The Tribute Training Center is where we'll be spending the next few days before we're delivered to the arena. Effie Trinket is conducting us there like a proud mother hen. She ushers us onto an elevator that has as much in common with the elevator back home as a coal miner has with President Snow. We shoot upward to floor 12 and Katniss tries to hide a delighted smile as she stares out the clear walls at the tiny people below. Effie is in a state of delusional pride over our introduction to the Capitol. She chatters nonstop about how well we did, how amazing we looked, and, surprisingly, how much of it was to her credit.
"I was in the city today and I told everyone who would listen about you volunteering for your sister, Katniss," she trills. "They were all so surprised that District 12 would have a volunteer, because you people never step forward like that, you know. I suppose it's your culture. You are so used to keeping your head down, to working in the dirt, to getting by with your quaint homemade clothes and rough manners. I told everyone that's the kind of thing that's going to be a great strength for you. You're so unused to having nice things, you will be more able to adapt in the arena than the other, more well-bred tributes." I'm imagining letting my mother have tea with Effie Trinket and wondering just how long she would last before emptying a teapot over that ridiculous wig when Effie lowers her voice conspiratorially. "I've been very mysterious though. Because, of course, Haymitch hasn't bothered to tell me your strategies. But I've done my best with what I had to work with. How Katniss sacrificed herself for her sister. How you've both successfully struggled to overcome the barbarism of your district." I smother a laugh at Katniss' expression, but Effie tops it with, "Everyone has their reservations, naturally. You being from the coal district. But I said, and this was very clever of me, I said, 'Well, if you put enough pressure on coal it turns to pearls!'" and smiles so broadly at her own genius I can only grin and applaud lightly.
"That'll do it," I tell her. "You pretty much wrapped it up for us and put a bow on top."
She shakes her head in false modesty, but is so obviously pleased with herself that I'm actually grateful to her for being out there and trying, however factually disastrously, to help us. Unlike Haymitch, whom we haven't even seen since he coldcocked me on the train.
"Unfortunately," Effie continues, echoing my thoughts, "I can't seal the sponsor deals for you. Only Haymitch can do that. But don't worry," and I'm touched by her determination, "I'll get him to the table at gunpoint if necessary."
Alone in my room I stand quietly for a minute and just take in how excessive everything is. I can't get over how much the Capitol has, while the in the districts every day is a struggle to survive at all. I'm going to use it to my advantage, though. The nutritious food, the high-tech training, the public perception, all of it. Our reception at the opening ceremonies has given me an idea of how to play it. The crowd went insane for us. I knew the outfits and novelty of the fire were going to strike a chord, but Cinna and Portia planned beyond that. They sold us as a duo, united instead of pitted against each other. These jaded, overindulged audience members have seen all this before. But this year, they will be screaming for more of the pair who came into this together, and will eventually have to turn on each other. With any luck they'll empty their pockets for us, wanting the poor coal miners to make it as far as they can so it's even more tragic when they finally have to succumb. This may be the best chance we have. I make a mental note to thank Cinna and Portia for such a rich gift. Just as I'm thinking this, a knock at the door announces Cinna, here to call me to dinner.
It seems counterintuitive to like someone who has taken the job of dressing me nicely so I look good when I'm forced to fight to my death, but I'm glad to see him. He has undoubtedly helped us, and he is kind and gentle and seems genuinely to care about us. And tonight he has a surprise for me.
"I'm a little early," he apologizes. "I had to get away from the other stylists who were ready to ki-" he cuts himself off as he realizes what he's saying and stares at me aghast. I have to laugh at his round eyed shock, and he looks relieved.
"I'm so sorry, that was stupid. I can make it up to you, though. Do you want to see something great?" he asks.
He leads me up the stairs and onto the roof. A small garden holds gorgeous colors and the pleasant tinkling of wind chimes. As I wander through the unexpected green in the midst of this cold, hard city the cool wind clears my mind and I grin at the freedom of being outside and up so high. I walk to the edge and look down, I've never been up so high in my life.
"Do they let tributes up here?" I ask. Cinna seems to know what I'm asking and picks up a small stone. He tosses it over the edge and to my surprise it shoots right back over.
"Nothing to worry about," he says drily. I get unexpected shivers at the idea and am glad when Portia comes through the door to bring us back downstairs.
"I like what you chose to wear," she compliments me. "Though maybe you should have picked the black rubber pants."
I start explaining they aren't really my style when she continues, "Haymitch will be joining us for dinner, and sometimes it's good to have on easy-wipe clothes."
She goes on to tell me a story from five years ago when a stylist had dressed our tribute as an homage to a canary, with thousands of wispy, yellow feathers all over his tunic. Haymitch had woken from a drunken stupor at the dinner table, leaned in to deliver no doubt sage advice, and vomited all down the front of the tribute's clothes.
"Though perhaps," adds Portia mischievously, "it was for the best. Is 'canary in a coal mine' really the image you want to evoke for your tribute?"
I laugh and reply with a smirk, "Stylists are crazy. I wouldn't be surprised if one actually lit their tribute on fire!"
Cinna ushers us onto the balcony overlooking the city. It is breathtaking, just in its difference from home. So much light, and motion, and noise. How do any of them think? Then again, maybe it's how they avoid thinking.
Effie and Katniss arrive and everyone is served long stemmed glasses of wine. I decline, hoping there may be orange juice in the offering though. Katniss is subdued, but Effie is in high spirits, she is visibly relieved to be back in the Capitol with so many silent servants and every imaginable luxury. Everyone compliments Cinna and Portia again on their brilliance at the opening ceremony and they take the praise graciously. Haymitch arrives, looking as though he has spent the entire afternoon being scrubbed and drinking strong black coffee against his will.
Dinner is delicious and the talk is light. The servants are extremely attentive, no one is ever long with an empty plate or glass. I wonder at their complete silence, though. The amount of training must be enormous. As the conversation is beginning to turn to our interview outfits, a pretty server with stunning red hair sets an enormous cake on the table and flicks a tiny flame at it, causing a spectacular fire show before it dies out.
Katniss is clearly feeling her wine and protests, "What makes it burn? Is it alcohol? That's the last thing I wa-" before interrupting herself with a startled, "Oh! I know you!"
Surprisingly, the girl turns pale and shakes her head adamantly before rushing away. The others in the room are watching Katniss with a strange intensity.
"Don't be ridiculous, Katniss. How could you possibly know an avox?" Effie sounds like she can't imagine anything more repulsive. "The very thought."
"What's an avox?" Katniss asks.
"Someone who committed a crime." Haymitch's voice holds an odd note of warning. "They cut her tongue so she can't speak. She's probably a traitor of some sort." He adds an emphatic, "Not likely you'd know her."
"And even if you did, you're not to speak to one of them unless it's to give an order," Effie remonstrates. "Of course you don't really know her."
Everyone is so clearly agitated by even the idea that Katniss might know this girl, that I worry she'll be unable to extricate herself, perhaps the wine is making her thinking fuzzy. She mumbles, "No, I guess not, I just-"
I snap my fingers. "Delly Cartwright." I exclaim the first name that comes to mind. "That's who it is. I kept thinking she looked familiar as well. Then I realized she's a dead ringer for Delly."
Katniss grabs the proffered lifeline, "Of course," she agrees. "That's who I was thinking of. It must be the hair."
"Something about the eyes, too," I add, playing it out for all it's worth. Haymitch has relaxed so I think we must have moved out of danger. The rest of the meal passes uneventfully and after we finish we move to the sitting room to watch the replay of the opening ceremonies. Everyone seems pleased with the day and Haymitch sends Katniss and me off to bed with a dismissive, "Now go get some sleep while the grown-ups talk."
When we arrive at Katniss' room I lean in her doorway, hands in my pockets, and look her meaningfully in the eye. "So, Delly Cartwright. Imagine finding her lookalike here." She looks torn. It must be something she's uncomfortable discussing where people might overhear. "Have you been up on the roof yet?" I ask. "You can practically see the whole city." She looks confused until I add, "Wind's a bit loud though."
She understands me right away and asks with relief, "Can we just go up?"
"Sure, come on." I lead her up the stairway and out through the little door to the roof. She gasps as the wind catches her breath and her eyes light up at the magnificent view. We walk to the edge and she stares out at the city. I tell her about the force field to let her know that even though it seems private up here, we may still be under surveillance.
"Do you think they're watching us now?" she asks.
"Maybe. Come and see the garden." We move nonchalantly to the other side of the roof and as I'd hoped, the music of the many wind chimes covers nicely any conversation we might have quietly.
The story she tells me chills me to the bone. She was out in the woods with her friend, Gale is his name, and they saw the girl running with a boy. A hovercraft appeared and killed the boy before capturing the girl. Katniss and Gale hid, but she is overcome with guilt that she didn't try to help. Because of the dim light, I am able to watch her closely as she tells her story. This girl who threw herself in front of her sister at the reaping. Who braves wild animals and Peacekeeper "justice" every day to keep her family from starving. Who has been the one holding them together since the horrific death of her father. She is berating herself for being unable to fix a situation completely outside her control. I inhale deeply, steadying myself as I'm left speechless by her fierce empathy. I suddenly feel profoundly protective toward her.
"You're shivering," I tell her, and shrugging out of my jacket, I wrap it around her shoulders. As I do up the button I wonder about the fugitives. How could they have made it all the way to District 12? "They were from here?" I ask her. She nods and I muse, "Where do you suppose they were going?"
"I don't know that," she answers. "Or why they would leave here."
"I'd leave here." The words are out before I can stop them. I don't trust any amount of wind chimes to cover for me if something like that is floating around. Quickly I add, "I'd go home now if they'd let me." Reasonable, but not enough. "But you have to admit, the food's prime." That should do it. Another happy drone, feed me and I'm yours. We may be pushing our luck though. "It's getting chilly. We better go in."
As we walk back downstairs to our rooms, I replay her story in my mind. I'm a little ashamed that with the terrible account and what has happened to the girl, I'm still wondering how close of a friend Gale is. A little reconnaissance is in order. "Your friend Gale," I try to sound as casual as possible. "He's the one who took your sister away at the reaping?"
"Yes, do you know him?" she asks.
"Not really. I hear the girls talk about him a lot." Of course they do. Tall, dark and handsome and then some, damn him. "I thought he was your cousin or something." That sounds unconvincing even to me. "You favor each other," I add lamely.
"No, we're not related." She's not giving me anything. I try a little harder.
"Did he come to say good-bye to you?" I ask, all casual indifference.
"Yes. So did your father. He brought me cookies." That catches me off guard.
"Really?" I ask, my prying forgotten. It makes sense though. My father was especially fond of the Everdeen girls. He was in awe of Katniss' self-possession and was easily melted by Prim's bright sweetness. He always waved to her when she dragged her sister to the shop window to admire the beautiful cakes and sweets. "Well, he likes you and your sister. I think he wishes he had a daughter instead of a houseful of boys." She looks so surprised that I add, "He knew your mother when they were kids."
"Oh yes," she says. Then, awkwardly, "She grew up in town." I can tell by her tone my father isn't often mentioned in her house. I smile inwardly, everyone in town knew how in love Katniss' parents had been.
We've arrived at her door and she hands back my jacket. "See you in the morning then."
"See you," I say, and walk down the hall. When I hear her door close, I lift the jacket to my face and breathe in deeply. I smile as the scent of her fills my nose. I'm still smiling as I get ready for bed, and even, stupidly, as I drift to sleep. That night I have my first nightmare about losing Katniss Everdeen.