Disclaimer: The Hunger Games isn't mine.
I'm not certain what I should expect when I finally make it home. Effie Trinket leaves with the tributes, but the camera crews have to pack up all of their equipment. Reporters get "initial reaction" statements from the families. All of this takes time. The swarm of people from the Capital doesn't leave until late evening, and I am expected to be available in my office (in case of questions) until they do. Never once, in all my years as mayor, have any of them asked me any questions that didn't relate to the purchase of "quaint District souvenirs." I have, however, received multiple complaints over the years about the lack of fresh seafood available on their refreshment table. Geography is apparently every bit as much of a woefully under taught skill in the Capital as it is in District 12.
When their train has finally pulled out of the station, I decide to start mentally preparing myself to comfort a crying teenager. It will be a new experience for me. I haven't dealt with a crying daughter since Madge was still small enough to be scooped up and placed on the counter to have her scraped knees cleaned. It was a nice feeling, one of accomplishment as a father, that I could make the tears stop with a few soothing words and a little dabbing with a cloth soaked in water. I doubt that anything that simple will suffice on this occasion.
I expect there to be crying tonight because the loss of your best friend seems to me a crying kind of occasion. Tears are what I would have expected from her mother back before . . . There is no use letting my thoughts dwell there. It's a pointless exercise, and Madge isn't her mother (no matter how much she looks like her all over again). Still, tears are the normal teenage girl reaction to upsetting events, aren't they? Suffice it to say that I have geared up to deal patiently with tears, and I am somewhat thrown not to find any. Madge is seated in the kitchen with a cup of tea waiting for me.
"I heard the train leave," she explains. "I knew you would be here soon."
Well, huh, now what? I'm still bracing myself for a teary eyed storm – looking forward to it really, I have a plan for that. I'm not sure what to do with this calmness. It's eerie. I know how much finally having someone who made her feel welcome meant to my daughter. It's one of my regrets as a parent – knowing that her solitariness is mostly my fault. My job separates her from the rest of the children of the District. There is a certain amount of distrust that comes with the position of mayor. Even though I grew up here just like the rest of them, I am associated with the Capital by many. It isn't overt. It is certainly never spoken out loud, but you can hear the strain in the conversations of those around you. There's a certain amount of hesitancy as if people are choosing their words extra carefully. The guardedness sort of drifts into the younger generation, and they often apply it to Madge without really realizing (at least, I hope it isn't intentional, the only other mayor in my memory didn't have children, so I don't have a basis for comparison).
There tends to be some Seam/Town segregation amongst the children of the District. It isn't an insurmountable breach, but the teachers in the lower school foster it in the way they divide the children up. Part of the problem is that Madge is every bit as separated from the Town kids as well. They have all been working in various capacities in their parent's shops for as long as they can remember. Madge has been practicing her piano (and washing dishes, but I doubt many of the children in 12 would believe that). It skews their common topics of conversation into a venue where Madge can't exactly follow. When you add in the fact that she is naturally quiet with a serious bent to her personality, things like fitting in with gossipy teenage girls just doesn't seem to come easily for her.
It might have been better for her if she hadn't been an only child. She would have, at least, had an ally. It's unfortunate that that wasn't a possibility.
The point of all my meandering thoughts being this – I know exactly what Katniss's acceptance meant to her. I know how much it must be hurting her to lose her, and she is showing no outward sign that anything is wrong. It's . . . disquieting. Perhaps she did her crying before I got here? She doesn't look like she's been crying. Maybe she thinks I can't handle her crying and is trying to be stoic for my benefit? I can handle it. I'm a dad. Comforting is part of the job description. (Fixing is part of the job description too, but I can't fix this for her.) I decide to offer an opening, so she will know that I'm prepared to listen.
"I'm sorry about your friend," I tell her. "I know how much you're going to miss her."
She doesn't respond. She looks at me as if searching for the answer to some question that I was unaware that she had asked. She blinks, and her expression crosses into something that I find myself unable to identify.
"You think she's not coming back." She says as if it's a thought that hasn't occurred to her before.
"Honey . . ." I begin, but I don't have to find the words to finish the sentence. It's just as well. I'm not sure what I was going to say. She's taken me by surprise again. She's normally such a practical, reasonable girl.
She stands up and kisses me on the forehead while I'm still trying to find my bearings again.
"Daddy, just wait and see." She says and leaves the room without another word or glance.