Notes: I was peer pressured to cross post my work to FFN. (All of my work is published on AO3 under this same username.) Because I struggle with "technology" on FFN, I am going to give you guys ~10 chapters at a time. Ideally. If this all works out. Please forgive my struggles.
I wrote this particular story in summer of 2020. This is it's full summary:
Pain and nightmares haunt Juniper, the victor of the 140th Hunger Games. With the guidance of her former mentor, Juniper begins to forage her way through the chaos and frustration of trying to mentor her first year as victor. Perhaps it would be more manageable if her tribute had better prospects, or maybe if unwanted rumors didn't get spread to the eager gossips of the Capitol. Regardless, she must use her skills and deal with her bubbling anger as best she can to give her tribute the chance she deserves.
This is the story of an 18-year-old girl who overcame the odds and emerged victorious, only to be broken by the life that follows. And perhaps it is also the story of a girl who slowly begins to heal despite the tragedy she's been dealt.
This AU explores the behind-the-scenes of the Hunger Games from the perspective of a new mentor. And all the drama, chaos, romance, and vase-smashing that goes with it.
Please be aware that it contains mature themes such as mental health issues, victor prostitution, etc.
This is the first story of many that I have published in the past two years. I had a lot of fun writing it, and I really hope you enjoy it.
~.~.~
CHAPTER ONE
"I am proud to present the victor of the 140th Hunger Games, Juniper Sadik of District 7!"
The camera panned across the hellscape that had once been a thriving garden, briefly showing the corpses of two tributes maimed and disfigured on the ground, and rested finally on the bloodied, battered seventeen-year-old girl kneeling in the flower beds. The axe supported her weight, and though she rose her head up towards the sky as though embracing her new title with pride, it was only the motion of the hovercraft above that caught her attention and drew her out of her pain-induced stupor. But the camera captured that one glistening moment in which this tribute, blood saturating her shredded uniform and splashed against her brown skin, accepted her fate as victor.
I snap off the television and hoist myself to my feet. I hadn't meant to watch that, especially not today, but it had slipped up on me. Sometimes it doesn't seem like that girl with the feverish eyes and the sweat dripping down her face is me. It's my same large eyes and thick eyebrows and disheveled brown hair, but it doesn't look like me at all.
There is a sharp rap at the door, and I toss the remote control on the couch. I'm already dressed. Boots, formal pants, a crisp blouse. My hair is pinned back on both sides to keep it out of my face. It seems strange that I have dressed myself without the assistance of my prep team and stylist, but today I am not the center of attention—it'll be the first time in a whole year that I was not the one everyone would be watching.
After a brief pause to adjust my hair clips in the hall mirror, I open the door to find my fellow victor and former mentor, Pitch, standing on the doorstep.
"Ready?" he asks.
I nod.
"Need to say goodbye to your parents?" Pitch suggests. He looks casual in a pair of slacks and a collared shirt, but the way his eyes flicker up and over my shoulder repeatedly reminds me that no amount of preparation can truly prepare a mentor for his tasks. He is on edge.
"Already done," I reply. Once a mentor, always a mentor, making sure that I am on top of things and keeping my parents in the loop. It doesn't bother me anymore, the way that he is always checking on me and keeping me under his wing. It's just a part of life now. But now I'm a mentor myself, and it'll be me who has to keep my tribute in line.
We walk side-by-side towards the center of town. We could have been driven. Some of the victors drove, or they had others drive them, but neither Pitch nor I are much for driving, not when there is an option to walk. Walking helps clear one's mind and organize one's thoughts. And a nice, peaceful day like this allowed one to let one's mind wander from the present concerns at hand.
But one's former mentor did not.
"Ideally, you wouldn't be a mentor in your first year as victor," Pitch says suddenly.
"So you've told me," I reply dryly.
There's a silence for a moment, and I think the issue is dropped—I am a mentor this year whether I like it or not—but then Pitch says, "I guess it's better now than later."
"I mean," he says after another pause, "you'll never really get used to it. So it's not like waiting a year or two or ten is really going to make a huge difference."
"It might for the tribute I'm mentoring," I reply. "They'd probably like someone who has seen a few Hunger Games more than me."
Liberty, for example. She is quite old and had mentored for many years. She laughed when it was suggested that she mentor again this year. "The child would do better than this old hag," the woman had said. "When was the last time I brought a tribute to victory?" Even if the comment were directed at me, I couldn't answer that; there hadn't been a great many District 7 victors over the years (though certainly more than in many other districts), so I doubted that any of the mentors had a great record.
I think of them now. In all of District 7's history, there had been a total of 15 victors. Of those fifteen, six were still alive. Their numbers had dwindled over the years. Some had passed away due to old age, others wasted away from alcohol, and still others had met their early ends. Liberty is the oldest alive. She is crippled with age and arthritis, but her mind is keen and deadly. The victor in her is still quite alive and well. After Liberty there is Bris, who had mentored some of the stronger candidates over the few years, including Pitch himself. Bris had told them that he needed a break. Pitch had argued, but it was useless. Even I could see the way the man's shoulders sagged and his strong jaw trembled at the mention of another year mentoring.
Vesa was somewhere in between Bris and Pitch, but she is nine months pregnant and due any day now. It would be cruel to put her through something like mentoring.
Finally, there is Elm, a couple years younger than Pitch, who was slated to be a mentor, but a sudden illness took him out of play. That's why I'm here, about to plunge into the unknown.
Pitch grunts in reply to my statement. "They'd probably like it if they weren't in the Hunger Games at all, but they aren't going to get what they'd like," he says.
That doesn't make me feel any better. In fact, it only makes things worse. The tributes would have nothing in their favor now.
I distract myself by watching little squirrels scamper through the trees, darting around great, hearty beings that tower high above our heads. Their needles and branches give us shade, and they allow room for the squirrels to skitter back and forth. Last year, I was so worried that I will never see them again. This year, I know that I will return, and yet I find myself aching at the thought of going weeks without these beautiful trees.
When we reach the district square, I find myself coming to a complete stop. Suddenly it feels as though I were yet another kid in the crowd waiting feverishly for the afternoon to come to an end so that I could get back to my cozy home in the woods. For several years I had huddled with those great throngs of people as they shifted uneasily from foot to foot and prayed that their own names wouldn't be chosen. And for a few flickering moments, I think—I actually think—that I am one of them, and the terror that they feel is what I feel, too. The fear is there, is palpable.
Pitch's hand rests gently on my shoulder and guides me up the stairs onto the dais where five chairs have been set up for the victors. I blinked quickly to bring myself back to the present. I'm not a district kid anymore. I have no need to fear the reaping. I am alive. My family is alive. Everything is okay. Taking a few strong breaths, I hold up my head and walk to my designated seat.
Liberty and Bris are already here. They look quite comfortable in their seats, and it makes me feel so childish as I wipe the sweat from my palms onto the thighs of my pants. Not an ounce of fear or apprehension comes from their direction, though I'm certain it radiates off me quite well. Pitch and I take our seats. Normally Elm would be sitting in between us, but since he's sick, there is no chair for him. My hands shake. Pitch quietly puts his hand over mine, and at first the warmth is comforting. But I slip my hand away; I am not a child and I will not let the Capitol or anyone else think that I need to hold someone's hand to get through this or any other ordeal.
Vesa waddles on stage, her bloated belly pushing the limits of her dress. People keep asking if she is having multiples—twins, even triplets—and she just laughs. She hasn't let anyone know what she is having or how many.
The escort, a woman by the name of Lala, stands tall next to our Mayor, Barbara Oak. They look almost comical together: the tall, thin Capitolite paired with the sturdy, stern middle aged woman. But right now, I can't find it within me to appreciate the humor. In fact, it's all I can do to glaze over and not listen to the usual speeches (though Mayor Oak is always mercifully brief in this matter).
I tune back in just in time to see Lala lean over the large bowl holding thousands and thousands of small strips of paper.
District 7 is a large district, and as I look out onto the crowd, I can truly appreciate the number of strips of paper in that bowl. There are children as far as the eye can see, squished into the clearing and piled back into the alleyways. Some kids don't even get to be this close and have to watch from neighboring community centers and parks. But the Capitol always makes it as convenient as possible with massive screens displaying live feeds of the reaping so that nobody could escape it.
You are safe. Your family is safe. You have no reason to fear, I tell myself. It is a mantra I've repeated all morning when the terror threatened to choke me. And yet I can't swallow away the lump that has lodged in my throat. There are many names in that bowl I know, but statistically, none of them would be chosen. District 7 has many elementary and high schools scattered throughout the region. Only on a few occasions had kids from my school been chosen.
"Our female tribute for the 141st Annual Hunger Games is . . ." Lala's voice doesn't really match her appearance, nor the setting. It's musical. Pleasant. Every syllable is carefully enunciated for the microphones. But the words she speaks are horrible. Her slender fingers swish around through the bowl of papers and at last pulls out the name of the condemned. ". . . Ponderosa Funar!"
I feel a relief washing through me that I wasn't expecting. A guilty sort of relief. It's not my name, is the first thing I think, which of course makes sense because my name wasn't in that bowl. I've already been a tribute. And then I realize that I am also relieved that I don't know the girl, which makes me feel quite wretched because it doesn't matter if I know her or not—she is still going to her death.
It takes several minutes before the girl is located, probably in one of the overflow areas. At last the crowd parts ever so slightly, and two peacekeepers come through with the girl between them. She walks quietly, head bowed, and between the two burly men, she looks quite small.
But as she climbs up the steps to the dais, I realize that she is small. The girl looks barely ten years old, though I know she has to be at least twelve to be reaped. A scream wells up in my throat, and my hands instinctively go to my mouth to suppress it. This can't be happening! This isn't fair! The little girl, a pale thing with limp brown hair, takes a big, shaky breath that causes her entire body to tremble.
Pitch is grabbing my arm, pulling my hand away from my mouth. I know. Immediately I lower my hands. The cameras will be focused on the girl and not me, but it would be pretty bad to have a victor freaking out onstage.
But she is a child. There is no hope for a child, none at all.
"Dear me, aren't you just so cute!" trills Lala as she pats the girl on her cheek. Then she turns back to the crowd and nears the other bowl of names, the little girl forgotten behind her.
"And our male tribute is…" Once more, that hand twirls around the bowl before withdrawing with a single piece of paper. "…Evergreen McConnell!"
This time, the tribute is in the main crowd. It still takes some time to locate him, but the crowd parts around his simple form and he begins to make his way up.
To my horror, this tribute, too, is also a child. Twelve, maybe thirteen. He appears to be on the cusp of puberty, and that is being generous.
I feel myself swaying in my seat, and Pitch shifts uneasily by my side. It's only by digging my fingernails into my thighs that I can calm myself enough to see through the rest of the "ceremony." Lala has an arm around the shoulders of each of the tributes and is thanking the audience for coming. The peacekeepers begin to lead the tributes away, and that is my cue.
I jump up and run off stage.
~.~.~
~.~.~
CHAPTER TWO
"It's not fair," I hiss at Pitch between clenched teeth. We're on the train waiting for our tributes to arrive so we can begin our journey to the Capitol.
"I know it's not fair," he snaps back at me. "But it's the Hunger Games. Nothing about this is fair."
And don't I know it. But still the anger seethes within me, and I feel the hatred that I had recently begin to quell now slosh through me. Children! These weren't teenagers—they were kids.
My hand juts out before I can control it, and I swipe a whole line of beverages off the table and onto the floor. They splash and fizzle onto the carpet, but I'm so angry that I don't care what I've wrecked, even if it means that an avox will spend an extra hour cleaning up after my tantrum.
"That's not helping!" Pitch's voice is sharp and tense. Like he is on the verge of a precipice, looking down into certain doom. And he is. We all are. There is no way we could get either one of our tributes to victory this year.
Hot tears are in my eyes now, and I lean back against the wall. I'm fighting to keep them from rolling down my cheeks.
Pitch is standing in front of me now. He grabs my chin in his hand and forces me to look up at him. I try to pull away from the sudden and pinching grip, but he won't move.
"Don't." He stares me hard in the eye. "You need to keep it together. In a week, maybe two, this will all be over. But until then, don't."
We stare at each other for several long seconds before I wrench myself away from him. This time, he doesn't fight me.
I turn my back to him and dab my eyes with the hem of my sleeve, careful to not smear the tears across my skin. What is wrong with me? I can't just go crying over every tribute I come across. I won my Hunger Games by being strong, not by sniveling and sobbing. I bite the inside of my cheeks hard to pull myself together, and I force myself to take a long, deep breath to clear my mind. I am a victor. I am a mentor. I need to be strong both for the tributes and also for myself. I cannot show the Capitol that they unnerve me so much.
At last, I turn back to face the compartment and Pitch. He is still watching me, his eyes carefully assessing every feature on my face.
"I'm fine," I say shortly. I'm not, but of course I'm not. He knows it, but he says nothing.
The tension is interrupted by Lala: "Oh my goodness, what happened here?!"
"Ants," I reply. There's still anger in my voice. But if she notices it, she says nothing about it.
"We'll have this cleaned up right away. Need to make a good impression for those tributes. They are going to love this train ride!" Lala is looking not at us, but at her tablet, where she pokes a few buttons. Almost immediately, an avox hurries out to clean up the mess.
And then she is gone, leaving Pitch, myself, and the avox in silence.
When the avox leaves, Pitch looks over at me.
"The key to being a mentor is knowing that your tributes look up to you," he says. He hesitates for a moment, but continues, "No matter what. They see you as their last hope."
I swallow hard. My throat burns. I don't feel well. I might faint. But I lean against the wall and cross my arms over my chest. No words can come up through my burning throat. It doesn't matter. Pitch is continuing, and it seems that every sentence he says is harder and harder for him to admit.
"You need to be that hope, even if they are sick or injured or crippled or . . . young. But at the same time you need to . . . you need to protect yourself."
How? I don't ask. I can't ask. I might vomit.
Pitch sits himself down on the edge of an armchair. He is still looking at me, and I can see pain clearly in his eyes. And it occurs to me what he is saying.
Year after year. He had hope. He gave us hope. He gave us a piece of himself. And the years went on with death after death after death.
He did what he could to help his tributes live, even if there was no reason for him to believe that we would. And now, years later, it has left a pain that is great and gaping but only visible if you know where to look.
I'm cold now, all heat flushed out of my body. This is my future. This is where I am. I am alive and I was so thankful to be alive, but here I am about to coach other children how to die gracefully. The coldness is in my chest, and I feel my lungs freeze. Because this will repeat over and over and over and I will watch so many of them die.
Even if I wanted to cry, I can't. My entire body is frozen.
"I will help you," he says at last. He turns away from me, and his eyes glaze over. "I will always help you."
We stay there in silence for quite some time. The avox returns and replaces the drinks that I had destroyed. And then we hear the sound of Lala's voice again, this time coaxing the new tributes behind her.
"…This is where we'll be for the next day. It will be a wonderful time, so enjoy it. Bet you haven't gone as fast as you will when you're on this train."
"Once, my dad, he took us on a car that went really fast," came the voice of the boy tribute. Evergreen. "I hope this train goes faster. Wow."
Lala walks in now, steps to the side, and sweeps out an arm dramatically. The two tributes stare wide-eyed at the compartment with all of the foods and drinks spread across the table, the plush chairs, large windows overlooking the train station, and two victors standing right before them. They're so tiny, these two kids. The girl is maybe 4'10", and the boy is about 5'1." Both of them are thin, and I doubt either of them have seen any manual labor.
"Oh! You won last year!" says the boy with great enthusiasm. He rushes over to me, stopping just a couple inches away. It's all I can do to not shrink away from him. I'm not ready for this level of excitement right now. "Great! Are you going to be my mentor?"
I open my mouth to answer, but I still feel cold and frozen. My tongue won't work.
"No, I will be your mentor," Pitch says. He stands up and comes over to join me. I am relieved, though because Pitch took this little bundle of crazy off my hands or because of the other victor's mere presence, I don't know.
"You," he says, motioning to the girl, "will be with Juniper."
The girl nods solemnly.
"Ponderosa, right?" I ask.
"Rosa," she responds. Her voice is flat and quiet.
"Alright, Rosa, we will—"
"I don't want to die!" the girl blurts out. Then she buries her head in her hands and starts to sob with great, heaving gasps that wrack her entire body.
We all stand there stunned. And none no more stunned than myself because now I am thinking only of what Pitch said, of how I will be this girl's last hope. I feel like crying myself, but I force myself to push away from the wall, stand up straight, and look down at the girl.
"Well, I don't want you to, either," I say for lack of better things. "So let's get on with it. We can talk over some lunch."
Rosa lifts her head from her hands. Tears are streaking her face and her eyes are red. Snot pours out of her nose, and I grab a cloth napkin from the table and thrust it into her hands. Her fingers wrap around the fabric for a moment before she presses it against her nose and exhales.
I feel like everyone in the room is judging me right now, seeing how I handle this little girl. I know that I will be judging myself later. I remember how Pitch always had a guiding hand to help me find my way, and I reach out to Rosa. Gently I nudge her towards the table. She follows my direction and teeters over towards the table while I pour a glass of soda and fill up a plate with various bite-size sandwiches and the sort for my tribute. Evergreen is by my elbow helping himself to his own plate, filling it up with as much as it can hold.
When I first got to the Capitol, I was flabbergasted by the sheer amount of food waste. Now, however, I have grown accustomed to the fact that people won't finish their entire meals, so I don't bother trying to tell Evergreen to limit the amount that he's piling on.
After everyone gets situated at the table, there is a brief round of introductions. Evergreen wants to be called "Green" which is fair enough since otherwise it's a mouthful. Both tributes struggle with the fact that we want to be called by our first name only, without "Mr." or "Miss" attached, but they seem to accept easily that things will be different from hereon out. And Green chuckles a bit at the fact that Lala doesn't have a last name (as she tells us—I haven't bothered to find out if this is actually true). We eat our food and I force myself to finish what I have given myself. Neither of the tributes need to be told to eat up since they have both helped themselves to seconds. Rosa finally appears brave and comfortable enough to go back and refill her own plate which is good because I have no desire to wait on her the entire time she's in the Capitol.
"You two will have a unique angle," Pitch is telling them. "Both of you so young. How old are you?"
"Twelve," they answer in unison.
What are the chances of that? Each year, the number of times your name goes into the bowls increases, so it's not very common for a twelve-year-old to be reaped—though not unheard of by any means. And to have two of them from one district is quite unusual.
What sort of "unique angle" is Pitch talking about? These kids are going to get picked off first thing. They're easy kills, and they will be some of the first to go.
"What about your . . . strengths?" I say hesitantly. I'm not sure where I'm going with this, but it seems to be in the right direction. "Do you guys have any skills or whatever?"
It takes them a moment to answer. Green answers first. I'm not surprised by this. "Yeah, I was goalie on my soccer team. Also, I have highest score in my grade in school. And I can run really fast. But I don't know how to use any weapons. Do you think that will be a problem? I think it'll be a problem. But my friends and I were talking about whether we'd be reaped or not, and we think that I might be able to win by running very quickly."
"Um, great," I say. It's not great. But I nod politely before glancing at Pitch. He sits there steadily watching Green, observing him as he did me earlier.
Rosa speaks up, "I help with the gardening, so I know a lot of plants, including wild ones. And, um, I'm not really fast, but I can climb okay. Except when it's wet then I fall a lot."
"Okay, cool." And now I'm out of things to say.
There's a silence, and then Pitch says, "It's good you know both your strengths and weaknesses. We will be working on this in the next week. However, I think it's a good idea to watch the other reapings right now so we know who our competition will be."
It sounds cruel to make these little children watch the reapings to choose which ones will kill them, but I know that Pitch is right. They are tributes, and they can't be spared anything because of their age. That will only harm them in the long run.
Standing up from the table, I excuse myself and go to the bathroom while the others begin to migrate towards the lounge car. There will be more food and drinks in there—snacks and appetizers—and then we can all snuggle in and watch the reapings together. Ugh. This is worse than I imagined.
~.~.~
~.~.~
CHAPTER THREE
I find Pitch in the lounge later that night. The tributes have long retired to their own compartments, and the staff is nowhere to be seen. Pitch sits on one end of the couch watching the various reapings for the umpteenth time, it seems. His forehead rests against his hand, propped up at an angle so that at first it's hard to tell if he is awake or asleep. I shuffle in and sit down on the opposite side of the couch.
I want to say something, but I don't know what. Last year when I was a tribute, Pitch was there and always seemed so . . . solid. He is right; he was my last hope. That's how I saw him, and that's why I relied on him. Hell, that's why I still rely on him. He was my last hope and he pulled me through it all. And now he looks beaten, weathered, and battered, like a boat left on the docks of a long-forgotten lake. The flickering glow of the television alternatively illuminates and casts into shadow his thick frame, now so hunched and defeated. Was he like this last year, strong when I was present and then withered away when no one was looking?
Words don't come, so I turn and watch the reapings. It's a quick recap showing off the various tributes. The Careers are all pretty hearty looking, as they always are, and some of them appear more bloodthirsty than others. One of them is fourteen, which is pretty rare since they are always volunteers and the complicated process of choosing the tributes tends to favor the older ones who have waited longer for the "privilege" of going to the Hunger Games. Both from District 5 are eighteen year olds. As are Districts 8 and 9. The rest of the districts have a mixture of 15, 16, 17, and 18 year olds. District 12 has a thirteen year old and an eighteen year old. So District 7 is the odd one out with two very young children.
I close my eyes for a moment, but the image of the bloodbath is emblazoned on the insides of my eyelids. I realize it's my own bloodbath, but now it has two twelve year olds who get splattered as soon as the gong sounds.
My eyelids shoot open.
"What do we do?" I ask, my voice trembling. "They're going to get killed right away. Targeted."
"I know, I know," Pitch says crossly. He rubs a hand across the stubble on his cheek and leans his head against the back of the couch, staring now at the ceiling. He groans.
"They're going to have to have some sort of powerful alliance, but who is going to want to team up with kids? They're just going to drag everyone down. I would have been pissed to have kids in my alliance, and I don't know what all the other tributes will do," I'm babbling now, but the words keep pouring out. "There is no way they're going to make it past the bloodbath. How do we give kids hope if we know that it's hopeless? Doesn't there have to be hope to begin with for us to instill it up on the others?"
"Shut up, I know," Pitch replies, cutting me off. "And keep your voice down. If they hear you. . . ."
"Sorry, sorry," I say quickly, and then I fall into silence.
I pick absently at the hem of my shirt and stare at the television screen. They've switched from the recaps to showing some of the Games—just quick little clips—of the various mentors. I see a few that I remember in recent years, but most are older. The recaps feature various highlights (most involving blood and guts) to showcase the mentors' skills. I don't want to know what my skills are. I'd like to think that the skills I used in the arena are different from the skills I will use as a mentor.
Now they're showing Pitch's Hunger Games. He was younger then, a bit thinner. Not that he's fat now, but he has had plenty to eat and access to gyms and such, so he's lost that lean athleticism that he once had. Maybe I will, too, in another fifteen or so years. They show Pitch evading pursuing tributes, and then clip to him landing the final blow. The announcer's voice proclaims him the victor of the 125th Hunger Games. I know they're going to show my Games next, and I brace myself, but then Pitch reaches over to the remote and flicks off the television.
"Let's go to sleep. We'll reconvene in the morning," Pitch says.
Neither of us move.
"I won't be able to sleep," I admit.
"Neither will I," he agrees.
How can one sleep when the life of a person is in your hands? I feel like I have just gotten over the worst of the nightmares—at least, the worse of the nightmares on a consistent basis—only to have been plunged into this terrible situation. Even if I tried to sleep, I'd just be tormented by my demons.
"Is it always like this?" I ask him. I don't want to outright ask if it was this bad last year because I'm not ready for that answer.
Pitch snorts. "No," he says. "Some years it's not half bad. Other years it's awful. On one hand, you want the years where it's easier, but then you feel like shit because you realize that you've pretty much signed the kid's death certificate because they're so annoying that you've given up, or they are pretty self-reliant and you kind of let them steer themselves which can only end in catastrophe."
If that's the case, I guess I must have been one of the awful years because I was neither annoying nor self-reliant. I'd describe myself as moderately clingy or maybe too terrified to move. But I went through the motions and learned skills and made alliances because that's what I had to do. I wasn't brave enough or clever enough to be on my own or to shirk the training stations.
"Have there been years like this one? Where there are two twelve-year-old tributes from one district?" I ask.
Pitch thinks about it for a moment. "I'm not certain. I can look into it, though."
Good. That will give us a starting point. I think. I'm not sure if that's where I'm supposed to start.
"Fine year to make you a mentor," he mutters. He's still staring at the ceiling, and he rubs his eyes.
"Well, you said it yourself. I have to be a mentor sometime, so better sooner rather than later," I say. "And besides, I have to get used to tributes dying on me regardless."
My words come out bitter. Not towards Pitch, though I know it may sound like it. It's not his fault that we were put into the arena and that we fought for our lives. It's not his fault that our lives afterwards are full of misery and hatred. I'm bitter towards the Capitol, though I will never, ever say it anywhere that the Capitol can overhear. Which is pretty much anywhere.
"That's the beauty of being a victor," Pitch says without emotion.
I nod, though I'm not sure he sees me.
"I was thinking about what you said earlier. About strengths and weaknesses," I say. I take a moment to rummage in my pocket before pulling out a slip of paper. "So I wrote down what Rosa and Green said were their strengths and stuff."
At the time, it had seemed like a really good idea, like I was being a great mentor. I had paid attention to the tributes, and I was going to help them win. But now I feel deflated and empty. The paper in my hand, crinkled and blotted with ink stains, looks amateurish.
Pitch sits up straight, leans over, and takes the paper from me. I release it and watch as he squints in the dim light and reads through it. His lips silently mouth the words. It's a short list, but we also didn't push the subject too much earlier today.
"Okay," Pitch says. He hands the paper back to me, and for a second I think that he sees how silly my small attempt at being a mentor is. But instead he continues, "Larger paper. We need to write down their strengths and weaknesses. Then how to combat the weaknesses. And how to utilize the strengths."
Hope flutters within me, and I no longer feel quite so cold. Instead, there is a soft breeze rustling the pine needles inside my chest, and I wonder if there could possibly be a way to guide these kids through the arena. I jump up and retreat to my car of the train. I am back in under a minute, this time with a pad of paper and several colorful pens.
Pitch guides me through the instructions. It's a basic chart, the name of each tribute, the strengths in one column and the weaknesses in the other. I make a separate page for each of them because even though right now we are working together, at some point our paths for mentoring our tributes may change. Since our tributes are so similar, I doubt that there will be much deviation, but I'd rather not have to rewrite my charts again.
"Green has no impulse control. Write that down," Pitch instructs. He watches me keenly as my pen glides across the paper. "He's also too eager to share with people."
And for the next ten minutes, we take turns making suggestions about the various character flaws of our tributes (more notably Green since he is more willing to interact with us) with the occasional strength peppered in. Then we move on to the physical limitations—the fact that neither of them are large, that neither of them know how to use any weapons—and we try to build a plan for each of them that utilizes their skills to compensate for what they don't know. Green is little, but he's spry. He can't hold a large weapon, but he'd probably kick ass with a slingshot. ("Don't overlook the little things," Pitch instructs me, "even when it seems like they won't hold up against everyone else's talents and training.") Rosa is sweet, and it's unlikely that many tributes would be willing to kill her even if the Careers would be gunning to take her out first thing.
"We—you—will need to give her an angle, something that will give her an edge in the arena," Pitch says. My pen is finally motionless for the moment as I listen to him. "Every tribute has an angle, as I told you last year, and there's no reason to pretend that she's something she's not. She can't be presented as a ruthless killer. Would never hold up."
"She is too young to be sly or strong or anything like that," I say. "I mean, we can say that she's agile, but isn't every small tribute taking that angle?" There were at least three last year who tried to present themselves as nimble, sneaky, and clever. It's very overdone, and it seems to be the default for kids who can't hold a weapon without hurting themselves.
"However, she is innocent," Pitch says.
"Aren't most of them?"
"None look it more than her," he says. "We will see if we can get her a protector—someone who is willing to take her under their wing in the arena. That might be her only chance at survival."
I rub my eyes wearily. "And let's say that she's made it to the finale. Does she just out-cute everyone until they're dead?" I grumble.
"Then she is on her own," Pitch says.
I hate it. I lower my hands and stare at him. "Excuse me?"
Pitch looks wearily at me. "At some point in the arena, you realize that your tributes are out of your hands. They make their own choices. You can support them with sponsorship gifts—if you get any—but they need to make their own way through the arena."
"So I just abandon her there? 'Great job, kiddo. You've made it to the top eight. Here's a swift kick in the ass to help you along. Have fun now.'" My eyes lock hard on my former mentor. "Is that what you did to me?"
Pitch groans. "Yes, okay? I'm not sure what else to tell you. I could line up the sponsorships and reward you for a job well done, but otherwise you were on your own. You had to fight your own battles and pay for your own missteps. I couldn't do anything about that."
His words sink into me. It only makes sense. He couldn't teach me a new skill inside the arena, or ask the Gamemakers to direct a mutt away from me. That wasn't within his control. But the casual bluntness with which he speaks angers me, and my insides grumble.
I stay there only for a few more minutes. Neither of us makes an attempt to speak again, and I'm okay with that. In the silence, I am acutely aware of the motion of the train and the hum from its engine as it carries us along towards the Capitol. Every minute, every mile, we are closer and closer to that spiteful place, and I want nothing more than to be back in District 7. My eyes close, and for a second I almost succumb to sleep, but at the last moment, I force myself off the couch. Without saying goodbye to Pitch, I head back towards my compartment. It is only when I am halfway there that I realize I forgot my list behind, but I am too irritated to return and pick it up. Let it sit there. Let everyone see what we really think about our tributes. I don't care. I force the anger back down into my chest and slip into my room. When the door is fully closed, I peel off my clothing and head towards the shower.
~.~.~
~.~.~
CHAPTER FOUR
"Firstly, you're going to go get all made up," I say to the tributes the next morning after breakfast. Our train has slowed down significantly so we are just crawling along at a walking pace. I know that we are close to the Capitol and are just biding time until they are ready to accept two more tributes. The arrivals are staggered so that not everyone is coming at once. After all, they don't want the tributes to see each other until tonight at the ceremony.
"You'll get a bath in some expensive soaps. They're going to remove any excess hair from your bodies—" I pause a moment, "if you have any, that is. Then they'll style your hair, and put make-up on you, and whatever else you need."
"I don't need make-up," Green splutters. He drops his fork.
"Tough luck," I say. "They like to put make-up on everyone. Boy or girl, doesn't matter. It's really not that bad."
"Ugh," the kid groans.
"I want make-up," says Rosa. "I never got to wear any."
"Great, then you'll like tonight. It's like a costume party." That's the most optimistic way I can describe it. Our stylists for District 7 aren't bad, but they certainly could be better. Last year, they made us look like statues with great vines wound around our stone bodies. I'm not sure what its significance was supposed to be, but it ended up being somewhat prophetic considering the vines and sculptures within the arena. Still, at least it wasn't like District 1 whose tributes wore nothing but jewels and sequins.
Rosa grins. "An ugly costume party," she says. So clearly she's seen a few Hunger Games.
"Yeah, except don't say that. The stylists try hard. They're just . . ."
"Misguided," Pitch answers as he walks in the room. He's dressed in fresh slacks, a vest, and a long-sleeve shirt. It'll be warm in the Capitol, but neither of us will likely see much of any natural daylight, at least not in person. Inside will be kept cool and comfortable.
"Remember what we talked about yesterday with strengths?" he asks them as he takes a seat next to Green, opposite from me. He doesn't give them a chance to respond. "Today as you are getting all made up for the event, think about your strengths. And also think about your weaknesses. We'll talk about them again tonight so that we know where to focus tomorrow and the next few days."
The tributes eagerly agree and the four of us finish our breakfast with nothing more than idle chatter. There is talk of all the things that the Capitol holds—Green is full of questions—but it's nothing more than curiosity. As I listen to them, I wonder if either tribute understands the gravity of the situation; this is more than just a sight-seeing tour despite the strangeness of it all. This is a murder pageant and they are the stars. My breakfast is light because I know I'll never be able to keep anything down, but I'm happy to see that both kids are eating heartily. It takes three plates and a bowl of oatmeal before Green is finally finished, and though Rosa eats considerably less, she refills her plate at least twice.
Once the train finally comes to a stop, breakfast is over and the plates have been cleared away. Lala appears and begins to motion for the children to follow after her. I hang back in the dining car and watch as the two tributes eagerly trail after the escort. Green chatters the entire time, asking questions (some of them quite personal, but I feel little sympathy for Lala), and Pitch and I follow after them.
The tributes are transferred to a vehicle to take them to their prep teams, but Pitch and I stay behind. It seems wrong to leave our young charges like this, but he insists that I follow him.
"That is their own time to become acquainted with their style teams," Pitch reminds me as he leads me to another vehicle. "I want to introduce you to some people."
I don't want to meet anyone, but I don't say anything. Pitch is showing me the ropes, and I'm grateful to have him.
We travel in silence. I hate cars. They could be bugged. And there are a million questions I want to ask Pitch right now, starting with first who these people are. I'm hoping they're a bunch of avoxes so that I don't have to do much talking and even less listening. When the car finally comes to a stop, I know that my wish has not been granted. We are at the training center, and my stomach flips.
"Why are we back here?" I croak. I never wanted to see this place again. For some reason, I didn't think that I'd have to come here. It's stupid because I know that the mentors stay with the tributes. Still, it hadn't figured into my understanding of life after victory. It's not just the arena that's a horrible place, but the events leading up to it. As victors, we know that we'll never have to go to the arena again, but some part of me thought that I'd be free from this building for the rest of my life.
"This will be our home base for the next week or two," he says. He glances at me. "Oh, lighten up. It's not so bad when you're not one of the animals to be slaughtered."
He says it so lightly that I shoot him a glare. Was this the same man who told me that I am to be my tribute's last hope?
Still, we clamber out of the car, and I have to keep my body from shaking. Like at the reaping, I hold my head up and keep pace with Pitch as we walk through the doors.
The stiff coldness blasts into me the moment I come in. My breath catches in my throat, and I feel myself trembling so badly that I think I won't be able to hold myself up much longer. I'm back. I'm back here, and I am just as terrified as I was a year ago. Once again, a sudden rush of fear is upon me as though I am a tribute. It's so real that I can taste it.
Pitch's hand is on my shoulder again, bringing me back to the present. I am okay. I am alive. I have no reason to be afraid. I allow him to guide me down a hallway and towards a set of elevators I've never used before. We wait for only a few moments before the doors slide open, and then we are gliding up several levels. When the doors open again, we're presented with another hallway. A thick carpet guides us down the corridor, and I try to take in the number of doors we're passing so that next time I come here—I suspect I will—I won't get lost. But my mind is blurry and it's difficult remembering it all. There is a click, and a door opens to our left. Pitch's hand leaves my shoulder, and we step into a large room.
Consoles line each side of the wall, and there is a giant window on the opposite side. I've seen these sorts of windows before; they are not really windows but an enormous television screen. Right now it displays a view of the Capitol streets as though it is really allowing us a glimpse into the outside world, but a large clock in the bottom right corner counts down the time until the Hunger Games begin. Once the Hunger Games start, the people in this room will not be able to escape it no matter how hard they try. There's an open doorway to the left of the screen, and another on the adjacent wall, though I can't see where either goes. My eyes are already returning to the small stations in this room. Each station has a computer screen and a chair. There appear to be cup holders and small trays for food. And I realize that this is the mentor room where we will be tracking our tributes.
"Alright, let's see who is here," Pitch says. And it's only then that I realize that there are people in this room—a lot, actually—and they are all staring at me.
I draw in a deep breath.
"Hey, Pitch, who did you bring here?" calls out one voice. It's a woman, and she immediately steps forward. Of course she knows who I am—how could she not?—but she pretends not to. She is a tall woman standing well over my 5'7" frame, but slender. Her skin is so dark that it's almost black, and its smooth and flawless. Her hair is drawn back and interwoven with gold hues. But it's her smile that really draws me to her. There is something so relaxing about the way she beams at my former mentor as though she is genuinely happy to see him.
"This is Juniper," Pitch says needlessly. Then to me he says, "Juniper, this is Demeter from District 11."
It occurs to me that maybe I should have studied up on my fellow victors before I came. I try to recall what year Demeter won, but I knew it was well before my time, maybe even before I was born. The woman standing before me is about forty or so, though it's hard to tell. Victors don't always age like most do in the districts since they have all of the Capitol advantages.
"It's nice to meet you," I say somewhat stiffly, extending a hand.
Demeter grins at me now. "So formal! We don't really do with formalities when we don't need them." But she shakes my hand regardless. Her grip is firm, and I feel that maybe I have already committed a faux pas in the victor world, so I am relieved when she releases my hand.
"Hey, new victor!" comes a call, followed by a whoop shortly afterwards by a second person. Then two victors—a male and a female only a couple years older than me—stroll over.
"Nice to see some fresh blood around here," says the girl. She has a lopsided grin, and she casually sweeps back her thick blond hair away from her face. Her pine green eyes gleam with delight, and she has pronounced dimples in each of her fair cheeks. It's Isolde Lee from the 135th Hunger Games. And the guy beside her is Hammer Williams who won the year before. Both are from District 1. I feel myself cringing, stepping backwards. Careers! Ugh!
Pitch is right behind me. "No need to freak her out," he says, but I hear levity in his voice.
Isolde laughs. "Right. We just said hi." She winks at me.
Hammer leers down at me. "Just greeting the newest addition," he adds. He's not making me feel very welcomed, though I suppose it's not the point.
And then Pitch is showing me off to everyone. There are at least half a dozen others he introduces me to. Rikuto Cord, the District 6 boy who won the year before me; Colton Farms and Lady McClure from District 10; Gill Tide from District 4. The names and faces start to blur together, and I can't remember exactly who else he has me greet. It's funny because even though some of them are Careers—and quite daunting to meet in person—everyone is rather jovial with each other like it doesn't matter. My shoulders begin to relax a little, and I even start to drift away from Pitch to take in the sights of the room.
It's amazing, really. Everything is down to a science in this place. Each workstation has its own computer screen—a touch screen—with a small keyboard on the table beneath it. There is a tray and a drink holder that slide out of a compartment so they can be pushed back and out of the way, and the chair looks to be incredibly comfortable. There are twenty-four stations, each one with a number assigned above it. The numbers are in pairs—two 1s next to each other, two 2s next to each other, etc.—and I realize that they have them assigned to each mentor. I find myself drawn to the pair of 7s at the end of a row. This will be for Pitch and myself. This is where we will keep track of our tributes.
"Sorry about your tributes," says Rikuto, coming up to stand next to me. He does look sorry, and he also looks stressed in general. "But I guess it's better than losing your tribute in the last day."
I frown. What? No, it most certainly is not! These are kids we're talking about, not machines. And this is no simple log-rolling contest. This is for people's lives. I squint hard at him.
Rikuto shrugs. "You'll see," is all he says before he meanders away.
He doesn't know what he's talking about. After all, this is only his second year as mentor. Brushing aside his stupid comments, I turn and survey the rest of the room. There's those two doors. . . . Throwing a glance at Pitch (he's nicely wrapped up in conversation with someone), I head towards the open doorways.
The first one I choose is a hallway that leads to the bathrooms. Well, that makes sense. Better than having to leave the room entirely and wander back down the main hallway. The second door appears to be some sort of lounge with a large number of couches and small tables. There are no computer screens in here, but there are televisions. Several potted plants are displayed on tables. A long, empty table is against the far wall, and I imagine they must put food and drink there. And weirdly enough, there is a corner that has one of those running machines (treadmill, I think it's called?) and a punching bag. What strange decorations. I meander out of the room to find that the conversation Pitch is having is winding down.
Still, I don't go over to him. Instead I pretend to be engrossed in the finer details of the giant screen. I don't want to return to Pitch every time I'm not certain what to do. What does that say about me as a mentor if I can't stand on my own? And I certainly don't want to willingly engage with any of the other victors. They kind of freak me out, to be honest.
But then Isolde is by my side, wrapping an arm around my shoulder. "C'mon, we're going out to lunch," she says.
I stammer a protest. No way do I want to go out with her.
"Where are we going?" asks Hammer, suddenly looming up before us.
She rolls her eyes dramatically. "Not you. This is for girls only," she says loudly.
And now everyone is watching us. Pitch is watching me, in the way that he has, as though he is still trying to assess me to see how I will handle the arena. I realize now that it's an important moment in which people will determine whether I am merely Pitch's lackey or if I am my own person. Despite my reservations, I know that I have no other choice but to concede.
"Yeah, okay," I say to Isolde. Because even though I want Pitch to step in and rescue me, it can't happen.
"Great," says the District 1 victor. And it's weird because she looks like she really means it, that she really wants my company.
~.~.~
~.~.~
CHAPTER FIVE
The restaurant Isolde chooses is a small hole in the wall place not far from the training center. She is on first-name basis with the owner, who ushers the four of us—Isolde, Demeter, Lady, and myself—into a small back room where we can enjoy our meal in private. I feel dwarfed by the presence of such powerful people, and I allow Isolde to order me into the seat next to her.
"Us girls have to stick together," she confides in me with a lower voice.
I don't know what she wants from me, and this bothers me. My teeth grind together, but I manage to appear polite on the outside at least. Every instinct tells me to get away from her because she is a Career, and yet Demeter and Lady are very much at ease in her presence. So was Pitch, otherwise he wouldn't have let me leave.
So instead I take in the scenery. I'm not certain what type of food this place serves, but I am grateful for this little room they put us in. It's small, and there are a couple other tables—both empty—and many photographs on the walls. I don't recognize all of the places, but they're beautiful. Each one captures a different emotion: cheer, melancholy, solitude, peace. There are empty fields with wind-blown wheat, great towering mountains, calm lakes, waves breaking across the rocky shorelines. I wish I could stand up and look at them in greater detail, but I know I should sit where I am and pay attention to the conversation, however mundane or confusing it is. The others are chattering away, catching up after their time apart. Demeter got married, Isolde is pursuing a university degree through the Capitol, Lady is considering methods to improve milk production in District 10's dairies. I have no part in the conversation. A waiter comes by and takes our order partway through, but Isolde places her order for the entire table so that the rest of us don't have to even touch the menu. Then it's back to chattering.
"District 7 has had a lot of successes in the past couple decades," Isolde is saying to the others. Technically it's to all of us, but I have kind of zoned out. It's all I can do to hold onto the conversation as the words pass by me.
"Certainly a lot more than District 11," says Demeter.
"District 10 can do with another winner soon," says Lady. Unlike the other two, she is more reserved. Her face is narrow and her eyes cautious. But her words are steady. "Not sure if it'll be this year, though."
Why do they talk about this so openly, so lightheartedly?
The waiter brings a plate of bread with some sort of oil sauce that I assume we are supposed to dip it into. But I'm not hungry. I feel like I'll never be hungry again.
"What do you think about your tribute, Juniper?" asks Demeter.
And then I have to talk. I buy myself time by stuffing a large chunk of bread into my mouth and chewing slowly. They are watching me, waiting for my reaction.
So I shrug. "I-unno," I manage through my mouthful of carbohydrates. They watch me, amused, for a few more seconds before they go back to their conversation, and I am left to swallow a wad of food that I don't think I can force down my throat.
"Remember that one year when we had five twelve-year-old tributes?" Demeter asks the others. They murmur about it like it has great significance, so I find my ability to speak again.
"What happened?" I ask despite the bread barrier.
"They all got mowed down in the bloodbath," replies Isolde. "Boom-boom-boom-boom-boom. Easy kills for those Careers."
My stomach rolls. I wish I hadn't asked.
I can't force myself to eat any more, not even when big steaming plates of pastas and mussels and crab appear on our table. I can't even eat the small salad that is placed in a tiny dish next to my glass of water. Instead I stare intently at the water glass, watching the drops of condensation bead down the side.
"Eat. It'll get better," says Lady. When I don't respond, she reaches across the table, picks up my plate, and scoops a generous portion of pasta on it. "Won't do your tributes a bit of good if you're half dead yourself. Eat and keep up your strength."
I do as I am commanded, though my hand is heavy and the fork might as well be made of concrete. Every movement from plate to mouth to plate is a monumental task. And chewing is almost impossible. Still, I gag down as much of the pastas I manage to make past my lips. The others are talking while eating, and occasionally they shoot me glances.
"What do you think about seeing the Capitol from this angle?" Demeter asks gently.
I shrug. Why do they insist I talk with them?
"Don't worry too much about it," she says. She smiles pleasantly at me. "It's all a big shock. The rest of us have had years to get used to the change."
"I guess change is one way to put it," says Isolde. "Such a different culture. So much to learn and all these stupid customs. Like the other day, someone asked me if I wanted iced tea—I was at a restaurant—and I said yes. And the iced tea was brought in by an avox but that avox wasn't allowed to pour it for some weird customary reason or something, so then even though the avox was quite capable of pouring it, someone else had to come in and do it. Completely weird."
"I swear I'll never get used to it," says Lady.
"Or get used to the weird comments. And the staring," said Isolde.
"They'll give up on you eventually," says Demeter. "When you're old like me, the novelty wears off."
Isolde turns to me. "How old are you?" she asks.
I perk up. That's an easy question. Too easy. She should already know this.
"Eighteen," I say cautiously.
The three women exchange glances.
"Has anyone talked to you yet?" asked Demeter. "Besides victors?"
I shake my head. "No, I just got here this morning. Haven't met anyone besides you guys."
"Just stick close to Pitch, okay," Demeter says.
"What?" I ask. "What does that mean?" That's exactly what I don't want to do. I don't want to be seen as some sort of childish creature who has to continue to be mentored. My grip on the fork tightens.
Another round of glances.
"So no one's going to tell me?" I ask. "What does Pitch have to do with this?"
"All we mean is that when you have to leave the training center, don't do so without Pitch," says Demeter.
"Why do I need to be babysat?" I ask.
The three women don't say anything to me, but they are clearly saying something to each other by the way they exchange more looks. I can't read their expressions though, and I don't know what they're trying to convey. Whatever it is, it involves me but I'm not allowed to know.
Irritation tumbles around within me. "Why did you invite me out to lunch?" I demand.
Demeter glances around her, allowing a waiter to fully pass by the door before she turns back to me. When she speaks, her voice is calm but low. "We invited you out to eat because we wanted to," she says. "That's the genuine answer. Sometimes we victors like to do things together when we're in the Capitol. It helps us manage things better. But. . . ."
Her voice trails off as though she is trying to build a carefully constructed sentence in her head before she lays it out before me.
And I'm right. She continues, "Sometimes victors come out of the arena and they can handle themselves just fine. Other times, they need a bit more guidance."
"I don't need guidance," I interject sharply. It's irrational because I know that I need guidance, and I'm sure it's very clear to them. But to have someone outright say it to me is another matter entirely. I am just as capable as any of them. I killed people, just like them. I survived, just like them.
"Listen. You're just quiet and, I dunno, morose," says Isolde. She doesn't allow me to interject. "You have to be keen and watchful. Watch everything and everyone. So until you learn that skill, it's best that you stick with Pitch. Don't let any of us pull you away from him again."
Now the anger has flared up within me. I stand up sharply, knocking back my chair and sending my silverware clattering to the floor.
"I'm done here. I'm going back to the training center."
Morose my ass. I am struggling with the things I did last year and how I can help a couple of helpless tributes this year. If I'm withdrawn from others, there's probably a damned good reason. If they are too stupid enough to see it, then that's their prerogative. Before I know it, I am out the door and in the bright sunlight of the Capitol streets.
The fresh air should calm me, but the air here is far from fresh. It's tainted with the smell of fuel and the sweat of people, for lack of better description. There is nothing crisp and fresh about it, not like back home at District 7. And now in the heat of the day, the sun is burning down on me, so I keep a quick pace and head back to the Training Center. I am relieved when I see the building before me because I have never been in the Capitol like this, and I half expected me to get turned around in the short walk back. My pace quickens as I bound through the door, make a beeline for the elevator, and return to the room I last saw Pitch.
He isn't here. In fact, nobody is. Shit.
But I take several breaths to calm down and then plop into the chair at one of the "7" stations. I focus myself and try to pretend like I know what I'm doing and I'm not completely lost. My fingers run across the keyboard which is smooth underneath my touch. We learned how to type a bit in school, and I had learned quickly. It was a skill many of us would need for future work in data entry or management or scheduling. But this keyboard is different than the ones I used; the keys are barely raised above the glossy surface. Not nearly as clunky as the one back home in our classroom.
The computer screen piques my curiosity, so I touch it with my index finger. Immediately the screen comes to life with "Welcome Juniper Sadik, District 7." And then it displays my own little tribute, Ponderosa Funar, in her school picture, wearing a worn school uniform jumper. She is smiling, though, and I am dismayed to see that she is still missing one of her adult teeth that hasn't come in quite yet. It makes her look even younger despite the fact that I knew a couple kids who, at age twelve, were still getting in the last of their adult teeth.
I skim through Rosa's vitals. Her age, date of birth, blood type, height, weight, blood pressure, etc. There is nothing really revolutionary on it. There are several categories that haven't been filled in yet, such as alliances, sustained wounds, weapons, supplies, and estimated survival time. It's that last one, as well as the "likelihood of victory" that really piss me off. This little girl has been reduced to mere stats. I know that it must have done the same for me, too, but I'm not angry for myself. There is no reason to be. I'm angry for her.
"Juniper?" I turn around at the sound of Pitch's voice. "C'mon, we have to get ready for the opening ceremonies."
I push myself out of the chair and step away from the console. The computer screen immediately dims and blacks out. I find myself falling in pace with Pitch as we leave the room, but I know that once again he is leading me and I am following. Part of me wants to yell at him that I can do this on my own, but I push that part down because I know that this is not the case. As much as I want to rebel against everyone and show those other victors that I am not a mere child, I know that my ability to mentor is about zilch and I need guidance to get me through it. And would not throwing a tantrum show them that I am too immature? What would that get me?
Pitch leads me back down the hallway to the elevators back to the ground floor. Then there is another set of elevators—the main ones, the ones I dread—which lead us to the District 7 apartments. My chest tightens, and I press my shoulder against the cool metal of the elevator. Once again, I tell myself that I am safe and that I am alive. But it's hard to tell that illogical, emotional part of you that you are safe when you are retracing your steps to a place in which you endured unimaginable suffering. And yet here we are.
The elevator opens, and Pitch and I step out. He begins to walk, but I'm frozen.
Turning to me, Pitch says, "Don't worry—you'll get a different room this year." So I force myself to follow him. My feet shuffle across the carpet, and my pace is slow. How can he move so smoothly, without hesitation? It doesn't seem right.
At last he motions towards a door. I recognize it as being one of the mentor's bedrooms, though I had no reason to explore this part of the apartments last year and had only seen the doors from down the hallway. I try the handle, and the door opens to reveal a comfortable room decorated sparsely with pine boughs and candles. A king-size bed is the main feature in the room, though nightstands, a writing desk, and a wardrobe are also present. Each one is carved roughly out of wood, and it's beautiful. A far better thing than the cold and clinical room that I was in as tribute.
"It's to give us a piece of home," Pitch says. He is leaning against the doorway, watching me take in the room. "Now get dressed. Pick whatever you want out of the wardrobe because the cameras won't be on us tonight."
He leaves then, closing the door behind him.
I take a quick shower to wash away the grime of the train ride and my brief time in the Capitol. Then I pull on a pair of slacks and a sweater. Nights get cold here, I remember, and since the parade is outdoors, I can expect to be a bit chilly.
For several minutes, I sit at the foot of my bed and think about the lunch engagement. Why did those victors really ask me out? Surely it wasn't because they felt like it, as they said. It didn't seem right that Careers and non-Careers would get along together so well after all that was done year after year in the arena. And yet they seemed to genuinely like me, or at least not dislike me. Perhaps they were doing me a favor. . . . But then, what about the hushed conversation and meaningful glances back and forth? There was a whole other conversation going on that I hadn't been a part of, and it disturbs me greatly when I reflect on it because I am so clueless.
There's a sharp rap at my door. "Coming," I reply as I pull on my boots and half-skip, half-stagger over towards the door. I have my shoelaces fastened before I open it, and I'm not surprised that it's Pitch once again. Together, we leave the apartment and head out to greet our tributes.
~.~.~
~.~.~
CHAPTER SIX
Tasha and Leander, the District 7 stylists, have really done well this year. Both Rosa and Green are dressed in age-appropriate outfits, which is better than some of the tributes get. Their make-up is minimal, and their clothing appears comfortable. This year, they are dressed as little rodents of some sort emerging from a large bush, with the chariot itself decorated up as the bush. But as stupid as that sounds, the important part is that their clothing is not revealing and their makeup not too garish.
"Wow, looks . . . pretty cool," I manage as Rosa and Green grin at me.
"This is so much better than those people," says Rosa, nodding over towards the District 9 chariot where the tributes are naked except for some strategically placed wheat shafts that have been tied and twisted into patterns. I wonder if it's legal to put kids in those sorts of outfits. Not that the Capitol really cares about legality.
"Once we're back in the apartments, we'll show you your rooms and have some dinner," I say to them.
I can see that stage fright is starting to take over. The excitement of the evening is waning away as the chariots from the first couple districts begin to line up, and our tributes realize that they will be up soon. The gleam leaves their large eyes, and they begin to tremble.
"You're going to be just fine," I call out to them as their chariot begins to move away from me. I'm not sure if they heard.
Pitch is behind me now, beckoning me to follow him. I do, dodging the District 10 chariot that seems to be gunning right for me.
We head inside and find a comfortable place to sit down on a couch and watch the parade on television. It's not until I am on the couch a couple feet from Pitch that I realize how tightly clenched my hands are. Slowly I open them, but I can feel that my nails had dug into my palms. Fortunately they drew no blood.
There are other tributes here. Isolde walks over and plops down right between Pitch and me, making herself quite comfortable. At first I'm afraid she will mention this afternoon, but it's as though the event never happened.
"Wish I had some popcorn," she says.
No. I start to stand up to move when she grabs my arm and pulls me right back down. I land with an "Oomf!" and shoot her a glare.
"You're staying right here," Isolde says without even looking at me. Her eyes are locked on the television.
Various mentors are staggered around the room, some watching and others just here because there's apparently nowhere else to be.
The parade is dreadfully boring. I don't know if it has always been this way, and now that I've been there, done that it seems a repetitive and pointless, or maybe this is just this particular year. But I am quite relieved when it is over and everyone begins to scatter in their various directions. We wait for our tributes to return, and then the four of us and Lala head upstairs to the District 7 apartments.
Dinner is a casual affair. Lala doesn't expect much in ways of table manners from either the tributes or the mentors, which is one reason that she is relatively tolerable. Her focus is on the outward appearance and how people outside of this apartment will view us, so she can be rather offensive when it comes to getting ready to go somewhere. But within the confines of the apartments, she will let us eat off the floor if we so feel inclined. All of us sit at the table with decent manners regardless.
The tributes are excitedly chattering about tomorrow and what to expect with training. Lala is giving pointers that may make sense if you're outside the Hunger Games looking in but won't be very useful once you're in the arena. So Pitch steps in, instructing the tributes which stations to go, how best to approach other tributes, and such. I watch Rosa and Green carefully. I think Rosa understands, but for Green, it goes in one ear and out the other. He nods as though he gets it, but he doesn't.
"I've been thinking about my strengths and weaknesses," Rosa offers as we start on dessert. (Has anyone seen that I have only been pushing food around my plate and not eating it?)
"What do you have?" I asked.
Rosa clears her throat. "Strengths," she begins. "I am good at gardening and I can climb somewhat. I think I already said those. But I can also use pruning shears and I know a lot about chemicals because that's what we used in the gardens."
Gardens. I stifle a shudder. How did I end up with a damned gardener as a tribute?
But Rosa's still talking, and I must listen. I tune out the nausea and focus on her words. "I've used a hatchet once or twice. I mean, like, more than that, but you know what I mean. I don't use it all the time. Um. I have nice penmanship. Once I went camping with my uncle and saw him light a fire, though he wouldn't let me try it myself. We did make a tent out of pine boughs, though."
"And I once won an award at a spelling bee!" Green announces proudly.
"Spelling won't save you in the arena," Rosa points out bluntly.
"I know that, duh," says Green with a dramatic eye roll. "But I am calm under pressure, see. There were like a couple hundred or maybe a thousand people watching me."
"Right, well, when you get into training tomorrow," I start before either of them can continue, "Focus on the survival stations. You won't learn how to use a new weapon overnight."
"Green, you know how to use a slingshot?" Pitch asks.
"Yeah," says the tribute.
"You good at it?"
Green shrugs. "Sure. Knocked out a few birds a few times."
"Great. That's your skill. Make sure that you don't show it to anyone."
Green grins. Proud, I am sure, to have a secret skill.
Rosa looks at me as though waiting for me to endow upon her a magical skill that she can utilize in the arena. But I can't. There's nothing I've really thought of yet. So instead I say, "Rosa, pay close attention in the training. See what areas you excel in and which ones you need to work on. Then let me know tomorrow night."
It seems to satisfy her, and we go back to our dessert.
Dinner ends and we send the kids to bed, telling them that it's how things work in the Capitol. Neither of them know any better, and we aren't going to make them stay up late to watch the recap of the parade when they were there themselves. If they were older, perhaps we would sit them down and work on it from a strategic angle, but there is no point, really. It's best that they rest up.
Pitch catches me in the hallway as I'm about to retire for the night. I brought a couple books from home, and I'm hoping they distract me well enough that I don't have to think about the Hunger Games at all until the nightmares come. But even a few moments of reprieve would be appreciated.
"Good job tonight. With Rosa and Green," he says.
I nod, unable to say anything. How can I describe the overwhelming hopelessness that I feel in my chest when I look at those two tributes? Surely no words are needed; surely Pitch himself feels it. I lean against the wall and look up at him.
"It will get harder," he says. "I'm sorry. I wish I could say otherwise. It wouldn't be so bad if they would just . . . reap them and throw them in the arena the next day. Instead we get to spend time with them and bond with them and . . . ." He falters.
Do I comfort him? What does one say in a situation like this? I think of our conversation yesterday, of how he went through this year after year. In inhale deeply to calm myself.
"Pitch, the other victors . . . ." I start, but then I don't know where to go with it. I want to mention what they said, about sticking closer to him and honing my observations skills. I kind of want to complain about it because it might help relieve some of the pressure from my brain, but then I realize that it would be extremely stupid and selfish to bring up something so trivial.
"They're messed up. We're all messed up," he says when I don't finish my thought. "I don't think there is a way to get around that."
"The Career victors . . . we get along with them?" I ask.
"They're as much in this as we are. Some of them you'll want to stay away from, but Isolde and Hammer aren't bad. They're mostly just for show."
Right, but I can't get over how Hammer sized me up when we first met. And I have no desire to spend any time with Isolde.
"Damn, what a stupid name. Hammer," I manage to say.
Pitch chuckles.
But our conversation is interrupted by Lala from the sitting room, no doubt thinking she is alone. She's on her phone and she keeps her voice low, but we're still able to hear it.
"…Yeah, it's just completely not fair," she is saying to the phone. "How am I supposed to get promoted when I'm handed this lot? Twelve year olds? They won't make it more than a couple minutes. And then there's the problem with the mentor…"
I start. Me? Am I the mentor? There is no problem with me. And how dare she talk about the tributes that way? They're ALIVE. They're not merely stepping stones on her path to success. I begin to move towards her, but Pitch's arm moves out and he blocks my path, nudging me back to where I was. I comply, but barely, because I am once again listening to the escort.
"District 7 is a filthy place, and I was so looking forward to being out of there," she whispers. There's a longing and desperation in her voice. "This will be my last year with District 7, I'll see to that. I'll just have to figure out a way to spin it so that the failure of this district doesn't fall on me. Listen, I'm about to get in the elevator, so I'll talk with you in a bit."
The phone goes silent as the elevator doors slip open. Lala's heals click against the carpet as she steps inside. And with a soft whoosh, the doors close behind her.
Pitch and I are silent for several long seconds. I press my palms against the smooth, cool wall and try to regain my composure. Every ounce of me wants to pounce away from here, tear down the hallway towards the elevator, and hunt that woman down. I don't know what I'll do when I find her, but it will surely be a horrible thing. Maybe I'll gut her and then I'll throw her entrails—
Pitch puts an arm around me, pulling me close to his side. I'm so startled by this that it wakes me from my murderous plans.
"This is why I didn't want you to be a mentor," he says quietly. His voice strains. "It's one thing to know that the Capitolites hold these beliefs but it's another entirely to be witness to it."
"I'll have to learn eventually." I gulp for breath to keep myself calm. But it's breath after breath that I need to take in to keep myself level, and I can feel myself getting lightheaded.
Pitch faces me, pulls me closer, and kisses my forehead gently.
"Go to sleep," he says.
"Fine," I say. But it takes me a moment to move. He releases me, and I step back, not certain if I really want to be that close to him. He's my mentor. He's my senior. And . . . and I don't really know. For a brief moment, I was comforted, calmed. It wasn't a romantic gesture, at least I don't think so, and I wouldn't mind if he did it again. But he doesn't of course.
A sound down the hallway draws my attention—Pitch turns, too—but there is nothing there.
"Probably just the elevator," Pitch says. I nod, give the hallway one last look, and then head to my bedroom where I lay on the bed and try to hold onto that moment of calm in the sea of nightmares.
~.~.~
~.~.~
CHAPTER SEVEN
The arena is so large and complex that I can't begin to understand it. I wish I had a map, but I'm only a tribute and we don't have those things. The viewers at home would—at least, they would have the pieces of the arena revealed to them as the tributes discovered more and more of it. In the end, they'd receive a jigsaw puzzle map to help them keep track of their favorite tributes.
From here, I can see the hedge maze looming up in the distance. I don't want to go there. Hell no, I don't want to go there. So I run away, heading towards what appears to be a lovely rose garden. I know that it can't possibly be lovely, but at least it's not a giant maze filled with death traps. The pack bangs against my back and the hatchet in my belt thumps against my hip. It'll bruise when it's hanging there, but at least it's there. At least I got away from the bloodbath with supplies and a weapon.
My tennis shoes crunch on the manicured lawns as I slip by the topiaries and head towards the roses. Once I am on the gravel path that winds its way between rosebushes, I wonder why the hell I chose to come here. The maze is probably full of horrors, but at least there's some cover. Anyone can see me through the bushes here; there is no place to hide.
And I'm found almost immediately. The District 3 male, who had tried and failed to join the Careers, is upon me. His footsteps are loud, and I can tell he's gaining on me. I look over my shoulder to see that he's leaping over a smaller rosebush. Within moments, he will have his sword on my neck. I cannot run away. There is no place to hide. So I do what I know I must.
I turn around and face him.
This takes him off guard, and though he swings his sword, I duck it easily enough. My fingers find the hatchet and I pull it out. Shit, am I really going to use this? Am I really going to swing this weapon and kill someone? It's only the first day! There hasn't been enough time for the gravity of the situation to force me to murder. And yet, here I am, hatchet in hand. District 3 swings his sword again. I dodge again.
And I sink the hatchet into his side.
It's a terrible hit, but it is a hit nonetheless. The tribute howls with agony. I wrench out the hatchet, and for a moment I consider letting him go. That's all I wanted was to get away. But then I am overcome by anger at him. He who decided that he was a Career. He who turned against the rest of us non-Careers so quickly. He who offered to share a sandwich with me one day in the training center when they had temporarily run out. I remembered his kindness, and I see that it was nothing but lies. And this time when my hatchet falls, it's into his neck.
I scream myself awake.
Oh, God, I really did that. I really killed that kid because I was so furious with him for betraying us. As if there had been an "us" out there in the arena. We weren't in an alliance. There wasn't Careers vs. non-Careers. It was simply every man for himself, and that's what that kid had been trying to do. And I killed him because I thought he was a snake-hearted bastard.
I'm crying into my pillowcase. The blankets are damp with my sweat. I don't care what time it is because regardless of the hour, I'm not going back to sleep. I allow myself to cry out as much as I can before I head to the showers to clean myself up. Then I slip into my clothes for the day and take a deep breath. It's time to pretend that I had a perfectly restful sleep after reading long hours into the night. Nightmares? No siree. Can't let the tributes see that winning means night after night of constant horrors.
I glance in the mirror to make sure that I look decent. I do. Maybe I won't in a few nights, but for the time being, everything is just fine. I pin back my hair with clips and then head out into the hallway.
"Good morning, Juniper," Rosa says as I sit down at the table.
I force a smile. "Morning, Rosa," I say. "Morning, Green."
Green just stares at me carefully. Right, whatever. I don't have the patience to deal with that.
"Your clothes comfortable?" I ask my tribute. She nods. "Great. You are going to have a lot to do today, but don't stress too much. See if you can learn some new skills."
Rosa gives me a thumb's up.
"And make sure to try to talk with some of the other tributes," I continue. "Be reserved and respectful. But also remember that you have just as much right to use any of the equipment as the rest of them, so don't let them boss you around."
Rosa smiles. It's not a full smile. She's straining.
Lala comes in, chirruping about how much they're going to learn today. "It's like school, but interactive!" she announces, which gets a look from both tributes.
And a sullen glare from me. I can't forget what she said last night. No matter how sweetly she talks to them or how many treats she slips onto their plates or how encouraging she is, I can only remember what she said on the telephone. These kids are just another step for her own victory.
I stay at the table with Rosa while Pitch comes in and gives Green a pep talk. He instructs the boy to watch his speech carefully, but again I see that the kid's not listening. At last Lala leads the tributes to the elevator and towards their training.
I can breathe now. They are heavy breaths, but I can breathe.
"You're going to have to let it go," Pitch instructs me.
My eyes flick up towards his. "Let it go?" I demand. He is telling me to ignore what I heard that woman say? My hand slaps against the table. "No, I will not let it go!"
"But you must," he hisses to me, leaning in across the table.
"Fuck you, I will do whatever I want," I snap.
Pitch looks like he might just punch me. But he doesn't. Instead he studies me again for several seconds. I don't squirm away but instead focus on his eyes carefully. At last he meets my stony gaze and sits back in his seat.
"Everything has consequences," he says quietly.
"No shit," I say. "And that applies for escorts, too."
Pitch shakes his head. "Juniper—"
"I don't care," I growl. "She can't just stand there and say that sort of stuff!"
Now Pitch smacks the table, a sudden gesture that startles me and rattles the dishes. "Yes! Yes, she can!" he says.
"We're victors! Surely we can—"
"Enough, Juniper!" Pitch says. There's a dangerous edge in his voice that cuts me off cold. I find that I can no longer hold his gaze and turn away.
When he speaks again, he is calmer, but just barely. "We will always be tributes. Always. It doesn't matter if we won. She is still in control, and there is nothing we can do about it. . . . Don't forget that, Juniper."
It's the way that he says my name that I know that the conversation is over. Never has Pitch spoken to me like this, even when I was at my wildest in the training center last year. Even when I couldn't control myself and broke a wide assortment of vases and decorations in this very apartment. But there is a coldness and an anger within his voice now that I have never heard before, and I know that it would be dangerous to tread further on this matter.
I risk a glance up at him and see that he is staring into nothing. He looks . . . vacant.
The anger within me starts to recede. I am starting to feel very worn out.
An avox comes in, scuttling around to clean off the table and remove the place settings where the tributes were sitting. I know that he has heard our entire exchange, and I wonder briefly what he thinks about it. Surely he must have an opinion. But an avox will never question this, will never engage with us. They are not allowed to, even if they had the ability to speak.
"This is our cue to leave," Pitch says, standing up. He sounds normal again, but I don't dare say anything. Instead I stand up and follow after him once again.
Why can't I voice my opinion? I know that I am not as free as some may think—I am still closely monitored by the Capitol, perhaps even moreso than I was as a tribute—but don't I have some ability to hold people accountable for the shit they do? Still, as the moments pass and my temper cools, I realize that it would be hard to accuse someone of a crime when the society as a whole does not consider the behavior criminal. It's a moral issue, but one that will never see justice. I simmer as I walk to the elevator with Pitch, but I say nothing more about it.
~.~.~
~.~.~
CHAPTER EIGHT
We are back in the monitoring room. Now there are twenty-four of us victors all assembled, casually sitting at our various consoles. There's not really a whole lot to do right now, though Pitch tells me that they're going to give us a brief introduction on how to use the equipment which, he adds, is pretty ridiculous since they use the same equipment year after year.
"Not for you, though," he says. "Since it's your first year."
The consoles walk us through the system, each at our own pace. I can see with a glance towards Pitch's screen that he is slowing down so that he doesn't get too far ahead of me. Most of the others have already finished since they pretty much skipped through everything.
I have access not only to the stats of my own tribute but also to all of the other tributes. Like with Rosa, I can see the height, weight, and the like, but now that there have been both the reaping and the opening ceremonies, there are numbers for "likelihood of victory" for all of the tributes. I stare at the summary page, looking at the 0% listed for several of the tributes, including both from District 7.
"Don't worry—that will change," Pitch says quietly. "Once we have the interviews and training scores, the numbers always change. Mostly for the better."
After that, the rest of the morning passes by easily. I wonder if it's because it really is easier, or if I'm starting to get numb and accept this new reality. Still, I stay by Pitch's side, sneaking away for a drink of water or to use the restroom or whatever I need so that I don't look like I'm latched to my old mentor. I'm introduced to several other victors, some of which are mentors and some of which have just swung by to say hello to their friends before disappearing off into the Capitol. It seems wild that some of these people actually willingly come to the Capitol when they could just stay home. I think of Vesa and wonder if she's had her children yet. Right now, she may be nestled into the safety of her mansion, a child curled up in each arm. (I am of the belief that she is having twins. I've never seen a woman so distended.)
I catch snippets of conversation, and I remember how Isolde told me that I didn't listen well enough. It's true that it's easier to just tune out rather than to focus on listening to things that you don't want to hear, but I force myself to listen for Rosa's sake. Nobody mentions them except to shake their heads and wish Pitch and myself better luck next year. But not all of the news is about District 7.
"Ugh, apparently my tribute—the male—is gluten intolerant," says Terra from District 12.
Maybe Rosa can slip some bread into his stew?
"District Two hasn't won in years. I hear that they'll be setting them up for a victory," says another mentor.
Okay, so Rosa should be prepared for a rocky arena, or maybe a place that's in a cave or something?
"No, it'll surely be something that caters to District 4."
Does Rosa even know how to swim? If she doesn't, can we teach her in the bathtub? Is it big enough? Maybe we can get an avox to bring a giant tub.
With all of the discussion, my brain starts to turn to mush as it's pulled this way and that. I am simultaneously preparing for things that will cater to the Career districts, trying to poison people by bread, and tallying up the different skills and weapons that the other mentors are saying their tributes can use. At last, I can't take any more of it, so I retreat to the lounge and flop down on one of the couches.
"If you stay in there too long, you start to go insane," says a voice, and I look up to see that despite the ridiculous number of couches in this one room, I have managed to choose one that had an occupant in the opposite couch.
"Is that why you're in here?" I ask.
I recognize the victor almost immediately despite the fact that his victory was eight or nine years ago. Who could forget him? His eyes were gouged out during his Hunger Games, and yet he still managed to kill several tributes. It was a complete wretched thing to watch, and yet it's burned in my mind as one of the very first Hunger Games I could remember watching in entirety. Like everyone else, I'd been watching since I was a small child, but this was one of the defining ones that marked my approach to reaping age.
And now, that victor sits on the couch opposite mine, lounging back comfortably into the soft leather. His cane leans against the couch next to him, seemingly forgotten.
"You're Elijah," I say stupidly.
He nods. "And you are Juniper."
"How did you know that?" I ask. Even stupider. "Sorry."
He snorts. "Everyone sounds different. Voice, obviously, but also the way you walk."
"Oh." Do I walk strangely? Maybe it's because I feel so heavy that it's a task to lift my feet up off the ground whenever I move.
"Take a break every now and again. If your tribute dies, she dies," he says.
Once more, I am startled by the coldness behind these words. I have heard this attitude from pretty much every victor I've encountered. I bristle.
"No," I say.
He laughs, of all things. "Don't take it too personally. Every victor is like this in the first year or two of mentoring. Then you start to see that it's true."
"No," I repeat. "I won't."
"You will," he says.
"What do you know?" I demand. "How do you even mentor?"
"What, cause I'm blind?" he asks. If he's offended, it doesn't show. And I don't care.
"Yes," I say.
"You don't need eyesight to see that your tributes are fucked over," he replies curtly.
"But they need to have a chance—"
"Is Pitch selling you that bullshit?" he demands, suddenly sitting upright. His vacant eyes—or the glass marbles that are in their place—appear to stare right at me. It's unnerving, and I shrink back despite myself. "Do yourself a favor and understand that the game is rigged. Your tributes will die. That's how it is."
"Are you . . . are you drunk?" I ask suddenly.
He shrugs. "I'm not driving, so it doesn't matter, does it?" he asks.
Of course I have known that drugs and alcohol ran rampant through the victors, but this just seemed like lunacy. Someone actually trusted him to mentor a tribute? He can't see, and now he's messing up his other senses. Rosa won't be alone in being completely let down by her mentor, but at least I'm doing my damned hardest to try.
"My tribute has decided that I'm worthless, so might as well make the most of my time," Elijah continues. "Never-you-mind that I was the mentor for a victorious tribute a couple years back, so I'm not completely worthless, am I?"
Yeah, he'd made headlines for that one. Not only was he blind, but he was also pretty young to be a mentor who brought a tribute to victory.
"Right, well, whatever. I don't need to sit here and listen to a drunkard ramble," I say, standing up.
"Nah, can't blame you."
~.~.~
~.~.~
CHAPTER NINE
By the time the tributes return to the apartment that night, I'm worn out. Socializing has been exhausting, and then when you couple that with the life-or-death situation on your hands, it's just soul crushing. I haven't felt this spent since the Victory Tour six months ago where I had to meet he families of the tributes I'd killed.
Rosa is reserved after she comes back from the shower. I try to get her to talk with me, but she clams up and just stays that training was "fine" and she "learned a lot of new skills today." I have a feeling that neither is true, but I can't do anything about a tribute that won't speak.
Green, on the other hand, is happily telling Pitch about all the people he met, which ones he wants to kill, and how several of them had been interested in an alliance. The kid really gets on my nerves, and I can't understand how Pitch can cope with him. That man is a saint; that's the only conclusion I can come to right now. It's almost relieving that Rosa doesn't want to talk, though I know that it's also not a good thing.
"Do you know how to swim, Rosa?" I ask.
"Yes," she answers simply and goes back to her dinner.
"Are you a strong swimmer?"
"I'm okay."
"What stations did you visit today?"
"Edible plants, rope making, first aid, fire starting."
"Okay, that sounds like a great start." Hopefully she can't hear my voice straining. I can hear it, and it sounds awful. Maybe that's why she's so quiet—she knows that her mentor is just winging this. Does she wish that Pitch were her mentor? I glance over at Pitch and Green talking easily between each other. Green lays out exactly what he did at each station, and I'm sure he's over exaggerating his skills.
"How about allies?" I ask, giving my full attention to Rosa.
She shakes her head. Her eyes start to brim with tears.
"Hey, hey, there's always tomorrow," I say to her. "You don't need to commit yourself to an alliance right away. It's sometimes better to wait and see how other people react in the training center."
She nods, but shortly thereafter asks if she can be excused. Of course I let her. Not that I thought that she needed to ask me to begin with. What a contradiction to the little terror I was last year.
Green stays up for another couple of hours before Pitch sends him off to bed, once again saying that its bedtime and all tributes needed to be in their rooms by a certain time. I'd find it funny if I weren't so desperate for some quiet right now.
Lala insists on staying. She is crocheting something that she says is for the poor children of District 12. In my brief visit to that district, I never once saw a child who would look comfortable in a bright pink and green sweater. Or hat. Or . . . whatever the hell it's supposed to be. I stare at her while her fingers work quickly. Does she understand how much I despise her?
But I remember my discussion with Pitch, and I say nothing. I don't even say anything as she babbles to us about the various goings-on with her fellow escorts, or her various comments about other Capitol citizens. Instead I simmer quietly in my chair in the lounge. I used to think her voice was musical and almost pleasant to listen to, but now I can only hate the way she speaks just as I hate the words themselves.
"If you don't mind, I have to excuse myself," Pitch says. He doesn't look at me even when I try to catch his attention. Leaving me here with this nutcase?
Lala seems to think that it's her cue to leave, too, for which I am grateful. She packs up her crocheting work and bids us goodnight before vanishing in the direction of the elevators. Pitch heads to his room, and within a couple minutes, he's back, all freshened up.
"Where are you going?" I demand.
"I have an appointment," he says.
"At this hour?"
"The Capitol doesn't sleep," he says somewhat cryptically. I think he's making light of it, but then again I see that there is a heaviness in his eyes. He shoots me a look, and I don't press any further. Wherever he is going is private, I guess, and I'm not allowed to know.
I shouldn't be offended because I know that he is allowed his own personal life and doesn't have to share everything with me, but I also don't want to be left out of things, and really Pitch is the only person I can trust here, and now I'm being left to babysit. I watch as he heads to the elevators now. He waits a few seconds for the door to open, and then he is gone.
I am alone.
It's way too early to go to sleep. If I do, I'll just wake up at 2:00 AM and have to suffer through the rest of the night hours. So I find my book and curl up on the couch. Maybe Pitch will want to go over the plans for the tributes when he returns. The couch supports my body perfectly, allowing me to nestle in and create a little nook for myself in its great cushions. With a small lamp on over my head, I drift easily into the pages of my novel and disappear from reality.
The elevator door opens, and I snap to attention. Holding my place in the book with my index finger, I crane my neck to see Pitch heading into the apartment. He doesn't see me from here, and I watch as he pauses and takes a big, deep breath. For a moment, I think he is going to cry, and I become quite self-conscious of the fact that I might witness his breakdown. That's a private thing that I shouldn't be part of. I rustle the pages of my book to let him know that I am here, and he looks up at me immediately.
"What're you doing awake?" he asks.
"Reading," I say. I wave the book for him to see.
"Ah."
Silence.
"Is everything okay?" I ask.
"Yes," he says. But it's not okay, I can tell. Was it a doctor's appointment? Does he have cancer or something? I'd think that it would be curable with all the Capitol technology and medicine.
Still, I stand up and shuffle out of the living room, passing by him on the way out. To my surprise, I get a sudden whiff of perfume coming from his direction. I raise an eyebrow at him, but he just stares at me with hollow eyes.
"I'm going to sleep," I say even though it doesn't need to actually be said.
He nods.
"Do you . . . need anything?" I ask before I leave.
"No, I'm fine, thank you. Get to sleep."
I hurry off to my room and close the door behind me. Confusion overtakes me, and I sit on the foot of my bed, my finger still stuck in the book's pages, and stare at the wall blankly as I try to figure out what was going on. It's nearly 3:00 AM (admittedly I lost track of time while I was reading) and he's just now returning home. From a bad date? Why the hell didn't he just tell me he had a date? Well, at least I know that there was nothing romantic in that kiss he gave me last night. I'm relieved at this, not because I don't like him but because it was all so sudden and confusing.
Still, something doesn't sit right with me. Instead of sleeping, I spend the next hour finishing up my book. Tomorrow, I will see if we can find a bookstore in the Capitol and pick up some more literature. I'm almost through the small collection I brought with me, and we're only a couple days into this.
~.~.~
~.~.~
CHAPTER TEN
Pitch doesn't think that it'll be a problem if we go to the bookstore today, though I can see that he doesn't think it to be a priority. He also doesn't mention anything about last night, and I don't pry. If he wanted to tell me, he would.
But before we can go shopping, we have to go check in with the other victors. I'm not sure why; we're not really doing anything of great importance yet. It seems like it's all about figuring out what other victor allows a tidbit about his or her tribute to slip into conversation. Since I'm horrible at conversing with these people, I rely on Pitch to navigate the waters while I struggle to keep from drowning.
And really, all I'm thinking about is another book. Maybe ten.
We're all in the lounge area now, with people sprawled about on couches. I look around for the District 5 victor, Elijah, but I see him nowhere. Instead I see that the table has indeed been stocked with food and beverages, and some of those beverages must be alcoholic because I can smell the alcohol every so often when people pass by where I am curled up with my knees to my chest on a couch.
"The problem with being a Career victor is dealing with the Careers," Isolde is saying. He rolls her eyes. "Please tell me I wasn't that insufferable."
Hammer grins and gives her a shrug. "You still are insufferable."
"Ugh, you're such a jerk," she says. But they're teasing each other, neither meaning the insults. From what I know of Isolde so far, she doesn't really mean half the things she says. I'm still on edge around her, but I don't find her quite as intimidating as I did a couple days ago.
"For real, though, Isolde is right," Hammer says. "The boy from our tribute—oh, man, if he wins, we'll have to deal with him for all eternity. Maybe being in the arena will knock him down a peg or two. It certainly did for me."
"I'm just glad District 7 didn't become a Career district," Pitch says. I perk up at this. When was District 7 even considering becoming part of their disgusting circle?
"Too many people if that were the case. That would mean that a third of the tributes would be in the Career pack," says Isolde. "It's difficult enough managing six, so I can't imagine how terrible it would be with eight."
Demeter chimes in, "I heard a rumor that District 7 was seriously considering it. You're telling me that the rumor was true, Pitch?"
"That I don't know," he admits. "Though I heard the same thing for years. Always disgusts me."
"You know what disgusts me, rumor-wise," says Butch Granite, victor from District 2. He swings himself up and over the back of the closest couch, flopping down onto the cushions. No one really asks him to follow through on his statement, but we are all watching him with curiosity. He continues anyhow, "There's a bit of a rumor that a certain District 7 mentor pair is, you know, intimate."
I flush, my face growing hot. What?!
"Excuse me?" Pitch demands. "What the hell are you talking about?"
Butch grins. It's an evil, lopsided grin. I know that Pitch told me that the Careers weren't necessarily to be feared, but Butch unnerves me. Perhaps it's his big, bulky mass, or perhaps it's the fact that he earned the nickname "The Butcher" for a damned good reason. But right now, I know that neither of those is what is unhinging me. I'm too overwhelmed by the frantic beating of my heart.
"Told you. Disgusting rumor, huh?" he says.
"Yes, and entirely a rumor. Where did you hear that?" Pitch's voice is sharp.
"Lay off it, Butcher," says Demeter.
"I'm really just relaying a rumor," Butch says innocently.
"I-actually, I heard the same thing," says Isolde quietly. "I thought it was just that somebody had misheard things or, you know, made stuff up. But if it's going around…"
"Apparently," said Butch. The grin is on his face. "A tribute witnessed you two the other night."
"Nothing happened," Pitch says. He rubs his eyebrows in frustration. "One of our damned tributes doesn't know how to keep his trap shut, and apparently isn't very good at spying, either."
Ugh, I really do feel sick. My neck starts to feel warm, and there's saliva in the back of my throat. But I feel that if I left right now, I'd only be incriminating myself, and Pitch, too. So I shrink back into the cushions and wait for this all to be over.
I think about the kiss and how comforting it was. And now it's like all that comfort has been wrenched from my body.
"So what happened?" Demeter asks gently.
"Juniper and I were in the hall. I . . . hugged her and said goodnight. Never thought that brat would be lurking around watching us. Damn."
I really do feel ill now. What am I supposed to do? It's not that I have anything against Pitch, but the fact that the gesture had been so misconstrued and now might . . . might what? Get us in trouble? Would that get us in trouble? I fight the nausea away and try to get ahold of myself. Even if we don't face any sort of reprimanding for the behavior, I still want to strangle Green and toss him off the roof. How dare he use our own private moments and feelings against us!
"I want to go to the bookstore now," I manage to whisper.
"Alright," says Pitch.
"Do you want me to go?" Demeter asks.
Pitch shakes his head. "No. What's done is done. No use hiding from it."
I am shaking when I leave the lounge with Pitch, and I can't stop even minutes later. Pitch reaches out to me, but I shrink away. He tries to talk with me, but I can't bear the thought that any little thing we say or do will be broadcasted to all of Panem. And from our own tribute, of all people!
And it has. At least, that's what Pitch tells me. He waits until we're on the city streets where listening in on conversations would be more challenging.
"This will likely affect us outside of the training center," he says to me. He somehow is handling this very well. "If it got out to the victors, it was probably mentioned in front of the escorts, maybe stylists or prep teams. Whatever. So we can assume that everyone in the Capitol will know it, though the extent is currently uncertain."
"So what do we do?" I ask.
I am too busy watching the ground beneath me and counting my footsteps between cracks in the concrete walkway to look around and see the reactions of passers-by. Do they already know? Are they watching us from the inside of shops, trying to figure out if the rumors are real?
"We just . . . continue on as always," he says. "Don't give them any more to go off of, but don't try to avoid each other. Make no move until we know what the rumor actually entails."
Right. So this means that at some point I'm supposed to stick close to Pitch, as the other victors told me, and also stay away from him because I don't want to prove the rumors right.
"Yeah, okay," I manage.
"Well, I can certainly say that this is a first," he says with a bit of a laugh. "Never have I been accused of being intimate with another victor."
Really? I find that surprising for some reason. Maybe because he hasn't quite yet hit middle age and is still in the physical prime of his life, or maybe because the victors seem so chummy with each other that I would have thought that he'd hit it off with at least one of them.
"Hopefully not a tribute," I find myself saying. Although the words escape before I stop them, I'm glad I ask because it occurs to me that I wouldn't be able to stomach being around him if he had a reputation of sleeping with tributes.
Pitch's lip twitches. "Absolutely not," he says. "You just don't do that. Have relationships with other victors, with Capitolites, with Peacekeepers, whatever. But never a tribute. It's . . . not illegal as long as the tribute isn't a minor, but it's taboo. Definitely not a place most victors want to tread."
He seems to drift off after that, and I don't say anymore. His life is his life, and I don't mean to pry more than I did.
The Capitol's streets are brightly decorated. Banners wave from windows and large signs glow above shops. One could window shop here for days and days and always find something new to look at, from hats and jewelry to pets to knickknacks and useless contraptions. We pass by flower stores and electronic shops, body modification parlors and aromatherapy centers. Shining windows reflect my face staring wide-eyed at the displays. Part of me wants to hate the Capitol and everything that is within it, but I find that I'm so mesmerized by everything that I can't control my awe. A few shopkeepers beam back at me, while others come and open up the doors to welcome me inside.
"It's best that you just keep focused right ahead of you," says Pitch as he pulls me away from our third encounter with an eager shopkeeper.
"Did she really want my autograph?" I ask, gawking at the door for a local brewery where the shopkeeper was waving goodbye.
"Yes, she did. And you don't have to give out autographs, at least not all the time," Pitch says. "They'll have special signings that you'll have to go to—especially when you need to hype up your 'talent'—but other than that, it's best to just keep moving and not get sidetracked by every person who shows interest in you."
Right, okay. I try not to think about my so-called talent. I had wanted to play the timpani because smacking giant drums with mallets sounded like a great thing at the time, but Pitch told me I had to come up with something more reasonable. Anyway, now I'm chainsaw carving a bunch of logs. It would be great if they actually let me use the chainsaw, but there's something about me being too "unpredictable" that prohibits anyone from giving me such an object.
There's no more time for lectures because we are at the bookstore. Without waiting for Pitch's permission, I bound through the doors and let them swing shut behind me. The aroma of freshly bound books greets me, and I feel at home for the first time since arriving at the Capitol.
It's easy enough to ignore the curious glances of various Capitolites as I dive into the rows of literature. I find all sorts of authors I've never even heard of, as well as some of my favorites. The books weigh down my arms and dig into my skin, but it's a small price to pay for the wonders of reading. I choose novels of all sorts of genres—like a child eagerly sampling ice cream, I want to try one of everything—and then I begin to make a stack on an empty table with various non-fiction books. There are so many topics! I could learn about everything! Sometimes I take a book and flip through it, soaking in the familiar scents. Hell, I even throw in some books about the Hunger Games in case there is anything I can glean in there that will help my tributes.
Pitch finds me rifling through a bin of bargain paperbacks.
"Juniper? I think it's time to leave," he says.
I peek up from my search. "Oh? I lost track of time," I say sheepishly, releasing my grip of the book I am holding. He's right. Although I don't know the exact time, I'm pretty sure that significant time has passed. For a few glorious minutes (hours?) I had forgotten all about the world around me.
Through the rows of books we go, back towards the table that holds my sizeable hoard. The funny thing about book shopping is that it's so easy to pick up the books that you lose track of how many you have. And now the number of books I have is rather ridiculous.
"I should put some back," I mumble. But there are none I see that I feel like I can part with right now. Still, I move over to begin the culling.
"No, no, you can get them all," Pitch says. I'm ecstatic. But then I realize that his hand is on my shoulder again, and he is guiding me towards the nearest register. I spare a glance at him to roll my eyes, but then I realize that he's not looking at me; his eyes are darting around as though he's watching out for something.
"Pitch, what's—"
"We are getting those books over there. To be delivered to Apartment 7 in the training center," he says to the cashier, ignoring me.
"Sure thing, hon. Whose account do I put it on?" the cashier asks. She has weirdly long eyelashes that flutter like wings of a moth when she blinks. She smiles at Pitch, then me.
"Mine," I say quickly.
"Great. An avox will deliver them this afternoon," the cashier says cheerfully.
"Thank you," I say, but my attention is no longer on the lady. I am looking around for whoever Pitch is so anxious about, but I can't pick anyone out of the crowd. There are more people here than I thought there would be (Capitolites don't seem to be bookish people to me, but I guess I am proven wrong), and none of them stands out as even mildly suspicious. Sure, there are people watching us, but I'm starting to understand that it's nothing out of the ordinary to ogle a victor in passing.
Once more, Pitch guides me out. I start to protest because I feel naked leaving the store without even one book in my hand, but the pace at which he moves us is much more rapid than usual. His jaw is set, and he is silent as we step outside in the sunlight. I blink, but it doesn't throw him off at all, and he is half-dragging me down the street back in the direction of the training center.
"What the hell?" I demand as I jerk my arm away from him.
"There was someone in the store that I wanted to avoid," he says, as though that explains it.
Although I keep walking, I stare hard at him. "Really? All that for one person?"
"One person who I'd rather not run into," he says.
No, that doesn't give me enough to go on.
I turn and glance over my shoulder. Although the bookstore is two blocks away, I can see the figure of a man standing outside the door. He's watching us. I know it even though I cannot see his expression. In one hand, he holds a book. In the other, he is sipping a beverage of some sort. And it's several long seconds before he turns away and heads the opposite direction.
Notes: Yeah, I struggled uploading this more than I should have. At any rate, here are the first ten chapters. I'll post the next ten soon-ish maybe.
