One Month Later
I hate Tuesdays.
I recently haven't been particularly fond of other days either, but the second day of the week is a special kind of hell. Tuesdays are when Greasy Sae thinks it's a good idea to serve liver soup - though where such 'liver' comes from remains a mystery. Tuesdays are when Gale only works a half-day and will undoubtedly find an excuse to be sitting in my house when I arrive home. Tuesdays are when I have to sit in front of a screen for two hours as Paylor chairs the District meeting. Tuesdays are when I have less time to hunt. Tuesdays are when the Bakery does Raisin Rolls instead of Cheese Buns. Tuesdays are when the sun hangs limply and seems to stretch the day beyond its twenty-four hours.
And - the bane of my detestation - Tuesdays are when the weekly District 12 Town Hall requires my attendance.
I sigh as I make my way up the steps of the Justice Building, pondering - not for the first time - how I ended up as a District Leader. Or, more aptly, who thought it was a good idea to keep me as a leader. It seemed somewhat natural to accept the position when we first arrived in Thirteen. After all, it was Gale and I who took beatings and dressed wounds and stole Peacekeeper batons when Thread arrived and squeezed the District under his thumb; it was us who corralled everyone under the fence when the screens showing the 75th Hunger Games went black and bombs started raining from the sky; it was us who led the District through the woods till Thirteen discovered us. When we were pulled into a meeting room that first day in the bunker, I had almost liked the idea of being a leader - if only because it gave me enough pull to sneak Prim's cat in. But now? With the blood washed off the streets, our homes rebuilt and a new government in power, I can't help but wonder what I'm doing here.
An eighteen-year-old quasi-recluse lacking a verbal filter who spends more time in the woods than in her District, skilful in the art of bluntness and the bow but not much else; a leader I am not.
I enter the room quietly and make my way towards the front, past the lines of chairs that are slowly being filled as people trickle in, filling the space with the low buzz of morning greetings. I reach my table and check the clock with a grimace before leaning into the microphone.
"We'll begin when Haymitch arrives."
If I were to ever acquiesce that my Tuesday's have a silver lining, it would be Haymitch Abernathy. He is perpetually late to meetings, always smells of stale alcohol, and finds immense enjoyment in declaring 'I'll let Miss Everdeen take that one' for puerile complaints, but he never feels the need to fill silence with idle chatter.
Few people don't feel that need nowadays, and I relish my time with them. That, and I feel an odd kindredness with Haymitch; if I had the money, I'd swim through life now in a lake of booze too.
The thump of the door heralds Haymitch's arrival and he ambles his way over to me. His face is freshly shaven, and he no longer stumbles or sways as he did when we began these meetings last month. I smile inwardly. He's still drinking, sure, but not as much as he did before, when he'd pass out in a pool of vomit during the Reapings. Maybe his demons are a bit quieter now.
He leans over as he reaches me and a warm rush of sour breath invades my space.
"Hullloo, Sweetheart," he grins, before turning and grabbing the mic.
"Session's in. Have at it!" he announces grandly, sweeping his arms out in an exaggerated manner before plonking himself down into his chair. I grin internally. Another aspect of our odd kindred bond; Haymitch, like me, appreciates the need for Town Halls, but that doesn't mean he enjoys hearing complaints of shoe polish prices and uneven pavements.
Most of the other District's town halls are chaired by old victors who were part of the rebellion; it helps to have a familiar face up here, one that was run down by the Capitol, just as everyone in the audience was. Here in Twelve, our pool of potential representatives was somewhat restricted - our living Victors included one middle-aged cynic with a proclivity for unsympathetic frankness, and one young man awaiting trial for murder.
Paylor and Gale had thought it best for said young man to sit out of the meetings for a while, at least until a verdict was reached. I agreed, until I realised that Peeta Mellark staying home meant that I had to sit up here.
The butcher toddles up to the stand below.
"Morning, Haymitch, Katniss. Quick question about beef prices …"
The morning drags on with inane questions - some to be referred to Paylor's government, others to simply add more paperwork to my pile. Half of the people who come to speak don't even raise an issue, ambling to the front to note that the "Sidewalks have been very clean as of late" or that "The spirit at last week's Community Day was brilliant." I think that so many people come to these Town Halls because they simply like to hear the sound of their own voice - the newfound novelty of standing up to say something, and someone actually listening. I sit through it all with a fake smile and try to pretend that sidewalks and community still hold any significance to me; that they ever held any significance for me.
Once everyone has been heard and Haymitch has issued a gruff "Thank you, see you next week," the crowd begins to trickle out. Haymitch shifts a pile of papers towards me; notes from the day that need to be recorded and sorted.
"Now for the fun stuff," he mutters wryly, grabbing a pen and starting on his own stack.
Haymitch works twice as fast as I do, flitting through forms with ease whilst I spend minutes labouring over sentences. After an hour, when Haymitch has completed his own work, in addition to half of mine, we shuffle the sheets away and push our chairs in, ready to leave.
"Any squirrels out lately?" Haymitch asks as we walk towards the door.
"A few. I'll come by Thursday if I get one."
Haymitch nods. "Uh, any chance you could get eight?"
A short, sharp laugh escapes me. "Why not twenty while I'm at it!? What would you need with eight squirrels?"
Haymitch pauses before we split off - him to whatever he does on a Tuesday afternoon, and me to another meeting room in the Justice Building. He sighs.
"The boy's baking pies."
I still and quieten.
"How is he?"
Haymitch meets my gaze, "He's okay."
I know what 'okay' is - I treasure the proverbial 'okay'. 'Okay' is my default answer to queries and concerns as I go through each day, drowning but not yet drowned.
I don't ask anything more, nor does Haymitch offer any elaboration. Talking about Peeta Mellark is like wading through a field of landmines. Most of the District still adore him, and there were so many parts of Peeta to treasure - the friendly kid who took your bakery order; the student who excelled at both books and wrestling at school; the boy who spent his Hunger Games protecting a stranger from the Seam and her District 11 friend; the man who came back out, broken, only to be put back in for the Quell; the Mockingjay who led the Rebellion.
But the last part of Peeta, the most recent part - the killer who shot the symbol of a burgeoning new Panem - wasn't so easily accepted. For many, Peeta's second shot didn't just kill Coin - for a moment, it murdered their newfound hope. Of course, Paylor's immediate inauguration quelled such worries, but the fact remained that Peeta almost took their promise of a brighter tomorrow away.
Talking openly about what Peeta did, or deserves, is like playing with fire in our new, fragile world.
"I can't hunt tomorrow but I will on Thursday. I'll try dawn but won't have much time, so expect them after dusk. Eight's a stretch but I'll give it a shot."
Haymitch nods, a small smile on his lips.
"Thanks, Sweetheart."
He turns and slips through the door, out into the Square. I watch him for a moment, a lone figure slipping unnoticed through the small gatherings of people that still loiter after the meeting. When he finally disappears from my view, I turn and walk further into the Justice Building. As I make my way towards the meeting room, I catch a glimpse of a clock and shudder.
Eleven thirty. Not even halfway into this shit-fest of Tuesday.
Heaven help me.
Gale is already on the call when I go in, and Paylor's face lights up the screen on the wall. He gives me a tight smile before turning back to the screen, nodding along to whatever is being said. I sigh in relief as I join him - when Gale's here, I don't have to do anything except sit and nod periodically.
"Okay," Paylor starts, "Everyone's now present, let's get going. As per the agenda, we'll start with our District Three leader's update on communication technologies. Beetee?"
Paylor's face is replaced by Beetee's, who launches into an explanation of his District's latest endeavour. I've liked Beetee since the first day in Thirteen, but I can't help but drift when he starts spouting jargon. These meetings are recorded regardless - I can't write well enough to keep pace with notes - and it's all too easy to once again slip into fake smiles and well-timed nods as Beetee gives way to other District Leaders and their updates.
"Gale, Katniss; any updates from Twelve?"
Gale begins detailing the District's expanding pharmaceuticals industry, his face brightening as he lists facts and numbers. When we arrived back in Twelve and were formally instated as the two District Leaders, Gale had been eager to start a new industry - to kill the mines and all the sadness that came with them. Pharmaceuticals were now his pride, joy and living - his role was officially that of overseeing infrastructure and finances. Me? I was tasked with coordinating the District's social events and culture. The irony was not lost on me.
"Katniss," Paylor calls after Gale finishes, "How are the Town Halls going?"
"Well," I reply.
Paylor grins before addressing the broader meeting again. I'll no doubt get a call from her in a few days to, once again, encourage me to speak up more - advice I will ignore, and ignorations that Paylor will laugh at, as always, next week.
"Thank you, everyone, that wraps up this week's briefing. Gale, could you stay on the call with me?"
Gale's grin widens with enthusiasm.
"Sure thing."
I snigger under my breath, bid my goodbyes and make a hasty retreat. Unlike me, Gale has taken to being a District leader like a duck to water - relishing onerous bureaucracy and the sociability that comes with it. Although I don't understand the appeal, it's nice to see him so. Prior to the Revolution, any dreams Gale held of authority, of being respected, or listened to, or treated as an equal, were mere fantasies.
I make my way through the square, now in a rare lull of activity. Soon school will release, and the shopfronts will once again be crowded by families. There will still be remnants of the Capitol in these huddles; little merchant boys playing with little merchant girls, seam children playing the same games, separately, several metres away. But amongst this will be parents who stop others from across the town, checking in to see how the goat's doing, or how they managed to perfect that raspberry jam. Children's games will mix for a few minutes, and little merchant boys will play with little seam boys as they scramble for a ball before retreating to their respective teams again.
It's not perfect, but barriers are less obvious now, slowly being eroded as the Capitol's shackles loosen each day.
I swallow thickly and pick up my pace, eager to avoid the impending rush that will no doubt both warm and deaden my heart. Because whilst seeing people come together is a tangible reminder of what good came out of the Revolution, it's also a reminder of what was sacrificed; the people who aren't in those huddles … who can never and will never be.
I knock on the back door, searching in my bag for a bunch of berries as I wait. Whilst I can tolerate my Tuesday afternoons a hell of a lot more than the monotony of morning meetings, I still abhor them. Tuesdays are when I sell what I've foraged; berries, mushrooms, roots and leaves for tea. Even though the fence around the district has a gate now, most people dare not venture out, scared of the dangers of the wild. I guess, too, scared of Capitol legends and old, Capitol walls. The Capitol may be gone, but's legacy is far from removed. I don't mind the selling aspect - as one of the few people who do, I get good money. It's the interaction with others it necessitates that I hate.
Madge finally answers the door and smiles when she sees me. "Katniss! Come in, come in."
I step warily over the threshold and follow her through the house. It's a lot smaller than the old manor and paint is chipped in long gashes along the walls, but it's spacious, warm and clean. She enters the kitchen and retrieves a purse. Several notebooks are splayed across the counter, open and filled with looping cursive. The table to the side is swathed in a mountain of papers, piled precariously in jumbled towers.
"Just let me find my money, how much?" she asks, rustling through her purse.
"Ah, three coins."
She pauses and looks up to me and back to the large bunch of berries, a strange grin on her face.
"Three?"
"Three," I nod.
She continues rummaging through her purse and pulls out a note, pushing it in my hands.
"Madge, that's too much —"
She shakes her head. "That's not enough, if anything. Keep the change, or give it to the schools, whatever you fancy."
I grimace but stuff the note into my pocket. "Thank you."
Madge's grin widens and she stares at me, as if encouraging me to continue conversation. I shift uncomfortably, itching to leave.
Before the rebellion, Madge and I shared an… acquaintance. She would smile at me when I offloaded strawberries, and I wouldn't sneer when she did. In Thirteen, we would brush by each other in the halls often, exchanging wearied glances but nothing more. After the rebellion, I would see her more often, bundles of documents in hand as she sat in the corner of meetings and furiously scrawled notes. Being one of the few District Twelve citizens with a command of literacy beyond the elementary, she was selected as a representative in the drafting of the Constitution. I respected Madge. But we weren't truly friends.
"I, uh, I'll just be going. Thank you, really." I nod perfunctorily and begin to stride back the way I came.
"Katniss!" Madge calls.
"Yes?" I say, turning slightly.
"Are you doing anything this afternoon? I mean, are you free at the moment?"
I hesitate. I don't have strict plans per se, merely going around for another few hours to sell my stock, but I can only imagine Madge wants to sit down, have tea and … talk. I grimace internally.
"Um … I have a few minutes now?"
"Perfect," Madge breathes, grabbing my hand and pulling me back into the kitchen. She pushes her notebooks aside and motions to a stool against the counter. I hop on and twist my fingers.
"I won't keep you long, I promise," she says, a knowing twinkle in her eye. Am I really that transparent? She goes over to the table and brings over a particularly tall stack of papers, plopping them down next to us.
"It hasn't been announced publicly yet, but I've been appointed Peeta Mellark's barrister for the trial."
My eyes snap up to hers. This wasn't what I was expecting.
"Okay …"
She continues, "I've only had a few meetings with him since it was decided, and everything is still in its early days; there's still a lot of work to do in preparation." She nods towards the piles of paper.
My mouth pulls in a frown and I look to Madge quizzically. I don't see how this relates to me.
"So, is this an interview for his case? I've already given my statements to the authorities, I didn't know he was going to do it —"
"No, no!" Madge hastens, shaking her head quickly, "I know you didn't know he was going to shoot Coin, and I've got the transcripts of the interviews. That's not what I want to talk about."
My eyebrows bunch in confusion.
Madge breathes deeply. "I wanted to ask why you pulled the gun away."
I pause.
"I said in the interview," I begin slowly, still confused, "I could see his arm swaying at the start. His eyes were flickering between Snow and Coin. Call it hunter's instinct, call it experience with my bow, I don't know, but I could see what he was planning. And I had the capacity to stop it."
Madge nods. "That's why you ran to Peeta. But that's not why you pulled the gun away."
I avert my eyes in discomfort. "I pulled the gun away because I didn't think he should die. Any decent person would have done the same."
"Didn't think he should die, or didn't think he deserved to die? There's a difference. On a basic level, any decent person would try to stop someone from hurting themselves. But when Peeta killed Coin, he also killed the chance for a peaceful beginning to our New Panem."
I don't react, but my gut twists uncomfortably. Madge is dancing in a field of landmines, and even though we're in the safe confines of her home - even though she's Peeta's defence and is required to talk about these things - I feel uneasy. I'm sure it's painted across my strained face, but Madge ploughs on.
"You were there, Katniss, you were in the thick of it. You saw how people reacted. You heard them. They were angry, yes, but they were also pained. Mothers dropped to their knees in anguish, Katniss, because they thought for a moment our New Panem had died along with its leader. Fathers raged and children clutched each other with wide, frightened eyes In that small moment, not many people, even the decent ones, would have thought Peeta didn't deserve to die for killing Coin. But not you."
Madge finishes her spiel with conviction, and I can feel her stare at the top of my head. My fingers against the counter tap with confusion, dread and impatience. What is she getting at?
"You don't think Peeta should be tried guilty."
My head snaps up.
"No —" I bite out forcefully, trying to interject, but Madge continues.
"You think what he did was right."
"He shot her, he killed … he did it—" I'm stumbling over my words as if drunk, floundering for a response. My eyes dance around the kitchen, looking anywhere but at Madge, as if a proper answer lies in her kettle or fridge or pantry. I don't know why, but I feel guilty, somehow, like I shouldn't acquiesce that her comments are true, like I have something to hide, like the way I feel about what Peeta did is wrong, like what I did when I stopped Peeta was wrong.
"You care about him."
I still and stare at Madge. Her eyes aren't condescending or reproachful. They're clear and truthful. Which makes it all the worse. I came here to sell berries to an old acquaintance at a dirt-cheap price, as I do every week. I didn't come to be pulled into mind games, or baiting, or whatever the hell this is. Having this conversation with Madge - even if she's Peeta's defence - is a dangerous game. We are living in a new Panem, but the legacy of the old one still lingers, and no one embodies that more than Peeta; someone who stood up to the Capitol, but was nevertheless the Capitol's darling. Madge may be comfortable dancing through these landmines, juggling fire, but I'm not.
But more than my aversion to dodge difficult conversations, I don't like Madge's insinuation, or what her four poignant words make me think about. The idea that I care about Peeta makes my skin hot and itchy. He's not a friend. He's not even an acquaintance! And yet this reaction makes me shudder all the more - why am I so affected by the suggestion that I care for someone I don't?
"I should go," I mumble, pulling off the stool.
Madge's hand shoots out and grasps my wrist. Her nails are chipped.
"Katniss, wait, listen," she implores.
"Madge, we shouldn't be talking about these things. Not yet …" I mutter, starting to pull away again. Her hand stays on my wrist.
"Katniss, I don't think Peeta should be tried guilty. I think what he did was right. I care about him, too."
I nod my head slightly and her grip lessens. I pull my wrist to my chest.
"Good," I murmur. "He needs someone like you on his team."
Madge shakes her head. "He needs people like us. Katniss, I want you on my team."
I blanch.
Madge wants … me? A girl she's had all of maybe twenty conversations with? A girl who hardly speaks, period? A girl who is barely literate, who was made a District Leader simply because she was in the right place at the right time, who spends the majority of her time now in the woods, away from town, staring at the sky and choking back tears?
She thinks that girl could help Peeta? She thinks that girl could contribute to a defence?
Yeah. Right.
"Not funny, Madge," I bite, spinning on my heel and stalking to the door.
"Katniss!" Madge calls. I hear her walking briskly after me, but I ignore her.
"Katniss, please, wait! I'm serious."
I whirl around abruptly. Madge screeches to a stop, so close to me I can see the faint freckles that dot her nose. My voice is deep and low when I talk, and she shrinks back slightly.
"Do you know how long it takes me to do the Town Hall paperwork, Madge? Do you?"
Her voice is incredibly soft as she answers. "Ten minutes?"
I scoff darkly. "Wrong. One form takes me ten minutes. We get roughly twenty questions every week, Madge, and unless it's a kid asking for more sweets, Haymitch has to take the notes, because I can't. All I can do is nod my head and pretend I know how to spell the shit they're asking about."
I'm breathing heavy, through my nose in choking pants, like an animal in one of Gale's traps that's been skewered just so that it can see and feel and hear it's own death coming.
"You know that, Madge. You saw me miss every third school day to hunt. You sat next to me whilst I bumbled through passages and failed to write pages. You know I can't do shit for Peeta."
Madge opens her mouth, but I don't let her speak. I feel empty, out of control - everything I try to save for the woods, everything I try to hide when I'm in the District - but I don't stop. I can't.
"I don't know what you're playing at, Madge. Frankly, I don't care. Take whatever you need from me. You need a confession? A pawn to try and share round the blame, to somehow lessen Peeta's guilt? Does that help your defence? You don't need to fabricate an excuse, Madge. Tell me to my fucking face and I'll give it to you."
Madge's eyes are wide as she searches my face. They look sad, pitying. I step back, over the threshold. It's raining now, the beginnings of a storm, with fat bulbous drops starting to assault the ground. They punch my arms and torso and face, and I feel the anger dulling slightly, the sudden inferno calming to an ugly pit of fizzling embers. The crushing weight of nothingness swims over me, and I fall back into the state I know oh so well - a facade of indifference, where I can be 'okay'; drowning painfully, but never being able to drown.
Madge is still looking at me, and I study her too. Words don't hurt me any more - they are dull weapons that merely prod at my skin - but for some reason, Madge's momentarily did. Even as I sink into my mask, her words and their meaning still sit heavy on my skin.
Perhaps because it reminds me all too much of the subterfuge of before. People never saying what they really meant, people using others, playing others, humiliating others and exploiting them. It's confronting when you realise there is still grey in the black and white world you thought you lived.
My shoulders sag.
"Bye, Madge."
I turn and walk away.
My usual rounds pass slowly and mechanically, transferring berries into one hand and money to another. It's not long before twilight settles and the District empties once again as families retreat home for dinner. I begin my way back home.
The nothingness becomes all the heavier when I catch a glimpse of a light in my window from down the street. I can't bring myself to care, though.
Gale smiles up at me when I enter, and I manage a small grin back. He's taken to hanging around more, ever since my mother left for District Four, a mere three days after we first returned to Twelve. He says it's because he doesn't want me by myself, that any good friend would do the same. I've come to realise that that isn't the whole story - I'm pulled into hugs too often for it to be the case - but I can't deny his presence is nice at times. He fills the house and my mind with noise, and at the moment, I'm selfish enough to take it for what it's worth.
Other times, though - like on Tuesdays, when I'm tired and stretch thin - the last thing I want to do is pretend to smile any longer than I have to. We eat dinner quickly, and I brush off Gale's concerns with excuses of exhaustion. After washing the dishes and showering, we clamber into bed, a line of pillows separating us. When we first returned to Twelve, Gale would try to hold me as we slept. It only took two nights of stray elbows and knees bruising his stomach as I thrashed in the throws of nightmares for our pillow wall to be erected.
It doesn't take long for Gale's snores to start rumbling, and I squeeze my eyes shut, itching for sleep and the promises of tomorrow.
I hate Wednesdays, but they're better than Tuesdays, because there are no meetings, no obligations, and Gale works a full day from dawn till dusk before retreating back to his own home. On Wednesdays I can wake early, in the abyss between late night and early morn, when the sky is at its blackest. I can trudge through the Seam, past the meadow, and slip under the fence as a bulging moon lights my way. I can trek miles before dawn, across the woods, down into a valley, and then back up along thin ridges. I can reach the top of the escarpment, panting and drenched in sweat, with muscles aching and screaming in a way that never feels like enough. And I can watch the sun bleed into the navy dawn, slowly, so that I'm suspended in a sky half full of the future, half darkened by the past.
On Wednesdays I can treasure those few minutes where I'm not on earth but am of something else - moments where I can forget that I'm still stuck on dirt while Prim and all the others lay buried beneath it, or maybe even buried above in this space I can't explain.
I lie like this as the sky becomes wholly blue and heat starts to warm my skin. The escarpment is bald, and from it I can see the winding valley and woods that fall away in the distance, giving way to the roofs of District 12 houses. It's only when I'm that far away that I let myself cry - fat, ugly sobs that rack my ribs; salty tears that stream down my cheek in silence; heaving breaths that drown the soft singing of birds. When the sun starts to dip - all too soon - I start the scramble back without haste, returning in the dark and falling into my thin mattress.
I hate the days between Thursday and Monday, more than Wednesdays, because I have to sell meat and fill Paylor's documents in the mornings, but they're better than Tuesdays, because the afternoon can still be spent running through the woods, till all that fills my mind is my burning body begging for reprieve and the stinging scratches from twigs that scrape my skin.
I started my ritual the day I returned to Twelve, and I have my body to show for it.
People are getting round in Twelve now that we have enough food for everyone - not fat, just healthy; hip bones no longer jut out, shoulders and collarbones are padded, thighs are soft and bellies no longer concave. It makes my looking the same as before all the more obvious.
I can see the worry in Gale's eyes that he pretends to hide, and the way Haymitch glances too often at the grazes that lace around my slender arms. I notice Greasy Sae scooping extra chunks of rabbit into my bowl more often, eyeing my sinewy legs covered with skin stretched taut.
"You eatin', girl?" she'll rasp, and I'll nod and laugh as I slurp my soup, because I can understand and respond to her bluntness better than the pity of others.
"Just a bit of running, Sae."
She'll nod with a glimmer of understanding, the kind that only comes from years of living. I'll finish my lunch with a grin and she'll watch as I exit the Hob and wind my way towards the meadow.
From Wednesday to Monday I run and I hike and I dart through the woods, pushing myself all the harder to forget, because those days give way to Tuesdays, when I can't escape the District or its pitying faces, and there is nothing I can do to stop remembering.