It starts when Finnick is reaped. When those damn ugly plastic yellow nails swivel too far to the left in the clear glass bowl and pull his name out, the life floods out of me. Whatever color left in my face must flush out like my mother says it does when I'm scared and my eyes drop away from the stage instinctively. I hear him walking. I hear the microphone's vacant hum, the high-pitched accented voice declaring his name again, the theme song projected one final time. Then the wailing.
It comes from his mother, somewhere behind me in the section reserved for parents. I recognize the voice of my own mother hushing her, probably getting her aside from the larger mass of relieved parents now moving forward to reunite with their children. I should join them, but I can't get my feet to move. I can't even get my head to think.
I'm stuck in place, my eyes locked on the speakers just below the stage. The voices around me sound like they're being spoken underwater, coming out in bubbles and muted by the pressure of the water. I am underwater. I'm underwater with Finn. We do this a lot—when I was nine and he was eleven we used to try to have conversations underwater, but the air would come out too fast if we wanted to be heard properly, so it turned out we could only say a couple of words at a time. Soon we'd get too tired and just scream at each other, making whale noises and skimming the ocean floor until one of us accidentally swallowed too much water and had to be taken home.
No, Finn has just been reaped to be in the Hunger Games and now his mother is screaming and my mother is urging her towards the Justice Building. I take careful steps in their direction.
"Annie, help her up." My mother says, head gesturing towards the steps ahead. I grab Mrs. Odair's elbow and support her as she wobbles up the steps. A peacekeeper steps between us as soon as we approach the door and I slip in after them, unnoticed.
We're in a room with another family, assumably the female tribute's. I try not to look at them directly, but it's hard to give anyone privacy when everyone is crying together in the same cramped room, sharing the same tortured noises and gasping the same damp, depressing air. Our mothers go in first, not even stopping to think of me. I'm okay with it. I can't imagine having to talk to him at all—maybe I won't have to.
I've spent five minutes examining a light fixture in the corner when our mothers come back in, my mother now completely supporting Mrs. Odair's weight as her body wracks with uncontrollable sobs. They've left the door open behind them and Finnick is looking at me with his strange green eyes, expression blank. I start towards him.
I don't say anything as I close the door behind me, or as I sit on the couch beside him. It's not until he breaks my gaze that I find my words.
"You've got to come back."
He seems much older than fourteen when he replies, "I know."
I look down at my hands. It's not fair that I'm supposed to say goodbye to him like this. I've spent practically my entire life next to Finnick and now the Capitol is yanking him from under my feet so quickly and for no reason other than to watch him die. Finnick does not belong to the Capitol. He is not their toy. He belongs to the ocean, to this place we love, to the seagulls and to the sand and crabs and to me. I ever thought it would happen like this. I never thought this would happen at all.
He just looks sad when he turns back to me. "Take care of my mother and Elliot, okay?"
I nod, swallowing back everything else. I notice the rope bracelet in his hand that his mother most likely gave him and decide it's not enough. I take out my right earring and twist the wire around the metal ring on the clasp so the pearl hangs like a charm.
When I stand the room is fuzzy. Eyes hard and focused on getting out composed, I find myself heading towards the door before Finnick can say anything else, or before I can, for that matter.
"I'm coming back, Annie." His voice comes from behind me.
"I know." I reply.
We're about thirty seconds into the interviews when I decide I can't watch the games. Caesar Flickerman is still talking with the female tribute from District 1 when, soundlessly, I leave out the back door.
It's past curfew but I know the peacekeepers never come out to the small point where mother and I live, so I don't even bother trying to be sneaky once I'm outside. Our house is the last in the row of five (of which only three are still inhabited) on the sharp, elevated point, so it's a steep downhill grade to get to the small, secluded beach just below.
Apparently when the districts were just being formed our family was pretty influential, thus the prime location. Unfortunately that was a long time ago and the Cresta name doesn't hold much water anymore, other than to the few wharves men who still use and buy our fine mesh nets.
Finnick's family is worse off. Both our fathers were killed in the same shipwreck four years ago, leaving my family with only the side net business to live off of, but for Finnick's family, that was it. My mother does all she can to help, but to be honest, it's not enough. Our fathers worked on the same crew, which is why Finnick and I even ever met. Men in District Four are assigned a crew and a ship as soon as they turn eighteen and are assigned new houses in the same sector as their crewmates. From here the idea is to build their families in these spots and grow their own little communities—it was truly pure luck that the sector my father was assigned to included the family house.
I look back at Finnick's house, which, of course, is empty. For the second time in my lifetime the Odairs are living with us. The first was the few months after the shipwreck.
It's this time I think of as I sit on the beach, huddled into a small ball. My hair is whipping around my face and beads of water are slowly soaking through my clothes but I don't care. I'm not here anymore.
I'm eight and sitting on my bed next to ten-year-old Finnick, small strangers listening to their mothers weep in the next room over.
It's apparent that he doesn't like me and I don't care about him. But later that night when our mothers and Clara are still crying and Elliot is asleep and the thunder starts again, our eyes meet for the first time and a silent pact is made for the night. We both scurry against the headboard of my bed and pull the quilt over us and are still, pretending the thunder outside isn't from the same storm that snapped the mast of our fathers' ship earlier that day.
For two months Finnick and I keep this routine, soon with or without the thunder. Both our mothers don't seem to be functioning correctly and Clara has left so we look to each other for the things we need- mostly warmth and company. Still we barely talk to each other. It must have taken us half a year to have a real conversation.
I want to turn to him and remind him of how funny we used to be, but when I open my eyes the cold realization hits me. Finn isn't here. Finn is in the Capitol. Finn is probably never coming home.
I decide I'm going to allow myself to cry, but when I do, nothing happens.
I'm empty.
When the games start, I'm sitting with my feet hanging over the edge of Finnick and I's favorite cliff jumping spot.
When Finnick almost gets killed by the girl with the spear from Seven, I'm collecting shells for a necklace for my mother.
When Finnick allies with Two, I'm climbing over rocks at the south jetty.
When Two breaks the alliance, I'm sitting on our beach tying knots.
When Finnick gets his trident from the sponsors, I'm helping my mother make chowder.
When Finnick makes his first kill, I'm swimming in the cove on the opposite side of our point.
When Finnick makes his second kill, I'm huddled into a ball on my bed against the headboard.
When Finnick makes his third kill, I'm on my sixth net of the day.
When the faint roar of every citizen in District 4's cheers erupts from the houses on the mainland, I'm sobbing. I'm on our beach again, my cheek pressed against the hard wet sand, my hair matted with sea water, and my heart swelling. I'm sobbing, every terrified feeling I've had in the past month surfacing hard and fast, adding to my hysteria. I'm gasping for air but I'm smiling.
He told me he would come back, but I wouldn't let myself believe him until now.
The energy in our house has done a 180°. Mrs. Odair has sprung back to life and Elliot, Finnick's seven-year-old brother, is constantly strutting around, acting like he knew Finnick would win from day one.
"Clara, remember when Finnick made that trap with the purple vines?" Elliot pesters Clara in the kitchen. I'm sitting with my back to them, finishing the corner of a net. Elliot knows not to approach the subject with me. I don't think I've spoken in a couple days. Instead he spends most of his time and energy on Clara, who normally lives with her husband of three years, Drew, but has spent the past couple of weeks with us.
"Yes, he was very quick on his feet." Clara answers absentmindedly. She must be distracted— normally she adores Elliot. I glance up and follow her gaze to the television that has just flickered on the way it does whenever there's required viewing.
My hands freeze. It's the interview. My eyes squeeze shut as I try to block out the sound of Caesar Flickerman's voice, but it's no use.
"It's lovely to have you again, Finnick. Isn't it, folks?" The Capitol crowd roars in response. The camera pans back to show Finnick, sitting back in a velvet chair and wearing an expensive-looking suit with his hair slicked back. The image is so foreign to me that for a moment I doubt whether it's really Finnick. The Finnick I know hates shoes and would never let his mother try to tame his unruly hair, even on reaping days.
"It's lovely to be back, Caesar." That's Finnick's voice, all right.
Clara comes and sits cross-legged beside me on the floor and pries my hands off the net I hadn't realized I'd still been clutching.
"You all right?" she asks me.
"His hair," is all I can think to say. Clara laughs and tucks some of my hair behind my ear so she can look at me properly. My eyes meet hers and suddenly we're both laughing.
"I know!" she exclaims, shaking her head. Her beautiful dark shoulder-length flies out around her and I feel a rush of affection. I love my sister.
Caesar is asking Finnick about the games, but suddenly it doesn't seem so bad. Finnick is alive and he's coming home. I can't stop the small smile from widening across my face.
Clara doesn't let go of my hand, and I'm thankful. When Finnick talks about the "gorgeous" women of the Capitol, she frowns. I know what she's thinking—it's wrong that they are marketing him this way. He's only fourteen and I know for a fact that he finds the styles of the Capitol ridiculous and unnatural. He's told me himself after years of watching the games together.
I tell myself that everything will be back to normal once Finnick comes home, or rather that Finnick will be back to normal.
I'm wrong.