Chapter Four: Make New Friends
Ouch. A drop of thick blood oozes from where I pricked my finger on a sharp thorn. There are a thousand roses here it seems, varying in size and hue. Some have delicate wisps of a stem and a burst of crimson blossom at the head. Others are more robust and have ruby petals that drip heavily from the flower's cone. Each is misted with a unique perfume, the scents wafting into the air and giving me a headache. I walk to one of the windows and look down the dizzying height to the streets below. Even from the penthouse they glimmer, white and radiant. I can make out a few blurs of green and blue which must be people, but I can't see their freakish outfits or puffy hair. A white remote sits on a table in front of me, with a tempting array of buttons. I press one, and the windows black themselves out. My view of the Capitol transforms into one of a looming farmhouse with a fresh green meadow. A family of horses bobs in front of me, whinnying and snorting. Unlike the coal black stallions who led our chariot, these animals have a much tamer look, their coats dappled with soft browns and whites and blues. They gaze peacefully at me with large, dark eyes, and when I reach my hand out to their muzzles, I can almost feel the hot breath blowing from their noses.
We are having breakfast for supper. "It'll be fun to change things up a bit, don't you think, dears?" Effie goes overboard with the ordering and soon the table is groaning under the weight of the dishes and platters. I survey the delicacies: smooth brown eggs, golden cakes as thin as paper, pan-grilled tomatoes. Haymitch dips sausages in his coffee, much to the other's disgust. He doesn't seem to care. "You should try these, Prim," Gale suggests. He gestures to his plate, which is full of yellow squares. "They call them waffles." I take one from the stack and carefully fill the wells with syrup, scooping strawberries on top as an afterthought. The first bite is glorious, crispy and melting. It may even beat the whipped cream. "Well, Cinna, you have certainly done the remarkable," Effie compliments. She is invested in spooning cream into her black drink. Cinna stirs the milky liquid in his cup several times. "Thank you, Effie. But a stylist is only as good as his models." He gives me a special smile and lifts his glass. "A toast to our outstanding Tributes, Prim and Gale. May the odds be ever in your favour!" He says this last bit with just a hint of sarcasm, which is almost imperceptible. The narrowing of his coffee colored eyes gives him away. "Here, here!" Everyone lifts their glasses, which are filled with something fizzy and orange. Well, everyone except Haymitch, who is nursing his drink and picking at a piece of toast. "As you two probably know, training starts tomorrow," Effie begins. She swirls her fork around her plate, drenching it in a strawberry-colored sauce. "All the Tributes will be there. You'll have three days to practice, and then the Gamemakers will assess you privately. Your mentor is supposed to be giving you some guidance as to what you should spend your time on." She shoots Haymitch a meaningful look, but his eyes are downcast. Gale shovels another waffle in, reaching out to flick my braid. "Catnip wears her hair like that a lot," he observes. "It looks good on you." I smile, but focus on buttering a blueberry scone rather than answer him. Sadness threatens to overtake me at the sound of her name. My throat feels like it has been lodged with a grapefruit.
Dessert is exciting. A cake that flares with firecrackers. The alcohol, Cinna assures me, has burned out by the time I taste it. It is sweet and light and filled with nuts. "So, Haymitch," Gale says. "What are our strategies when we train? Should we show off our skills? The sound of his deep voice seems to penetrate the haze Haymitch has been ensconced in since supper began, because he lifts his head and shakes back his mane, which is now a soft clean yellow. His fingers crimp the tablecloth as he looks up. "You should," he addresses Gale. "Think you've got a shot at being in the Career pack. Try to impress 'em." I know this will not be a problem for him. One flash of his deep brown eyes and the female sponsors will melt. He can lift two sacks of grain in the same hand. He can dive into pools and vanish into their depths for long minutes, his tan body gelled with blue water. He can kill and heal and be fed by the forest. He will not be alone in the arena. "Kid, you've got to downplay it," Haymitch says. His eyes, slightly glassy again, pass over my pale face. "Remember, you're the sweet little bunny who eats rainbows for breakfast. Don't pick up a knife. Learn something useful, like setting traps or starting a fire. Chances are, if you survive the bloodbath at the Cornucopia, you'll end up dying from natural causes. It'd be better if you knew how to find shelter or weave a net than if you learned to swing a mace you'll probably never end up getting your hands on." He finishes his speech and takes a bite of cake. Crumbs dust his chin. "For the training assessment, same deal. Gale, you give them everything you've got. Might pull a ten. Prim, the lower the score, the more people will underestimate you. Play that to your advantage. Who knows? You might even manage to live a few days before someone stabs you in the back." There are protests at this; Cinna frowns carefully at his coffee, and Effie looks angry. "Don't you go talking to her like that, Haymitch," she grinds out. "Primrose may be young, but that doesn't mean anything. She might even win. You never know what to expect. That's the whole fun of the Games!" I stare at my plate, which is blue and white and has flowers dripping down the sides in an ornate pattern. I can see my reflection in the cooled lake of syrup. Haymitch clears his throat and twists his napkin into shreds. "Just trying to not raise any unrealistic hopes here. It's the babies that always go first." He pushes back his chair, muttering something under his breath about needing a drink and a bed. A hush descends upon the room, the faces of the diners growing solemn and dim. After a pregnant pause, Effie seems to assume the role of hostess and straightens her back until it is a rigid as a skelton's, smoothing out her pale pink hair. "Who wants seconds?"
Effie wakes me up at seven, rapping sharply on the door. "Wake up, wake up! It's going to be another big, big,big, day!" When I roll over in the soft bed I see the farmhouse scene. Pale light filters from the virtual clouds and illuminates the ghostly forms of the horses, who are still fast asleep. I rise from my warm den of bedding and pad to the shower, shivering in the cold. Suds drip down my scalp as I hastily scrub away the fine film of grease that has coated my skin overnight. An electric current buzzes through my long hair, combing and drying it instantly. It flows in gentle waves, as soft as muslin. A light grey uniform has been left on my dresser. I dip my feet in the holes, zipping it to the throat. The number 12 is stitched in fine black thread, right beneath my collarbone. My stomach fills with a fleet of butterflies.
We eat a quick, cold breakfast. I sip icy milk and let Cinna smooth something cold onto my cheeks. "Foundation," he explains. He fills in my brows so they are dark and heavy. He draws on my eyelids with a blue pencil. Haymitch guzzles something deep and red from a short glass. His breath smells like smoke. Gale tears his sweetroll aggressively, kneading it between his fingers. It sags, defeated, on the table, its puffy shape now a memory.
The elevator is thrilling. It has glass walls and plummets down thirteen floors. The people on the ground look like little china dolls. I almost ask if we can ride it again, but something tells me that's a little too babyish for Effie's taste.
The Training Room is in the basement. It's colder down here, as if someone dimmed the lights on the sun. Gale stares straight ahead, his eyes smoldering, almost melting the metal elevator doors with his glare. They glide open with their habitual hiss, revealing the interior. My blue irises, paler in this dark light, widen to the size of teacups. My mother has a china tea set at home, cream colored and decorated with funny animals that have long trunks. Elephants, she'd told me. Their ears are floppy and they have impeccable wrinkled skin. They dance across the saucers and ancient, cracked cups. Gifting the drinker with a crooked smile. Spraying clear water into their gaping, rubbery mouths. Grey pictures.
A vast gymnasium stretches before me, filled with every conceivable obstacle course and weapon. A line of swords is planted in rows to my left, like shimmering silver flowers. A yellow cargo net mazes the ceiling, threatening to flip at the slightest pressure. A sterile, white machine with silhouettes of insects and butterflies glows dully in the back of the room. The other Tributes have already arrived and their expressions are freezing and aloof. They circle a tall, athletic woman who introduces herself as Atala. Her skin is is smooth and brown, her voice as clean and crisp as the first bite of an apple. She informs us that we have three days to train. That we are not to engage in combat with the others until the Games commence. "Don't ignore the survival stations," she warns, her tone silky and sultry at the same time, like a honeyed stormcloud. "Everyone wants to grab a sword, but exposure can kill as easily as any knife."
Gale is certainly eager to grab a sword. He slashes one through the air, slicing atoms into further nothingness. It winks in the light, the blade seeming to be burning with white fire. He halves a sandbag and mutilates a cloth dummy. An instructor comes up to challenge him, but is flat on his back in a minute, his own weapon dashed from his hand. Gale's expression is predatory and black. "Hey, big guy!" a blond boy calls. It is Cato from District 2. His lean torso, muscular shoulders and rich complexion hint at a lifetime of having enough to eat. His eyes, deep and welling up with venom, glitter dangerously as they scan my brother's bronzed, rigid form. "Hey Twelve, you wanna spar?" He raises a sword of his own, which is thin and tinted blue. He leaps onto the green mat Gale is poised on. Gale's normally warm skin looks pale and strange beneath the heavy fluorescent lights. Sweat glosses his forehead. His eyelids flutter closed for a moment, as if they are taking a breath. "Yeah, Two. I'll give something to cry about to your mother." Then they are battling, flitting as swiftly as hummingbirds, a blur of white and brown and gleaming metal. Cato's blade grazes his wrist and a thin red line appears, lazily dripping blood, but the blond's weapon is knocked to the ground as Gale measures out a hefty blow of his own. Cato struggles to his feet, his face beet red and lined with purple. "Again!" he demands, but as he lifts his sword, Gale's fist slams right into his jaw. He stumbles back, an almost bewildered look gracing his features, and slowly lifts a hand to cup his head. The skin is already beginning to darken with a bruise. Six Peacekeepers rush over to the scene, but Gale gives them an angelic smile and merely shrugs. "Sorry, I thought we were still sparring." They let him off the hook with a stern frown and several muttered warnings. I remember Gale's ability to weasel out of things: back in the Seam, he'd swipe a bite of someone's lunch in the cafeteria but give them a puppyish expression to compensate. Smoothing things over always seemed to be an easy task for him. Apparently, he hadn't lost the gift. My mother had once called him "silver-tongue," and every now and then we'd tease him with the nickname. Looking at Cato, you would think he was about to try and stab Gale in the heart or gut his stomach, letting the slimy entrails slide to the floor. His purple-rimmed jaw clenches and his glare is smoldering. But suddenly, the anger melts from his face, dissolving like salt in warm water. His eyes glisten with some new emotion, almost akin to… respect? He straightens his spine and claps Gale on the shoulder. "Nice going, man. Why don't you come throw some knives with the rest of us?" He gestures to the Career pack, who is watching the exchange with wary glances. Gale shrugs, but replaces his sword on the rack and follows Cato to the small group of Tributes. When they begin to hurl the knives at their targets, Gale hits his dead center.
I am trying to make a fire. My hands are raw and cracked from rubbing the sticks vigorously together. So far, I have not ignited a single yellow spark. The instructor has wandered off, probably to find a Tribute worth their time, leaving me to sweat out my frustration in peace. I spent a few dreamy hours at the camouflage station, coating my arms in thick brown and grey paints. Eventually, I experiment with unlikely colors such as pale pink or turquoise. The colors are a luxury. Back home, life is grey and rotting. Sometimes, though, Katniss would take me with her to the town square and I'd drag her to the bakery. We'd press our noses against the glass display windows, frosting them with our hot breath, staring at the rows of elaborate cakes. Each was iced in spring colors, lavender and light green and sunshine yellow. Sugar flowers and pearls dotted the surfaces. Much too expensive to even dream of purchasing. They were something only a fairy could hope to eat.
I concentrate on the fire once more, struggling to form a blaze. After another ten minutes, I give up, resting on my heels and wiping my brow. My braid is sticky with perspiration and my neck feels hot. "It's easier if you hold your hands lower," a soft voice murmurs. I whip my head around and come face to face with a small girl who is about my size. Her skin is like brown satin and her hair is as black as ebony. Her eyes are as gentle and dark as the stallions that pulled our chariot last night. She leans forward slightly even as she stands, like a bird about to drag its wings through the sky in flight. I turn back to the sticks, sliding my hands to their bases. "Like this?" I ask, rubbing them together. She drifts over and sinks down next to me, thoughtfully inspecting my work. "I think you need to do it a little faster," she suggests. I quicken my pace, and within moments, a flame bursts into existence, hot and vivacious. Sweet smoke curls into the air. "Thanks for the tip," I say. "What District are you from?"
"Eleven. Agriculture." She smooths her hands over her crisp uniform. "Sometimes I have to make fires in the fields. You're from Twelve, right?" I nod, blowing on my cupped hands which are still wrapped around the warm sticks. "Yeah. Coal. You'd think I'd know something about fire…"
She smiles and it is soft and shy. "I can't believe that boy you came with beat Cato up," she remarks, her fingers twisting together. "I know. I thought he was going to knock Gale senseless or something. But apparently now they're best friends." I gaze at the pair. They are firing arrows at a cutout human, their brown and golden heads bobbing up and down. "Boys are weird." We giggle softly, but I sense her nervousness. Gale is just another big wolf added to the pack. Another mouth hungry for blood. I turn to face her as the fire simmers down to dusky coals. "I'm Prim," I tell her. "What's your name?" She plays with her mass of dark curls and gives me a half-smile. Then she holds out a delicate brown hand. "Rue."