Thank you again SO MUCH for your amazing response and for the favorites and alerts! I'm now posting-as-I-write (no more reserve chapters), so I apologize in advance if I don't always update frequently. I'll do my best, but with the holidays coming up, I must also go and join the land of the living! :)
Chapter 3: All the World is a Stage
I've decided that French is completely useless here. It made some sense when I took it in Michigan and we were so close to Canada, but who needs to know French in southern California? I would have preferred to take Spanish like Peeta and Delly, but the transcripts from my old school landed me squarely back in French class exchanging impractical phrases about taking a train and ordering food from the dining car.
"Puis-je avoir deux tartes?" I ask in an almost unrecognizable French accent.
"Oui. Nous avons tarte aux pommes et tarte aux cerises," my partner, Annie, answers softly.
Annie is sweet and quiet. She's the only person in my French class that I can actually tolerate because, unlike the rest of our classmates, she doesn't try to say everything in a sexy, flirtatious tone as if the foreign language was a verbal pheromone. We don't say much to each other, but the best part is that the silence doesn't seem to bother either of us.
We also have swim class together and we are the only two girls in the Advanced Level group. I find it surprising that so few girls in a coastal city can swim well, but judging by the way they sit on the edge of the pool sporting expensive designer bikinis that are entirely too skimpy and embellished for the types of exercises we perform in class, they're probably not there to hone their swimming skills. Besides, if the guys in class knew they could swim, they wouldn't have any need to carry them around the pool the way they do.
I don't know much else about Annie except that she's got a mean butterfly stroke and she is good enough at French to study abroad, which she hopes to do next summer before her senior year. I don't know who she hangs out with outside of our two shared classes and I've never bother asking her to join our lunch group, which fluctuates on a daily basis but consistently includes my only two real friends.
Annie and I are in the middle of giving directions to the sleeping car when our teacher hangs up the classroom phone and walks in our direction.
"Katniss, the office called," she says to me. "They need you to go to Principal Snow's office."
I look at Annie with confusion then back to Ms. Arquette. "Right now?"
Our teacher nods and I shrug as I pack up my belongings into my backpack. I tell Annie I'll see her in swim class if I don't come back to French, collect the homework assignment from Ms. Arquette, and head down the main hall towards the administration wing.
One would think I'd be excited to be excused from a mundane class, but the prospect of being summoned to the principal's office is not exactly a desirable tradeoff, especially when that principal is Mr. Snow. I've never personally met him before. He was at the orientation meeting we attended before the school year began, as well as the back-to-school assembly, but I did not speak with him or shake his hand. I don't have any major issues with authority. Whatever transgressions I might have had back in Detroit – most notably, truancy – usually went under the radar and nowhere near my permanent records. But from what I hear, Mr. Snow is strict and conservative and rules the school with the same old-fashioned ideals and methods as his grandfather – the founding namesake of our school – Augustus Snow whose ominous presence is felt in the marble statue erected in his honor in the front of the school and the comically large portrait painting hanging in the foyer of the auditorium.
Mr. Coriolanus Snow, like his notable ancestor, is not pleasant to look at either. True to his name, he has pale, sagging skin despite the 329 days of sunshine this city receives, and a crown of snowy white hair. His gray and white eyebrows are angled and bushy in a menacing scowl and his lips, almost always pressed into a straight, unemotional line, are far too puffy to be natural. But his most repulsive of qualities I wouldn't discover until the door to his large, wood-paneled office is opened to me, and it sucks me in and engulfs me. At first I think the overwhelming odor is a badly formulated air freshener, but I soon discover, as I approach our school's head, that the pungent, artificial smell of roses and – what is that – blood is actually emanating from the man himself.
"Miss Everdeen, please, have a seat," he invites me to one of the tufted leather chairs sitting across his desk.
I reluctantly settle into the seat, taking shallow breaths to avoid taking in too much of the overpowering scent. I'm about to ask the principal what the nature of his summons is when the door opens again and Peeta walks in with none other than Effie Trinket. I cock my head at the sight of them, unsure of who I'm more surprised to see.
"Effie? Peeta?" I ask. "What are you guys doing here?"
"I'm not really sure," Peeta answers, plopping down on the chair beside me. "Effie just came and kidnapped me from Chem class. I'm not complaining."
Effie comes around and leans on Principal Snow's desk. "Don't worry, you two aren't in any trouble."
"Not that I'm not happy to see you, Effie, but I'm just really confused as to why you're at our school," I say.
Mr. Snow clears his throat. "As you two might be aware, your victory in this summer's Cornucopia race has earned your school – our school – a large portion of the grant towards performing arts."
"Yes," Effie interjected. "And as the interim proprietor of the foundation's funds, I'm here to oversee the implementation of the grant."
The Principal seems to be suppressing his annoyance with Effie's interruption. "A portion of the grant has already been allocated toward the band and choir, however, we currently do not have any drama program here at Snow High…"
"So I've taken it upon myself," Effie cut in again. "To find a suitable director and promote a pilot program here at your school."
"So what does this have to do with Katniss and me?" asks Peeta.
Effie and Snow look at each other as if checking who will take the reigns next. The former cowers at the latter's harsh glare.
"We thought that you and Miss Everdeen would be the perfect candidates to take part in the theater program, and help spread the word to others in our student body," Snow informs us.
Effie, unable to withhold her two cents, adds, "And to be completely honest, the foundation's reputation has taken a bit of a hit due to Seneca Crane's indiscretion. While I don't condone his actions, I do wholeheartedly believe the Cornucopia Project serves the community well and I would hate to see it go to waste, so I was thinking…"
"You were thinking, if Peeta and I participated in your program, we'd be showing that we don't have any hard feelings?" I infer.
"Precisely."
I drop my face into my hands and shake my head in disbelief of the situation I now find myself in. This triathlon has only proven to be a very large thorn in my side.
"I only joined that race because I'm good at cycling and swimming. I'm not good at drama!"
"Dear, you're in high school. Everyone in high school is good at drama," Effie says teasingly though I don't miss her patronizing tone.
"I don't know," Peeta says looking at me. "It sounds like it could be sort of fun."
I roll my eyes. "For you, maybe. You'd be good at it."
Principal Snow grabs a file folder that is sitting on his desk and opens it to reference something. "Miss Everdeen, your transcript is showing that you are severely lacking in elective credits. Unless you plan on spending next summer fulfilling your deficiency, I'm afraid you may not have enough to graduate next year."
"And you should never underestimate elective credits when it comes to college applications," Effie adds.
Peeta places a hand on my arm. "Hey, there are worse ways to fulfill your requirement. I'll be there, at least."
I never thought I'd get backed into a corner by the likes of Principal Snow, Effie Trinket, and Peeta Mellark. It is a repressive feeling that makes my head pound. I take a deep breath to cleanse my thoughts, but the smell of blood and roses assaults my senses. I just need to get out of here.
"Fine," I surrender. "Where and when?"
"Oh, goody!" Effie claps her hands. "We will have a brief meeting after school in the auditorium so you can meet the director and the other future thespians!"
"Wait, what others?" asks Peeta.
I stand to begin making my escape out the door, desperate for fresh air.
"Well, it was only fair to include the past winners of the triathlon that still attend this school. There are also a few students that are members of the local youth theater we've invited to join as well," Effie informs us as the bell sounds outside. "But you'll meet them all after school. See you two then!"
Without another word, I yank open the heavy door and stumble out, my lungs heaving as if I had been trapped in a smoky inferno. Peeta comes up behind me and places a concerned hand on my shoulder.
"You okay?" he asks and I nod in reply. "Does this drama thing really have you that anxious? I mean, if you're going to have panic attacks over it, maybe it's not worth the credits."
I lead us out of the main office and down the hall towards the quad. "No, it's not that. I just… gosh, did you catch a whiff of Snow's office? I think the Queen of Hearts might have died in there!"
"Yeah, I think Principal Snow must shower in roses or something," he laughs. "So what do you think of this new theater program?"
I dodge a couple of oncoming students that wedge their way between Peeta and me. "I'm sure I'm going to suck at it, but I guess we'll just have to wait and see."
Peeta holds the door leading out to the quad open for me and I accept his gesture. "I happen to know, first hand, that you are a very convincing actress."
I whip back around to face him, my eyes narrowing in anger. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?" His face is stunned as he cowers for a moment from my wrath. "So now you think that I was just acting like I cared about you? Gosh, when are you ever go—"
"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" He has his hands held up to both surrender and to stop my tirade. "Down, girl! I didn't mean anything by it. I was just referring to the Wizard of Oz play we did as kids, okay?"
"Oh," I reply stupidly. My face feels like it's on fire and I hang my head in humiliation. "I'm such a jerk. I'm sorry, I just –"
There's really nothing I can say to justify my outburst. After everything Peeta and I have been through and how hard he's been trying to put it all behind us and just be friends, here I am still throwing accusations at him. I'm feeling like the lowest scum of the earth and I want to just melt into the ground right about now.
But instead, Peeta – being the kind-hearted guy that he is – still finds a way to put aside the hurt feelings when he says, "It's all right. I'll just chalk it up to PMS."
Though I chuckle along with him, shame isn't a strong enough word for what I feel. "You could live a hundred lifetimes and not deserve him."* Haymitch's cutting words reverberate in my mind. I would take offense except that I seem to be proving him right every chance I get. Here I am making Peeta feel like he doesn't deserve my affections. Like he's not worthy enough to choose over Gale or even myself. But in actuality, it is me that is undeserving of his goodness. I am selfish and broken and irresolute and Peeta deserves far better than that.
His contemptuous glare catches me when I cross the threshold and follows me as I span the large foyer towards the auditorium. I don't smell blood and roses with him, only the combination of old wood and varnish. His hair is shorter and he wears a pair of glasses on the tip of his nose, but other than that, this could be a portrait of his grandson, our reigning principal. I duck quickly through the second set of double doors to escape the ominous face that stands guard over the building.
Inside, a small group is gathered in the front row. Peeta is seated next to a girl with short, spiky hair and a series of metal studs lining the perimeter of her ears. A couple of seats over are three other very serious faces that appear to have no interest in anything but the stage in front of them. As I approach, the spiky-haired girl eyes me with unprovoked annoyance to which I respond with my own grimace. I take a seat on the other side of Peeta and do my best to strike up conversation with him just for the sheer satisfaction of drawing his attention away from her.
"Hey," I say to Peeta. "Is this everyone, you think?"
"Hey, Katniss. Glad you made it," Peeta replies. He turns back to the obnoxious girl and says, "Have you met Johanna?"
She rolls her eyes at me.
"No, I haven't had the pleasure," I respond cynically.
"Umm, yes, you have," she sneers then adds under her breath, "brainless."
Peeta goes on, ignoring our obvious disdain for one another. "I don't know if you remember, but Johanna and Finnick were last summer's triathlon winners."
"Finnick?"
"You called?" a deep voice says from behind as its owner comes around and sidles up next to me. He folds down the theater cushion and settles himself before leaning over the armrest into my personal territory. "Skittles?"
He rattles the red bag of candy in my face. "No, thanks."
"Why, are you watching your figure or something?" Finnick's lecherous voice replies, eying me up and down. "'Cause I'll watch it for you, if you'd like."
"Really, Finnick?" Johanna butts in. "Could you keep it in your pants for two seconds?"
I hear Peeta snicker and I nudge his elbow off the armrest with mine, causing his face to fall against my shoulder. I now have two guys syphoning my share of oxygen and they both seem to enjoy the discomfort their proximity gives me. Thankfully, a round, middle aged man saunters in from backstage, calling our attention to him.
In a distinct British accent, he introduces himself as Plutarch Heavensbee, the appointed Drama Club director.
I raise my hand to catch his attention. "Umm, Mr. Heavensbee, I'm sorry. Will this meeting be long?"
He reaches into his lapel to check the time on his old fashioned pocketwatch. "No, no. I do have another meeting to attend after this, so it will just be brief."
Mr. Heavensbee continues onto his spiel about the importance of the dramatic arts. The three other students, who I am going to guess are the members of the youth theater company Effie had mentioned, nod their heads enthusiastically in agreement with our director. Peeta tries to pay attention while Johanna picks at the dirt under her nails and Finnick tosses Skittles into his mouth.
"…We will be meeting immediately after school on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays for an hour or so each day," Mr. Heavensbee says. "We will be working on various acting and speech exercises. Eventually, once we have a good, solid group, we can begin working on a big play to perform for the public."
I tilt my wrist to check the time on my watch. 4:10 PM.
Peeta leans over to whisper to me. "Do you need to go somewhere soon? I can give you a ride if you're in a hurry."
I lean in towards him. "Just home," I answer in the same hushed tone. "My family promised Gale we'd go to his first game tonight."
He nods and I can't help but notice his hardened expression and clenched jaw when he turns his attention back to Mr. Heavensbee and locks his eyes on him.
Note to self: Mentioning Gale is not on the list for friendly conversation topics between Peeta and me.
My mother, Prim, Rue, and I brave the boisterous crowd to watch Gale's debut performance as a USC Trojan. #9 is only in for a few plays the entire game – one of which is a dropped pass - but he is able to contribute a couple of key blocks. It is refreshing to see him in uniform and running around the field again. Like the pool is my haven, the football field is his.
True to their word, Rue and Prim had made glittery signs to cheer on Gale and his team. When he is in formation, we wave around the signs and scream until our throats go raw. When he is off the field, we fill the time with nachos, hot dogs, and soda. We are not traditionally fans of football as a sport, but we are certainly fans of Gale, and want nothing but for him to succeed in what he loves doing the most. Besides, we are all the family he has here.
As the game clock winds down, we watch Gale pace on the sidelines, raring for another Trojan victory. He turns in our direction and searches the stands to locate us in the seats he provided. When his eyes meet mine, I raise my hand to wave enthusiastically at him prompting the two girls to mimic me. I'm about to put my hand down when I notice a couple, two rows in front of us, doing the same thing in his direction. I'm ready to dismiss it, thinking they're probably just waving at someone else, when the girl cups her hands in front of her mouth and shouts, "Woooo! Go Gale!"
I study her and her companion for a moment, trying to figure out if I know who they are or not. I know it's highly unlikely since I haven't met any of Gale's friends from school. Come to think of it, Gale hasn't talked much about other people from school and I just figured he hadn't gotten close enough to anyone for them to be noteworthy. It wouldn't be too farfetched since Gale and I are both alike in that we aren't extremely sociable people. He did mention a roommate by the name of Thom, but since Gale spends what little down time he has at our house, I haven't had a chance to visit his dorm and meet his roommate. I come to the conclusion that the man is likely Thom and woman is, perhaps, Thom's girlfriend.
The game clock ticks down to zero and the field floods with players and coaching staff alike reaching out to shake hands with the opposing team. The thousands of fans in the stands already begin filing out, but we are amongst the few that stay put. I keep my eye on the couple as they shimmy through the narrow row of seats then down the steps towards the railing that borders the field.
Gale finishes the conciliatory exercise and jogs his way back to our side of the stadium, sporting a wide, boyish grin on his face. I nudge my companions to follow me as I lead them down to meet Gale. As suspected, I find him chatting excitedly with the other couple who is clearly there for Gale's sake as well. I'm drawing closer to where they are gathered when I catch sight of the girl's hand stroking Gale's arm and, if I'm not imagining things, squeezing his biceps. I note that Gale's face seems unfazed by her gesture and the man she's with doesn't seem bothered at all by it.
"Gale!" Prim shouts to him even though we are still a whole flight of stairs away.
She pushes past me, hauling Rue along with her as they skip down the concrete steps. The couple turns to see who was calling Gale and the woman smiles in our direction. I narrow my eyes, not returning the expression.
"Hey! How are my two favorite cheerleaders?" Gale says, raising his hands to greet Rue and Prim with high-fives.
"That was awesome!" Prim gushes. "You're practically famous!"
My mom and I finally catch up and lean against the other side of the railing. "Aww, he's got at least a couple more games before he's famous," I tease, purposely ignoring the presence of the two strangers.
Gale doesn't let my ignorance last long, however. "I'm so glad you guys all made it for my first game. Means a lot. By the way, I'd like you to meet my roommate, Thom…" I was right. He reaches his hand to me and I shake it, as does my mother. "And this is my physics lab partner, Bristol."
Lab partner. Not Thom's girlfriend. Gale's partner.
I extend my hand to her knowing Gale would expect me to be polite, but I can't help but be bothered by her presence. Maybe it's the way she caressed him that is not within the job description of a "lab partner." Or perhaps it's that Gale never mentioned her to us before. Maybe I'm just taken aback by the fact that someone whose role is as inconsequential as a lab partner would be invited to attend his first game (where he would only be playing a minor role) and would actually come to claim her reserved seat – a closer seat, in fact – for the sole purpose of watching him push a few linebackers aside. I don't even want to think about how her deliberately torn University of Southern California t-shirt is quite obviously a couple sizes too small for her endowment.
"You're just jealous," Bristol says, tearing me from my hostile thoughts.
"What?" I reply incredulously. I am not jealous. Annoyed, but not jealous.
I'm about to tell her as much when I realize she's looking at Thom and elbowing him humorously in the ribs. Thankfully, they didn't seem to hear me as they are all caught up with teasing Thom for, well, I'm not sure what.
My family packs up to leave Gale to go shower. As we're climbing back up the steps, I take another look back to where Bristol is leaning her blatantly exposed cleavage over the railing right at Gale's eye level. Gale would never be into someone that easy.
No, I'm not jealous.
*Excerpt from Chapter 13 of Catching Fire by Suzanne Collins.
A/N – Yay! This chapter was chock-full of new characters! Finnick and Johanna are back! Plus, Snow, Annie, Plutarch, Thom, Bristol, and the yet-to-be-named "other members" of the Drama Club. It's about to get fun!
Leave me a review and tell me what you think of this chapter! Thanks for reading!
