Notes: Here are the next ten chapters. Hope you enjoy.
~.~.~
CHAPTER ELEVEN
It's evening again, and our tributes return to the apartments. My large pile of books had been delivered while Pitch and I were with the other mentors (and I quietly mourned the fact that I couldn't just disappear into a book because I had left the shop with nothing tangible), and I moved them into my bedroom before the tributes could see them. It's weird, but I feel like I am part of two worlds—one in which it is life or death, and the other in which casual reading is acceptable. I can't reconcile the two, so I merely slip between them, hoping that I never make a false step.
Rosa won't talk with me when she arrives. Green is chattering up a storm, but Rosa disappears into her room. It takes an hour before she emerges smelling like pine and summer breeze, her hair still damp. However, she still refuses to make eye contact with me as she heads towards the dinner table.
Enough is enough.
I pull her to the side, dragging her away from the main area and towards a small corner where we can have some peace away from the others.
"You need to tell me what's wrong," I say with as much gentleness as I can muster.
Rosa stares hard at the floor and I think she plans on upholding her silence. Then she speaks, "Remember the other day when we were discussing strengths and I said that one of my strengths is chemicals?"
I wait for the blow. "Yeah?"
"Well . . . Green went and told everyone! Now everyone knows that it's my strength!" There are tears in her eyes, and at any moment those tears may topple over her lids and run down her cheeks. She is distraught, barely holding it together.
A flicker of anger goes through me. Green is nothing but a piece of garbage. The little shit has spread other people's information around where it's not supposed to be. I feel heat in my face, and I force myself to unclench my jaw.
"Sometimes it's good to know who we can trust with our information and who we can't," I say carefully to Rosa. "Let's not tell Green any more personal facts, okay? We'll work something out. Any news from training?"
Rosa shrugs. "I tried to use a bow, but it was too big and I was terrible at it," she admits. Her shoulders slump. "And then some of them laughed when I tried to climb a rope and fell."
Ugh. Bastards. I am angry for Rosa, for the position she was put in by being reaped, for the shitty district partner she has to work with, for the wretched tributes who poke at her weaknesses. I curse under my breath, and then have to clarify to the girl that I'm not angry at her, or humiliated by her performance.
"Remember how you told me you can use pruning shears?" I ask her. She nods. "That will be your weapon. Do you think if someone came at you, you could close the shears and jab it at them?"
She thinks carefully about it for a moment. "My brother and I used to sword fight with them when we were younger, but we got in trouble and had to stop."
"Great. Now tomorrow when you go in, take a look at the weapons and see which ones remind you of the pruning shears. Try them out. Don't get carried away, but see how they feel in your hand, and which ones are most like the shears you're comfortable with."
Rosa is nodding eagerly now, drinking up my sagely advice. I'm just pulling it out of my ass, but she doesn't need to know that. I see what Pitch was talking about when he said that we were their last hope. She is so eager to comply that her tears are gone and she starts adding her own ideas to my instructions. I am almost swept up in her enthusiasm, but I force myself to remain grounded.
I dismiss Rosa and we both head to the table for dinner. The others are already eating, and Green is in the middle of telling a story about a fight he witnessed. I tune him out as I pick at my meal.
That evening, I pull Pitch aside after the tributes have been sent to bed and Lala has disappeared. We sit on the couch. My back presses against the armrest, and my legs are drawn against my chest. I lean my head against the back rest of the couch.
"Rosa told me that Green told the other kids that she was skilled in chemicals," I say to him.
Pitch winces. "I'm assuming this is without her permission?"
"Yeah, she was pretty torn up about it. Was trying to keep it secret from the others," I say.
"You don't think that she made that up, do you?" he asks.
That didn't even occur to me. Still, I shake my head. "Not after what happened earlier today. The rumor he passed on about us."
Pitch rubs his cheek. He hasn't shaved since we arrived, and pretty soon he'll be growing a thick beard. Right now, it's all just pronounced stubble. He's silent for a few moments.
"Juniper . . . Oh, God forgive me for what I'm about to say . . ." He's struggling. My heart thumps as I wait for him to continue. "I think we should focus on Rosa."
I open my mouth to speak—to protest, or question, or really just clarify what he means. But he silences me by holding up his index finger.
"Green has no ability to restrain himself, and the shit he says is downright questionable," he says. "He's constantly bragging about things and showing off and . . . well, sometimes tributes do it because they're scared, but at this point, I don't think he understands the situation at all."
Oh, God, this is so wrong.
"So, you want to . . . just ignore him?" I ask quietly.
"No, I'll still work with him as best as I can, but. . . ."
"He's a child, Pitch," I stammer out. "You can't just leave him."
He shakes his head. "I understand that. As I said, I'll do what I can to help him. But I want to help you with Rosa to make sure that she has the best chance she can have, and if that means that I have to cut out some time with Green, then so be it."
"And that means he'll die," I say.
"And it means that Rosa will have a better chance at living."
I wrap my arms around my chest, pressing back into the armrest so that I am as far away from Pitch as I can be. Disgust wells up within me. Pitch is just as bad as the rest of them! Is that what being in the Capitol does to people? Sure, I detest Green. I find him loud and obnoxious and self-centered. But I don't want him to get screwed over like this. I don't want him abandoned by his own mentor!
"Juniper, please—"
"No." It's a harsh whisper. A grainy, gritty noise that comes from within.
I stand up suddenly. And I grab the nearest pillow and pitch it across the room, knocking a picture frame off the wall. It crashes to the floor, shattered glass scattered in all directions. Still my anger isn't tempered, and I have to fight to control myself.
Turning on Pitch, I begin to swear at him. I begin to rant. I begin to call him all sorts of filthy names as I accuse him of abandoning Green. The anger is steaming out of me. It's palpable. And I can't stop the vitriol that comes from my mouth. Pitch sits there, watching me. It's not the sort of watching he does when he's trying to judge somebody's current state. I'm not sure what his expression means, and I don't care because I am so blind with anger and hatred that I cannot afford to take his wellbeing into consideration. Not when he has abandoned his tribute.
"Did you do this to me, too?" I demand of him. "Did you abandon me and decide that Lief was the better candidate for you to focus on?"
Pitch doesn't answer. He lets me rant on without interrupting.
"I can't believe you would abandon a twelve-year-old child to be murdered by a pack of bloodthirsty savages. Even if he is a detestable little cretin! You tell me about being their last hope, and yet here you are willing to drop the kid because he's an annoying little twerp. You do that to all the kids you think are annoying?! You're such a hypocritical asshole. Bastard!"
At last, I run out of steam and flop down on the floor, half still simmering and half embarrassed about the things that came out of my mouth. Not that I would admit it. Instead I lay on the carpet and try to pretend that I'm somewhere else—anywhere else. But I can't because the object of my anger is in this very room, and the more the seconds pass, the more I realize that I'm not really angry at Pitch. Still, I have nowhere else to direct this rage, and I don't even mutter an apology.
Pitch stands up, and I crane my neck to see him head towards the elevators. Is he really running away? What the hell?
"Where are you going?" I demand.
"Meeting up with someone," he replies as he pushes the call button. The elevator dings almost automatically.
"What the hell, Pitch?" I am on my feet, but I hold my ground. I feel the anger rising again. "For real?"
He doesn't respond, and the next thing I know, he's gone, leaving myself and all of my raging anger issues alone within the sitting room of our apartment.
~.~.~
~.~.~
CHAPTER TWELVE
There are edible plants in the garden, and I recognize some of them. These are my lifeline, and I am happy to harvest them and save as many of them for later. I eat well for the first couple days of the Hunger Games because I am confident my knowledge of edible plants, though I yearn for something with more substance. There's only so many vegetable stews and herbal teas one can have before you're forcing yourself to eat.
But then I find them ransacking the vegetable garden. It's MY garden. I have carefully tended to it and kept the animals away. I know that sounds stupid, but it kind of gives me purpose in the arena. I don't mind if other people come and take what they need—I always slip away off to the side, or sometimes I go and explore other areas of the arena—but now there are tributes outright desecrating my lifeline. They laugh as they hack through cabbages and pull carrots from the ground.
"I like to imagine that these lettuces are heads of the other tributes," says the District Four girl as she clobbers a head of lettuce with her mace. Bits of lettuce stick to the spikes that jut from the terrible weapon. She plucks off a leaf and pops it in her mouth with a smile.
Disgusting.
Still, I lay in wait underneath the hedge, biding time until they leave. It's just a couple of people, but they're Careers, and I'd rather be on my own anyhow.
When they leave, it takes quite some time before I allow myself to come out and see what bits and pieces I can salvage. A smashed lettuce here, a sliced potato there. I pack up what I can into my bag and am about to leave when I hear the laughter of the District Four girl.
"Oh, here I returned for my sweater—I left it behind on accident—and I see a little rabbit in the garden," she says.
I turn around. Sure enough there is the District Four girl, her sweater draped over one arm and the mace in the other.
"It gets chilly in the arena at night," she says unnecessarily. But she is walking towards me, and I know that she is distracting me. She sees me as, well, a rabbit—a helpless little creature that she could kill with the flick of her wrist. She's wrong.
My hand tightens on my hatchet.
It's a nasty weapon she's holding. To be hit with that thing would certainly mean death, and not necessarily a swift one. I can imagine that it would pulverize bone and mash organs, and the victim would be left to bleed out from internal wounds, if not from the external ones. And yet this girl wields it like it's a croquet mallet—casual, elegant, simple. Clearly it's a weapon she knows well.
"Don't worry. This won't hurt," she says.
"I know," I say. Because then I am leaping at her with my hatchet out, and she barely has time to swing around that big weapon before the blade of my own is in her chest. Her hands fumble to lift her mace, but the strength is going out of her. I pull out the hatchet, and once more I bury it into her chest. Blood splatters out, and bones crunch. It's a sickening sound, and yet it doesn't make me stop. Only when the cannon booms do I stagger away from her. The handle of the hatchet is slick with blood, and I have to wipe my hands on the ground so that I can hold it again.
There isn't much time before the others will be here. They'll know that their ally had come back this direction, and they will eventually look for her when she doesn't return. They'll think that the cannon was for another tribute—was for me—but sooner or later they'll find out the truth, and I need to be long gone.
"You're right," I say as I bend down and grab the sweater that lays beside her body. "It does get chilly at night."
~.~
I wake up trembling. Tears run down my cheeks, and I scrub furiously at them. It takes several seconds before I realize that I was dreaming and that I am perfectly safe. But then I realize that though I am out of the arena and what I just experienced was nothing more than a nightmare, I am not in the bedroom of the District 7 apartment. Fear thumps within me, and I begin to whimper.
Pitch kneels down before me. "Hey. Juniper, it's alright," he says. He reaches out to comfort me, but I recoil. I can't remember why initially—is it the lingering sensation of the dream?—and then the events of earlier in the evening come back to me.
"C'mon," he says, gently coaxing me from behind a large potted plant in the corner of the sitting area. What am I doing here? "You must've walked in your sleep."
His voice is so gentle, and I can't help but think about how I treated him earlier. Still, my brain is hazy, and I still can't shake the feeling that I'm not out of the arena, that I am still within that garden.
"No," I say quietly. If I leave this hiding spot, someone might see me, and then they'll kill me. I know it's irrational, but I have the sensation of being naked and exposed if I move away from the artificial fronds.
Pitch reaches out a hand and guides me out from behind the pot. We're crouching on the carpet. I reach down and place a hand against the rug, my fingers almost entirely vanishing into its depth. It's soft and comforting. Reminds me that I am not in the arena and that I am within the safety of the apartment.
"You're okay, Juniper," Pitch says. "You were having a nightmare."
"I . . . I swear I went to sleep in my bed and not behind a plant," I say, wiping tears from my cheeks.
"I know," he replies. I start to stand up, but he nudges me to keep me in place. "Stay here for a minute until you're sure you know where you are."
"Does it ever get better?" I ask him.
"In some ways," he says.
"And in others?"
"In others, it does not," he admits heavily.
"Is it wrong if I wish I never left the arena alive?"
"No. No, it is not," Pitch says. He meets my eyes. When I try to look away, he cups my chin in his hand. "But you did leave there alive. Some things get better and some things don't, and that's the same in life whether you're a victor or not. But we keep going, okay? We can't give up."
I nod. "Yeah, okay." I don't feel okay about anything here, except for the fact that Pitch is with me. That somebody understands what I'm going through. Nobody at home ever did. My classmates and friends treat me as either some other entity to be greatly respected or a madwoman who ought to be feared. My parents handle me with careful gloves as though I might break at any moment. Everyone's view towards me has changed, and nobody is willing to try to understand how I have struggled ever since I stepped foot in the arena.
And that's why, although I may hate Pitch's decision to abandon Green, I know that I cannot shun him entirely.
Pitch pulls me into a hug, and I bury myself in his embrace. The faint scent of perfume lulls me into calm. We stay like this for several minutes, until I find that I can't breathe and at last pull myself away. I don't care if Green has seen this; I don't care if he tells the world. If being hugged and comforted—feeling a brief calm that I can never capture on my own—comes with sticky rumors, then so be it. I say goodnight to Pitch and head back to my room where I drift off to a dreamless sleep.
~.~.~
~.~.~
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
After the tributes head out for their third day of training, Pitch takes me to a park in the Capitol to talk strategy. The park, he says, is open enough that there aren't many places for people hide and watch us.
We could walk to the park, but it would take a considerable amount of time, so Pitch leads me on an impromptu session of how to navigate the public transit in the Capitol. One train ride later, we are at a massive park—the biggest I've ever seen. District 7 has many nature walks, sprawling fields, and, of course, vast forests. But we don't have anything like this. The park is pristine lawn stretching for the equivalent of many, many city blocks. There are areas that have trees, bubbling streams, and (I try not to look) gardens, but Pitch leads me as far into the lawn as we can get before we'd come out the other side. It's like being on a giant soccer field, grass stretching off into the distance.
Pitch unceremoniously flops down onto the grass. I set down my bag, sit cross-legged near him and lean back, my hands propping me up in a comfortable rest. We're exposed out here without any sort of cover of trees or bushes. To someone who survived the Hunger Games, it's alarming to not have a place to hide, and I feel ill at ease despite the pleasantness of the day.
"So this is where you come to plot?" I ask. I squint in the bright sun and watch a family with several little kids play tag. They're far enough away that they aren't in earshot; to them, we are just out for a pleasant stroll through the park.
"Yep," he says. "There are always people willing to listen in on conversations—especially conversations of victors, so going out where you can see all around you is the best way to do it."
Of course there is never any way to guarantee that they're not listening to us. In the Hunger Games, they have cameras that blend into their natural surroundings so seamlessly that the tributes couldn't find them even if they tried. There's no guarantee that the cameras aren't picking us up right now.
"What's the plan for the tributes?" I ask.
"What I said yesterday about Green—I know you don't want to hear it, but sometimes as a mentor, you need to make those decisions," he says, ignoring my question.
I bristle at his words. My natural reaction is to bite back with something sharp and painful to offset the terrible message he gave me, but I withhold only because I remember how he comforted me last night even after I was such as asshole to him earlier in the evening. So instead I say nothing.
He continues, "When you have a tribute who doesn't want your help, it makes all of this so much more challenging. And it takes its toll. On you, on your relationship with the tribute, on your ability to work with the other tribute from your district. When you're a mentor for many years, you come up with . . . strategies to help you get through it. And when you have a tribute who actively sabotages other people—whether he knows what he's doing or not—you need to recognize that not every tribute can be saved. It's cruel—I'm sorry, I know that it is. There's nothing fair or kind about the Hunger Games, and the sooner you as a mentor recognize this, the better you will be able to perform your duties."
It takes several minutes for me to fully digest what he has told me. I know that it makes sense, but it sounds heartless.
"You told me that we're they're last hope," I say.
"And we are," Pitch says with a heavy sigh. "That's the problem. If there was someone else who could step in and help give the tribute a chance, it wouldn't be such a big deal. But there has to be some teamwork between mentor and tribute for this to work. It's like . . . I'm sure you've had those projects in school where people don't pull their weight?"
"Ugh, yes."
"Think of it that way. Green isn't pulling his weight."
"But if I leave somebody's name off a project because they didn't do their work, it's not going to kill them literally."
"True. But the stakes are higher here. Nothing comes for free."
"Is this how you protect yourself?" I ask.
"What do you mean?"
"You told me—a couple days ago on the train—that I would need to take care of myself."
"Yes, this is what I mean," he says. "Partly, at least. You can't become too emotionally involved in any tribute. You'll find that some years, the tributes are completely insufferable—before you ask, no, that wasn't you—and you have to let them go entirely. I'll still give Green a chance. He's obnoxious and immature, but he's not a bad kid. We will just put more energy into Rosa."
The family is still playing in the park. They have a kite now, and it's flying so high that I can barely see it sometimes when it swoops closer to the sun. A light breeze occasionally carries the laughter of the children towards us. Everyone in District 7—probably all of the districts—will be so preoccupied with the Hunger Games that playing would seem impossible. All but the youngest children will be glued to their television sets and radios, waiting for news about their district's tributes. And here in the Capitol is an entire family that is able to escape that pain—mom, dad, and four children—by spending a lovely morning together at the park.
"I don't even know what to do with Rosa," I admit. I sit up and wrap my arms around myself to keep the anxiety at bay. "She is so little. No weapons skills—except pruning shears that were used for gardening—and really no survival skills."
"That happens more frequently than I think you realize," Pitch says. He turns and looks at me. The light catches his grey-blue eyes, and I can see little flecks of brown. "Most kids don't have any skills. And the ones that have the fewest skills tend to—but not always—get killed in the bloodbath so the viewers at home don't really realize this. You were one of the few ones, like myself, and Elm, who knew how to handle a weapon."
"It was harder than I thought. Using a hatchet as a weapon. Only used it on trees."
"And that's what Rosa will need to face when she's in the arena. Hypothetically, if there were pruning shears, she would need to be able to use them as a weapon against living people."
Of course it wasn't physically hard. And in the moment, it wasn't even emotionally hard. Whenever I thought about it before going into the arena, I never thought I'd be able to do it, though I figured that if it came down to it, I'd get so desperate after days in the arena that I'd eventually swing my weapon. Instead I found myself whipping it out the very first day. And I found that it was surprisingly easy—until I realized what I had done. It was in the aftermath that I had to suffer the consequences of my actions, and telling myself that I had to do what I did to survive didn't make it any easier. I'd killed in anger, and then I'd be physically sick for hours or even days. The thought of Rosa having to deal with that was gut-wrenching.
"Is there a way we can find out how things are going in the training center?" I ask. "She won't tell me much about what she's doing. I think she's embarrassed or upset."
"No. Which is actually a good thing because then everyone would be able to know everything," Pitch answers. "If she doesn't tell you, she doesn't tell you. Again, nothing you can do about that. But I think she'll talk with you more if she knows she can trust you."
"I never know what to say to her."
"You're doing okay," Pitch says. "Even with experience knowing what to say is challenging."
"I didn't even tell her about the private training sessions," I admit.
"Don't worry—I mentioned it to both of them earlier."
Great. While I'm happy that he did, it's frustrating that he had to pick up my slack. I run my hand across the soft grass before plucking off a blade.
"How is your reading going?" he asks suddenly.
I pause, turn to my bag, and pull out a couple of books. One of them is the latest novel I started this morning, and the other is about the Hunger Games. I know he doesn't care a bit about the novel, so I hand him the latter. He takes it and turns it over, then flips through the pages.
"It's pretty much garbage," I say.
"You mean that you don't need to know the exact contents of Trillian McMyer's breakfast from the 102nd Hunger Games?" he asks with a laugh.
"I don't even know who that is."
He tosses the book back towards my bag. "I think he was an escort. Not sure. Definitely before my time. But, what I can tell you, is that some of these books offer insight into how the Capitol thinks about things and what aspects of the Hunger Games they find the most worthwhile."
"In other words, how to keep them entertained."
"Precisely. You can have a tribute who is flawless in the arena in terms of survival skills and weaponry, but if there is nothing for show, no one cares. Then your tribute gets killed."
"Wow, I must've been super exciting. I guess everyone is really into knowing how to tend a vegetable garden," I mutter.
This earns a hearty laugh from Pitch. "Yeah, that's why they were interested in you."
This is the first time since we left Victor Village that he's actually laughed. Genuinely. He's found other things amusing, but this was a good laugh from deep within. I'd be offended if I didn't know the truth. People thought I was exciting because I was seemingly uncontrollable. Completely off-the-charts non-Career nutso. Not so uncontrollable or insane that they couldn't let me be a victor—that had happened a few times in the Hunger Games history—but enough that it gave me a bit of an edge. Tending the garden was probably the most bizarre thing I'd done in the arena because it was so mundane.
"You're a jerk, Pitch."
"You earned it," he says, wiping a tear from his eyes.
I give him a minute to calm down. The family across the lawn has left, but there are more people meandering around in the distance. A few are having picnics. Some are playing games of some sort. A group of children is jumping rope. It all looks so . . . normal. I never expected the Capitol to look like this, and it disturbs me. They aren't a bunch of blood-thirsty psychos all the time, it seems. They have lives and families and jobs. It would be better if they spent all their free time scheming up ways to kill the district children, I think; at least that would be more consistent with my view of them. Instead I am face-to-face with the reality that they must have some of the same values we have in the districts—family, friends, exercise, fun—and that's hard to digest. It's easier to think of them as an "other" species, so foreign and disgusting that I can't relate. Instead I'm left wishing that I could spend time with my family and friends like they are.
"Don't worry; they won't bother us," says Pitch.
"That's not what concerns me," I say, but I can't really vocalize my thoughts with any level of coherence.
"The fact that they are out here enjoying themselves while the rest of us are suffering?" he suggests.
"How did you know?" I ask dryly.
He picks up a blade of grass and chews on it slowly. "It's a talent."
"I always imagined they'd be . . ."
"Not so normal?"
"Yeah. I mean, they don't look normal. And they certainly don't act normal around us. But here they are just doing things that we'd do at home if we had the free time."
"It can be a lot to take in."
I pause a moment, then I take a chance: "Are you dating one of them?"
Pitch starts. He stops chewing the blade of grass and flicks it away. It's a casual gesture, but his hand is trembling.
I want to say that I'm sorry I asked, but I'm genuinely curious and would like to know the truth.
"What makes you say that?" he asks cautiously.
I raise an eyebrow. "Perhaps the fact that you keep disappearing at night and returning smelling like perfume."
"It's complicated."
"Pitch! Really? I'm not a child. Just tell me yes or no."
"Would you think less of me if I said yes?"
"No," I lie.
He snorts. "Right. Yes, I am. But it's . . . well, as I said, it's complicated."
I stare hard at him. Yeah, it's probably pretty damn "complicated" if he's coming home each night looking completely exhausted and wrecked. But that's not what I want to hear. I want to know why he's being so secretive about it, and I don't want it being glossed over with "it's complicated." I think I'm mature enough to know if he is in a relationship. I don't need to know the details, but I don't want to be pushed aside, either.
"Alright." He studies me for a second. I keep my face as stony as I can. At last he seems to accept that I'm not going to give in, and he shakes his head. "Fuck me, I just get to lay these truths on you one after the other, don't I?"
"Go on," I prod.
He rubs his chin as he thinks. "Sometimes certain Capitol citizens would like the company of victors. And in return, there are benefits for the victors."
"So . . . you're a prostitute?" I'm a bit disgusted.
"It's not entirely . . . consensual."
I feel my insides growing cold again despite the warmth of the overhead sun beating down. My stomach clenches as it freezes through, and the frost keeps moving through my organs into my chest.
"What benefits?"
"Depends. Sponsorships for tributes. Maybe, depending on the Capitolite's position, a tribute can escape a sneaky situation. Other times there doesn't . . . appear to be a benefit."
I force myself to keep asking because now I know that I need to know. "What happens if you say no?"
"You don't," he says. "You learn quickly that saying no means that . . . Well, there are some victors whose family members end up with mysterious illnesses or in car wrecks. No one can directly say that it's not mere correlation, but the message is clear enough."
Now my throat is frozen. Before the cold reaches my mouth, I manage one final question: "Does this happen to all victors?"
He shakes his head. "No. Only the ones deemed desirable. Not just for looks, but sometimes for other reasons, too. Control, mostly."
And now my mouth is frozen shut.
This news is completely devastating. It seems wildly preposterous, even too crazy for the likes of the Capitol. And yet I remember how wrecked Pitch was when he returned back to the apartment the last two nights. The hollowness in his eyes. I turn and look back at the people in the park. They're too far away to really identify them more than vague figures with brightly-colored outfits, and yet I still find myself searching through them as though I could find the culprit.
Pieces start to fall together.
"The other day when I went out to lunch without you, the others told me that I need to stick by you. They wanted to verify that I hadn't talked with anyone besides the other victors…"
"We look out for each other," says Pitch. "Most of us do, at least."
I was so angry at them because I thought they were babying me, and yet they were really trying to protect me.
"And when we went to the bookstore?"
"A 'patron' with whom I'd rather not interact again."
"Why did no one tell me this?" I demand.
"I'm telling you now."
"Before. Like months ago, maybe. This is pretty big information—critical to being here in the Capitol."
"You weren't supposed to be coming to the Capitol this time," Pitch says. "Besides, no one really talks about it. We all just know. It's just not something that comes up in conversation."
"Right, so I was just supposed to find out on my own?"
Pitch shifts uncomfortably. "I was hoping you would never need to find out. Though I suppose that was pretty foolish. Even if you never got involved, there would be many other victors you'd know who are."
I take a deep breath. This is surreal. You're reaped without your consent, they bathe and groom and dress you without your consent, and they force you to kill and be killed without your consent. Why does it come as a surprise that they also make you have sexual relationships without consent? I think of the Capitol citizens enjoying the park today. They're well aware of all of the things that go on related to the Hunger Games. Are they aware of this aspect, too? All those people enjoying their lives while knowing that they are supporting the torture and murder of others?
I shake with the cold that has come over me.
"Juniper, I shouldn't have—"
"Shut up, I can handle it," I snap. He doesn't need to protect me from everything. "I'm just cold. That's all."
Uh huh. Shitty excuse considering how warm it is out right now, especially in the direct sunlight. I know it's a crappy reply, and Pitch does, too. He stands up and extends out a hand.
"C'mon. Let's get out of here before I burn," he says.
I grab my book, shove it in my bag, and then let him help me to my feet. We walk silently back towards the train stop, our pace painfully slow. My legs feel like blocks of ice, and each step is challenging. How could it be that while in the arena I was terrified out of my mind and was still able to move like I was on fire, but here when I am safe—at least, safe from death—I can barely move my body? I don't want to go back to the training center, but I know that I don't have a choice. This afternoon, Rosa will have her private training session and I want to be there when she gets her score.
The train ride is in silence. I can feel the prying eyes of Capitol citizens, but I do what Pitch told me to do yesterday and keep my head up and my eyes focused forward. It's easier to do now that I know the depths to which their wretchedness reach, and it will keep them from seeing the anger seething in my frozen gaze. Pitch keeps me moving once we get off the train and doesn't allow me to stall for too long on our way back to the training center.
When we're there, he says to me, "Time to focus on our current task." As though that's enough to wipe away everything that he has told me.
~.~.~
~.~.~
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Rosa arrives back to the apartment in the best spirits I've seen all week. She runs into her room and returns cleaned up minutes later—no longer preoccupied with long showers to avoid confrontation—and then she's bounding over to me to update me on her training.
"I can't believe it!" she hisses to me. We're in a separate room while Pitch distracts Green so that the little twerp won't overhear Rosa and my conversation. Rosa's eyes glow with delight. "I got invited into an alliance!"
My eyes open wide. "Really? That's awesome! With whom?"
"The girls from District 5 and District 8!"
Wow. Eighteen year olds the both of them. I'm impressed. "Good job," I say. "Tell me about it."
Rosa grins at this, and we settle down into the couches. "It turns out that everybody heard that I was good with chemicals, so then they asked me to be in their alliance. But they had also seen me with a short sword. I mean really short sword (because I can't really do much more than lift any of the other swords). They said I was pretty good!"
I'm not sure what to make of this. This is better than my wildest dreams. Two eighteen-year-old tributes taking in a twelve year old? It seems too good to be true.
"Can you tell me what they're like?" I ask.
"Sure. Nicola is from District 5. She's really tall, and super pretty. She said that she played a lot of sports in school, so she's in good shape," Rosa explains. "And I watched her working with ropes—she's really good at some of the complicated knots.
"And Taylor is from District 8. She's shorter—but still taller than me—and she is much skinnier, but she can light fires! And she knows how to fight, she said. I saw her working with one of the trainers, and she was really good!"
Rosa is all puffed up and proud right now. So I am careful how I ask the next question: "Did they ask you what you have to offer in return?"
She nods. "They watched me at some of the stations before they asked me to be in their alliance."
"Which stations?"
"First, we were at the edible plant station. I didn't think I did that good at it because there were so many plants I had never seen. Then also at the station with the smaller weapons, like the hatchet. Again, I wasn't the best, but I guess I was good enough for them."
I'm relieved. But I'm also cautious. "Alliances don't always work out, okay? I'm proud of you, but remember that it will break at some point, and they might turn against you, or you turn against them. That's how it works."
Rosa nods. The smile is off her face now, but she hasn't lost the spark of excitement that illuminates the room. "I know that. I've been watching the Hunger Games since I was born. I just . . . I just am happy that I get to have a chance, you know?"
"A chance?" I ask.
"You know . . . to get out of the bloodbath and try to make it."
She might as well have punched me in the gut. This poor kid knew the entire time that she had no chance on her own. Of course she knew; she's not dumb. If I were in her position, I would have known just as well. But it's the fact that she now thinks that she can make it for an hour or two is what kills me. That her "chance" is not to win but to live for a few minutes longer because she knows how unlikely it is that she will walk away the Victor. I can't bear it.
"I'm proud of you," I manage. "And whatever you do, don't think that you don't have a shot at winning. You're not as big as the other kids or as old, but don't write yourself off."
"Thanks, Juniper," she says. She smiles at me, but now it is not excited as it was before. There's a hint of sadness in the upturn of her lips.
Tasha and Leander arrive then and it's about time for the training scores to come in. I don't get a chance to ask Rosa what she did in her private session since she's being swooped back up into the fuss and chaos of the stylists' arrival. Green is also hyped up for the release of the scores. I find Pitch and pull him aside.
"District 5 and District 8 girls asked Rosa to be in an alliance," I say to him under my breath so that no one else—not our escort, nor the stylists, nor the tributes and avoxes—can hear me.
Pitch nods and says just as quietly, "Green says that he's going to be in an alliance with the District 12 boy."
"The thirteen year old?" I ask.
"Yeah, that's the one."
We don't have time to discuss it anymore. Everyone is gathering in the sitting area on the couches and chairs to watch the release of the training scores. Lala passes around drinks to us all—I have to pause and remove the beverages from the tributes' hands since I'm 98 percent certain that they contain alcohol—and we find our seats to watch the results.
One by one, the names and images of the tributes appear on the screen, starting with the District 1 male. The Careers are pretty typical, each one scoring somewhere around 9. Most of the others are around 4 or 5. But the girl from District 5 has earned an 8, and that's pretty noteworthy. Then it's time for District 7. I clasp my hands together and hold my breath.
"Evergreen McConnell . . . training score of 3," says the announcer, Caligula Klora.
Green exhales. "About what I expected," he admits in what is probably the first moment of humility with him I've witnessed.
"Ponderosa Funar . . . training score of 5."
Everyone's faces light up with excitement. Green looks around in confusion, and Rosa just smiles so broadly that I can see that a new tooth is starting to come in where it had been missing in her school photo.
The rest of the scores are released. The girl from District 8 has a 6. So their little alliance ends up with scores of 8, 5, and 6. Not bad, all things considered. Green's alliance is . . . not quite as hopeful. His ally, Coal, has earned a score of 3 as well.
Everyone wants to know what Rosa and Green did in their private sessions. Green proudly announces that he ran around the training center "very, very fast" for the entire time, except that he had to take a break at least twice. Rosa is more modest and says that she worked with her short sword for a bit.
"Thank you, Juniper," Rosa says as she heads to bed later. "Thank you so much!"
I'm not sure what I did so right, but I accept a hug when the girl gives it, and I find myself hugging back.
The excitement settles down, and after the escort and stylists leave and the kids are in bed, I meander back to the sitting room with Pitch. The television is still going, but it's been muted. The announcers are discussing what they think each tribute did to earn their scores, and occasionally pictures of the tributes flash on the screen with their name, district number, and training score while the announcers banter back and forth. I'm glad that I can't hear what they're saying.
"I guess the fact that Green can't keep his mouth shut benefitted Rosa," I say to him as I pause by the small table that always has a few light snacks and a couple of chilled beverages. Grabbing up a can of a carbonated fruit beverage, I turn around to Pitch.
"Is that why the others wanted her in an alliance?" he asks. "Toss me one."
I carry two drinks over and throw one at him before I plop down on the couch.
"Yeah, the chemical thing." I pop open the can. A whoosh of gas floats out, and I take a sip.
"You know anything about either tribute?" He opens his own can.
"District 5 is 18. Her name is Nicola. District 8 is also 18 and is named Taylor." I then repeat what she told me, about their skills and how they watched her at a couple of stations before inviting her.
"Could mean anything," says Pitch. He pauses and takes a drink. "Maybe they see in her some skill they'll find useful in the arena, maybe they want to use her as a distraction or shield if anyone attacks them, or maybe they think she's adorable and will bring them more sponsors."
What a terrible set of options, some clearly worse than others.
"Your job now," Pitch continues, "is to meet up with their mentors and figure out a game plan. Try to understand their skills."
"Work together with the other victors?" I ask.
"Yes."
"Am I supposed to tell them everything I know about Rosa?"
"Not everything. Enough that you can glean some information from them. And as a general rule, pretend like everything you say to them goes to all of the other victors, too."
Right. So I'm supposed to tell them useful information without actually telling them information.
"You can disclose more once they're in the arena because you don't have to worry about the other tributes finding out about anything you say," he adds.
I fiddle with the tab on the top of the can. It ultimately snaps off in my fingers and then I'm left with a little chunk of aluminum.
"Who are their mentors? For Nicola and Taylor, I mean," I ask him.
"Let's see. . . . I think Elijah is mentoring Nicola and Esther is mentoring Taylor," Pitch says.
I cock my head and think about it. "So they're being mentored by a drunk blind guy and a girl who is younger than her tribute?" Wow. I can already tell that this alliance is really going to go places.
"Elijah is usually sober," Pitch says. "And though Esther is young, this is her third year mentoring."
Esther is only sixteen years old. She was one of the youngest victors we've had in many years when she won at thirteen years old. Not only was she young, but she is also from District 8 which hasn't had many victors in the past several decades. I'm not surprised that she's mentoring, but I think it would be pretty awkward to be told what to do by a younger girl, especially when she started mentoring at 14 years of age.
"What about that District 12 kid? Coal? I heard Terra say that her tribute was gluten intolerant," I say.
Pitch laughs. "Sorry, I shouldn't be laughing. It's just . . . Two young kids, each with low training scores and one of them who won't be able to eat half the food in the arena."
"That's not really funny," I snap.
"Hence why I said that I shouldn't be laughing," Pitch says. "But let's talk about tomorrow."
"Okay. We're supposed to go over stuff for the interview, right?" I ask.
"For part of the time. Tomorrow, Lala will work with one tribute for four hours in the morning while the other tribute is mentored. Then in the afternoon they switch. I am going to have you work with Rosa in the morning while Green is with Lala. Then Rosa will be with Lala and Green will work with me."
"And what do I do then?"
"Exactly what I am going to be doing in the morning—go to the mentor room and try to get a feel for the things that the other mentors are saying. And see if either Elijah or Esther are there."
It all sounds pretty straightforward, but I know that it won't unfold that smoothly.
"I don't even know what to tell Rosa," I mumble. "And I certainly don't have four hours' worth of content."
"Fortunately for you, I have been keeping track of the other victors and their tributes."
Pitch has managed to gather enough to fill up an entire four-hour session? Well don't I feel dumb now. I should have been doing that, and my meager attempts to glean information from them seem really pathetic.
"Don't beat yourself up over it," he says, clearly recognizing my distress. "That's the sort of thing that comes with mentor experience."
For the next hour, he fills me in with all of the information he has gathered. Which mentors are reliable sources of info, which ones have good track records, what he has heard about each tribute, the strange rumors that are going around. All the sorts of things that I had no clue were even happening because I'm pretty much lost. I'm on my third can of carbonated juice when it looks like the conversation is wrapping up for the night which is good because I really need to pee. But then he starts giving me tips on what things to encourage for the interviews, what different angles I could choose to have Rosa play, how she ought to present herself to the audience. At the point that he finishes up, I don't think I can hold it any longer.
"I'm sorry, Pitch, but I need to use the restroom," I say to him. Before he has the chance to respond, I zip out of the room and right towards my bedroom.
When I return, Pitch is getting ready to leave again. It's worse now that I know why exactly he's leaving, and I really don't know what to say about it.
"Don't wait up for me," he says as he presses the call button for the elevator. He's so casual about this, like he's heading out for a quick trip to the grocery store or a walk through the woods. Except that he has on a fresh shirt and his hair is combed.
"Yeah, okay. See you later."
He disappeared into the elevator once again, and I am left with a great pit in my stomach as I watch the elevator doors close behind him.
~.~.~
~.~.~
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
It's the eighth day in the arena. My left arm is broken in at least two places, and I have managed to fashion a makeshift splint around it. That came from a bad fall when I was trying to escape another tribute. I haven't eaten anything except carrots, lettuce, and radishes for the past several days, and I feel weak for lack of protein.
The District 9 tributes are cooking a peacock over the fire. The beautiful feathers that once made the great tail fan lay scattered around their campsite, and I feel sadness that something so perfect is now completely destroyed. It's good that I feel something, at least. I've been so hollow both physically and emotionally for the past several days that the change is welcomed. But I'm not here to admire the birds; I'm here to barter.
I shuffle out of the bushes into the clearing. Both tributes jump up and grab for their weapons. My hatchet, however, still hangs at my side.
"I'm hungry," I say.
They stare at me, waiting for me to make the first move. Instead I stand there, weak and with my broken arm hugged to my chest.
"I have vegetables—I'll trade you for some meat," I offer.
For a moment, I think they might attack me, but they don't. They look at each other for a brief moment before turning back to me.
"Let's see what you have," says the girl quietly.
"Hang on." I make a show of struggling to free myself from the bag—clearly my arm is hindering me greatly and I am no threat to them—and then, after a moment of fumbling with the clasps, I just toss the entire bag at them. They start, certain that I have just launched a poisonous mutt at them, but after a bit of prodding the bag with a stick, they finally are brave enough to open. Sure enough, it's the vegetables I mentioned.
The District 9 tributes paw around through the bag, pulling out the vegetables and turning them over in their filthy hands.
"How do we know they're not poisoned?" asks the boy.
"I've been eating nothing but vegetables for days straight," I admit. "I just need to eat some meat."
He tosses a radish at me. It hits me in the shoulder and thumps to the ground. "Eat it," he says.
I do. It's not poisoned, that's for certain. I never want to eat another radish again in my life, though, so it takes me awhile to eat enough that he's convinced I'm not trying to trick them.
"Fine. We'll take this. You take that," he says, motioning towards a generous chunk of peacock meat on a skewer.
"The whole thing?" I ask, wide-eyed.
"Yes. But we're keeping the bag, too."
"Sure," I say. I scamper forward, grab the entire skewer, and then dart back into the shadows. The tributes are talking in low voices to each other, and I stay there unnoticed and tear off a chunk of juicy meat which I eagerly stuff into my mouth. I force myself to chew on it slowly so that I don't eat too quickly and overwhelm my stomach. Last thing I want is to give myself diarrhea in the arena. I know that it's just plain poultry without any seasoning or spices, but it's the best damned meat I've ever eaten.
A scream pulls me from my moment of bliss, and I drop onto my stomach. Then I hear the District 9 girl begging, followed by the booming voice of the District Four male:
"That's her sweater! I recognize it anywhere!"
Oh no. The sweater that I took from the District Four female—it was in the bottom of the bag with the vegetables!
"Please! Please, we didn't do anything! We just—this bag was just given—" The words are cut off with a wretched gurgling sound followed by a heavy THUMP. A cannon booms above our heads.
The District 9 male is now scrambling to get away through the bushes not too far from me. I pray that he won't betray my location. But it's not needed. His screams come next, followed by what I can only imagine to be multiple stabs with a large weapon. The cries become weaker and weaker, and at last there is another THUMP as his body is discarded on the ground. A second cannon sounds, reverberating through my chest.
The District 4 male mutters something, shuffles around the clearing a bit, and then vanishes. Shortly afterwards, the hovercraft comes and the bodies are removed.
Its hours before my heart finally stops pounding against the dirt beneath me. And even then, I'm not confident that I'll be able to move without breaking. It's only when the pain in my broken arm becomes intolerable and the faint glow of dawn appears on the horizon that I pick myself up, grab the peacock and the skewer and return to the clearing.
The bodies and the sweater are gone. But the food is still there. Gathering up the bag with the vegetables, I take a moment to go through the District 9 tributes' things, feeling like a disgusting freak the entire time I do so. It's worse than grave robbing. But I do it anyway because I know that it's my survival that's at stake, and I gather up as much stuff as I can reasonably carry, including the burned remainder of the peacock above the smoldering remains of the fire.
I stagger away, wondering if I would have stood a chance against the District Four male had he come in a few minutes earlier and saw me with the bag that held the sweater.
~.~
I wake up in a puddle of urine. My sheets are soaked through, both from sweat and, more noticeably, from the release of my own bladder. I haven't wet the bed since I was a kid, and the fact that it happened now has unnerved me so badly that I'm shaking as I stand up, peel the sheets off the mattress, and carry the soiled linen into the bathroom. I throw it in the corner of the shower and return to the bed. To my relief, the mattress is still dry. The mattress protector must be made of some very strong material to not let that amount of liquid destroy the mattress.
I strip off my clothes in the shower and throw them into the pile with the sheets. The shower is plenty big with multiple nozzles, so I aim one nozzle directly on the sheets and clothing to try to get the majority of the urine away. The avox that cleans my room will know right away what happened, but I don't want to make the task any more unpleasant for her. And my embarrassment abates as the urine is washed down the drain. I still can't believe that I wet the bed, and I swear I'll never tell anybody about it.
What is happening to me, I wonder as I press my forehead against the cool tiles of the shower. Why am I struggling so much to be a mentor? Every victor has to be a mentor at some point in life; most have to be a mentor every year. And yet here I am pretty much reduced to a child.
I don't have time to dawdle, so I force myself to scrub up, dry off, and dress for the day. I wear as comfortable clothing as I can and head to the dining room for breakfast.
~.~
Rosa and I sit in a quiet room off the main hallway of the apartment. It's just big enough for a couple people to be comfortable, but it's pretty neutral and allows us to focus well.
"Tomorrow night will be the interviews," I explain to her, though she knows this already. "You and Green will have a chance to show the Capitol who you are—or who you want them to see."
Rosa sits cross-legged on the couch opposite from me, sipping a blended fruit drink. She flicks the draw around with her tongue in between sips while she listens to my advice.
"This afternoon, as you know, you'll be working with Lala. She'll go over some of the more . . . performance aspects of the interview with you. How to physically present yourself. And then tomorrow your stylist and prep team will get you and your outfit prepared. In the meantime, let's discuss what things you should say in the interview."
Rosa thinks for a moment, then says, "No thank you. I'd rather talk about how to survive in the arena."
I stare at her in surprise. "Well, I guess, but you need to know what to say in your interview. It could get you sponsors."
"Sponsors won't help me if I'm already dead," she says.
"Alright, Rosa," I say. "What do you want to know about survival?"
She takes a loud slurp of her drink. "What type of arena do you think it'll be?"
"I don't know," I admit. "Could be anything, though less likely to be something recent. So probably won't be a garden, jungle, or prairie. Might be a forest since they like to repeat those often enough. But it could also be something entirely different that doesn't really fall into the 'natural setting' category—something industrial or fantastical, for example."
One year, it was perpetual night. The only light came from the moon and stars above; the flashlights, torches, and fires the tributes made; and from various glowing fungi and animals. It was really freaky to watch, and I can only imagine that the terror was worse than what most of us experienced. In the past there have also been man-made things such as abandoned cities and towns, or hospitals and prisons. Most of the time the settings are more natural such as forests, deserts, and mountains, though sometimes they give some sort of twist to keep things interesting such as various disasters and muttations that aren't entirely expected. At this point, the only thing I can say is that it definitely won't be a garden because they just did that, and after so many years running the Hunger Games, the Gamemakers know not to make things too repetitive.
"I went to all the survival stations, and I made sure that I had them show me different techniques for different environments," Rosa says. "Like if you're in a place that's cold, you need to have more leaves underneath you when you go to sleep at night so you don't freeze. That sort of stuff. But I wish they'd narrow it down a little more for us."
She sighs and looks at me. "How did you do it, Juniper? How did you actually kill people?"
I stare down at the smooth wood floor. My face warms up. "I don't know," I say. "I just . . . did. It's like I knew I had to, and my body did the rest. It's probably different for each person, though."
"Is it hard?" she asks.
I shrug, still not able to look at her. "Yes and no. If I thought about it too much, then yes, it was hard. But if I didn't think, then it wasn't that bad." I cringe. Not that bad? How shitty of a thing to say.
Rosa takes another noisy slurp of her drink. "I wonder if it's hard to die."
Now I do look at her. She's not looking at me, but watching the pendulum swing back and forth on the wall clock.
"Probably just like killing—different for each person," is all I manage to say. I have no experience with losing my life, only with taking others'.
For the next several hours, Rosa prods me for information about survival in the arena—in all sorts of arenas. She wants to know how other victors had survived various situations—freezing, dehydration, being cornered by the Careers, etc.—so that she can add it to her mental notes. As unusual as this conversation is, I'm just glad that she clearly has some hope for the future if she's trying to figure out how to survive once the gong sounds.
"What about in the bloodbath? Is it worthwhile to risk getting supplies?" she asks.
"Once you're raised up and can see the arena, you need to check a few things before you can make that decision. The first is, what type of arena is it? If it's something like a desert, you're definitely going to need supplies. The second is, in what direction are you going to escape? And, if that doesn't work out, what's your backup escape route? Before you go into the supply area, you need to know how to get out. The third is, what tributes are near you? If there is no one near you who is a direct threat, you're more likely to be able to run in and grab what you need." It's a logical progression. I had written this all out before I had entered the arena, carefully compiling a list of what I needed to do after gleaning information from various sources.
It's only a few more minutes before Lala comes in and tells us that it's time for lunch. Rosa leaves me, and it takes several minutes for me to gather myself together and head out to join them.
~.~.~
~.~.~
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Before I leave, Pitch gives me some information about the various things he's heard in the mentor room this morning.
"Some people are on edge and others are very loose with their speech," he's telling me as I am putting on my shoes near the elevator. The tributes are finishing up lunch with Lala, who is going over some general information with them. I don't like leaving them with her, but that's not something I can help.
"Alcohol?"
"That or people are just getting apprehensive for their tributes," he replies. "Just be careful and don't push any buttons."
I frown. "What makes you say that?"
"Oh, I don't know, Juniper," he says with exasperation. "Maybe because I know you? Or it could be because you stormed off from lunch the other day? Or because you've already broken items in the apartment?"
I tie the last knot in my laces and stand up. "Fine. I won't push any buttons. But I doubt that any other victor is getting lectured to not push mine."
He holds up his hands. "Suit yourself. Just remember that you're not the only one who can get screwed over."
I glare at him as I push the elevator button, and I keep glaring until the elevator arrives and the doors open. Even once they close, I'm still glaring. Really, I must be the only victor who is getting lectured like this.
At the mentor room, I find that there are only a handful of other people here. I assume it's because at least half of them are tied up with their tributes like Pitch is. But I manage to find Elijah pretty easily and flop down on the couch opposite him.
"Juniper," he greets me.
"I think you really do have functioning eyes and this is just a gimmick," I say, motioning towards his face where the blank-looking marbles stare back at me.
"It wouldn't be the strangest conspiracy I've heard around here," he replies easily. "Anyway, our tributes are allies now."
"So Rosa tells me."
"Did Pitch explain to you how this works, from a mentor perspective?" he asks.
"He told me some."
"Right. I guess I'll just have to fill in the rest then." He doesn't sound very thrilled about it. But he continues regardless, "Our computer systems will be linked together so that we'll have constant communication with each other. We can choose to pool together sponsorship money or to keep it separate. The moment that the alliance ends, however, the money is immediately separated."
"So that nobody can benefit from a broken alliance?"
"So that nobody can use the money from a dead tribute."
Ouch. "That's, uh—"
"Completely logical for a culture that supports child torture and murder? Yes," says Elijah with so much bluntness, I'm at a loss for words. "Tributes would be making alliances and then intentionally killing their allies simply to have access to their banks. So, because the government thinks that something in the Hunger Games must be fair and their own pocketbooks deserve far more respect than a bunch of starving, dying teenagers, they have these rules in place."
My mouth opens, but nothing comes out. How can he just say this stuff? Surely this room is bugged. Hell, it may be one of the most bugged rooms in the entire building. But this blasé behavior is something that I have never once witnessed for fear of backlash. I can't even rant about how shitty the District 7 escort is for being so cruel when talking about our tributes, and here is this guy just going on in public about the government as a whole.
He continues, "You can use whatever station in the room over there that you want. The big district numbers are just for show. So once tributes start dying and more room gets freed up, alliances can sit together if they want. Or if you're just tired of Pitch, you can always move to a different seat."
At this moment, Esther walks in. She's a small girl with dark circles under her brown eyes and brownish-blond hair that is pulled back in a disheveled braid. Her movements are so quiet that I don't hear her sneak up. But Elijah does.
"Hey, Esther," he says.
"He, Elijah," she replies quietly. She sits down on the same couch as me, but perches on the edge of the seat as though she is about to jump up and run away at any moment. She gives me a reserved, tight-lipped smile.
"I was just introducing Juniper to how the computers work with alliances," he explains to her. She nods as if to show that she understands, though Elijah can't see it.
"Taylor was telling me about Rosa," Esther says to me. "She seems like a smart girl."
"Must be something to her if a couple of eighteen year olds want to ally with her," says Elijah. "Though that may just be because Nicola is too soft and motherly."
"Nothing wrong with being motherly," says Esther.
"Unless you're in the arena and it's going to get you killed, sure," Elijah replies.
"Well, she can't change her nature overnight," Ester says with finality.
I remember watching Esther's Hunger Games. It was two years before mine. At thirteen, she was the youngest tribute there, and since she was also from District 8, she wasn't expected to make it very far. But she thrived in her arena—a great, grassy prairie—and due to a few Gamemaker events that took out some of the stronger competitors, she managed to make it through to the end. Still, it's weird seeing this girl two years younger than me talk with other tributes so confidently. She's quiet, but she appears to be able to hold her ground just fine.
I decide that I like her and want to get to know her better. However, that will have to wait.
But it's time for me to try to take part in this conversation. Hopefully I won't sound like a moron. "What should I know about your tributes?" I ask.
Esther shrugs. "Taylor is pretty easy to get along with. She follows directions pretty well, and she knows how to fight a bit. I can see her asking Rosa to be an ally—she was talking her up the other night before she asked. Trying to figure out if I supported it. Said something about her knowing how to use chemicals."
I'm not sure about this chemical thing. What's the significance of it? Not every Hunger Games have any sort of chemicals—very few of them do—and yet it keeps coming up as one of the selling points for my tribute. I'll have to ask Pitch about it later.
"Uh, let's see," begins Elijah. "Nicola follows me along pretty much anywhere I go and asks a constant stream of questions. Had to lock her in her bedroom the other night so she would stop knocking on my door. But she seems quite capable—just very adamant that she has all the information she can get."
"What about Rosa?" Esther asks.
"She's a pretty sweet kid," I say, though I know it's not really a great selling point in a murder game. "She wanted to make sure that her alliance partners saw something in her—she wants them to make sure they know she can hold her own." It's a little bit of a fudge, but I'm not sure what to tell them. "So she was pretty happy they watched her at a couple stations yesterday before asking her to join them."
It seems like a mediocre alliance. Nothing really holds them together, but they aren't so inept that it'll fall apart at the first moment of stress. I give them three days before they fall apart, but Elijah says he's really hoping that they make it to at least two. Esther, on the other hand, just stares quietly at us and shakes her head.
None of us are really willing to give too much information about our tributes at this point. I don't know if it's because we don't trust each other yet or because we don't trust anyone else who might be listening in. At least I now know that everyone seems to want to be Rosa's ally and this isn't a forced or imagined alliance.
Esther walks with me back towards the main elevators that will take us to our respective floors when our meeting ends.
"You're lucky you have so many victors in your district," she says. "There's only a few of us and . . . well, you and Pitch get along so well. And I know that Elm is also very nice, and so is Vesa. I wish I got along as well with the others as you do with Pitch."
"And have rumors spread?" I ask with a raised eyebrow.
She shrugs. "Pitch is kind. There are worse people. And there are also worse rumors."
"Such as?" It seems like I am constantly learning about the filth of Capitolite lifestyle. Just when I think that they can't get any worse, something else comes up.
Esther shakes her head. "Sorry," she says.
I know that she doesn't want to repeat anything because we are being watching, so I just grunt in reply.
~.~.~
~.~.~
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Rosa is in the shower when I arrive back to the apartments. She had asked Lala to show her how to put on some makeup, and Lala had been delighted to give a little tutorial to the tribute. After her face was caked with garish powders and pastes, Lala sent her away to clean up.
For the first time in a long time, I'm famished. Perhaps it's knowing that my tribute has some hope, or maybe it's the fact that my body is entering into starvation and the need to eat outweighs my anxiety, but I am forced to listen to its cravings. Despite the fact that it's almost time for dinner, I ask the avox to bring me some snacks while we wait. The avox disappears, and I head to the lounge.
Pitch and Green are watching a program on television. It's some sort of news program or another that's going over highlights from this past week, mostly focused on the Hunger Games, of course. I sit down in the chair next to the couch. A small table with a lamp and a stack of coasters separates Pitch and myself. Green lies on the floor on his stomach, chin cupped in his hands as he takes in the program.
"Just some light television viewing?" I ask skeptically.
"He wanted to watch TV. Figured this was better than most of the crap on it."
The avox bring in my snack—a tray of apples, cheeses, and crackers with a glass of fruit soda—and sets it down on the table between Pitch and me. I thank her and immediately start shoving food into my face as I turn back to the television.
The announcers talk about a party that is scheduled for tonight, then they do a segment about the weather, and then the next thing I know, there is video footage of Pitch and me in the park. The camera is far away and it doesn't pick up what we're saying, but it's very clear that it's the two of us seeming to enjoy our time together.
"…Our newest victor is hitting it off pretty well with her fellow District 7 mentor, Pitch Yassen," the announcer is saying.
The co-anchor nods, and adds, "According to our sources, they're getting a bit close—closer than most victors—as they work together to bring their tributes to victory."
And all I can think as I sit here and watch it is, THIS is newsworthy? Of all of the things that are going on in the world, this is what they find to show on television?
Green rolls over and looks up at us. "So the rumors are true?" he asks. "Are you guys in love or something?"
Now I'm confused. I stare at Green.
Pitch beats me to the question, "Green—didn't you start this rumor? Didn't you tell the other tributes that you saw us?"
Green laughs. "No! But that's hilarious! You guys really are together? Wow, here I thought that everyone was just trying to make me angry or something!"
The breath leaves my lungs. I can only stare at Green. If he wasn't the one who spread the rumor, then—
"Green, did you tell everyone that Rosa knows how to use chemicals?" Pitch asks carefully.
"Nah. No need to—she told everyone herself."
I can't breathe. Holy shit, I can't breathe. I try to suck in air, but my throat is closed off, and no matter how hard I try, I can't take a breath. I'm gasping now, gagging. My lungs start to wither as they strain for oxygen. My heart thumps as it rapidly pushes what little oxygen I have to the rest of my body.
"…is she okay?..." I hear Green asking.
"…yes, she is just choking on her crackers…"
"…I know the Heimlich maneuver…"
And then I feel Pitch's hands on me. He's hoisting me to my feet. We're walking. Don't know where. Vision is going black. My lungs burn and my throat is ragged and hot as I desperately try to suck in air—even a little air. I stagger along as Pitch supports me, and then I hear a door close behind us.
There is silence. The sound of the television is gone. Green is far behind.
Pitch sits me down on the floor with my back against the wall.
"Listen to me. You need to take a deep breath. No, not like that. Deep."
"I—I can't!" I barely gasp out.
"You can. Force yourself."
I do. I force myself to take a big breath, and though I feel like I don't get any oxygen, my chest expands ever so slightly. I do it again on Pitch's directions, and then again. Finally I can feel a little more stable. My vision starts to return, and I can breathe again, though I have to continue deliberately taking breaths so I don't resort to shallow ones and start the process all over.
Pitch sits down next to me and we wait several minutes as I get ahold of myself.
When I do, I realize that he is shaking. I grasp onto his arm.
"Did that just happen?" I demand. "Did Green—did he just tell us that Rosa spread the rumors?"
Pitch nods. He appears to be at a loss for words.
"We have to go to dinner," I say at last.
He only nods again.
"We have to pretend that everything is okay."
Neither of us moves. It's only when Lala knocks firmly on the door that I find the strength to stand up, reach out, and help Pitch to his feet. Then we take turns in the bathroom cleaning up to look presentable.
The gusto with which I ate my snack is gone. I never want to eat another morsel of food in my life. But the two of us leave Pitch's bedroom and head back to the common area where we join the others at the table. Green eyes us skeptically, and Rosa is bounding with energy as the avoxes set out the last of the dishes for our meal.
Lala looks pointedly at us. "You really need to focus on your tributes rather than your own desires," she scolds us.
"Juniper was choking on a cracker," Green lets her know.
I'm immediately grateful to Green for his attempt, but I feel a lurch in my gut. I don't want to think about what we did—the decisions we made based on the information we thought we had—but I know that it's inevitable. Once we get through dinner, I'll have to find time to talk with Pitch.
Lala and the tributes start on their meals, and I once more push food around my plate. Pitch manages to eat more than me, I think, but I can't make myself even look at him right now. Nor at anyone else. My eyes are on my plate only, at my untouched food that will inevitably be thrown away. I'm too upset to care if I'm wasting anything, and I don't care if there are starving children in the districts who would be appalled to see me leaving food behind.
Finally I look up at Lala. "After dinner, can you go over the interview procedure with Rosa and Green for a few minutes? Pitch and I need to have a mentor meeting really fast."
Lala looks disgusted, so I add, "We'll be in the hallway, right over there. Won't take long."
As much as I'd like privacy, I also don't want us to get a reputation for being more interested in our so-called "desires" than our tributes' well-beings. And that's also really the only thing that's keeping me from getting up from the table and leaving right now.
But Lala is determined to drag dinner out as long as she can. She talks about her day and the people she spoke with and the places she went. The tributes, who are still quite taken with their escort because they don't know what I know about that wretched woman, ask her questions and feed her ego. Now that no one is focused on me, I can at least find the strength to look at my tributes. Namely, Rosa.
The little girl has her long brown hair swept back out of her face and pinned with diamond barrettes. Surely she got them from Lala. She's smiling and chattering with her. Honestly, the kid is the picture of innocence. It's only for this reason that I don't find myself overwhelmed with repulsion at the apparent manipulation. I'm angry, of course, but it's this heavy sickness that takes precedence within me, and none of the anger is able to make its way to the surface.
"Tomorrow, your stylists and prep teams will get you all made over for the interviews," Lala tells them. "It'll be a lot of fun! You'll get to wear a pretty dress, Rosa, and you, Green, will look very handsome in your outfit. Everyone will just eat you both right up."
"I hope I don't get stage fright," Rosa says. She looks over at me, waiting for me to reassure her that everything will be okay.
I manage a smile. "You'll be fine," I say.
"My friends and I used to practice interviews," Green starts in. "And we'd all try to say as much as we could as fast as we could in under three minutes. I normally came in second place."
The conversation continues on as such for several more minutes. Then, at last, Lala asks the avoxes to clear away the dishes, and she gives me a cutting look before she stands up and asks the tributes to join her.
Pitch and I immediately vacate to the farthest portion of the aforementioned hallway. There we hunker down and try to keep our voices low.
"I'm going to ask Rosa," I say before he has a chance. "I'm going to ask her if she started the rumors."
"That'll just make things worse," Pitch tells me. He throws a glance down the hallway, and I follow suit.
"Pitch, I need to know," I insist. "I can't just assume that she made them—or pretend that she didn't. That's what happened before. We just assumed that it was Green who made the rumors."
"And then I made a decision on how to mentor him based on that assumption," Pitch says bitterly.
I don't want to blame him or make him feel worse, but I can only nod. He had asked me if I thought if Rosa had made it up, and I had said no. "No" because there was also that other rumor. And "no" because I, like Pitch, assumed that Rosa was innocent and talkative Green was the instigator because he couldn't keep his mouth shut.
"Okay," he concedes. "Okay. Maybe she has a good reason why she did that."
I can't even fathom what such a reason would be. Leading us to believe that Green had spilled her "secret" was so damned manipulative on many levels, but it could be part of her strategy. However, I don't understand why she would want to spread a rumor about Pitch and myself. It doesn't make sense.
I want to ask what we're going to do about Green, but I don't know how to bring it up. It's heavy in the air, but neither of us want to mention it. I am just relieved that Pitch didn't outright discontinue mentoring the poor kid, even if he didn't give him as much attention as he should have because much of his time was spent helping me help Rosa.
There's nothing more to be said, so we head back down the hallway and into the main sitting room to meet the others.
~.~.~
~.~.~
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Rosa and I are back in the room where we discussed our interview prep earlier today. I told her that we'd be doing a few last minute things before going to bed tonight so that she and Green can focus on their interviews tomorrow. Rosa readily agreed.
"I have a question, Rosa," I ask. She looks at me intently. "Did you tell the other tributes that you know how to use chemicals and then say that Green told everyone?"
She sits on the couch and stares hard at me. The innocence and excitement is no longer on her face, but a peculiar expression that I can't read. Like she's trying to decide whether I am trustworthy.
"I won't be angry," I say. "I am just trying to help you out, so I need to know some information."
"Yes," she says simply.
"Why?" I ask, doing my best to honor my previous statement and keep the sudden flare of anger at bay.
"It's part of the Hunger Games, right?" she asks.
"Well you do want to be able to trust your team," I point out.
"Do I? I don't want to trust anyone. You said so yourself: alliances break up."
"This is different, Rosa, and you know that. Besides, I told you that after you told me that Green had spilled your secret." I struggle to keep my irritation from showing even though it's threatening to spill out.
She just stares at me.
"Fine, whatever. Did you also tell the other tributes about Pitch and me?"
She doesn't answer, but the look on her face says it all. There's a stony defiance to it, and I know that she's not going to give in.
I wonder, is this the same child that was reaped only a few days ago? Has she already hardened into a jaded tribute? Or has she always had a thick blanket of innocence to wrap around a deceitful core? What percent of this tribute is innocent child, and what is experienced manipulator? I'll likely never know, and all just the same, she is still my tribute. No matter what, I'm not going to give up on her. She can't die just because I'm too angry at her to see past her less enjoyable traits and behaviors.
"Alright, you don't have to tell me," I say at last. "But I do want you to know that I'm not going to give up on you, okay? I still think you have a shot at this, and I'm not going to abandon you because of this."
Her eyes flicker down to the hardwood floor and she twists her hands together. I think she might break and say something, but she doesn't. Instead we're plunged into a long silence.
"I'm happy you got an alliance. Really, I am," I say. "And I think you have a lot to contribute to it."
Especially, I think, because I now know how tricky she is and how eager she is to play people against each other. That is a skill I've seen so well executed only in older teenagers and adults. The fact that a young kid is so good at it will mean that she'll likely have the talent to play things her way in the arena. But it may also be her downfall if there are tributes who are much more observant than the rest of us.
"Did you tell me we were going to have more training just to interrogate me?" Rosa asks suddenly.
I frown. "It was critical information for me to know."
"Wanting to know if I lied about Green and also spread some stupid rumor is critical?"
Damn, what the hell is going on? I sit up straight and answer honestly, "Yes, because it impacts our relationship. If I'm going to help you, I need your cooperation. We can't be on different pages or else this will never work."
She thinks about that for a moment. I watch her carefully to see if I can anticipate her next move or question. However, she gives nothing away.
"I'm going to die, and you're worried about this stuff?" she asks.
"Yes, actually, I am," I reply. "Because I'm supposed to be helping you. I can't help you if you're not receptive to it." And now I'm echoing what Pitch said. I guess I do learn quickly.
"But even if I confess to all that, you're still going to help me?"
"Yes, that's why I'm here." Agitation starts to eat into my tone. I'll let her tire herself out with another question or two, and then we're done. There's no reason to drag this on any longer. I have the information I need.
"Even if I'm weak?"
"What?" I ask.
"Even if I'm young?"
"Well, you are young," I say somewhat puzzled where this is going.
"Even if you know that I won't make it until the end?"
"I told you that I think you have a shot," I say with exasperation.
"You didn't say that in the beginning," she says.
"I didn't know anything about you in the beginning."
"And now you do." She stands up brusquely, holds her head up, and leaves the room.
I lean back into the couch and stare at the door as it swings closed behind her, my mouth agape. Her absence is a void more than a relief, and I don't even know where to begin. The questions and confusion are entangled in my brain and I can't make sense of anything that just happened.
I groan and put my face in my hands. Rubbing my eyes, I wait until I start seeing stars and blurs of color before I allow myself to try to sort it out. Did she . . . do all of this to get my attention? I am utterly bewildered.
At last, I leave to go find Pitch, but he has already left for the night. Lala is gone, and the tributes have returned to their rooms. With nothing else to do, I find a book and plop down on the couch. It's a relief to disappear into the pages and not have to worry about the real world.
I read for hours until Pitch returns. I give him a minute to gather himself together and then I sit up so that I'm certain that he sees me. With heavy steps he comes over and sits down in the arm chair.
"Different perfume this time?" I ask when I get a wave of something vaguely piney.
"Couldn't stand the other stuff," he said. "Bought her different perfume as a gift."
That's weird. All of it is weird. Are we really just casually talking about this?
"What did Rosa say?" he asks.
"She admitted to lying about Green blabbing her secret. Said it was part of the Hunger Games," I said. "Didn't verbally admit to starting the rumor about us, but she pretty much admitted it with her face. That kid is. . . ."
"Kind of freaky? I've had tributes try all sorts of weird things, but this one might take the cake," Pitch says. He picks up a bottled water that is chilling in a tub of ice on the end table and screws off the cap. It takes him only a few seconds to drain the entire thing.
"I reassured her that I'm still working with her, but she seems so hostile now." I close the book in my hands and set it on the coffee table. "I wanted to believe that this was genuinely innocent or that there was something that happened in the training room that she was trying to cover up, but she was so cold and calculating when I talked with her."
Pitch listens to me and nods. "Yeah, I'm surprised, but mostly because I didn't expect something like this from her. Other tributes I've met, maybe. But that kid? No way."
"What do we do?" I ask.
"Not much that we can do," he says. "Just keep trucking along. Again, a rumor about a romantic relationship isn't that bad. Might not be what we want, might make things uncomfortable. But it certainly could be worse."
"That's what Esther said."
"C'mon, it's time for bed. I think we both need the rest," he says as he hoists himself to his feet.
I pick up my book and swing my legs over the side of the couch. The soft carpet cushions my step as I sleepily head back towards my bedroom.
"Hey, Pitch?" I say when I'm partway down the hall. He has lingered behind in the sitting room as he finds a trash receptacle to throw away his bottle.
"Yeah?"
"Are you going to be gone every night?"
"It'll end eventually. Always does."
I nod. But that means that at some point it'll always start up again.
~.~.~
~.~.~
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The next morning, the tributes are whisked away early to begin their interview preparation with the prep team and stylist. Lala frantically runs around between all the people who have gathered in the small apartment, trying to wrangle this person to one room and that person to another. I know she's just doing her job, but I'm tired of hearing her voice.
"C'mon," says Pitch. "Get dressed in something comfortable and let's get out of here."
"Can we?" I ask. I honestly don't remember what Pitch did when it was my interview day.
"Yes. It'll be the last stress-free day in awhile."
I snort. "This has all been stress free?" I ask incredulously.
He gives me a wry grin and disappears down the hallway to his bedroom.
Twenty minutes later, we are leaving the training center. I don't know where we are going, but I'm very happy to get away from all of the chaos within. It's not just our floor that's alight with activity because as soon as we stepped into the foyer, there's dozens of people zipping back and forth with clipboards and rolling chests of equipment and giant lamps and whatever else. There's also a lot of paparazzi clamoring about to get shots of the teams going to work. The press, like everyone else, will need to wait until the interviews tonight to know what's really happening, but it doesn't stop them from getting some good stories right now.
I can breathe a little easier with the building and all its occupants behind me.
"We meeting up with other mentors?" I ask him. I had thought he was going to take me to the mentor room, so I'm surprised that we've left the building entirely. Though the large number of people in the lobby makes me think that the mentors must be meeting up somewhere else.
"No," he says. "Just wanted to get away for a bit."
That sounds . . . nice. For once, I'm okay with him leading me everywhere because it means I don't have to think about anything. I allow my brain to shut off as we take a train and then a bus through the Capitol. I can't believe how large this city is. And it seems that the longer we travel, the newer the buildings get.
We leave the bustling city and enter suburbia where manicured lawns and picket fences line wide streets with clean gutters and sidewalks. People go about their lives here, and it looks peaceful. I'm reminded about being in the park and how everyone looked like they were really just living their lives. That's how it is here. We pass by a house where a couple of kids are drawing on the sidewalk with chalk, and there are a couple of mothers taking a walk with their babies in strollers, a mailman pulls up to a perfect white mailbox. It really is weird. Everything looks so . . . perfect.
At last we get off the bus and Pitch leads me over to a simple street lined with quiet shops and restaurants.
"This is the Riverwalk," he says, motioning towards a large river to the immediate west of the street. There are more cafes and restaurants with outdoor porches and dining areas facing the river. It must be absolutely lovely through here around sunset.
"I . . . never thought the Capitol had anything like this," I say. I feel a moderate amount of respect. But I squash it down when I remember that nothing here is worthy of my respect. Not when I see little signs in the windows where people can purchase trading cards of their favorite tributes.
"Thought it would make a good place for a walk," Pitch is saying as he leads me across the street and towards the riverfront. I follow after him, careful to look both ways.
We reach a wooden pathway that runs along the river.
"I honestly thought the Capitol was just a giant city. I didn't expect this."
"It was, until about fifty years ago or so," Pitch explains. "There was a population boom in the Capitol around the same time as the one in District 7—most of the districts, really—and people just wanted more space. Give it another fifty years, and people will have built across the rivers and up into the mountains."
I follow his gaze out across the river towards a few small mountains on the other side. They're beautiful, and I'd hate to think that one day they'll be covered with buildings.
"They had a population boom, too? Great, just what we need, more—people." I catch myself just in time.
"Without the sudden population growth, everyone in the districts would probably still be living in poverty. But since you can't have so many people starving, the Capitol created a bunch of programs to raise the standard of living across the country."
I'd heard this before. The Capitol realized that people on death's door didn't make very good products or infrastructure, so they had to feed us better, pay us better, and educate us better in order to make sure we didn't screw up. There was still poverty, of course, but much less of it. And people like myself had a shot at being educated at one of the district colleges once high school ended. At least I did before being reaped. But I hadn't realized that it was ultimately the growth of the Capitol that drove the changes. Now I can understand why people didn't want to crowd into the city.
I want to hate it all, I really do. But the way the river glitters under the sun's morning rays, or how the water laps gently against the pillars that hold up the wooden walkway on which we now stand, or how the birds circle through the air to keep an eye on the fish—it's quite beautiful.
"I wish the training center was over here," is all I can manage to say.
We are quiet as we walk along the river's edge. Large deciduous trees provide shade as we walk, their leaves rustling in the breeze. Every once in awhile, I see a Capitolite appear and start to inch closer, but I don't give them the satisfaction of engaging us in conversation. Instead I pretend that Pitch and I are alone out here without the constant eyes of the random passers-by sizing us up.
"We should eat somewhere," Pitch says.
"I'm not hungry," I say. It's true, but I also don't want to go anywhere near the people. I want to stay out here and pretend that no one else exists. It's much more relaxing this way.
"You need to. How much have you eaten since you arrived here? A couple thousand kilocalories? If that?" he watches me out of the corner of his eye as we walk. I find myself bristling at what he's saying. "We've been here nearly a week. You need to eat."
I nod. I do need to eat. I've been feeling weak recently, though of course I attributed it to stress. Even if it were, the lack of food certainly isn't helping. But how does one eat when one does not have an appetite and every food tastes as good as paper?
"I don't want them watching us as we eat," I say rapidly, hoping that no one else will possibly hear. I shoot glanced around us carefully, but I know that people can be found where you least expect it.
"There's not much other option," Pitch says. "They're going to want to put us right front and center somewhere."
"Where we'll make the news again," I groan.
"Yep," he says, but he doesn't sound nearly as bothered as I am. Probably in another dozen years, I'll be just as jaded as him. But for the time being, the idea of having people watch us eat—not of being in public eating around others but of having them actively watch us—really unnerves me. I'm not sure I'll be able to manage. The only other option, besides not eating of course, is to ask for a place that's private, and it really won't help the rumors.
"Alright, fine. But I pick the place," I say.
He chuckles. "Sure. Just don't go to the sushi place a couple blocks from here. I'm not sure they pass the Capitol safety code."
"Noted," I say, and I'm already scouting out the local restaurants for some place that will be decent.
At last, I choose a little sandwich shop that has plenty of outdoors seating with views of the river. If everyone's going to be watching me, I don't want to be forced to watch them. So Pitch and I head over and are immediately seated at the table of our choosing.
Back home, going to restaurants like this is a pretty big deal. We have delis and food trucks and those sorts of things were people—particularly working people in a rush—can grab some food to go. But to actually sit down and have someone wait on you is a much more important thing. I've gone to several restaurants in my life so I know how to behave in one, but it's still pretty strange to be here. It's very different from the restaurant I went to with Isolde, Demeter, and Lady the other day, where we didn't even have to order and barely saw the wait staff.
Pitch lets me have the chair with the best view of the river. Such a gentleman.
"I don't even know what half this stuff is." I'm looking at a menu, but the words appear to be in a foreign language. Maybe not. Maybe we just don't have need for such fancy sandwiches in District 7. Most of the delis I've seen have things such as "turkey on wheat" or "pastrami on rye" or whatever. Not this sort of stuff. "What's Havarti?"
"A type of cheese," Pitch says without looking up from his own menu.
"Muffaletta?"
"I think that's the bread."
"Chevre?"
"Another type of cheese."
"Wow, they can't just say 'cheese'?"
Pitch lowers the menu. "What do you want in plain speech, and I'll order it for you in fancy speech?"
"I can order just fine."
And that's how I end up ordering something that Pitch says as soon as the waiter walks away is lamb's heart and artichoke.
"How was I supposed to know?" I demand.
"I told you I would help you," he says. Then he grins. "Now you have to eat it."
"Only if I like it." But I know that the entire point of stopping to eat was to get me to actually eat.
We spent the time talking idly, neither of us really touching upon the Hunger Games or the tributes we mentor, except for a few light comments here or there. Now is not the time and place to plan anything, nor to discuss some of the more serious matters of our duties. I find myself wondering how Pitch does this all, jumping so easily between mentoring tributes who will ultimately die to being rented like some sort of property to enjoying a quiet lunch on the banks of a peaceful river like nothing is wrong in the world. And I also find myself wondering if he is, in fact, completely insane but manages to fool us otherwise.
An avox comes and fills our water glasses several times, making sure that they are always at least half full. It's unnerving to have someone pop up in the middle of your conversation time and time again but not contribute to it at all. Every time he shows up, I find that our conversation momentarily drops away before returning again as soon as he leaves.
At last our food shows up, and if Pitch hadn't told me what I had ordered, I never would have guessed it because it looks pretty damned good. I take a couple small bites at first just to test it out. It's not bad. I take a few more bites, once again careful not to upset my stomach after eating so little the past several days. Pitch eats his sandwich—something with several types of meats and cheeses and vegetables—while watching my reaction very carefully.
"It's pretty good," I say at last. This earns a smile. But there is little room for talking while we are eating. It's nice to be able to eat in peace since the last few days have been so swollen with conversation, especially around meals. I don't feel like there is any certain pressure to finish eating by a certain time or to force myself to be professional. I just eat, and that's that.
We are finishing up our meal when a woman comes up to us. She has glittery makeup sweeping away from her eye and across her cheeks. Her eyelashes are painted white, but they, too, have a glitter coat on them so when she blinks, it almost looks like snow falling upon her cheeks.
"Excuse me, I'm so sorry to interrupt," she says. "My name is Pythia Todner and I'm a local reporter. I was just wondering if I may ask you two some questions."
When she smiles, I feel as though she is a wolf about to gobble us down whole.
Pitch reacts much more quickly than I do—and much more tactfully than I would have.
"Thank you, Ms. Todner—"
"Pythia, please."
"Alright. Thank you, Pythia. I'm afraid that Juniper and I aren't doing any Q&As at this time. But if you give me your information, I'll reach out to you as soon as we are."
"Thank you, Mr. Yassen," Pythia beams. She reaches into the waist of her blouse and pulls out a small business card. It's shiny, and the little bits of glitter drift down like miniature raindrops onto the table. Pitch excuses us, pays quickly, and then we leave.
We spent another hour at the Riverwalk before heading back to the training center. We need to be back in plenty of time to freshen up and see the tributes to the interviews. I had done very well at blocking out most of the Hunger Games, but the last interaction with the reporter has me on edge.
When we arrive back at the training center, Isolde meets us by the front door and walks to the elevator with us past the various paparazzi and personnel. Once the elevator doors close us away from them, she crosses her arms and smiles.
"Just wanted to let you know that the most recent word is that you guys won't stay off each other in your apartment," she says. "Which has been verified by a certain District 7 escort."
I open my mouth. "That's just—" But I can't finish because the elevator comes to a stop and the doors open to the District 7 apartment to reveal one very perturbed Lala. She has been perched by the elevator waiting for the moment we returned.
~.~.~
~.~.~
CHAPTER TWENTY
Lala steps closer to drag us out of the elevator, but Pitch and I leave of our own free will before the woman can dig her claws into us. I turn and give one look at Isolde who is watching us with an amused smile as the elevator doors slide closed. I don't understand that girl. But I do know that she bought us an extra couple seconds when there was nothing in it to benefit her.
Now I can't ignore Lala. Her face is strained and the powder has creased where she had tried to cover a few small wrinkles not yet removed by Capitol plastic surgery.
"I can't believe you two running away together when your tributes need you the most!" she hisses, turning from one of us to the other.
Pitch speaks up, "Lala, I'm never here when—"
"Exactly! You're never here!" she continues. Now she throws a glance over her shoulder to make sure that neither the other Capitolites nor the tributes are in the vicinity. I'm not sure where everyone else is, but I wouldn't be opposed to them walking in right this moment so Lala has to stop. But they don't, and she doesn't. "Your tributes are beside themselves! Abandoned by their mentors!"
"We didn't abandon them—"
But my words are no good, either. "Those kids are pretty shaken up by the fact that neither of you guys were here today."
"We are never here when the stylists and prep teams are working on them," Pitch reminds her crossly.
"Well you can be! The way you've been treating these tributes is reprehensible!" she snaps.
I grit my teeth. She is calling us reprehensible?! After her saying that the tributes were mere pawns to get what she wanted in her life? She doesn't care one bit about them! She only wants to advance in her stupid career. The anger flashes over me in a heartbeat, and I can't stop it.
"You don't care! You're just here because they pay you, and you don't care about the tributes' wellbeing! You're a cold-hearted bitch who—"
Suddenly her hand shoots out and she slaps me across the face with such force that I stagger backwards. Pitch grabs me and keeps me from tumbling against the wall. His arms wrap around me and he draws me against his chest. I can feel the thump of his heart against me, distracting me momentarily from the pain in my face.
"Don't you dare do that again," he warns Lala with a dangerous edge in his voice.
"Listen! I have done enough damage control for you already as it is," Lala says. "District 7 would be the laughing stock of the Capitol if it weren't for me. You go in there and comfort your tributes. You don't ever leave their side again, and we will forget that this little outburst happened."
She looks at me, her eyes lingering. The normally excited and glimmering escort is scowling with a ferocity I have never thought possible. But I felt her hand—the heat on my cheek is testament to the pain she can induce. I hope that she doesn't interpret the angry tears that threaten to roll down my cheeks as pain or fear or sadness or anything other than the pure rage I feel towards her. I wiggle to get out of Pitch's arms, but he only holds me tighter.
Lala presses the elevator call button and it's there within seconds. She vanishes out of the apartment, and the last thing I see as the doors close is her staring at the reflective metal panel fixing her makeup.
Pitch doesn't let me go for several minutes until we both have calmed down.
"You okay?" he asks.
When I nod, he releases me. I press my back against the wall and stare up at him. My cheek still hurts. I'm sure there will be a welt, but I don't check right now because I'm afraid I'll get angry all over again.
"Last year, you didn't stay with me on interview day when the stylist and prep team were making me up," I say at last.
"I never do. None of us mentors do. There's no need to, and it's accepted that this is our last day before things get really heated up, so we normally do something that allows us to take our mind of things," Pitch explains. "We did nothing wrong. But obviously something's up."
I draw in a deep breath. "I guess we'd better go check on the tributes."
"You want to try to cover that?" he gestures at my cheek.
I shrug. "Does it matter?"
"I suppose not until the interviews. At least put some ice on it now."
The sitting area is empty save for the occasional avox, and I ask one of them for an ice pack. Moments later, she returns with a small cold bag. I thank her and press it to my cheek.
The apartment has a couple of rooms meant intentionally for the stylists and pep teams to prepare the tributes so that everyone stays pretty close. With my ice in hand, I follow Pitch towards these rooms. He disappears into the one with Green, and I knock on the door to the one with Rosa and her team.
Leander opens the door and waves me into the crowded room. The three prep team members—Salsa, Trevor, and Staria—are gathered around a chair in which Rosa sits. They are trying to apply makeup, fix her hair, and polish her nails all at the same time. But the moment they see me, everyone stops and looks up. They look a little embarrassed, and it's then that Rosa turns around and looks at me. She's been crying.
Such bullshit. I press the ice against my cheek harder so that I focus on the pain in my face rather than on the anger inside me.
"You okay, Rosa?" I ask.
The others are all staring at me, judging my reaction, waiting for me to do the right thing. But I don't know what the "right thing" is at this point, like I'm trying to take a test on material I never studied.
Rosa sniffles in response.
"What's going on?" I try again.
When she doesn't respond, I look at Leander and the prep team members and say politely, "Do you mind excusing us for a minute?"
The mutter "of course" and "yes, we'll be right back" as they set down their various instruments. I move out of the way as they scurry by me.
Once they are gone, I close the door and walk over to Rosa.
"Apparently you're inconsolable because I wasn't here by your side," I tell her.
She nods.
"I'm sorry that my absence disturbed you—" It takes everything in my power to pretend to be nice right now "—but remember that Lala told you yesterday what to expect and I explained to you this morning that we weren't going to be here because you were going to get made up for tonight?"
She nods again.
"So what really happened?" I demand.
Rosa thinks for a minute. Then she shrugs.
"Did you tell everyone what I was neglecting you to spend time with Pitch?"
"Strategy," she says at last.
"That's your strategy?!" I stand up straight and loom over her where she sits in her chair, hair wet and half-pinned into place. "You understand that by undermining myself and Pitch, you're only hurting you, right? I told you yesterday that I was still going to help you!"
It's a good thing that these rooms are close to soundproof. Someone is watching us from some remote location, I'm sure, but those aren't the sort of people who will run away with the tiniest bit of drama to gossip to the world.
"And are you?" she asks.
I let out a sigh. "Yes," I concede. "Yes, of course I am. But stop saying stupid crap, okay?"
"Can you send the team back in? The pins in my hair are uncomfortable and I want them out."
Damned little demon child. I throw her another look, head to the door, and force my expression to be neutral. When the prep team and stylist return a few moments later, I've managed to make expression much less annoyed.
"What happened to your cheek, dear?" asks Leander as the prep team scuttles back around their tribute.
"Got kicked by a wild beast or something," I respond and press the ice harder against my skin.
"Once they're finished with Rosa, I'll have them take a look at you," he says. "In the meantime, it looks like you've cheered your tribute up, so go get some rest and take a shower."
He doesn't need to tell me twice. I thank him and disappear to my bedroom where I lay on the bed and brood for a couple more hours until I force myself to get up and shower.
~.~.~
Notes: I'll tell you - it's not fun having to go through this and manually put in spaces between sections. Why does FFN not let us just have a blank line or two? And why can't I put a dash, but I can put squiggles and periods? It's a mystery.
Anyhow, again, hope you enjoy this. Let me know if there are any weird formatting errors or things that didn't get copied and pasted over appropriately.
