Chapter 10
We visit the circuit of training stations, making conversation and learning to kill. For the most part, we get along better. I avoid her prickly edges and we get along much better. Throughout the morning, the other tributes steal glances at us, their faces curious about our strategy and strangest of all, envious of our relationship. Besides the Careers, we're the only team, the only ones facing the prospect of the arena together.
Around mid-morning, I notice that the girl tribute from District 11, I learned earlier her name's Rue, is trailing us from station to station, staying just a little behind, watching us with huge brown eyes. She must be twelve, but she looks younger, no more than nine or ten. All I can feel is the same anger I felt when they pulled Prim Everdeen's name from the glass bowl at the reaping. She's good, better than me at hitting targets consistency with a slingshot.
In the evening, we go back to the District 12 level for dinner where Haymitch and Effie badger us about what's happened during the day. How is training going?What are the other tributes doing? What are the Gamemakers doing?
"When they're not eating, the Gamemakers seem to be watching the Career Tributes… and us," I tell Haymitch.
It's true. In between eating at their endless buffet, I've noticed the Gamemakers looking over at me and Katniss a number of times, watching her throw spears, watching me in hand-to-hand combat.
"Perfect. We want them impressed even before your one-on-one assessments," says Haymitch.
"But you must take care not to give everything away during training," say Effie. "Isn't that right, Haymitch?"
"Exactly, keep them curious until the end," Haymitch says.
I'm floored every time I hear Effie and Haymitch agree. Since getting to the Training Center they've both been borderline civil to each other, but now they're a team, united in giving us never-ending, contradictory instructions.
"How are we supposed to impress them and be mediocre at the same time?" asks Katniss.
"Figure it out, sweetheart," says Haymitch. "Peeta says they're already looking at you. Just keep doing what you've been doing."
"Unless it stops working, of course," says Effie.
Katniss and I exchange a look. She rolls her eyes and tries to suppress a groan.
"Other than the Careers, do any of the other tributes look promising?" Haymitch asks. He takes a very measured sip of his wine. He's been like that since we got here, not exactly sober, but lucid enough to function.
"Promising how?" asks Katniss. She picks up a pile of tiny diamond shaped crackers from the basket and crushes them before adding them to her soup. Dinner has been over for hours, but we've been stuck at the dining table so long, Katniss ordered another bowl of soup.
"Like if they were coming toward you with an axe, you'd be inclined to move," says Haymitch.
Katniss opens her mouth, but I answer before she can get out whatever scathing response she has planned. "The boy tribute from District Eleven looks intimidating. I think I heard someone call him Thresh."
I've been trying to learn more about the tributes each day, striking up conversations at the training stations and at lunch, but most tributes are withdrawn, wary of even speaking in case they give away some weakness. Being with Katniss doesn't help matters, she tends to ignore the others and we have to stay together.
Haymitch nods, "Anyone else?"
Katniss and I both shake our heads, most of the other tributes are weaker and younger than me. Some of them are larger than Katniss, but much less prepared to survive in the arena.
Haymitch leans back, the front two legs of his chair coming off the ground. He stays suspended that way, looking at the ceiling, before leaning forward again, the chair legs clattering back to the floor.
"New assignment for tomorrow. I want you both to watch what the Career Tributes and Thresh practice and learn at least one defense. If the tributes from District One practice throwing spears, learn how to defend against it."
We nod. It's not a bad plan. Better than I would have guessed he'd come up with back on the train.
"And stay together," he adds. "Now get some rest."
Katniss and I rush from the dining room like kids dismissed from school for New Year's break, sprinting down the hall towards our rooms until we are out of sight. We stop, both of us breathless, leaning against the wall between our two doors, her on one side of the hallway, me on the other.
"Someone ought to get Haymitch a drink," I say.
Katniss gives a strangled laugh before catching herself. "Don't," she says. "Don't let's pretend when there's no one around."
Oh. Since lunch the day before, I didn't realize we were still pretending. I'd thought we were making some headway toward...something at least real. But I'm too tired to examine it. And she has a point, becoming friends now when we're heading for the arena, it isn't smart. I slump against the wall. It's her choice.
"All right, Katniss," I tell her before going to my room.
We spend the morning of the third day doing what Haymitch directed. We practice defense with swords, spears, and knives. We stay together. We are polite. I keep having to remind myself that her smiles aren't real, that this is all a strategy to attract the Gamemakers and sponsors.
At lunch they start calling us for our private sessions with the Gamemakers. They do it by district, with the boy going first, then the girl. So Katniss and I will go last. No one comes back after their assessment, so the dining room empties until only we are left. Without the others around, we don't talk, no reason to pretend since no one is around. We wait like that, sitting next to each other, not talking, not looking at each other, until my name is called. I stand up to go.
"Remember what Haymitch said about being sure to throw the weights," says Katniss, breaking the silence. She looks surprised that she spoke and makes a face like she regrets saying anything. I wonder why she bothered.
I nod. "Thanks. I will. You…shoot straight."
The private session goes about as well as I expect. About twenty or so Gamemakers sit in their purple robes above the gymnasium and I throw around heavy weights. They seem neither impressed nor disappointed. Some of them take a few notes before turning their attention back to the buffet set up behind them. It's a very simple arrangement. They drink, I throw. They eat, I throw. I start thinking that maybe I should do some camouflage too, when they abruptly dismiss me.
An attendant directs me to the elevator and I ride up, missing Katniss' company. She always loves to ride the elevator. We rode it twice the first day of training because she supposedly forgot something in one of the training rooms, but she came back as empty handed as she left. Then I remember that I can't miss her because I've never met the real her.
The elevator stops on our floor and I step off. No one's around, not even the white clad servants, so I head down the hall to my room. I order a drawing pad and some pencils using the automated buying features and the items are in my hands in less than five minutes. I take the pad over to the window and sit down cross legged on the sill, the large drawing pad in my lap. All around me are the buildings of the Capitol. They don't interest me. I don't want to draw them with their colored towers, but I do want to draw something. This might be my last chance and I've never had such good materials. At home, I use the back sides of discarded school paper and charcoal. But I can feel the costliness of this drawing paper under my fingers, the smooth glide of pencil against page as I make a few practice lines.
In the shorter building across from the Training Center I see a little brood of sparrows taking a dust bath on the roof. The multi-colored miniature trees that pepper the sidewalks of the Capitol could never shelter a nest so the birds find their homes among the skyscrapers. They remind me of Rue. Katniss pointed out to me during training that she always stands with her arms held out from her body like a small bird ready to take flight. That Rue reminds her of Prim is written all over her face, but Katniss can't protect Rue like she protected her sister.
Instead of practice strokes, my hand gradually begins sketching the birds. They seem so out of place here among the steel structures, the bright artificial world of the Capitol, just like me. I wonder if these tiny brown speckled birds have ever lived anywhere but here. If they've ever nested in the soft green leaves of a real tree and miss it.
When I was little, my father would tell me stories about a boy who could turn into a bird. It was my favorite story growing up.
A young boy named Jack was trapped on top of a high mountain where wild animals had chased him to the edge of a cliff. He wished and wished to have wings just as a bird has so that he could fly away from danger. Suddenly his hair turned into feathers and his arms turned into wings and he was able to fly right off the mountain.
Jack loved flying so much. He'd never been as free or powerful as when he felt his wonderful wings take him higher than even the mighty mountain, when even the clouds were beneath him. After a long day of flying, Jack became tired and found a spot to land at the edge of his village.
As he reached safety, a great falcon spoke to him out of the sky telling him that he had only three opportunities to use his wings so he should choose carefully, then the bird flew off. Jack's wings disappeared and his feathery head changed back into hair. He made it back to his small village, but the mayor of his village saw him flying. This man had much power in their village, but he was greedy and wanted riches as well. The mayor cornered the young boy and told Jack if he did not sprout wings and fly for him every day in the village marketplace, he would take his family and put them in prison. But, the mayor promised, if he did fly Jack could have fame and some of the money as well. Jack knew his family was very poor and could never stand up to the official. Jack also knew that he could only fly twice more. Each time his feet touched the ground he would turn into a boy again. So Jack hatched a plan that would make him a bird anytime he liked.
Jack took a bunch of chicken feathers and some very thin, but strong rope and tied it to the tallest shop in the marketplace. He made the feathers into wings and slipped them over his arms and tied the other end of the rope to his waist. And from there, Jack flew from the tallest building in the village.
My father would then tell me that no matter how small our gifts, we must never waste them. This was the cause of my fascination with birds. I always wanted one of the birds I fed to be the great bird the story so I could fly away.
I'm finishing the outline of the drawing when I hear feet pounding down the hallway and a door slam. It's Katniss, I'd recognize that door slamming anywhere. I grip the pencil harder. Whatever the problem is, we're not friends, it's not my business. She doesn't want my help, she's made that perfectly clear. I force myself go back to drawing when I hear Effie and Haymitch start pounding on Katniss' door, asking loudly what's wrong. Yes, it's their problem, not mine.
I can't help wondering what the problem is, though. Maybe her private session didn't go well. I shrug. Not my problem. Not at all.
I last a few more seconds before I'm standing in the hall. Haymitch is still knocking on Katniss' door while Effie paces in front of him. I hear a muffled "Go away" from behind the door. So, at least they haven't cut out her tongue.
"What could be the problem, Haymitch?" Effie asks. "You said they were doing well. Why would she fall apart now?" She seems anxious and I have to wonder whether it's really concern for Katniss, or fear that her best year at the Games is about to be spoiled.
"How am I supposed to know what's wrong with the girl," Haymitch groused. "I don't have kids. I can't deal with their tantrums. I don't even like…." He spots me standing in my doorway. They both stalk down the hall to my door like I'm the one to blame.
"Do you know what this is about?" he asks me. He points at the closed door.
"No," I say, shaking my head. "I don't have kids either."
"Peeta!" says Effie.
"Did something happen during your private sessions?" asks Haymitch.
"I haven't seen her since before our sessions. Her's was after mine," I say.
"You were supposed to wait for her," says Haymitch.
"You didn't say that," I say.
"I said stay together. Staying together is a huge part of staying together!" he yells.
"Katniss doesn't want me around anymore than she has to," I say. "Look, I'm sure whatever it is isn't a big deal. She'll come around, most likely in time for our next meal. I don't think she'll miss that, no matter how bad things might be. "
They both look amused and a little reassured. We all know Katniss lives for the food. Haymitch walks away, relieved that he doesn't have to deal with teenage hysterics. Effie is a little slower to leave, shooting one last glance at Katniss' closed door before walking back towards the sitting room.
Katniss does join our dinner party, eyes downcast and sullen. Worst of all, she barely eats. She comes in late and takes the seat across from me. The others try to be polite and ignore her bad mood, but I can't stop thinking about the reaping and how she didn't cry when she said goodbye to her family. Her eyes were dry when we made it to the train. What could have happened? What did they do to her?
After a while, she must sense I'm staring at her because she finally looks over at me. Her gray eyes are red rimmed and my every instinct is to make her feel better. A feeling of cold dread settles in my stomach and I know that, no matter what, I'll never be immune to Katniss Everdeen.
I raise my eyebrows in question, but she just gives a tiny shake of her head before staring back down at her fish soup.
As they're serving the main course, Haymitch says, "Okay, enough small talk, just how bad were you today?" I know he's asking Katniss, but she doesn't answer.
"I don't know that it mattered," I say. "By the time I showed up, no one even bothered to look at me. They were singing some kind of drinking song, I think. So, I threw around some heavy objects until they told me I could go."
After I say this, Katniss looks up at me, a little less miserable.
"And you, sweetheart?" says Haymitch.
The dullness in her eyes is replaced by irritation. I can't believe how relieved I am to see her scowl.
"I shot an arrow at the Gamemakers," says Katniss.
The room goes quiet. "You what?" Effie says, the horror clear in her voice.
"I shot an arrow at them. Not exactly at them. In their direction. It's like Peeta said, I was shooting and they were ignoring me and I just…I just lost my head, so I shot an apple out of their stupid roast pig's mouth!" says Katniss.
I'm doing my best not to laugh and appear outraged and concerned like everyone else. I hadn't seen that coming. It was hotheaded and reckless, but it's also the most amazing thing I have ever heard. She shot an arrow at the Gamemakers.
"And what did they say?" says Cinna.
"Nothing. Or I don't know," Katniss says. "I walked out after that."
"Without being dismissed?" asks Effie.
"I dismissed myself," she says.
"Well, that's that," says Haymitch. He's very calm about it. No sarcastic remarks. No yelling. He just reaches across the table to get a roll from the basket. He butters it as though this was the most common situation in the world. Then I realize Haymitch is trying to comfort her in his own abrasive and surly way. He's making it a non-issue.
Katniss asks him if they will punish her or her family for what she did. Haymitch shrugs and tells her that the Gamemakers wouldn't ever want the population to know what she did, so they wouldn't use it to punish her family. All private sessions are supposed to be kept secret anyway.
"More than likely they'll make your life hell in the arena," says Haymitch.
"Well, they've already promised to do that to us anyway," I say.
"Very true," says Haymitch. He picks up his pork chop by the bone and dunks it into his glass of wine. Then he rips a chunk of it off with his teeth. This earns him a withering look from Effie, turning her scandalized attention away from Katniss.
The tension goes out of the room along with the tightness in Katniss' shoulders. Portia tries to be encouraging, assuring her that the scores don't matter. That some tributes hide their talents until they get to the arena. But we all know that the scores do matter, especially if you come from one of the poorer districts.
Sponsors don't give tributes money out of the kindness of their hearts. While a few of the sponsors are from the richest districts and back their own tributes every year, the majority of sponsors come from the Capitol where they never have anyone at stake. They sponsor tributes because they've bet money on them. They want the bragging rights. Sponsors might believe that a Career Tribute is hiding skills, but with tributes like us, they'd take a poor score at face value.
"I hope that's how people interpret the four I'll probably get," I tell Katniss anyway. "If that. Really, is anything less impressive than watching a person pick up a heavy ball and throw it a couple of yards? One almost landed on my foot."
Katniss grins at me before taking a huge bite of her pork chop.
We go into the sitting room to watch the score announcements. The Gamemakers rank tributes based on their overall training as well as the private session. The highest possible score is a twelve, but no one in the history of the Hunger Games has ever pulled that off. I have seen a couple scores of one, though. The last time was few years ago, when the boy tribute from District Seven was both deaf and blind. He was dead less than five minutes after entering the arena.
The Career Tributes all do very well with the tributes from District 2 both getting a score of ten. The other Career districts, 1 and 4, get an assortment of eights and nines. District 11 also fares well with Thresh getting a nine and Rue a notable and surprising seven. The rest of the tributes score between three and five. Then it's time for District 12. No matter how much I tell myself I don't care, that I know I don't stand a chance in the arena I'm still anxious, leaning forward in my sit when my picture appears. Below my photo, they flash score of eight. That's higher than the four I guessed I would get and the six I'd hoped for. Some of the Gamemakers must have liked what they saw.
I can't relax yet without knowing Katniss' score. She's sitting next to me going through the same anxious moment I just did, and I didn't give the Gamemakers a reason to hate me. I don't want to seem like I'm gloating if her score is low. So I wait with her for her number to flash on the screen.
But it seems all of us were worried in vain. The Gamemakers didn't punish her with a low score, not even close. They didn't punish her at all it seems, because the score that flashes beneath the unsmiling photo of Katniss Everdeen is an eleven.