Mags! :D
"Will you quit whining, you big baby? You know you deserved it."
I flush my eyes one final time and turn to Mags, who is shaking her old gray head at me. "I deserved it?" I hiss, taking the bottle of eye drops she holds out. "I deserved it? I deserve some respect! I'm her mentor, after all!"
She laughs, a deep, throaty sound, and sticks out her bottom lip teasingly. "Oh, you just got your feelings all hurt. 'Cause now there're two girls in the whole country that don't wanna kiss you." She slaps my rear end, hard, as she leaves the room. I grimace and hear her warbling laugh disappearing down the hall.
I've never asked Mags how old she is, because it would only make her slap me harder. Probably in her mid-seventies, although you wouldn't know it from talking to her. Her body may be finally starting to slow down, but she has plenty of energy and knows a thing or two about being a mentor. I guess I'm proof of that. I've never publicly given her credit for keeping me alive in the arena, but we both know she deserves it. She says she's too old to be in the spotlight with me. In that way, she's like a mother to me, happy just to support me behind the scenes.
Who am I kidding? She's like a mother to me in a lot of ways, certainly more than the woman who raised me. I haven't seen my real family in years, although I suppose they watch me on TV all the time. It's an idea that's still hard to get used to. People compare fame to living in a fishbowl, but that's not how I see it at all. It's more like one of those one-way panes of glass, a window to people on the outside and a mirror to people inside. Everyone can see me, but I can only see myself.
The eye drops are useless. When I finally give up and head back out to breakfast, my eyes are still puffy and red like I've been either drinking or crying all night, possibly both. A hush falls over the table when I enter, looking like such a wreck. I don't offer any explanation, just sit down and silently go to work on a plate of pancakes. Even with my head down, I can feel them all staring at me, wanting answers but knowing they're not allowed to ask. All except Annie, who quickly excuses herself to go to the restroom. Probably just holding back laughter.
Yeah, better fly away, little chickadee. She has made me look weak in front of Otto, and that irritates me. These Careers, you see, come into the Games already knowing how to fight and not wanting to answer to anyone. Every mentor from the richer districts has had a power struggle with one before, but since I won the Games when I was so young, I've had to train Careers twice my size and years older than me who didn't think I had a clue what I was doing. Of course, after we got in the training area, I showed them who was in charge. But everything would be so much simpler if I didn't have to prove myself yet again.
Otto and I don't speak for the duration of the meal, it's only Pallindra and the stylists who try to keep small talk going. They are silly, stupid Capitol people, just like Ophelia. The sad thing is, I know and understand everything they talk about. And while my assigned personality dictates that I should join in, I'm having a harder time than usual masking my disgust for their parties and fashions and plastic surgeries. They always complain about those frivolous things in front of the tributes, who will probably be dead within weeks. It's grossly insensitive, but I doubt Otto minds much because he seems to think he is immortal. And Annie… well, Annie's still hiding in the bathroom, afraid to face me again.
Her fellow tribute notices this about the same moment I do. "What happened to the little girl?" he asks. Pallindra runs to knock on the bathroom door, but Annie doesn't reappear until breakfast dishes have been removed and Otto has been whisked away by his stylist. Annie's stylist is waiting for her, too, but I wave the man away. "I need a moment with the young enchantress."
Annie's looking even paler than before, and she swallows hard when she realizes she's alone with me again. She doesn't have anything to worry about, though. I've picked up the cool, aloof persona that is me, not in public. "How are your eyes?" she asks with what sounds like genuine concern.
"Um, I've gone permanently blind." I give her a disgusted look. "Annie, I'm fine, it was just pepper."
She sighs in relief. "I'm sorry, I- I panicked. You… you were going to kiss me."
I can't help the eyebrow thing here. "And would that really have been such a disaster?"
She scuffs a toe against the ground hesitantly, as if debating whether or not to confide in me. She finally decides to, probably against her better judgment.
"I've never kissed a boy before," Annie says quietly, studying the floor.
I laugh aloud. "Never kissed a boy?" The idea is preposterous to me.
"Yes!" She sounds slightly defensive. "And I don't want to waste my first one on you. I want it to be somebody who loves me."
Waste? On me? I lean forward on the table with a smug smile, shaking my head wisely. "Chickadee, you don't know a thing about love."
She glances up then, and her wide ocean-eyes catch and hold mine for a moment. It's hard to look away. "Neither do you," she murmurs.
I throw back my head and laugh loudly, derisively. "Better get going, my pure little angel." I point toward the exit. "Your Capitol audience is waiting for you, and you have some growing up to do before we get there."
She points her chin high in the air and hurries out, slamming the door behind her. Again. Really, the display of temper is ridiculous. Almost as ridiculous as her comment. That I don't know a thing about love? It takes me a long time to stop laughing about it.
And even longer to stop thinking about it.
I'm not required to do much after we reach the Capitol. It's the stylists' job to pretty up the tributes before the chariot parade, and all I need to do is poke my head in, nod approvingly, and remind them to stand up straight and smile. After that, I'm free to tour the City Circle, mingle with the other victors who are supposed to be becoming something like old friends. Free being a relative term, of course, because as soon as I'm in the crowd, a very important man, President Snow's personal Secretary of the Whatever, appears and shakes my hand and introduces me to his wife's friend's cousin's daughter. The pretty brunette is shackled to my arm for the rest of the night.
There isn't really anybody here I want to talk to, but I'm swamped with Capitol citizens dying for a few seconds of my attention. I don't mind it much until an entire squadron of teenage girls pushes through the masses to surround me. And I swear, if I hear one more of them cry hysterically that they have touched my arm, I'm gonna hurt somebody. Possibly myself.
My brunette fights them off savagely, and we make a break for the reserved seating near the top of the stands. It's almost time for the grand unveiling of the tributes, so I scan the bleachers for a spot with the best view below. My love gives a disgusted sigh.
"Can you believe those girls? How pathetic!" she snorts, squeezing my arm tightly, protectively.
"Absolutely repulsive," I murmur as she snuggles closer.
Leeches. There were leeches in my arena. Big ones that I had to rip out of my leg. Drained one kid completely. They were almost this bothersome.
The other victors begin to file in, still chatting, swapping stories. A whole group of the men are wasted, laughing rowdily, and I consider joining them and laughing like I'm drunk, to keep up appearances. Then I see that they're all crowded around Chaff and old Haymitch. I scoot away from them, and my brunette follows.
Chaff is a good guy. He can always be counted on for a laugh, a great dirty joke. But Haymitch… I'm not in the mood for his particular brand of humor.
Mags catches my eye from the next bleacher over, where she is talking with the other old lady victors. She motions for me to lean back so she can get a glimpse of my date. Mags knits her white brow together, studies the brunette from head to toe. And then shakes her head seriously. I make a face at her.
Mags took it upon herself years ago to play not only the role of my mother and my grandmother but also a protective older sister. She must approve or disapprove of every girl I drag around with me. It's become sort of a running joke between us, the inspection, then the head shake yay or nay, because she must know I have no choice in the matter. Honestly, I can't remember the last time she approved a girl in my company.
I also spot Johanna Mason, last year's winner, a few rows above. We had some fun times back in the day, when I was in the Capitol and she visited on her Victory Tour. She's the best practical jokester I've ever met. Almost too cruel to be funny. Almost. She's watching me, so I quirk my eyebrows teasingly.
I take that back, she's glaring at me. And shooting me unkind hand gestures. That doesn't really surprise me, but the murderous gleam in her eyes sort of does. But Johanna always was a bit unpredictable. I shrug it off and turn back around, because President Snow's voice is booming through a thousand speakers, reverberating through the City Circle. That's our cue to stop talking and pretend to listen to the speech he very redundantly gives year after year.
And then the chariots. This is the first glimpse any of us get of the other districts' tributes. I quickly assess the first pair to fly down the lane below. Careers from District One. Both tall, big-boned, broad shoulders, dressed in gaudy rainbow-printed fabric. Big, winning smiles. Then District Two. A short, stocky boy who looks like a wrestler. A much taller, lankier girl who would probably seem painfully awkward if it weren't for her cold, ruthless expression. They are killers, no doubt.
District 3 produces, as usual, a couple of scrawny kids with wide, deep-set eyes. Even their platform shoes and heels can't disguise the fact that they haven't cleared five feet.
And now District 4. I don't plan to pay attention. I already know my tributes, know their individual strategies or lack thereof. I already approved their costumes with a quick glance, a curt nod. But they still make quite an entrance.
Otto looks positively deadly in his midnight blue jumpsuit that accentuates his every oversized muscle. A thin sash drapes over one shoulder. It's not made of fabric, but razor-sharp shark teeth strung together in a band that glints in the flickering torchlight. His lips are pursed in a fierce scowl, but I can tell from the crowd's awestruck response that they're expecting him to suddenly bare a mouthful of the pearly weapons. It's probably possible with the Capitol's extreme surgeries.
And Annie. The dress she's been fitted in makes her appear not skinny and girlish, but wispy. Graceful. Her stylist has followed the fish motif, as well. The fabric ripples in the chariot's breeze, creating the iridescent effect of scales, blue and green like the shimmering colors in her eyes. In fact, it all matches perfectly, the dress, the ocean, her eyes, and for a moment, I'm back on my sandy shore, watching the waves wash in, watching the sea breeze blow her dark curls back…
"Finnick." My brunette jerks my arm, irritation growing in her voice, and I suddenly get the feeling that she's tried to get my attention several times.
"Sorry, I was…" I trail off. Distracted? Is that possible? Well, my compliments to the stylist for making plain little Annie distracting. That must have taken talent.
My love's pouting up at me. "They told me you were gonna be fun," she whines.
"Hey, there, babe, you haven't given me a chance!" I protest, realizing how much I've been neglecting my duties. The last thing I need is this girl running back to her high and mighty uncle's mother's cousin's friend and complaining about me. I slip my arm around her waist and pull her up to my lips.
And all I can think is, I can't remember my first kiss. I can't remember anything about it.
I must step back much too soon, because she grabs the front of my shirt desperately. "Finnick?" she says uncertainly, never relaxing her grip.
"Hey," I lower my voice to a whisper, pretending to suddenly be very fascinated with brushing back her dark hair. "Hey, I… I think… I think I love you…" I let my statement drop off. Because I've forgotten the name. Again. My eyes scan the City Circle, hoping for a banner, a screen with our pictures plastered on it.
"Say it!" she pleads.
My eyes lock onto a sign down in the crowd below. Finnick Loves Nicole! I grasp her arms fervently. "I love you, Nicole!" I cry before my mind registers reason.
For a moment I'm staring into horrified eyes, and then her hand flies up and stings my cheek. Then my darling has stomped down the steps and disappeared, leaving me alone.
"I love you, too, Finnick!" someone, I presume Nicole, shrieks up at me. I lean over the edge of the balcony and blow a kiss in her general direction. A couple dozen girls reach up to catch it, squealing and fanning themselves.
Oh, yeah, I think dully. I've still got it.
Somebody's gonna be in trouble... :O I enjoyed Finnick's slip-up, how about you?