesn't seem to notice.
"Oh, I – hic- simply despise these two!" she says, pointing in the general direction of the screen. I think she's jealous.
The ladies onscreen quickly move from Five to Eleven, clearly eager to get to the good stuff and offer their insights.
"The rest of the field may be subpar, but anyone who's anyone agrees that District Twelve was a smashing success!" says the orange one.
The dog one pretends to fan flames with her manicured hands. "Was it ever!"
The screen pans to show a slow motion clip of my arm smacking Peeta in the face, and our subsequent battle to keep from falling out of the chariot. Ouch. I grimace. That must have hurt.
The commentators are struggling to hold it together. "Absolutely – cracking!" one of them says, and they burst out laughing simultaneously. Peeta jumps up and punches the button on the remote control.
"Finally," Effie says. "They are beyond irritating."
The ladies disappear, replaced by some sort of program informing Capitol viewers about all the tributes. The program shows pictures from the various reapings, focusing on one tribute at a time.
The show probably just started, because they're only on District Two. On the screen is the small girl that looked like she wanted to kill me at the tribute parade.
"An accomplished Career tribute, Clove is sixteen years old. She volunteered for the Games because she knows she has the intelligence and skill level necessary to win. Her favorite thing to do is throw knives with her training partners, and her hobby is practicing hand to hand combat," the announcer informs us as a picture of Clove looking bloodthirsty pops up.
I don't know where they're getting this information from - I don't remember filling out a questionnaire. I look over at Peeta. He looks to be engaged in the TV, but I have to wonder what he's actually thinking.
The picture switches from Crazy Clove to her District partner, the blond boy. In his picture, he's staring at the camera just like he stared me down after the chariot ride. Why?
Effie, who seems to be dozing against the couch, sits bolt upright. "Look what time it is!" she announces. "It's late! Big, big day tomorrow! Must get to bed!"
I'm curious to see what they say about me – probably something along the lines of "during her free time, Katniss Everdeen enjoys smacking people in the face" – but I figure that it's better to just go along with Effie. I poke the remote and the picture disappears.
But I'm not fast enough for Effie. "Hurry up!" she says, shooing us towards our bedrooms.
"Sorry," I say. All I've done today is apologize.
Back in my room, I put on a nightgown and go to brush my teeth. In the bathroom, I find the redheaded Avox picking up the remnants of my parade outfit that I left scattered so carelessly on the floor. I reach down to help her, and for a second time our hands brush.
"Sorry," I whisper, and this time I mean it. Not just for the costume, but for everything. Gale and I didn't do anything to help her. And we should have. The girl gives me a small pained smile, lips closed tightly. I do my best to return it. Then she gathers my laundry and slips through the door silently.
Back in the huge fluffy bed, I can't stop thinking about the girl. If not for good luck, that could easily be me now. If the Capitol found out about my poaching, they would cut out my tongue and enslave me for sure.
The bed's soft, with silky sheets and plush pillows, but feels foreign and empty without Prim in it. I'm doing this for Prim, I remind myself. All of this is for her. She's worth it, but I'd give anything to be in District Twelve right now.
…
AN: No canon middle name for Katniss, so I made one up. Poor Peeta!
First fanfic, so please give this story a chance! The next chapter will focus on training, and should be up reasonably soon.