The audience is silent while the camera holds tight on my face. Then, accompanied by a few anguished cries and a surging murmur as it comes clear to everyone, the camera sweeps to Katniss and locks there. Her mouth dropped open in shock and eyes wide with surprise, a becoming flush rises up her throat and lights her cheeks.
"Oh," breathes Caesar, and there is actual pain in his voice, "that is a piece of bad luck."
"It's not good," I agree, sneaking a look at him from under my lashes. He looks stricken, just like the crowd on the screens.
"Well, I don't think any of us can blame you. It'd be hard not to fall for that young lady," he sympathizes, and I could kiss him. Perfectly cementing my suggestion that she is vibrant and desirable back home and now to the whole nation. "She didn't know?" he asks.
"Not until now," and I finally lift my eyes to her. The camera follows my gaze and the huge screens broadcast her downcast eyes and burning cheeks. The audience is losing their minds.
"Wouldn't you love to pull her back out here and get a response?" Caesar teases them, and they shriek for more. "Sadly, rules are rules, and Katniss Everdeen's time has been spent." He turns back to me with a sympathetic smile. "Well, best of luck to you, Peeta Mellark, and I think I speak for all of Panem when I say our hearts go with yours."
The circle shakes with the thunderous response from the crowd and I wait until I can be heard to offer a quiet, "Thank you," before returning to my seat, careful to avoid eye contact with Katniss. As we stand for the anthem I can see every screen is focused on Katniss and me, the tragic pair from the poor outlying district, doomed to find one another so briefly, before each ferociously fighting for the other's death. I want to dance right there on stage.
As we are shuffled off the stage and funneled into elevators I lose track of Katniss and Portia. I find myself riding up the elevator with the girls from 5 and 7, and the boy from 10. The girl from 7 gently touches my hand and whispers, "I'm so sorry."
"Oh, thank you. I'm not sure how that all came out," I smile sheepishly.
The boy from 10, possibly Bril, nods and frowns back. "That's rough dealing and no mistake," he says. "Whatcha think they saying back home?"
"Oh please," the girl from 5 sneers. Luckily for me, the door opens just then and she leaves without a backward glance.
The next couple floors fly by and when the doors finally open onto 12 to find Katniss waiting I grin and step toward her. Furiously, she shoves her hands into my chest and in my surprise I go over with a crash into a giant urn of flowers. My hands break my fall, but I feel my palms shredded by the broken pottery and suddenly there is blood everywhere.
"What was that for?" I cry, stunned and grimacing with stinging pain.
"You had no right!" she shrieks. "No right to go saying those things about me!"
Unbelievable! This is her reaction to the best possible outcome from this horrible night? She must be thinking of Gale, watching at home while I declared myself. The elevator shushes open and Effie, Haymitch and the stylists pour out, aghast at the bloody mess in front of them.
"Did you fall?" Effie cries.
"After she shoved me," I offer disgustedly as she and Cinna help me up.
"Shoved him?" Haymitch demands.
"This was your idea, wasn't it?" she hisses at him. "Turning me into some kind of fool in front of the entire country!"
Her words sting as much as the slices in my skin. That's how she feels about me liking her? It makes her look foolish? Just some slow-witted baker, why would she want my attention when she can run off into the woods with dashing and dangerous Gale?
"It was my idea," I say stiffly, pulling shards of pottery from my hands. "Haymitch just helped me with it."
"Yes, Haymitch is very helpful. To you!" She is almost hysterical.
"You are a fool," Haymitch snarls at her. "Do you think he hurt you? That boy just gave you something you could never achieve on your own!"
"He made me look weak!" she flings at me and my cheeks burn.
"He made you look desirable!" Haymitch roars at her. "And let's face it, you can use all the help you can get in that department. You were about as romantic as dirt until he said he wanted you. Now they all do. You're all they're talking about. The star-crossed lovers from District 12!"
"But we're not star-crossed lovers!" she yells.
Haymitch lunges at her and pins her up against the wall. "Who cares?" he cries furiously. "It's all a big show. It's all how you're perceived. The most I could say about you after your interview was that you were nice enough, although that in itself was a small miracle. Now I can say you're a heartbreaker. Oh, oh, oh, how the boys back home fall longingly at your feet. Which do you think will get you more sponsors?"
Katniss shoves him away and Cinna comes to comfort her. He and Portia soothe and reassure her while I regain my own composure. She's made it very clear how she feels about me and how she would respond if I tried to tell her what I really feel, so as I pull the spikes from my hands I push my feelings down and bury them under a resolve to never let her know the truth.
"She's just worried about her boyfriend," I offer.
"I don't have a boyfriend," she snaps.
"Whatever," I shrug. "But I bet he's smart enough to know a bluff when he sees it. Besides, you didn't say you loved me. So what does it matter?"
She bites her lip as she thinks it through. The others clamor to reassure her she hasn't spoiled anything, and the Capitol is putty in our hands. She finally looks at me. "I'm sorry I shoved you," she says formally.
I shrug tiredly. "It doesn't matter. Although," I can't resist adding, "it's technically illegal."
"Are your hands okay?" she asks.
"They'll be all right," I tell her. In the awkward silence that follows, Haymitch urges us all in to dinner. My hands are too badly damaged though, and Portia leads me back to my bathroom to clean and treat them.
As she washes the wounds and applies a healing salve she watches me carefully. "Not quite the way you thought that would go?" she finally asks.
I smile at her in the mirror. "You aren't saying it, but I can feel your 'I told you so' burning into my brain telepathically," I tell her.
Portia smiles back, but shakes her head. "No, you were right not to tell her. It was perfect. And you were also right, she never could have done it if she'd known." She finishes with the salve, I can already feel the smallest cuts closing together, and begins to apply clean, white bandages. "I think all of her reactions are very real," she continues.
"Don't I know it," I say ruefully. "I guess we're pretty clear on how welcome I'd have been, had I ever had the guts to say anything back home."
Portia's eyes narrow shrewdly. "I knew it," she pounces. "It isn't made up, is it? You really do care for her?"
Dammit. I meet her eyes pleadingly, "Portia, please. Don't say anything. You saw how she was, I'd be humiliated…"
She raises her hands in a calming gesture. "Don't worry about it, your secret is safe with me. Though, if you want my advice?"
"You haven't been wrong so far," I acknowledge.
"Don't hide it," she says. I start to protest but she overrides me. "No, hear me out. Tomorrow you are going into the arena to fight 23 other people for your very life." She takes my bandaged hands gently in her own. "You can lose so much more than your life in there, Peeta," she says earnestly. "Cling to who you are. You are kind, and resourceful, and strong, and funny." I'm blushing and look away, but she takes my chin firmly and forces me to look her in the eyes. "No, Peeta. Hear this. You are all those things, and you can use every one of them to win. And even if you don't win," and her voice grows very gentle, "you will lose your life, but you will not lose yourself. And that is the most precious victory of all."
My eyes hold hers for a long moment, and then I nod my understanding. She nods back, then briskly, she clears away all the medical supplies. Snapping back to business, "Let's go eat," she says.
We join the others for the end of the meal, and a replay of the interviews in the sitting room. I'm distracted by the nearness of the actual event. I can't concentrate on anything other than tomorrow morning we'll be in the arena. After the replay, we bid Effie and Haymitch our good-byes. Effie takes each of our hands and tearfully declares us the best tributes she's ever sponsored. She's clearly quite moved because, as she adds, "I wouldn't be at all surprised if I finally get promoted to a decent district next year!" before kissing us both and tripping away, all hopeful dreams and wishes for better days.
Haymitch simply stares at us. "Any final words of advice?" I ask.
"When the gong sounds, get the hell out of there," he says seriously. "You're neither of you up to the bloodbath at the Cornucopia. Just clear out, put as much distance as you can between yourselves and the others, and find a source of water. Got it?" he asks.
"And after that?" Katniss presses.
"Stay alive," he drawls.
After he and Cinna leave, Katniss retreats to her room and I am alone with Portia. I shake my head and smile at her. How can I possibly thank her for all she's done for me?
"I'll see you in the morning," she says. "You must get some rest. I know you won't be able to, but you absolutely must. Do you want something for it?" she asks.
"No," I say. "I always feel weird after if I take anything. I'll be fine," I assure her. "I just- I just wish there were some way to tell you how much I appreciate all you've done."
"Show me," she says. "I'll be watching. Play the games as yourself, and that will be thanks enough."
I nod and she pulls me into a brief, tight hug. "Sleep!" she demands. And then she's gone.
I try my best to accommodate her wishes, I really do. But there is no way sleep is happening. I lay tossing and turning and trying every trick I can think of ever having heard but nothing works. After a couple hours, I start to think I will seriously run mad if I stay in my room one moment more. When I can't sleep at home, I head outside. Many of my nighttime walks take me past Katniss' house, and tonight I think how completely different it is from the night before the reaping. I remember giving up trying to sleep and planning to walk past her house, unheard and, even if seen, unnoticed. How different we are now, not even a full week later.
I roll out of the bed and head for the roof. As soon as I'm in the cool night air I feel better. I breathe deeply and let my head clear of all the confusion and lingering doubt. It's not as quiet as I'd expected though. I walk to the edge and look down on a chaos of motion and noise. Music, laughter and blaring car horns declare the celebration of the great city, for tomorrow, finally, the Hunger Games begin! What they've been waiting all year for, to watch us fight, and suffer and die. I feel the anger and grief rise up in me, but I know this is what Portia, and even Madge, were warning me about. I look out over them and think how they have no idea. No idea what it's like to work for a day, to want, to go hungry. To watch a child suffer, to lose someone to a senseless lottery. The Capitol gives them everything they will ever want or need, and in return, they don't question. I don't forgive them, but I do understand them.
"You should be getting some sleep," she says behind me.
I jump, but don't turn around. "I didn't want to miss the party," I say bitterly. "It's for us, after all."
Katniss moves up next to me and peers down at the merry-makers. "Are they in costumes?" she asks curiously.
I shrug. "Who could tell? With all the crazy clothes they wear here." I look at her sideways. "Couldn't sleep either?"
"Couldn't turn my mind off," she admits.
"Thinking about your family?" I guess.
"No," she says sheepishly. "All I can do is wonder about tomorrow. Which is pointless, of course." She's quiet for a moment, and then, "I really am sorry about your hands."
I shake my head wearily. "It doesn't matter, Katniss. I've never been a contender in these Games anyway." It seems pointless to worry about it now.
"That's no way to be thinking," she responds automatically.
"Why not?" I ask. "It's true." I look at her in the dim light. She's watching me, what is she thinking? That I'm feeling sorry for myself? That I've given up? I don't know why, she obviously doesn't care about me at all, but I want her to understand. "My best hope is to not disgrace myself and…" I trail off, unsure how to explain it to her. She is so confident in herself, she could never lose herself.
"And what?" she prompts.
"I don't know how to say it exactly. Only…I want to die as myself. Does that make any sense?" She's shaking her head. "I don't want them to change me in there," I stumble. "Make me into some kind of monster that I'm not."
"Do you mean you won't kill anyone?" she asks doubtfully.
"No," I shake my head. "When the time comes, I'm sure I'll kill just like everybody else. I can't go down without a fight. Only I keep wishing I could think of a way to..." I know I'm dangerous ground, we might be under surveillance even up here, but I don't care. "…to show the Capitol they don't own me." That's exactly what I've been struggling with. They can force me to do this, but they can't force who I am. "That I'm more than just a piece in their Games." I finish.
"But you're not," she argues. "None of us are. That's how the Games work."
"Okay," I agree, but I still want her to understand what I'm trying to say. "But within that framework, there's still you, there's still me. Don't you see?"
"A little," she says. "Only…no offense, but who cares, Peeta?"
"I do!" I cry. "I mean, what else am I allowed to care about at this point?" I demand. She doesn't see it. Why would she? Everything has always been like this for her, black and white. She needs to get home, and she will do whatever it takes, pay whatever price is demanded, to achieve it.
"Care about what Haymitch said," she tells me. "About staying alive."
"Okay," I smile her. She doesn't understand me, and, I realize, she never will. In my best Haymitch imitation I drawl, "Thanks for the tip, sweetheart."
"Look," she snaps, "if you want to spend the last hours of your life planning some noble death in the arena, that's your choice. I want to spend mine in District 12."
"Wouldn't surprise me if you do," I say mildly. "Give my mother my best when you make it back, will you?"
"Count on it," she spits. And then she's gone.
I sigh as I look out over the revelers below. I handled that one poorly too. Well, not that it matters. Tomorrow morning Katniss Everdeen will as soon shoot an arrow through me as look at me. Suddenly I'm so weary I barely make it to my bed before collapsing into a deep, dreamless sleep.
The next morning Portia leads me back to the roof. I'm quiet and withdrawn, and I'm certain she believes it's because of what's coming. A hovercraft appears and drops a ladder but when I touch it, a current completely immobilizes me while I'm lifted inside. A technician in a lab coat carries a syringe over to me and while I'm frozen inserts the needle into my arm, injecting a tracker deep under the skin. The ladder releases me and Portia enters the hovercraft. She brings me in to breakfast, and my instinct is to eat as much as I can, knowing my next meal is on my own volition. In about 30 minutes the hovercraft lands and Portia and I are deep underground in what is called the Launch Room, the waiting room that leads to the arena.
Nervously, I pace the room while Portia talks gently to me. My outfit arrives, the same uniform each tribute will wear. The clothes are basic, but comfortable. Greens and browns and a sturdy belt and boots. The light, hooded black jacket is designed to reflect body heat, Portia and I anticipate cool temperatures at night. She urges me to be sure everything fits well and is comfortable before I give in to my pacing once more. Portia offers me food, water, a shoulder to cry on. I accept the water, and hold her hand in my own while we wait tensely for the time to arrive.
We both jump when an automated female voice breaks in, "Prepare for launch."
I stand on the circular metal plate at the far end of the room. Portia grips both my hands and I see tears in her eyes. "Peeta," she whispers. "Fight hard!"
"I promise," I reply. And I feel only a little bad for lying.
After about 15 seconds of rising through blackness I am lifted into a strong breeze and bright daylight. A familiar booming voice fills the space.
"Ladies and gentlemen, let the Seventy-fourth Hunger Games begin!"