Good afternoon! I'm back, fairly quickly I think, with chapter 12, and I'm pleased to say that it's a long one! Thanks go out to everyone out there who's reading and following me and-ahem-reviewing.

I am a huge proponent of bedtime stories, which is why we open with one today.


12

"Tell me a story," I ask Beetee as we lie in my room, watching the lights from outside form patterns on the ceiling. The training scores' broadcast is still fresh in our minds, and my guilt in the wake of Torque's noble confession has scarcely abated. Tomorrow's the last day before interviews and I'm too nervous to sleep. Tomorrow, Deirdre and I have to piece together her strategy, a strategy that cannot rely squarely on Torque's ability to keep the Careers at bay.

"What kind of story?" he asks.

"A true one. Tell me a story about your family."

"Why don't you tell me a story?It's your room."

"I'm not very good at…telling…"

"That's a matter of opinion," Beetee rejoins. "I'd like to hear a story about you."

You're probably the only one, I think to myself, but Beetee never asks me for anything, so I oblige. "Fine," I say grudgingly, "but you're next then."

"Deal," says Beetee, settling into the covers a little too comfortably considering that it's my room and my bed. Though of course, I did invite him in.

"Did I ever tell you about the time I went ice-skating?" I begin, knowing perfectly well I've never told Beetee this story. In fact, I'm pretty sure I've never told anyone this story before. It never seemed important enough.

"No! When was that?" Beetee looks intrigued, and I don't blame him. Ice-skating isn't exactly a common pastime back home.

"I was seven," I continue. "It was really cold that winter, and a bit of the river froze thick enough to walk on. It was under the bridge, the one near…near the Communications Center," I explain, visualizing the place in my mind as I struggle to describe it to Beetee.

"I remember that year. I was on my Victory Tour. Gloria said we'd all get pneumonia, going from warm weather in some districts to snow and ice back home."

"We'd been stuck inside for weeks, because of the cold…"

"'We'?"

"Electra and Bolton and me. Electra was eleven, and Bolton…he must've been four. We were so bored, stuck in the apartment every day after school." I'm entranced by the fact that I can finish so many of my sentences in quick succession. It seems a lot easier to get my ideas out when I'm talking about something safe, something familiar.

"Did you drive your mother crazy?" Beetee asks mischievously, and I smile, remembering the exasperation in my mother's eyes as she'd told us to find something to do, something that didn't involve making a racket that would disturb the neighbors or a mess that she'd get stuck cleaning up.

"I'm sure we did, because one night my father…he came home with a big bag that he tried to hide behind his back."

"What did he bring you?" asks Beetee, though I'm sure he knows where this story is going. He's a very good audience; he asks questions in all the right places.

"Ice skates," I reply, seeing them gleaming before me, as my father pulled them out from the bag with a flourish of excitement. "He'd made them himself, my dad, from spare parts he was able to sneak out of work. They weren't…anything fancy, just…just a set of blades you'd strap on over your boots." Oh, but they were wonderful, I want to add, recalling the pride on my father's face as he'd seen our ebullient expressions, the satisfaction he must have felt at being able to give his children a real present. I don't know how exactly to translate this into words, though, so I go on.

"The next day was Saturday and Dad wasn't working until the third shift, so he took us out to the place where the river was frozen so we could try them out. We were bundled up so much…my brother could barely walk…" All at once, I see Bolton, four years old, suited up in so many layers of woolen outerwear that he couldn't even put his arms all the way down. I smile, lost in memory, forgetting for the moment that I'm at the Hunger Games.

"So you went skating on the frozen river? Wasn't that dangerous?"

"Dad checked to make sure it was thick enough before he let any of us go out," I reply in defense of my father's judgment. "We sat in the snow next to the road and put our skates on, and when we first stepped on that ice…it felt like someone pulled the floor out from under us. We skidded and slid and fell again and again."

I'm smiling, thinking back to that day, laughing in the snow with Electra, watching Bolton flailing his little arms wildly, seeing my father's indulgent grin once again in my mind's eye, the way he looked before my mother died and I was sent off to the Games and it all fell apart.

Beetee is smiling, too, though I'm sure he can't fully understand the nature of my nostalgia. "It sounds like you really enjoyed yourself," he remarks, and I nod in assent. "So what happened?" he asks, and I ask myself the same thing, knowing the answer deep down inside. "Did you get in trouble with the Peacekeepers? Did you ever go again?"

I look down, suddenly sad. "The next winter was even colder, but we…we never got to…"

"Too cold for you?" Beetee asks innocently, but I shake my head. "That was the winter my mother got sick," I whisper, and sudden understanding crosses Beetee's face. He knows my mother is dead; I just never told him the details.

"I'm sorry, Wiress," he says after a moment of uncomfortable silence. "If only I'd known, I wouldn't have asked…"

"It doesn't matter," I interrupt, because it doesn't. It's all in the past. I don't like to think about the past if I can help it.

We lie there in silence for a while, until Beetee breaks the silence yet again. "Thanks for the story," he says. "You're welcome," I reply, and I mean it. It felt good to escape, if only for a little while, to a happier time; to share such a good memory with someone who could appreciate it. "Just remember," I add on sudden inspiration, "you owe me a story next time." He squeezes my hand in reply.


The next morning, I wake up feeling surprisingly calm. I can't imagine why. I'm ready to bet money that, after the tributes, I'm the most uptight, anxious person in this whole building. Maybe in the entire Capitol, for that matter. But I feel safe and warm in this comfortable bed, with Beetee beside me, knowing deep down that nothing can hurt me here. It's hard to drag myself out of bed, get myself dressed, face breakfast and whatever new horrors the day will most likely bring.

Lucretia's at the breakfast table, waiting for us yet again. She must get up at the crack of dawn to put on her face. Torque and Deirdre are sitting side-by-side, stony-faced. I silently take my seat across from them and look to Lucretia to start the conversation. She's immersed in the task of adding sugar to her coffee. She's already added so much milk that the coffee's turned the color of sand.

"Where is that mentor of yours?" she asks Torque, finally looking up from her coffee cup. I don't even know if Beetee's awake yet; when I wandered into the bathroom to take a shower and get dressed, he'd still been fast asleep. Lucretia sighs audibly.

"Sometimes I wonder if he purposely waits until he gets to the Capitol each year to catch up on lost sleep," she mutters, squinting irritably at Beetee's bedroom door and then looking back at the tributes, who look perplexed. Then she directs her gaze to me.

"I suppose you can start with the tributes, and I'll go wake up the other one," Lucretia tells me, half-rising from her chair, clearly trying to convey what a monumental inconvenience it is for her to be wasting her valuable time trying to rouse Beetee from his semi-comatose state.

It's then that I realize that when Lucretia opens that door, all she'll find is an empty room…because Beetee's currently still passed out in my bed. And when Lucretia sees that empty room, she'll either assume Beetee's gone on the run from his mentoring duties (entirely understandable; I've already considered it myself seven or eight times since arriving in the Capitol) or she'll start looking around the floor until she gets to my room, and our secret will be out. Or even worse…she'll draw her own conclusions, conclusions which—forged in her Capitolean mind—would likely be both scandalous and perverse.

This startling possibility causes me to choke on my orange juice and Lucretia halts in mid-step, watching me gasping for air and Torque running around the table to whack me forcefully on the back. "No—wait, Lucretia, I need you to—I—" She just looks at me, confused, as my mind races trying to think of something to say to keep her busy.

"What's going on over there?" says Beetee's voice from somewhere down the hall, and I'm suddenly indescribably relieved that Lucretia won't be asking me awkward questions about how my district partner ended up in my bed.

"Do you own an alarm clock?" Lucretia asks snidely. Beetee looks bored, like he's gotten this lecture before and considers it beneath his notice.

"I mustn't have heard it," he says lightly, which causes Lucretia's frown to deepen. If she doesn't watch out, she'll give herself wrinkles that way, a fate worse than death here in the Capitol. "You never do," she responds, "and I'd think that you'd want to make the tributes' time your priority. It's your job, after all."

"Thank you, I know that, Lucretia," Beetee replies, his tone rapidly approaching the same degree of irritability as Lucretia's. "I'm here now, aren't I? I'll try to…I don't know, set a louder alarm or something tomorrow."

"You weren't up late drinking, were you? After all the trouble you gave me over her"—here, Luretia points a bony finger in my direction—"having a drink or two on her Victory Tour?"

"Do I look like I've been drinking, Lucretia? If I had been, I probably wouldn't be so annoyed by your interrogation right now!"

Torque and Deirdre are watching this exchange, fascinated. I think their amusement at Beetee and Lucretia's argument has momentarily driven their own troubles from their minds. Either that, or it's the simple curiosity that draws children to invariably eavesdrop on their parents' arguments: the sheer novelty of watching adults behave like children.

"Can we maybe—?" I interject, and they both stop talking and look at me. It's just like when Beetee interrupted the Careers' argument at the parade. I'm suddenly feeling uncomfortable being the center of attention.

Lucretia shakes her head like a dog ridding its ears of water, apparently trying to get her bearings back. "So…the interviews," she says, forcibly directing herself back on track. "You'll each have three hours' time with me, for presentation, and three with your—mentors,"—here, her voice takes on a tone indicating that she apparently doesn't think much of us mentors or our mentoring techniques. "For content," she adds unnecessarily.

"Content? Presentation?" Deirdre looks perplexed. "How to answer the questions, how to walk and sit on stage, that kind of stuff," clarifies Beetee quickly, and she nods, though with a doubtful expression that tells me that Deirdre's clearly wondering what any of us could possibly have to teach her that could take up six hours of her remaining time left on Earth.

Lucretia indicates that she wants to take Deirdre first, so I nod encouragingly as she allows Lucretia to sweep her off in the direction of her bedroom to try on dress shoes and gowns and practice walking around in them. I remember doing that last year, and not liking it much. The borrowed shoes gave me blisters and the borrowed gowns were at least six inches too long.

It takes me a minute to realize that if Deirdre's in with Lucretia, then I have nothing to do for the next few hours. I pace around the living room and dining area, wondering how I'll tackle the interview with Deirdre. I peek in through the door to see how Beetee coaches Torque; he seems to be reading off little cards, asking Torque questions a lot like the ones Caesar Flickerman uses and evaluating Torque's responses. I suppose I can do this, so I set off to find some paper and a pen, intending to jot down as many questions as I can think of. I wonder vaguely where he'd procured his handy little deck of interview cards, and whether I can come up with some of my own.

There's one problem, though: I have no idea where to find paper in this place. I search every drawer I can find, to no avail. I'm digging through the cabinet beneath the sideboard (to my dismay, it holds only crystal glasses) when I get the uneasy feeling that I'm being watched. I'm very attuned to this sort of thing ever since my time in the arena. Slowly, I turn around. An Avox is standing behind me. He's got shiny platinum hair and finely chiseled features, and I find myself wondering morbidly what he'd done to get himself mutilated and sent to wait on us.

The Avox raises an eyebrow, silently watching me rummaging through the sideboard on my hands and knees. "I was just…" I begin, feeling my cheeks growing red, wondering why I feel so foolish. "…Just looking for a pen," I finish, and the Avox nods. He wanders off into the kitchen and emerges maybe two minutes later with a pen and a pad of paper. "Thank you," I say, and I mean it, because I was beginning to get frustrated for a moment there.

He nods again, then turns and disappears into the kitchen again. I settle into a chair at the dining table and pause for a minute, my pen hovering over the blank surface of the page, thinking of the questions I'd heard in Hunger Games interviews as far back as I can remember.

Do you have anything to say to your family and friends back home?

If you could let the sponsors out there know one thing about you, what would it be?

What do you think is your greatest advantage in the Games?

What was your first impression of the Capitol once you arrived?

What's your strategy to win the Games?

I stop writing all of a sudden, because just reading my own notes is making me vaguely ill. Even though I've been watching the Games for my entire life, it's struck me anew just how disgusting the whole thing is. Asking these poor kids (twenty-three of whom will soon be dead and one who'll soon be worse than dead) how they feel about the Capitol, what their last message to their family is…it's appalling. I stare at the page in horror.

"Well, she's all ready for you," says a high-pitched, fluttery voice behind me. I look up to see Lucretia standing there. Deirdre's hovering uncertainly in the doorway of her room. She's wearing an absurdly frilly dress and five-inch heels. She towers over me but still manages to look vulnerable. I hadn't realized how long it took for me to procure paper and jot down these five paltry questions; apparently, three hours has passed already.

"Thanks, Lucretia, I'll just…" I begin, but I make it to the door, clutching my notepad, before I can finish. Lucretia's not listening, anyway. She's settled herself in front of a large ornamental mirror and has gone to work on her face. She's already wearing a layer of make-up so thick her face looks like it's made of ceramic, but this doesn't deter her one bit.

Deirdre waits for me to close the door softly behind myself before she kicks off the shoes in disgust and sinks onto her bed, massaging her feet.

"Can you believe these things she's got me wearing? I don't know what I'll do if the ones I have to wear tomorrow night are that high; I fell three times. I'll break an ankle!"

I suppress a giggle, because she reminds me a little of my sister Electra on her wedding day. She was so nervous she couldn't even button her dress because her hands were shaking so badly, and she tripped over the hem twice on our way to the Justice Building. I'd prevailed upon Felix to make the dress for her, as a favor to his 'favorite new victor,' but he'd designed it with someone else's measurements in mind, because it was far too long for Electra and she nearly broke her neck the first time she tripped and fell down several stairs. The look on her face as she'd burst out "I'm going to kill myself in this thing!" was exactly like the look Deirdre is giving me now.

"So," I begin, and Deirdre leans forward, hanging on every word I'm not saying.

"You interview. You made such a…such a good impression at the parade," I say as Deirdre smiles uncertainly. "What would you say, if you weren't my mentor?" she asks, and I smile.

"You looked exquisite," I say without hesitation. "But we need to let the audience know you've got…got substance as well as style."

"I don't know what to say to them," Deirdre confesses. "If they ask about my family, I don't know how I'll keep from crying."

I think about this for a moment, turning it over in my mind. Crying is a risky thing to do. Rarely, it'll get the audience to sympathize with a tribute; usually, it just earns them a reputation as a weakling. The sponsors want to see fighters, not sobbing children. I need to find a way to get Deirdre to keep her composure, at all costs.

She thinks she'll cry if they talk about her family, I think to myself. I can't write the questions and hand them to Caesar. I certainly can't make Deirdre any less upset about leaving her family behind. I have to cut her off before she can burst into tears on camera, I decide. "How about you keep your answers brief, then?" I suggest at last.

Deirdre looks doubtful. "How can that help?" she asks wearily. "It doesn't change anything, and it won't get me any sponsors, will it?"

I arrange my face into what I hope is a confident expression. "It will. Don't give yourself a chance to get upset. Play it off like…like you've got a clever plan and you don't want to give too much of it away. They'll think you're being mysterious. They'll love it."

"Do you really think so?" Deirdre asks, and I nod. I give her some of the despised practice questions, and we frame the responses in a way that the Capitol crowd would most likely interpret as being coy, but in reality serves to keep Deirdre from losing her composure.

"Let's try it again—what do you want to let the sponsors know about…?"

"I won't give up. I'll never stop fighting until I get home, I won't forget what I owe my family, my…my friends back home, my…" She pauses, her eyes tearing up, and I hold up a hand to silence her.

"No," I say firmly, "You've said too…too much. You've gone and…and upset…try it again." I take a steadying breath and re-read the question.

"What would you like to let the sponsors know about you?"

Blotting her tears away, Deirdre forces herself to adopt an expressionless face. It takes a while, but I hold up a hand mirror so she can see what she looks like. She raises an eyebrow as if mildly intrigued by the question…but only mildly so.

"I don't give up," she says mildly. "Ever." I nod, raising a finger, and she interprets my signal correctly, raising her chin in what could pass for an intangible air of confidence.

The more we rehearse, the more confident I feel. Deirdre has this natural air of charm, of likability that would certainly win over the crowds. In the end, my job just consists of letting her see that. I wonder vaguely if the rest of my duties will be this easy; somehow, I doubt it.


Well, there you have it. Will Wiress & Deirdre's strategy pay off at the interviews? Will Beetee ever make good on his promise to tell Wiress a story? Will he ever acquire a functional alarm clock? Will Lucretia ever decide that 'less is more' is valuable fashion advice? Will I ever tire of asking rhetorical questions? Tune in...um, soon...for chapter 13, in which I hope you'll find some levity to offset the Games looming in the not-so-distant future.

The ice skating scene was inspired by something my dad did when I was little. He hosed down the alley next to our house and let it freeze overnight, one particularly frigid winter. We had those skates that strap on over your regular shoes, and while it wasn't exactly Rockefeller Center, it was so much fun. I'll never forget that day...and apparently, never will Wiress.

Please let me know what you thought. Yes, I do read your reviews, and now that I feel a little less like death warmed over, I even reply to them.

All the best,

Delilah