Chapter 12: Secret Wedding
My mother turns out to be as good as her word. Once the Capitol cameras are gone, the chances I get to see Peeta are significantly restricted.
Even though we now live across the street from each other in Victor's Village, neither Peeta nor myself can visit without the accompaniment of a chaperone. We are not allowed to be left in a room alone. Hand holding, hugs and light kisses are permitted, but that's about it in terms of physical contact. My mother is firm while also trying to be somewhat fair about it, even if I think she is failing on the 'fair' part. From what Peeta tells me, his mother acts like a tyrant.
The Capitol is no help, either. As the weeks drag into months, they return periodically to District 12 to update their citizens on our love life. At first, the paparazzi serve as a convenient distraction that allows Peeta and I to make a clean break from our parents, before we then slip away from all prying eyes altogether, the Capitol included.
But then, the media starts talking about a wedding.
Through the brand-new television now in our house, I learn that my expected marriage to Peeta has ballooned into a major media extravaganza. My mother, as can be imagined, does not approve, but her complaints of how I am not yet seventeen fall on deaf ears. Caesar is busy drawing up a hypothetical guest list, and rumor has it the President himself is crafting an address for the reception. Even Cinna is in on the act, though with the assignment to design my bridal gown, so I have to at least forgive him for this. I have always loved his work as a stylist and him as a person. Besides, he probably didn't have any say in the matter anyhow.
Still, the various degrees of expectation over what Peeta and I should or should not be doing as a couple gets to be too stifling for either of us to handle. I, for one, feel like a caged bird. Even Peeta's unusually high tolerance for patience is beginning to crack.
One of the few moments of relief we have is, surprisingly, when we are with Haymitch. Not long after our return from the Games, our mentor got the idea that we Victors gather for dinner at his place once a week. It was probably just an elaborate scheme to get us - his protégés - out from under our parents' noses, as I know Haymitch has never been particularly eager to attend social events unless forced to (like the Games), much less host one of his own. He somehow managed to convince our mothers that he would act as our chaperone during these functions, and they must have figured that - drunk or not - he could be trusted.
Ha! They should have known better that Haymitch has no intention of doing their dirty work for them.
Weekly dinners soon turn into sleepovers. Peeta and I are allowed to be alone together up in Haymitch's spare bedroom in exchange for helping him clean the dishes. And sometimes his laundry. Oh, and taking out the trash. While this might seem like our mentor is taking advantage of us, just to be with my boyfriend privately, if only for one night, is in my view a fair trade. Haymitch also goes above and beyond to explain away these nightly trysts by coming up with an intricate ruse to fool our mothers. He actually buys a pull-out couch and manipulates it to look like I have slept in it. He then further musses up the spare bed upstairs for Peeta. For someone who is not always in control of his faculties, the fake-out works like a charm. When I ask Haymitch how he got so good at fooling people, his answer is revealing:
"I know what it's like to be under a microscope. First few years after I won, the Capitol media would bother me and I would actually feign withdrawal just to scare them away."
Even if our pow-wows with Haymitch are a reprieve, I know they are not sustainable in the long term. What if Peeta and I want to have sex while we lie together in the spare bed upstairs? Mother and Prim might hear us just next door.
So it is one night, after dinner, that Peeta finally breaks. "This is ridiculous. Let's just get married, and get married our way."
I stare at him, and then nearly drop the plate I am washing as Peeta gets down on one knee and pulls out a ring.
"Katniss Sierra Everdeen, will you marry me?"
Speechless, I look over to Haymitch, who just nods with a tight smile of approval on his face.
I say yes.
I had never planned to marry when I was younger, so I never gave much thought or imagination to my wedding, the way some other girls do. Even so, I would never - in my wildest dreams - have imagined that I would only have a drunken Hunger Games Victor as a witness. And yet I am here, and I figure there is no better place to marry Peeta than in woods not unlike the ones where we strengthened our bonds of love.
Besides serving as sole witness, the Best Man, and father of the bride all in one, Haymitch managed to talk a District 12 holy man into performing the ceremony and swearing him to secrecy. I don't know how the old drunk managed to pull that off; maybe he bribed the priest with wine, to use in Communion or something.
The Holy Man blesses us, and for a moment, I wonder if Peeta and I are doing the right thing. Is it just my imagination, or does his metal foot feel cool against my leg as we play footsie? When the Holy Man pronounces us husband and wife, I take a deep breath. This is what we have to do. We'll make it work. Somehow.
Then, Peeta bends and kisses me, and I have no more doubts. There is only Peeta, and the scent of the dying primroses in the forest around us.
In the weeks following our wedding, our mothers' rules regarding our courtship-that-really-is-no-longer-a-courtship relax slightly. The man who is now my husband and I are allowed to take walks together through the district alone. It is only in these moments, and our dinners with Haymitch, that Peeta and I wear our wedding rings. Even on the walks, though, we always hold our hands tightly in such a way that the golden bands are concealed. If someone other than Haymitch caught sight of them... I shudder to think what would happen.
So it is one day that Peeta and I return to my house after a nice stroll through the meadow. My mother and Prim greet us.
"Did you have a good walk, dear?" Mother asks.
"We have visitors," Prim cuts in, her expression grim, but her underlying message is clear: Keep your mouth shut.
Then a Capitol attendant suddenly appears in the doorway leading to our living room. "Mr. Mellark and Ms. Everdeen. This way please. The President is expecting you."
The President? I think in disbelief. I look over to my husband, and make darn sure he does not let go of my hand. We follow the Capitol attendant. Without breaking our contact, we manage to slip our wedding rings off of each other's fingers and clutch them in our fists. We finally part when we are made to enter a room that serves as my mother's office, single-file.
A man is sitting at her desk, his back to us. He raises one finger as if to say, Give me a moment. Then the chair swivels around and I find myself face to face with the the President of Panem.
At first glance, Coriolanus Snow reminds me of that jolly old saint who sometimes presents Merchant children with gifts in late winter. Except the President looks anything but jolly, and probably prefers dolling out punishment more than gifts.
"President Snow," I get out, my throat tight. "What an honor."
"Please, have a seat, Ms. Everdeen," the President gestures.
I have to keep from bristling at the increasingly foreign sound of my maiden name, as I take a seat opposite him. Peeta remains standing, until the President indicates that he should sit as well.
"I have a problem with you, my two Victors. A problem that started the moment you pulled out those poisonous berries in the arena. Before I proceed further, though, I want us all to come to an understanding not to lie to each other."
"I think that would be best, Mr. President," I agree.
"You both may think what you did was out of love. And you certainly played Seneca Crane like a fiddle. If he'd had any nerve about him, he would have blown you to bits right then and there. Can you guess where he is?"
The last little bit of that is reserved only for me, which makes me figure that I know which of us Snow would have liked to see die. Me.
"Unfortunately, there was no choice but for us to play out your little 'scenario'," Snow continues. "But not everyone in the Districts or the Capitol thought it was love; they thought it was rebellion. And if a little district like 12, of all places, can defy the Capitol, who's to say others can't do so? What is to prevent, say... an uprising?" He pauses. "Tell me, when were you going to inform the rest of us that your lovey-dovey routine was all an act?"
"It's not an act..." I begin.
"Don't lie!" he barks, before regaining his composure. "You promised."
But I'm not lying, I think. And neither is Peeta. Where is Snow getting all this?
"Right now, Mr. Mellark, Ms. Everdeen, you have lit a spark that - if left unattended - could consume all of Panem. Neither of you can even imagine what would happen then."
"How should we imagine it?" I prod, trying not to sound challenging.
"I want you to imagine thousands upon thousands of your people dead," the President almost spits. "Your loved ones - gone. District 12 reduced to ash, as if it had never existed."
"With all due respect, Mr. President," Peeta pipes up for the first time. "Your demeanor at the moment does not appear 'presidential.'"
I want to hit my husband, yet kiss him at the same time. Calling out the President on behavior not worthy of his office is by far the riskiest move I have ever seen someone do. Still, I have to admire my husband for this. Peeta is a lot of things, but he is nobody's fool. He knows the President of our country is literally threatening us.
"What can we do?" I ask, trying to clear the tension.
"On the Victory Tour, I want you both to smile. Kiss for the cameras. Be in love, just as you were."
"Just as we are, Mr. President," Peeta interrupts, his voice steely.
There is a prolonged silence as Snow tries to stare down Peeta, but the younger man does not flinch. Indeed, President and Victor seem to sizing each other up. My heart pounds as I fear what might happen to my husband if he pushes too far. He has danced close to the line of rebellion, treason - and to the President's face! - but if he crosses over that line...
The President finally stands. "So, we all have an understanding."
"Transparent, sir," I get out.
He has barely left the study before I fall into Peeta's arms.
The Victory Tour starts off well, with Peeta and I kissing for the camera as we embark from Twelve.
But then, we hit a proverbial bump in the road.
At our very first stop, District 11, Effie presents us with cue cards that detail what we each should say. As we stand on our neighbor's Justice Building and face the families of Thresh and Rue, however, we are both moved to speak out of turn. Peeta ignores the cue cards and eloquently improvises, concluding with a promise to give one month of our winnings to the tributes' families ever year for the rest of our natural lives. Though I was originally going to let my husband do most, if not all, of the talking, I am moved to give an emotional eulogy to both Thresh and Rue.
That's when all hell breaks loose.
An old man gives District 12's three-fingered salute. We are hustled into the Justice Building, but not before I see Peacekeepers seize the poor fellow and shoot him in the head. I nearly go ballistic right then and there, but Haymitch grabs both me and Peeta and leads us up into the attic of the Justice Building. I don't know how my mentor knows where to go, except that he may have been up here before, on his own Victory Tour.
Haymitch lets it be known that he is thoroughly pissed off with us. To calm him down, Peeta and I have no choice but to reveal our meeting with Snow. I weep like a scared little girl, begging my mentor, "Haymitch, please, please, just help us get through this trip."
"Whoa, whoa, sweetheart, wake up!" Haymitch counters, snapping his fingers. "This trip doesn't end when you get back home! You never get off this train!" He points at both of us. "You two are mentors now. Your job is to be a distraction so people forget what the real problems are. Because at the end of the day, you have to ask yourselves, 'What about them? Who protects them?'" He gestures out the tinted window, through which we can see white-armored guards dragging the old man's body away.
"So what do we do?" Peeta asks, his voice displaying a deepness that indicates when he has gotten serious about something.
"You're going to do what Snow said. You're going to read the cards that Effie gives you. And you're gonna live happily ever after. You think you can do that?" Haymitch softens finally and takes me in his arms, like a father would his daughter.
"We're gonna be OK. All three of us. I promise."
For the rest of the Tour, Peeta and I resolutely stick to the script. But even when on our best behavior, the sweep through the Districts seems to go from bad to worse.
The crowds are rowdier. More people give the three-fingered salute and are led away by Peacekeepers. Others scream and call out their opinions. In District 8, a little girl who presents me flowers vows to volunteer one day, "just like you did." I am taken aback at how someone could be inspired by me that much.
Unlike in 11, however, Haymitch understands that what is happening now is neither Peeta's nor my doing and therefore, not our fault. Indeed, events seem completely beyond our control.
By the time our Tour concludes with a blowout party in the Capitol - at the Presidential Palace no less - Peeta and I are at a loss as to what else we can possibly do. I conclude that we may not have failed, at least not intentionally, but we did not exactly succeed either. My conclusion appears to be confirmed as President Snow only has eyes for me while he makes a special toast to celebrate Peeta's and my engagement. That was a ploy which Peeta came up with after our disastrous visit to 11, thinking it is exactly what Haymitch would want as a 'distraction.' Considering we have already been married for several months, it would be hilarious if I didn't suspect our lives are on the line.
My sense of foreboding only grows as I watch the President sip wine as red as blood.
