Chapter II: Night Bird, Come Away

In spite of my pleas, morning comes. As usual, Beetee is still beside me, asleep. Sometimes I wake and he has already awoken, but because he won't leave my side in bed, he sometimes will be staring at the ceiling deep in thought, or he has a book to occupy his time before I join him in consciousness. This morning, he's still passed out.

I get up and decide to get into the shower. Some of my best thoughts and calmest moments happen under the stream of endless hot water. Back in the Outer City where I grew up, hot water was shared throughout the tenement, so I could usually only get a few minutes of it a day. Plus, our shower was tiny and loud, and the water pressure varied from a trickle to a waterfall that stung the skin like needle pricks. The showers here are one of the few luxuries I fully appreciate. The stream is consistent and lovely. The tub is build into a ledge against the wall of the bathroom, and it's deep enough to sit in while the water falls over me. If I'm washing, I'll stand like a normal person, but when I use the shower to ponder or de-escalate from a panic, I'll sit, curled up under the stream.

I don't get to sit for long, however, until I'm startled by the doorbell ringing. It isn't yet 8am, so it couldn't be Aloysius and Plume.

I jump out of the shower and leave it running so I can quickly get into a loose pair of leggings and a towel before the doorbell wakes Beetee. I dash to the door and peer out the peephole.

It's Daddy, with a large box. I take a deep breath and open the door.

Daddy and I used to be close before the Games, but his way of coping with his daughter nearly being killed is offensive to me. He jokes about it. After the first round of prizes for the District were issued, he made fun of the upswing in cavities he's had to fill thanks to the candy and sugar the Capitol distributed to everyone. I can't bear to hear anyone make light of my winnings. Mommy and my brother Edison remain very quiet around me. Edison used to be my protector, but he's backed off almost completely since I came home. Maybe he feels Beetee has taken over the role of big brother to me. Maybe he feels intimidated by my experiences. Once in a while, everyone will come upstairs to dine with Beetee and I. Those evenings used to be weekly. Now they happen maybe twice a month.

"Daddy?" I ask, beckoning him inside. He's aged years and years within six months.

"Wiress," he responds. "I have something for you. For today."

He sets the white box on the large sofa facing the screen and fireplace. We sit on opposite sides of it. Without words between us, I slowly open the box and sift through the tissue paper. What I pull out is a dress in a plum color, made of a light satin material. There is a lot of fabric to the piece, and it takes several maneuvers to take it from the box and unravel it to get a better look. It has a full skirt that looks to be knee-length. The neck is low and scooping, with black trim around it as well as the hem. The back scoops even lower than the neck. The sleeves are elbow-length.

"Won't I be cold in this?" is the first thing I ask. The material is very light.

"I'm sure they'll give you some kind of coat," Daddy answers. "And remember, some Districts are warm all year round."

"I'll go try it on, then," I say, completely deadpan. No thanks, no smiles. I go into the bathroom and slip on the dress. I go to the mirror, and the first thing that occurs to me is the color. Plum and black. The same color as my training tunic as well as the Capitol-issued parka I wore in the Games. Was this on purpose, or a subconscious slip of the mind on Daddy's part? Either way, my skin crawls looking at it, but it isn't like I have a choice in wearing it.

The cut of the dress isn't particularly tight at the waste, but the line of the full skirt (which I hadn't noticed at first had a tulle petticoat underneath it to make it billow) accentuates my hips. The neckline reveals my skin just up to the point where my breasts begin. It's a grown-up lady's dress. I don't turn sixteen until next June, about three weeks before the annual Reaping, but I look like I could pass for older.

I hate it.

Last year, for the Reaping, the dress I wore was the one that had fit me since my first one at age twelve. I looked wretched in it, like my body was trying to stretch it's way out. It was a mint green, high-necked girl's frock. There is no doubt it wouldn't fit me at all anymore, but I would take it and it's familiar feeling over the awkward stiffness of this new piece.

As I step back out into the foyer, I see that Beetee has joined Daddy by the sofa. They both stand up when I come into the room. Daddy manages a smile. Beetee can't take his eyes away from me. I suddenly feel very small.

"I told you I'd get you a new dress when you came home," Daddy recalled. "You…no denying it anymore. You're a lady."

I hate when he says this. When I came back from the Games, he'd made a remark about the Capitol turning me into a woman. All I could think about were the twenty-three children who had to die to see that I got there. It makes my stomach churn even now when someone says how much I've grown.

Beetee is quiet. It must be weird to him, admiring his dentist's daughter the way I know he does. Granted, Daddy isn't his dentist any more, but it still must be odd to have a connection such as the one he has with me no matter what the scenario. I notice Beetee especially hesitates to smile around Daddy.

"Will they let me wear it?" I ask. I may not be fond of this dress, but it's a fair bit better than whatever obnoxious outfit Aloysius and Plume will put on me if they have the chance.

Beetee shrugs. "This isn't the Tributes Parade," he says. "They will probably allow it."

I nod and look down, realizing my legs aren't shaved. In the Capitol, they waxed my body clean of any hair that grew out of place, and the sharp pain of every rip was almost too much. I decided to shave my body hair instead, so my styling team wouldn't have to…but I forgot to do so yesterday.

I take another look at the men in the room before turning back and rushing quickly into the bathroom. Once I close the door I can vaguely hear what Daddy says next.

"So…Beetee…you think we'll be seeing a televised tribute wedding in the near future?"

My face turns as red as a tomato. I take off the dress with one tug over my head and retreat to the shower again before I can hear Beetee's response.

10am on the dot, my stylist team, the camera team, and Plume all arrive to dress me up like a holiday groosling for the first day of the Victory Tour. Beetee can barely fit in the room as I'm made up to an almost unrecognizable level. My hair is curled and piled in a high bun, with the front strands hanging loosely about my face. My ears, never pierced before the Games, are fitted with real diamond studs. I'm poked, prodded, washed, dried, painted, toyed with, until everything about me looks artificial.

I may have looked eighteen in the plum dress alone. Now I look thirty-five. With so much makeup piled on my face, who could tell if I were nine or ninety?

When I reappear, Plume, her hair an unnatural greenish yellow, smiles and shuffles over.

"Oh, Wiress, you look splendid! But…what about your feet?"

I look down. I'm still barefoot.

"We brought shoes, but they don't match the color of the dress," replied Aloysius.

Good, I think. The heels are as tall as my shins. How could I take a step in those dagger-like shoes?

"Then put her in the dress you brought for her, silly!" Plume argues.

"I actually like the cut of this one better," says Aloysius. "It suits her personality and complements her eyes."

"Well, what are we supposed to do? She NEEDS shoes!" Plume looks at me with disappointment. I look at Beetee for help, speechless. He seems to read my thoughts and ducks into my bedroom, appearing only seconds later with a clean but well-worn pair of black flats.

"These match," Beetee offers. Plume scoffs as if he's suggested I wear a peacock costume. His shoulders drop.

Needless to say, I'm not any more fond of Plume than I was before the Games.

"Those are HIDEOUS!" she cries. "Wiress is short…err…petite. She needs heels."

I begin to shake my head. If this were before the Games, I would've broken down and called out Plume like I did while we watched the tribute scores. I have the same passion, but my words are as shy as I am now.

"First of all, she's average height for this District," reasoned Aloysius. "Maybe an inch or two taller, actually. You forget everyone is tall in the Capitol because they are all wearing high platform shoes right now."

Plume looks at me, concerned.

"Second," my stylist continues, "I know this is hard to imagine, but maybe someone who isn't used to walking in high shoes shouldn't start practicing in front of the cameras."

"But…but they…"

"Plume, the cameras won't be filming her feet," Beetee adds.

I nod.

"Oh for heaven's sake, Wiress, please say something!" Plume demands, exasperated already. "Speak for yourself! You're a Victor! You should be exuding confidence!"

"I want my shoes," I finally spit out, but in a barely audible tone of voice.

Beetee nods and smiles encouragingly. Plume gives a melodramatic sigh.

"Alright. But we're getting you heels for the Capitol feast."

Having won this small round, I feel slightly elevated as I slip into my dependable flats.

At 11:30, Plume goes over the questions Dionysius will ask me live on air. She refuses to move on to the next question until she hears me recite my answers out loud. Most of the questions are insipid, like what my favorite part of being a Victor is, how my new apartments suit me, and how I'm adjusting to the high life.

One question threw me off guard: is there any truth to the rumor that I am pregnant with Beetee's child?

I can't help but let out a loud, shrill "HA!" That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard. Beetee smirks, clearly amused by this suggestion as well. I can see Mom off to the side turn pale, and Daddy look stunned.

Plume twists her lip with disapproval. "That certainly answers the question, but the Capitol needs something a little more concrete, dear."

"Don't let the idea disturb you," Beetee adds. "Rumors are started on purpose. To keep people interested in you. I had them too."

We decide on a very firm-but-pleasant denial for that one, though the idea is still enough to make looking Beetee in the eye difficult for a while.

At 12pm exactly, Dionysius' theme plays and he appears on a video feed that I can see. Camera roll on me. Five seconds, and I'm already sweating. I can get through this, I think. I pulled it together for the pre-Games interview…

Dionysius asks me every question I'd rehearsed, and with Beetee encouraging me right off camera, I manage to get through every question (even the awful one about Beetee and I getting pregnant) without much hesitation, though I'm blinded by the lights focused on me, and my ears buzz.

Then comes the finale. I have to read one of my poems on air. I chose one that took me three days to compose.

"Night bird, come away with me
Away from the sun
Away from their traps
Far and away, to the farthest tree
In the canopy we'll sit and sing
Safe from their eyes
Safe from their plans
Far and away, to the farthest tree
Night bird, please wait for me
Waiting for a sign
Waiting to join you
Far and away, at the farthest tree."

Applause ring out from the Capitol feed. I look at Beetee, who is staring back at me with a hint of admiration. I didn't think the damn poem was so special. My writing is so mediocre I don't even share my notebook of trite poems with him. I guess I didn't realize how vulnerable reading my own words out loud would make me feel.

Dionysius plugs the Victory Tour and the dates I am due to arrive at each District, then the feed cuts.

"Very well done," says Plume, beaming. "Your poetry is splendid."

"It is?"

"I imagine performers in the Capitol will be reciting that piece all over within a few days. Now, come, the train will be waiting!"

"You have to understand, Wiress, you're a celebrity now," Beetee explains to me later on the train. District Three is not far from Twelve, so there we aren't going to be sleeping here, but we sit on the bed in the sleeping car, talking. "If you had recited a five-word sentence today and called it poetry, the Capitol would still be obsessing over your words."

I shake my head. "I don't understand it at all."

"It's hard to see when you don't live in the Capitol, but after my Games, everyone bought glasses with fake lenses and wore them around for a year. They love to be told what to like, and that's your job as their IT Girl," he explains.

"I'm not right for that. I just want to be alone with you," I say quietly. Beetee takes me hand in his.

"If only it worked that way. If the Capitol wanted a charismatic trendsetter, a death match isn't exactly an intelligent way to procure one."

Beetee spends a moment telling me stories about past Victors he knew, and how I would get to know them too. A few people stuck out to him. A District Four winner from the very early days named Mags went almost entirely mute after her Victory Tour. She is presently around fifty years old. Another, a male from District 8 named Woof had a hard time discerning reality from hallucinations he experienced. A woman from Six who won about ten years ago was hopelessly addicted to morphling and was barely able to stand up straight for her Tour.

"The point is," Beetee concludes. "It's our job to give them what they want, and they will take it regardless of what it is."

The train is perfectly smooth, so the rattling in my body is of my own making.

"I'm not made for this. I'm not strong."

"You are," Beetee assures me, putting a hand on my knee. "You won the Games."

I shake my head forcefully. "It was a fluke."

"Nothing in that arena is a fluke," Beetee says.

"But you said there's always a flaw! What if…what if I'm that flaw?"

Beetee looks away from me a moment and bites his lip, contemplating carefully how to answer me.

"Victors in the past don't always get to the end by being violent. Many hide out and wait for the others to kill themselves off. I didn't even meet anyone else until I—"

He stops short. His eyes glaze over for a moment before rejoining the moment.

I've known from the minute I moved into Victor's Village that Beetee fought many of the same demons I do, just in different ways. We'd both killed in the arena as well as survived. The Gamemakers had counted Sheen from District One, who I'd shoved onto subway track and had broken his neck on the rail, and Juno from Two and Delphine from Four, who'd burned to death in a fire I'd set, among my body count. Beetee had ended twice that many in a single maneuver that had won him the Games. I hadn't even intended to kill anyone, yet I was responsible for them. Beetee felt that too.

I put my hand on his cheek and do something I normally hate doing with anyone no matter who they are: I look into his eyes.

"Beetee?"

He looks at me with the same sad look I give him twenty times a day. I don't see it on him often, so when it appears, I tremble.

"Wiress?"

"We are alive. And here. They tried to kill us. They didn't."

Beetee smiles. "And that is why we're strong."

I nod silently.

"One day, we'll come away. Together," I whisper.

Beetee sighs softly, fully in the moment again. "Far and away, to the farthest tree."