CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Day 6 in the Hunger Games and there are seven tributes left. Two of them are from District 7. When I stagger back to my computer station, I find that Pitch has returned.
"Where'd you go?" I ask.
"Had to drum up some sponsorship," he replied. I look at his screen and see that there's a bit of money in his bank. Pitch scans the shop to see what he can buy to best help his tribute. Green's health has increased to 32% now that he's out of the fog. Seeing what a difference the fog makes, I'm happy I spent the money to buy Rosa that shirt.
I check up on my tribute. Both she and Nicola are sleeping. Not wise, but they're not in any immediate danger, at least not from tributes.
"I saw that Rosa had some fun while I was gone," Pitch says.
"Yeah, she took out the District 2 female."
"That kid never fails to surprise me," he chuckles.
Me neither.
The Careers are waking up and stretching. Within minutes, they start towards the Cornucopia, or at least the direction they believe it to be in. Soon enough, they find it. I watch detachedly as they grab supplies, and get enough food and drink to tide them over. Unlike Rosa's alliance, they're better prepared for the fog and they know that it can easily disorient them and separate them, so they stick close together. But of course they aren't prepared for what lives in the fog.
We're never really shown what the fog monster is. All we know is that it kills tributes in horrible ways.
When Joy disappears, Fjord and Oceana mutter under their breath. I don't think either of them really likes Joy, but since they are part of an alliance, they deal with her. I guess they must have thought that Joy meandered from them.
Then Joy starts screaming, just like Taylor did.
Isolde, from the other side of the mentoring room, takes off her monitoring device and tosses it towards the trash can where it lands with a solid THUNK.
Joy is still alive, but barely so. The beast goes after Fjord and Oceana, too, (we don't see it, exactly, because the fog is conveniently too thick at that moment from that angle) but they manage to escape the worst of the injuries. Grabbing their bags, they leave Joy behind. The alliance with the District 1 tribute is no longer needed, and she would only slow them down even if she were to live. We don't know what exactly happens to Joy, but we hear her screams for another thirty seconds—complete, incomprehensible anguish—combined with a nauseating ripping noise, and then they stop. A cannon booms.
Fjord and Oceana of District 4 are the last remaining Careers. Oceana is bleeding pretty badly from her leg, but neither of them stops and she manages to keep up with her district partner. They run until Oceana can't run anymore, and then they stop. Wordlessly, they begin to treat her wound, applying pressure with bandages and blankets from within their bags. Oceana keeps an eye out while Fjord helps her, but the fog monster doesn't appear.
Six tributes left.
~.~
When it appears that there is a lull in the excitement—Rosa and Nicola are keeping low—I head back to the apartment to call Esther. The thing with victors is that we all have our own mobile phones, but we almost never use them except for Hunger Games purposes. All phones are tapped, no exceptions. We don't know who's listening in or how often, but you just assume that the rooms in the apartment are bugged and so are any phones they allow you to use.
I dig up my phone from the bottom of my wardrobe and find Esther's number pre-programmed in. I hit "enter" and listen to the phone ring.
"Hello?"
"Hey, Esther, it's me, Juniper," I say.
"Oh hey," she says emotionlessly.
"I wanted to check in and see if you need anything." I cradle the phone against my ear and absently stare at the junk I've accumulated in my wardrobe already—mostly clothes piled on the bottom plus a wide array of books.
"Thanks, Juniper."
"I was wondering if you wanted to take a walk or something?"
"That sounds nice, but I think I'll take a raincheck," Esther says politely.
"You sure?"
"I appreciate it, but I think I just need some time." She pauses for a moment. "Really, Juniper. I appreciate the call. I'll . . . talk with you in a few days, okay?"
I'm disappointed, but also a little relieved that I won't have to leave Rosa. "Yeah, okay. Call me whenever you want."
"Thanks."
When we disconnect, I can't tell how much she appreciated my call verse how much she was just being polite. Esther is very good at being polite, after all.
~.~
Back in the mentoring room, I decide to be a good mentor-ally and check in with Elijah. He is at his computer station with his head phones on, so I make sure to stomp a little bit when I approach. I don't know if he needs this sort of signal or what, but I also don't want to startle him.
He pulls off his headphones.
"What do you need, Juniper?" he asks.
I sit down in the chair previously occupied by his fellow District 5 mentor. "Just wanted to say hi."
"Alright, now you're a social butterfly?"
"Only because our tributes are in an alliance. Otherwise I'd be ignoring you like I ignore the others." I place my elbow on the table and rest my chin in my hand.
"I hate to burst your bubble, but I'm not sure how much longer the alliance will continue," Elijah says.
"Why?" I demand. "What happened?"
"Cool it. It's just that it's several days into the Hunger Games and there are only six of them left. When the numbers start dwindling, the alliances begin to fall apart."
"I'm not sure Rosa will be so eager to leave Nicola when there are still two Careers left," I inform him. "She knows she's small and won't stand a chance against them, especially since she managed to escape once. They won't give her a second chance."
"Then they risk being the last two remaining," Elijah leans back in his chair.
"I really don't think that Rosa will have a problem with that," I say.
"What do you mean?" he asks.
I hesitate. "Rosa . . . is a pretty clever kid. I have no doubt that she knew since the moment she agreed to the alliance that she would have to kill the other two."
"That's a pretty big assumption," he says.
"It's . . . based on facts." I don't want to give him too much information. It's not really necessary at this point. But it turns out that I don't have to talk about it at all because somewhere in the room, one of the monitoring devices starts vibrating, and it doesn't stop.
I check mine instinctively even though I don't feel a vibration. Then I look at Elijah, but it's not his either. Turning, I scan the room.
"Oh no. It's Green." I leave Elijah and race back to my computer station to take my seat next to Pitch.
Pitch is staring vacantly at the screen where the District 10 tribute, Phil, is slashing his knife into Green.
~.~.~
~.~.~
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Green struggles to get away from Phil's weapon. He manages to move backwards from the knife, but Phil leans in and starts stabbing. With gurgling cries, Green falls to the ground and begs the District 10 tribute to stop. He sounds so pitiful. So young. My heart is burning with pain as I watch Phil draw the bloodied knife away from the twelve-year-old's body. But the cries for mercy are no good. The knife comes down again and again and again. Until Green lies motionless on the wooden platform.
A cannon booms.
The little boy with whom I had spent nearly a week in the District 7 apartment is gone. His endless stream of chatter has vanished from the world, never to be heard again. All those times I wished he'd go away because I couldn't stand how overwhelming he was, all those times that I was grateful he was Pitch's tribute and not mine . . . how I wish I could take them all back.
And Pitch. . . .
I look over at my former mentor. Staring straight at the computer screen, he takes one long, deep breath. After several seconds, he slowly lets it back out. His eyes still focus on the screen, where the stats read straight 0% all across and a large, capitalized "DECEASED" is stamped in the screens. Pitch takes off his monitoring device and sets it on the table. He takes several more deep breaths, then glances over at me. "I'll see you later, Juniper," he says before he gets up and leaves the room.
My chest is empty as I stare at the station Pitch just left. Green is dead and Pitch is no longer mentoring with me. I am alone. And as much as I want to burst into tears right now over the tribute's death, I know that I have to remain strong for Rosa, who remains living, . . . and also for Pitch. He has his grief to deal with, and I can't burden him with my own.
I turn back to my computer.
Five tributes left.
And once more, I receive an alert on my computer:
JUNIPER SADIK
YOU ARE CORDIALLY INVITED TO CELEBRATE THE FINAL FIVE AT 5:00 PM THIS EVENING.
PLEASE MEET AT THE FIRST FLOOR OF THE TRAINING CENTER TO BE ESCORTED TO THE PARTY AT 4:15 PM.
YOU ARE EXCUSED FROM THIS EVENT ONLY IF YOUR TRIBUTE IS IN CRITICAL CONDITION ( 20 % ) OR IS IN IMMEDIATE DANGER.
I really don't want to go even though I know it's not an optional engagement. The lack of specifics about when and where the party will be unnerves me.
And . . . do I go alone? I don't have anyone anymore. Pitch is out, and I can't possibly ask him to come with me right now. It would be cruel. That means I'll go to the party without his guiding presence—or his protection—when I'm there. Nevermind, I'll figure it out eventually. I think of how I was so adamant to not be babysat when I first arrived her. Things have seriously changed in a little over a week. Now I feel like I can't go anywhere alone because it is entirely unsafe. How foolish I was to want to be independent so quickly!
I watch Rosa and Nicola for the next few hours until it's inevitable. Elijah is already gone, and Lady left an hour ago. The District 4 mentors haven't been around for quite some time. I need to go get ready for the party, whether I like it or not.
~.~.~
~.~.~
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
One would think that the shower would be the perfect place to mourn the loss of Green, with the warm water to comfort you and to wash away the tears that fall. But I void of emotion. There are no tears. Instead I can only think dully of the horrors that await me at the "Final Five" party. How can I stand there with people celebrating the death of Green? Not that they were rooting for him dead specifically (though no doubt many of them were) but it was his death that kicked off the party. His death was the reason that this celebration is happening.
I find the gloves in my wardrobe and slip them on, then I find a dress that matches. Black. But I don't want to make them think that I'm going to a funeral—even though I should be—so I tie a gold sash around my waist. Then I remove the gold shoelaces from a pair of designer shoes I never once touched, and I thread them into my boots. I match a simple gold necklace and earrings. (I did not have my ears pierced before entering the arena, but when I woke from all the repairs they did upon my victory, I found that, oddly enough, there was a hole in each of my ear lobes.) To hide the dark circles under my eyes, I apply minimal makeup. Unlike the Capitol citizens, I have no desire to draw attention to myself. I tuck a book into my purse for company.
Must go now. I force myself out of my bedroom and into the hallway.
Pitch is standing by the elevator.
"Hey," I say. Then I realize that he's showered and dressed up. "Where are you going?"
"To the party with you," he says.
I pause and stare at him for several seconds. He fiddles with the cuff of his jacket.
"Pitch . . . no. I can't . . . You can't."
"Juniper, I can't let you go by yourself," he says.
"Yes, you can," I say. "You've just lost—"
"No, I'm not letting you go there by yourself," he insists.
"I won't be there by myself," I say. "I'll stick with Elijah. Our tributes are in an alliance anyhow."
"Elijah! You don't want to be with Elijah in public. He can't keep his mouth shut."
"Fine then. I'll hang with Lady."
"Lady is nice, but she doesn't want to—Oh, just listen. I'm going with you. I can't just sit here and wallow in misery, okay? So I might as well go with you."
"Maybe you should go do one of your nature walks or something, Pitch, because they're going to grill you about Green," I say. As soon as the words come out, I realize how rude they are. Possibly cruel. I didn't mean them to be that way.
Pitch pushes the button for the elevator. "I've been around long enough to know what they're going to say," he says calmly. "And also what they're going to do. I'm not letting you go alone."
He meets my eyes now, and we don't say anything for a moment. At last, I look away.
"I keep wondering how you do it," I say as I lean against the wall. The elevator arrives and opens, but neither of us go inside. "How you have the strength to deal with all this bullshit."
"I'd like to tell you that there's some great secret or that I'm just some emotionally strong person, but the reality is that I can do it because I have no other choice," he admits heavily. Neither of us move as the elevator doors close without us.
"So you say. But you never fall apart."
"Ah. I never fall apart in front of anyone else, especially the public eye," he corrects me. "As I told you before, you just get through your first year and you'll be better able to control yourself. So that you're going after the punching bag in the privacy of the mentor room and not the mechanical deer in the middle of a public park."
I roll my eyes. But when I look back at him, I realize that he's serious. That's the strategy. Punch the punching bags, not the deer. It's not a matter of strength but of self-control. Or, perhaps, self-preservation. Because if you fall apart in public, it will only make your pain worse.
"And yet you're willingly going to a party where people will keep asking you about Green. Not just that—they'll pretend that they care but only mock his death," I point out. "You can stay here and have a mental breakdown and no one will know."
"Let me worry about myself, Juniper, okay?" he says.
"And let me worry about me," I retort. Then I lean over and press the elevator button. "I'm fine. I'll go by myself."
But when the elevator comes, we both step inside and I know that Pitch isn't going to be leaving my side tonight. Relief washes through me, but with it comes a wave of guilt. If it weren't for me, he wouldn't need to be at this party. He'd be out in some park somewhere or taking a walk by the river. But instead he's plunging into the mouth of Hell in order to make sure that I'm not alone. I'm grateful and ashamed at the same time. I can't look at him.
"I'd like to hold your hand tonight, if that's okay," he says as the elevator slows down.
I reach out and slip my hand in his, not certain if he's saying it for my comfort or his own. Ultimately it doesn't matter. One of us needs it—maybe both—and I'm not going to deny it.
The elevator doors open and reveal my fellow "Final Five" mentors along with several lower-level Hunger Games officials and training center coordinators. They all take us in when we arrive (well, all except Elijah, who I'm certain is listening to us approach regardless), and when we stop, one of the officials greets us warmly.
"Pitch, glad you're joining us today," she says with a smile. Sometimes when some of the Capitol citizens talk, I feel like they're all dimwitted morons. But other times, they seem like genuine people. Perhaps it's because this person is dressed more modestly without the flair and pizzazz of most Capitolites that I'm more inclined to believe she means what she says.
"Thank you," he replies kindly.
The woman also smiles at me, and I give her a small smile back. It's the most I can muster.
Then it's time to go. Pitch and I were "fashionably late," and I think it's strained some of the training center coordinators who try to keep to the schedules as much as possible.
We are loaded up into a limousine outside of the training center. It's spacious enough that the unexpected mentor isn't crowding things (though they likely anticipated he would be joining me anyhow), and there's even an avox to serve us whatever we want. The District 4 mentors order a couple of fancy drinks that are loaded with sugars and flavors to hide the taste of alcohol. Lady of District 10 declines the offer. Elijah gets a soda. I only want water, and I barely even drink any. Pitch ends up finishing it off after telling the avox he doesn't need anything. The interior of the limo is the fanciest thing I've ever seen in my life. The leather seats are soft, and you can choose the temperature so you're never too hot or cold when you sit down. There are televisions (thankfully turned to the news and not to the Hunger Games, though there is plenty of coverage still), and little garbage chutes so you can drop your drink or napkin or whatever into it when you finish. There is even a little conveyor belt that delivers the drinks and snacks so that nobody is forced to get too close to the avox.
Apparently they go above and beyond for the Final Five mentors, and we are being treated with the highest respect. It's suspicious, honestly, and I'm apprehensive about what is to come.
~.~.~
~.~.~
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
This party is much smaller than the others we went to, but I can tell the moment I set foot in the door that it's also much more dangerous. It's a predatory pool of guests who are swarming around us, eager to pull us apart and dig in. Once more, I'm introduced to dozens of people whose names and faces I'll never remember, though some seem familiar and I wonder if I was introduced previously and forgot. Still, I nod politely and say polite things while wearing a polite smile because that's what I'm supposed to do. The entire time, I cling to Pitch's hand and don't let go. And Pitch does the same.
The flurry of activity is a stark contrast to the last few days of relative solitude in the mentor room of the training center. People push and crowd around and want to be in the presence of us victors, like we're national celebrities or something. And I guess we are. We're not the only celebrities here, though; I recognize politicians and musicians and actors, though I don't know them all by name, and there are even more whose names I don't know. This party is by invite only, and the list is much more elite than the last.
"Juniper, you must be so proud of little Rosa," people say as they cling to me, trying to shake my hand or give me a hug or touch my face, all without permission. They don't give me the option to grant it, even if I wanted to. It's not my choice anymore.
They dig into Pitch, too. "Green was an interesting kid. I'm surprised he made it as far as he did," they say, or something to that effect. "You made it to the top eight at least." Or sometimes, "I put a bet on him even when the odds were not in his favor."
They like to remind us that they had or have faith in our tribute. And that they have spent money to support them. The last part is added almost like a warning despite that they say it with smiles and encouragement and congratulations.
Televisions remind us constantly of what's going on. It's evening, so the Careers aren't going hunting right now as they linger within the fog. They're not doing so hot, either, but they have the fortitude to carry on. And the Gamemakers are not going to be sending muttations or releasing events while this party is in full swing. Still, people watch with eagerness, chatting about various goings-on within the arena and catching up with old friends.
"It's so sad that little District 7 tribute died, but we all knew he wasn't going to make it," I hear someone say to her friend.
"It's a miracle he made it as far as he did," replies the friend.
Later, I hear someone comment about it wasn't a bad thing that the District 1 tribute, Joy, died when she did. "She was really not meshing with the District 4 tributes. Their spirits didn't align."
"How long is this party?" I whisper to Pitch.
"Dinner hasn't even started," he replies.
Dinner?! We have to sit down and eat dinner with these monsters?!
Pitch must sense my growing anger because he pulls me closer to him and squeezes my hand hard. "Hang in there."
Okay, fine. I will. But only because Pitch is right next to me. I am so glad I did not come alone. I never would have made it through the evening. What would they do if I had a complete breakdown right here? As I watch the partygoers with their obnoxious wigs and garish outfits talk about how exciting it was that a teenage girl was ripped to piece of national television by a Capitol-manufactured fog monster, I know that a breakdown would never be forgiven.
Dinner finally comes, and they must have expected Pitch because there is a place setting for him. Several large, round tables fill a spacious room that could only have been made with these sorts of parties in mind. Large swaths of fabric drape each table, with elegant and ridiculously expensive place settings in front of each chair. A centerpiece decorates each table, though none of them rise high enough to block conversation back and forth. Avoxes take guests to the tables and show them their assigned seating. It seems to be entirely random until I realize that they have intentionally seated the mentors at different tables so that no two mentors are together—with the exception of Pitch and myself.
I thank the avox as she motions to our seats. She bows politely and vanishes to seat the next guests.
Pitch pulls out the chair for me, and I take a seat. He settles in next to me. There are eight other place settings at this table. And in the center is an elaborate golden re-creation of the arena, though of course not in entirety. In the center are several glittering trees with the smallest golden leaves like little flakes, and draped around them are walkways and pathways and platforms. I'm watching it absently for several moments before I realize what it is, and then it's hard to look at it. Instead I focus on the empty chairs and their pristine place settings with silver goblets and china plates. Over the course of about ten minutes, they are filled up with a cast of people in an assortment of strange outfits from tall, towering wigs to pointy-shouldered jackets. It's like everyone is trying to outdo the next person, and no one is really winning because everything is so ludicrous.
And who should be seated next to me but Quintus Laurentinus?
Okay, I tell myself. You'll be able to get through this. It's just a couple of hours. You've been able to survive worse things than a bad dinner party.
But I'm not sure I have. I've never really been to a dinner party like this, for starters, but no party I've gone to has been to celebrate murdering children and teenagers.
The first course is appetizers. Not sure what they are. But as everyone is enjoying their food, I feel Quintus' hand on my thigh.
The second course is a vegetable soup. I'm politely trying to follow a long-winded spiel about a woman's adventure in the shopping mall, only to feel that Quintus' hand is massaging my leg. I wince and try to move my leg ever so slightly—give a bit of a hint that I don't want this—but it doesn't stop.
The third course, a small fish plate, requires him to move his hand from my leg, and I can relax ever so slightly as I take small bites of my food. The conversation now focuses on the educational systems for elementary schools and the problems one man is having with the PTA board. But in between courses, the hand returns.
The fourth course is the main course (maybe?), a fillet mignon with asparagus spears. Not that I know what filet mignon is. I only heard people refer to it as this name, and as soon as I taste it, I instantly decide that I like it. I take the opportunity to move my chair a hair closer to Pitch since Quintus' hand is currently holding his utensils.
The fifth course is lamb with mint sauce and a small serving of potatoes. Now the conversation starts getting a little uncomfortable. I could listen to people ramble about their shopping experiences and how they had to argue with their kid's teacher, but the alcohol has been poured freely and people finally begin to open up about why they're really here. The Hunger Games, of course.
"How are you and Pitch handling this?" one woman asks. "It must be hard with your tribute still a contender but his is out."
By "out" of course she means "dead." But these vapid people do not have the emotional intelligence to care about such things.
I take a drink of water to wash down the bite of potato I tried. "It's still pretty recent," I say, which isn't a lie. "Maybe I'll have an answer to that tomorrow." I try to be jovial, but I probably come across as abrasive.
"Is it true that you two have been taking time off from work every now and again to, you know, enjoy each other's company?" Another woman asks, leaning in to hear the details. Ugh. This is so beyond appropriate. Why do these people think they can ask these questions?
Because they can, I remind myself. For the same reason that I have some asshole's hand on my thigh and there's nothing I can do about it.
Pitch must've overheard the question because his hand is back in mine and he gives it a squeeze.
I decide to play dumb. "Oh, yeah, we spend a lot of time together in the mentor room. Not really taking time off from work, though," I tell her.
This earns a bit of a giggle between the woman and her friend.
The sixth course is something that they call "punch romaine" though it looks more like a slushy than anything else. It tastes sweet—and I can tell that there is something else in here. "Rum," Pitch tells me casually. But it's a warning, so I stop drinking it.
The rum is really starting to affect people, though. A man comments on how ugly another woman's hat is, which sends everyone into a bit of a frenzy as they try to settle the debate.
The seventh course is roasted pigeon on garden cress. It's okay but I can't help but think about the little birds waddling around the asphalt and digging through trash that's fallen out of bins. Quintus' hand moves towards my inner thigh. I want to leave now. It's harder to breathe. I need fresh air.
The eighth course is vegetables in vinaigrette sauce. The people at the table begin to talk about which death so far has been the best. Right now, half of them are saying that it was Joy's, but there are also some good contenders in the bloodbath. I'm disgusted by the way they so casually talk about this between bites of food.
The ninth course is duck liver, though it has a fancy name I can't pronounce. I don't like the texture. Nor do I like the way Quintus smiles at me now that he's had a fair bit of alcohol in him and has decided that he doesn't need to be discrete. The conversation is about which tribute should win. Rosa's name comes up several times, but it's more of a novelty. I don't know if they really want her to be a winner as much as they think she's "an adorable little thing." They're rooting for Fjord or Oceana from District 4. Except for one man who thinks that Nicola would be a wonderful victor. I wonder if I'm supposed to do anything to make Rosa seem more appealing, but I'm frozen with fear and such severe discomfort as Quintus' hand begins to move higher on my leg.
The tenth course is peaches in chartreuse jelly. This, I am told, is fruit in liqueur. It's okay because I have no appetite as the others try to get Pitch to tell them which tribute he's rooting for now that Green is out of the Hunger Games.
The eleventh course is assorted fresh fruits and cheeses. Damn, will these people never stop eating? Quintus rubs my leg. Pitch puts his arm around my shoulder and casually pulls me closer now that both of us are no longer making a pretense of eating. I'm half falling out of my chair, but I'm okay with it.
The final course is coffee or tea, which I turn down because I'm afraid I'll puke if I try to put anything in me.
"You must spend so much time together," Quintus now finally addresses me directly as he adds a little sugar into his coffee. "Certainly you need a break from Pitch. Would you like to take a walk with me?"
There's no real offer there. I don't have a choice.
~.~.~
~.~.~
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
Quintus leads me out onto a balcony overlooking the city streets far below. The lights and clamor of the nightlife contrast starkly with the serenity of a District 7 evening. I think of all the people down there who are enjoying their world of the Hunger Games like it's another sporting event. They're going to parties of their own, getting drunk, exchanging stories of their favorite moments in the arena, and waiting eagerly for the next episode of bloodshed. And here I am, a million miles away, wrapped up in a nightmare of my own, never able to escape the Hunger Games no matter how close or far I am from the arena. The only comfort I have right now is that Quintus and I are not alone out here.
"I've always admired you, Juniper," he tells me as he leans casually against the rail of the balcony.
"Mmm," I acknowledge without looking at him. I pretend to be intrigued with the night sky. The last glimmer of orange has vanished, and the stars are beginning to shine. They're not as bright as they are at home—the pollution of the city interferes—but they're still there if you let your eyes become accustomed to the darkness.
Quintus pushes a loose strand of hair behind my ear. I suppress a shudder.
"So strong, right from the beginning. One of the biggest contenders," he says. He's staring at me, and even without his touch, it's uncomfortable. "I always had my money on you, even when others thought you were just another tribute. But you were not, were you?"
"Sorry, I don't know what you mean," I say.
"You don't need to be so humble around me," he chides. "That's not what I admire about you. That's not the feisty tribute that drew me in." He is watching my reaction very carefully now, and I don't bother turning away from the horizon I'm admiring. If I look at him, I'll cringe, or worse—I'll be so upset I won't be able to look him in the eye. He's stroking my cheek now. Then he grabs my chin a little too roughly and turns me so that I'm facing him.
In a sudden flare of fury, I stare him dead in the eye, pouring all the hatred I cannot possibly say into my solid glare.
He flinches, but then a smile slips across his lips. "There she is," he says.
I pull away from him. "Don't touch me."
He seems to like it, if the ever-widening grin means anything. Fine, whatever. As long as he doesn't touch me.
"Yes, that's the girl I saw in the arena."
I turn back to the edge of the balcony and stare out at the city again. I try to focus on the twinkling lights surrounding us. This building is the tallest in this region, so the view is splendid, if you like this sort of thing. I can still feel where his fingers grabbed onto my face, and I wish I could wash it away.
Quintus leans against the rails next to me as though he is trying to take in the same view. "The Hunger Games are almost over. What are you doing when it's finished?"
The obvious answer is that I'm going home. However, I don't think that it's the one he wants to hear, and since I still don't know how to navigate these strange woods, I'm afraid that if I anger him, he'll take it out on me. Or someone near me. Yet I also don't want to commit to staying in the Capitol, especially if it means that I'll inadvertently commit to spending more time with him. So I say the only thing that sounds like it'll give me a bit of a reprieve:
"I plan on showing Rosa the ropes. She'll be in the hospital for awhile, and I don't plan on leaving her side, and then we'll see what happens after that."
"And if she doesn't make it?" There's amusement in his tone. Is he trying to get me riled up so he can see the 'feisty tribute that drew me in'? Because if so, it's working.
"That's not an option," I snap.
"Alright," he says. "When she wins, you will contact me. I'll send you my information."
"Yeah, sure," I respond. Because if I say no, I know that he'll pull some strings and Rosa will be dead.
Quintus moves his hand over to mine on the rail and places his on top of it. "In the meantime. . . ."
A wild cry of excitement flares up inside the apartment. One that draws all attention away from any conversations. Everyone on the balcony turns and people begin to eagerly scramble indoors as the shouts and cheers and exclamations spread throughout the partygoers. My monitoring device hasn't vibrated, but I don't care. Something bad is happening, and my heart is pounding wildly as I follow the others inside and to a large wall of television screens where people are packed shoulder-to-shoulder as they watch.
I had thought the tributes were safe because we were distracted with a party and the Gamemakers wouldn't throw something at them, but I was wrong. Right now is prime time for a Gamemaker driven event when they know that everyone who is anyone is watching. The alcohol will encourage them to spend money to keep their favorite tributes alive.
And now I see Rosa and Nicola running for their lives as the walkway begins to fall apart underneath them. Boards give way with every step, collapsing and clattering into the great foggy nothingness below.
~.~.~
~.~.~
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
Pitch finds me and I feel his arm wrap around my shoulders. Right now, I'm so on edge that I don't know if I want him to let me go or to hold me tighter. The delicacies I just nibbled on for dinner are threatening to well up in the back of my throat. Whatever qualms I have about Quintus vanish as I watch Rosa struggling to keep from falling as the boards slip out from underneath her. Nicola is a half-step behind her. Both girls run so hard that they struggle to breathe. Sweat glitters on their foreheads in the light of the moon above them.
Rosa begins to slide off her backpack. Is it slowing her down? No, she keeps holding it and uses a last burst of speed to race over to where a branch of a large tree overhangs the walkway. Then she swings the bag up by one strap, catches it around the branch so that the other strap dangles down on the far side of the branch, and uses both straps to pull herself upward in one swift motion just as the boards fall out underneath her feet. Her body trembles, her chest heaves. If she had wanted to tell Nicola what she was doing, she wouldn't have been able to afford the energy. Nicola is still running, boots slapping against the boards. She starts to lose her foothold.
"Nic-cola," Rosa pants, but it's barely more than a whisper. Rosa is safe in the tree, her legs wrapped around the sturdy branch and her backpack sitting before her.
Nicola sees one opportunity—one chance to save herself—and she takes it. With the last stable step, she launches herself off the walkway entirely and freefalls towards a platform about twenty feet below her.
Falling.
Falling.
Falling.
Then with a heavy BOOM! she lands squarely on the platform. Her feet give out underneath her, and she tumbles to her hands and knees. She is injured, but alive. Like Rosa, she can barely breathe. Gasping for breath and wincing in pain, she curls up in a ball on her side. The backpack, long forgotten, is askew on her back. A heavy landing. I'm surprised she is alive.
The camera pulls back a little so that we can see that her platform is connected to a mid-level walkway. The upper level that they had so expertly navigated for the past several days is gone entirely. And with the lower level consumed in fog and the Cornucopia ruled by an unseen monster, it's very clear that they are forcing the tributes to come closer and closer together.
After focusing a few long seconds on Nicola crying quietly to herself, we're given another look at Rosa, still stunned and in the tree. She's still trembling, but she has a better grasp on her breathing. After several minutes, she begins to slowly inch backwards so that she is closer to the trunk of the tree and balanced less precariously on the branch. And as she does so, she pulls her bag closer and closer to her.
With the immediate excitement died down, the guests are beginning to exchange remarks between each other.
"That was so exciting!"
"My heart almost stopped. Oh. My. God!"
"Wow, both those tributes deserve to be in the top five."
"I can't wait to see the finale!"
"I just got my nails painted—see the little trees and walkways—that is in honor of this arena. And the funny thing is that I just broke this nail here. That's almost like the walkway that just broke!"
"I don't know which one to root for! Rosa is so cute but Nicola has great hair."
"Districts 5 and 7 got some really strong contenders this year."
I look down at my monitoring device. My arm is shaking so badly that Pitch grabs onto it for stability so that I can read the screen. Rosa is down a few percent in her stamina, but otherwise her health remains stable. Nicola, on the other hand, is at 52% health. I am not certain what the damage is, but I don't think she's going to be able to walk very easily, if at all. A twenty-foot jump is tough on its own, but carrying the added weight of a backpack only made it more difficult.
But they're both alive. Rosa is alive and, though shaken, unharmed. That's the important thing.
We are treated now to views of what's going on with the other three tributes. The District 10 tribute, Phil, is hiding in a tree house, completely unaware of just what happened around him. The District 4 tributes, Fjord and Oceana, are having dinner and watching the stars. They, too, are not aware of what just occurred and appear to be taking it easy to rest their weary bodies and nurse wounds after their encounter.
"I don't think it's time yet," Fjord is saying. "I don't want to split up too soon."
"Right, but I also don't want to have to take you on in open combat," Oceana says simply. "You will win, hands down. Doesn't seem fair, does it?"
Fjord grunts. "Not my fault you prefer ranged weaponry. Should have tried your hand at something a little more suitable for the Hunger Games."
Oceana rolls her eyes. "We'll just split up and be careful about it. It would be dumb for either of us to get injured—more injured—by a tribute. Especially if we're going to have a final showdown. It'll be way too easy if it's lopsided. Also not fair."
"You're only saying that because of your leg," Fjord says.
"'You're only saying that because of your leg,'" Oceana mimics him in a sing-song voice. "No, I'm saying it because it's true. I don't want my final battle to be one sided, whether I live or die. Nothing honorable about that either way. Give me a couple days to rest up while you go kill the rest of them—I'll let you have the most kills, I don't care—and then at least let's have a decent finale."
"So you want me to do the dirty work while you sit around?" Fjord asks.
"I'm saying that you can have more kills than me. That's what you wanted, remember? Or has this all tired you out too much that you don't care anymore?"
"Of course I care," Fjord puffs up, an offended look on his face. "But by going out there, I have a better chance of getting injured. Which would put you at an advantage in a final battle."
"Or," says Oceana. "It will put us on an even playing field." Is she really that injured or is she trying to mislead him?
Fjord glares at her.
She shrugs. "Fine, whatever. I'll take them all down by myself. Then I'll be victor and the one who killed the most."
That doesn't sit well with Fjord, either. "Can we please talk about this in the morning?"
That seems to be the end of that because the camera cuts away, showing us once more the other three tributes. Rosa is eating dinner and drinking water. Nicola is either sleeping or passed out. Phil has fallen asleep with the knife he used to kill Green still clenched in his hands just in case he is woken up by an unwanted visitor.
I'm relieved when I see a few of the guests are beginning to gather themselves together and say their goodbyes. It's a long, drawn-out procedure, but after about fifteen minutes, the first guests are heading out the door. I look up hopefully at Pitch.
"We have to wait until we're dismissed," he whispers.
Ugh, fine.
It's difficult staying out of the way of everyone as they hug each other goodbye and wish each other well, as though going home and sitting in front of the television poses a danger. I think bitterly of the five kids fighting for their lives while these assholes kiss each other on the cheek and promise to call if anything fun happens in the arena. Many people stop to wish me well, and some of them seem to genuinely mean it. But I disregard anything they say; it's all shallow nothings.
Quintus is nearby, talking with people and lingering. I'm more than happy when Elijah heads over and inadvertently blocks the view.
"Well, that was exciting." There's a touch of sarcasm in his words.
"I'm exhausted," Pitch admits, skirting around getting into a conversation with the District 5 mentor.
An avox appears and beckons for us to follow. We do as instructed and wait in line for the elevator. When we're finally on the ground floor and heading out the door, I give one last look.
"Where's Lady?" I ask, looking around.
"She got drunk and threw up on someone," Elijah says.
"Oh. I hope she's okay."
"Yeah, she's fine," Elijah shrugs. "Bet her $100 she couldn't aim her vomit at a Capitolite of my choice. She won the bet but ended up having to leave early to clean herself up."
"Damnit, Elijah," Pitch says.
Elijah only shrugs again. "Have to entertain myself somehow. Not like I can see the televisions."
I grin. If only it could have been Quintus she threw upon on. But, of course, that would never happen. Elijah doesn't tell us who he chose, but I doubt the person was as powerful as someone like that man.
Once we're safely in a cab (the limo apparently was only a one-way ticket), Pitch unwraps his arm from around my shoulders. He's sitting in the middle between Elijah and me. The drive back to the training center is thankfully silent. The party is over. I can breathe again. There will be many more parties in the future, I'm sure, but perhaps I'll eventually be able to navigate through them more confidently.
~.~.~
~.~.~
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
Back at the training center, I take another shower. I'm not in a rush so I take my time to scrub my skin raw in an effort to erase the feeling of Quintus' hands on my body. It doesn't matter where he touched me, exactly, because I feel dirty all over. The hot water gently burns my skin, and I choose the most abrasive soap I can find from the assortment of soaps stocked in the pumps on the wall. I cleanse my hair twice over because the first time just didn't seem good enough.
At last I emerge from the shower. Water drips from my body onto the thick rug, and I stand there for several seconds to gather my bearings.
I am safe. I am alive. Everything is going to be okay.
But my body still moves slowly as I reach for a towel and wrap it around myself. I move slowly to wipe myself dry. Finally I hang my towel on the side of the bathtub I've never used and go into my room to find my clothes. Nothing is right. I don't want to wear my shorts anymore because I can see my own thighs, and that only makes me remember. So I pull on a pair of long pants to sleep in. And then I pull a sweatshirt so that I'm covered all over. It's more comfortable. Safer.
My damp hair soaks into the hood of the sweatshirt as I pull on my boots and tie the laces, now replaced with their original black. It seems silly to sleep in shoes, but I want to be ready at a moment's notice. I pause to set my alarm clock so that I wake up in five hours—I want to be awake when the tributes begin to rise—but before I get into bed, I realize that I have forgotten my book near the elevator where I had flung my purse after getting in for the night.
I open the bedroom door and toddle off to the elevator when I nearly run right into Pitch.
"Cold?" he asks.
I grunt.
"Everything okay?"
"I just need my book." I lean over and pick up the purse. My book is tucked safely inside. I know that I'll never have a chance to read when I'm at these parties, but having the book by my side makes me feel safer. It's stupid, I know.
With the book in hand, I turn around and am about to head back. I open my mouth to wish Pitch goodnight when I see that his eyes are red and watery. He's been crying. But he doesn't say anything about it to me, and I almost don't say anything to him. But what would be the point to pretend that none of this is happening? Isn't that what the Capitol wants us to do, to stuff it all down and pretend that everything is dandy?
"Pitch, if you need to talk . . ."
"I'm fine," he insists.
"I mean, I doubt that, but if that's what you want to go with," I say. I cock my head and watch him.
He sighs heavily. "I wouldn't even know where to begin."
"Well, do you want a hug? As a friend, and not as a fake lover," I add.
He doesn't answer with words but pulls me against him and wraps his arms around me. His heart beats frantically against me and despite its frenzy, it relaxes me. It says that he's just as much freaked out and terrified and saddened as I am, even if he can't put it into words. I'm not sure I can, either. It's far easier to express it with my fists than with my voice, as my battered knuckles remind me whenever I look at the ragged skin. I close my eyes and hold onto him. I disappear into the embrace, drifting away to a time and place that was happier, perhaps an entirely different world altogether. Time passes, but I'm not sure how much. Pitch is crying into my hair, his tears falling onto my freshly washed scalp. It doesn't bother me. Nothing about Pitch's touch bothers me, not like the way that others' do. I don't feel gross or unclean right now, even though I know he's just messing up my clean hair.
"You need to get to sleep," he finally says, though he is still holding onto me.
"I can try," I respond. I don't want to tell him that I plan to be up early enough to be back in the mentor room by dawn because I don't want to break this moment.
"Rosa still needs you. I can't keep you up any longer," he insists. It takes several moments before he slowly releases his grip. He wipes his eyes on the back of his sleeve before he looks down at me. "Thanks, Juniper," he says quietly.
"Anytime." Nice and awkward, I internally kick myself.
Pitch just chuckles. "If you mean that?"
"Yeah," I say.
He hesitates. "I'd sleep better if you were with me." Then he adds with a hint of tease, "As a friend, and not as a fake lover."
"Only because you phrased it like that. And I'm also bringing my book."
However, there is no time to read because once we're both tucked into his bed, I fall asleep immediately. For the first time in a long time, I sleep soundly and without dreams of any sort. It's the most refreshing sleep I've had in weeks now. And I could have slept forever except for a sudden knock on the bedroom door.
~.~.~
~.~.~
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
We both sit up groggily. I look at the clock. It's 5:17 AM. With sleep clogging my brain, I try to figure out why someone is trying to wake me up at this hour.
Pitch groans and rubs his head. "Who the hell is that?" he mumbles. But then he calls out, "Come in."
Which was probably the wrong thing to say because when the door clicks unlocked at the sound of Pitch's voice and swings wide open, it's none other than our dearest District 7 escort, Lala. From somewhere behind her comes a violent buzzing noise, angry and aggressive. My heart thumps and I check my monitoring device, but it's not that.
Lala stomps into the room.
"What the hell is the matter with you two?" she demands. At this early hour, she is fully dressed and ready to go for the day. Pitch and I, on the other hand, are clearly not. And it's very easy to see what she might think had happened. This time, she may be fully justified in coming to that conclusion were it not for the fact that I was fully dressed in pants and a sweatshirt. "And why is there that outrageous alarm coming from Juniper's bedroom?!"
"Shit, that's my alarm clock," I mumble as I untangle myself from the sheets and throw myself out of bed. Without bothering to give the escort a second look, I hurry out of the room, into the hallway, and then into my room next door, which I had left open last night when I went to retrieve my book. The alarm blares furiously, angry that I have ignored it for over fifteen minutes.
I shuffle back into Pitch's room just in time to hear him snap at Lala, "It doesn't matter what we're doing. I want to know what YOU are doing here."
Lala does not like to be talked back to like that, even in the best of times. But now she's completely unhinged. I sit down on the foot of the bed and stare at her.
"I was just coming back here to make sure things are in order when I heard that godawful noise from Juniper's room. Of course I had to come check up on you because who in their right mind can sleep through that," she snaps at him. She comes closer, looming over us on the bed. But I straighten my shoulders and stare hard back at her. She continues, "If you spent half as much time focusing on your tributes as you do fucking each other, then maybe your tribute would still be alive, Pitch."
I'm on her within a heartbeat. My body is on top of hers, pinning her beneath my legs, and my fist bashes into her jaw. All the anger and rage that I've stored up the past few days is coming lose. I don't care if my knuckles hurt. Physical pain is nothing compared to the anguish in which we've been dwelling the last two weeks.
But before I can draw it back again, Pitch grabs me and throws me off her. I hit the wall with a crack and pain swells across my body. In the distance, I can hear Pitch yelling at Lala and Lala screaming right back, but they seem so far away. . . .
". . . terrible mentor, Pitch!"
"Shut the fuck up and call a doctor."
"Don't you dare tell me what—"
"Call a doctor, NOW!"
"What the hell did you do to her? Oh my GOD, Pitch. Did you—"
"If you don't figure out how to use that damned phone in your hand, I will personally break you neck. . . ."
". . . Hello? Yes, I need a doctor at apartment 7. . . ."
And then as they grow more and more distant, I drift off into unconsciousness.
~.~
When I come to, I'm in Pitch's bed again, but this time he's not here. I crane my neck to see the clock, but the movement hurts and I start to feel nauseous. I test out my arms and legs to make sure I can still move them, and I can, though I feel weak and heavy. My fingers brush across my book lying near me, and I pick it up. It's hard to concentrate, and my eyes are a little blurry. I give up after about thirty seconds. With nothing else to do, I stare at the ceiling and wonder what the hell is happening.
It's about an hour before Pitch comes back into his room, but there's a middle aged woman right behind him. He's explaining something to her, but I'm too confused by the presence of this strange woman to focus on their conversation. They both look relieved when they see that I'm awake, though Pitch hangs back while the woman comes right over to my side.
"Hey, Juniper, I'm Dr. Castillo." She has a kind voice. "How are you feeling?"
"What happened?" I ask.
"You hit your head. Got a concussion," she explains as she pulls up a chair and sits by my bedside. "But you're healing up just fine. Got some good medicine into you."
I furrow my brow. "Rosa?"
"Yes, Rosa is fine," she says kindly. "It's raining right now, and all of the tributes are resting up."
"Day?"
"It's Day 8."
The eighth day already? It takes me a moment to backtrack. The last thing I remember, it was the morning of Day 7. I've been unconscious for . . . an entire day? Shit shit shit. What about Rosa? Is she actually okay? Is she really suffering and this woman doesn't want to tell me? Is she dead?!
Dr. Castillo reaches out to something I can't see against the headboard and pushes a button. Moments later, a calmness washes over me and I start to feel sleepy again, though I fight it with all that I can muster.
"Hang on there, Juniper," Dr. Castillo reassures me. "You're going to be fine. You just need to relax a bit."
I stare at Pitch who is watching me quietly from the other side of the room. He offers me no explanation, no reassurance.
"You're going to need to stay in bed for awhile, possibly a week." Dr. Castillo is at least polite when she gives me this terrible news. I jerk around and look at her, ignoring the nausea that washes through me. I'm a mentor! How am I supposed to stay in bed? I have to get back to the mentoring room now! She puts a light hand on my shoulder as if that will keep me from jumping up, and in a way, it does. At least it distracts me for a second, allowing my brain to calm for a moment. Or maybe it's whatever medication she's pumping into me.
Once I'm calmer, she continues, "You suffered a concussion and you have two broken ribs. You're on some good pain control right now, but we're going to wean you off of it soon and replace it with something a little less addictive, okay?"
Fine, whatever. I don't mind the pain. Can't be worse than anything else going on here.
"I have to go to the mentoring room." I finally push the words out of my mouth.
"You need to rest," she says. "You can make your injuries worse."
"If I stay here, my tribute may die," I reply.
She studies me for a few seconds before standing up. "Give me a moment, okay," she says. She leaves the room, motioning for Pitch to follow her.
Concussion and broken ribs? What the hell? Pitch . . . I remember him throwing me against the wall. That's why he was hanging back, staying away from me.
And Rosa! Will she die because of me? Have I condemned her to a painful death because I am not there watching her every second?
At last the door opens again, and Dr. Castillo and Pitch return. Once more, the doctor takes a seat next to me while Pitch remains near the door.
"Okay, this is what we're going to do, Juniper, but you need to follow it carefully," she says. "If you don't, then you are going to be required to stay in bed without exceptions."
She lays out a plan that allows me to go to the mentor room—and the mentor room only—and back to the District 7 apartment. There is a strict schedule of how much fluid I need to drink, what meals I need to eat, and which medications I need to take. If I stray from even one of those things, I'll be in lockdown in my bedroom. After surviving the Hunger Games, it doesn't seem necessary to go through all of this rigmarole. Plenty of people have gotten concussions and broken ribs and ended up surviving for days without proper food and water. Then they got killed by completely unrelated things. But I'm so desperate to return to the mentor room that I agree to them all without questioning.
"The last thing is that we need to wean you off the sedation. I understand that you have some trouble controlling your temper, and I don't want to make this any more difficult for you than it already is," Dr. Castillo says. "So overnight while you are sleeping, we're going to gradually decrease the amount of sedation. And you're going to wear this."
She pulls out a large piece of leather and begins to affix it to my arm.
"You're . . . going to tie me to Pitch's bed?" I ask.
"I'm going to prevent you from pulling out your IV line. Would you prefer if we move you to your room?" she asks.
"No, it's fine. He can just sleep in my room instead."
The leather slab covers my arm from wrist to armpit, hiding where the IV line enters my body so that I can't pull it out. It's a cumbersome apparatus that prohibits me from bending my elbow. As she fastens the leather with several clasps, Dr. Castillo reassures me that this happens sometimes when they have to discontinue sedation for patients. Sometimes, she says, people have to be tied down to the beds by every limb. She tells me that I'm lucky that I'm here in the privacy of my own apartment and not in the middle of a busy hospital.
"If you aren't still wearing this in the morning, you won't be able to return to the mentor room. As long as you keep following medical advice, you can continue with your duties," she tells me as she secures the IV lines going into the pump that hangs on the headboard. I can't see what she's doing, but it sounds like she's locking it in place to keep anyone (i.e., me) from ripping it apart. She then props pillows under my head so that I'm more comfortable.
At last, she pushes a little controller in my palm.
"The top button is for pain medication. We're weaning you off of that particular one, as I said, and starting you on another, so you might feel a little discomfort as the stronger one wears off," she explains to me. "The bottom button is for a sleeping aid. You'll be allowed to have one press of that button to help you fall asleep. The right button is for your hydration and nutrients, but that's pre-set and you won't be able to control it. The left button is for if you need to eliminate your bladder."
Eww. I'm both horrified and intrigued. There are several thin, clear lines going into me at various points; I didn't even consider that one of them might serve that function.
Dr. Castillo stands up and puts back the chair before she turns to me and bids me a good evening.
"Thank you," I say. Because I'm actually finding myself grateful for her work. Must be the medications she pumped in me to calm me down. She smiles at me, then she and Pitch head out the door, closing it behind them.
~.~.~
~.~.~
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
I'm tempted to press that sedation button right this moment so that when Pitch returns and attempts to explain what happened, I'll be asleep and won't need to deal with it. But since I don't know what time it is, I don't want to doom myself to a long night staring at the ceiling or fighting off nightmares because I wasted the sedation pump for a morning nap.
Pitch returns about ten minutes later and quietly closes the door behind him.
I want to be angry at him, but I can't. I wish Dr. Castillo hadn't given me the extra shot of calming medication because I need this anger to hold onto and keep myself afloat. I can't even be angry about that, though, which I know logically would be very frustrating if I could feel as nearly frustrated as I should feel. It's all so stupid and confusing.
Pitch sits down on the side of the bed. He studies my face for several seconds.
"I'm sorry, Juniper," he says at last. "I needed to keep you from hurting her. I didn't mean to mess you up in the process."
Because I have no anger, I just stare intently at him.
He continues, "I knew the moment I threw you that it was too much. Lala was yelling in pain and then cursing at us both, and I almost punched her myself. I can't really blame you, but . . . . You're dangerous, Juniper. I don't mean that I think you're going to slit people's throats at night or push them off of balconies, but your behavior is going to get you in trouble in ways that you don't yet understand."
"Can you spare me the lecture?" I ask.
"No, I can't," he says. "Because you're going to get people killed. Not directly. I don't think you'd do that. But when you're out of control, they need to find a way to bring you back into control."
"Rosa?" I croak.
"Rosa's fine," he says. "I promise you, when I checked about five minutes ago, she's fine. They're giving the tributes a couple days to heal—or giving Oceana a couple days to heal, at least—by keeping them quiet with rain. I don't think this will impact Rosa, though I can't guarantee it.
"Lala wasn't supposed to be in the apartment when she was. Once the Hunger Games begin, the escort access is restricted to certain hours without the direct permission of the mentors they're working with. Since neither of us requested to give her 24-hour access, she was only allowed to come in here between 8:00 AM and 8:00 PM. I don't know what she was doing here at that hour, but she finally agreed to not tell everyone what happened if I didn't tell anyone that she didn't have permission to be in here at that time."
I sigh. Lala is all about outward appearances, and I punched her. How the hell is she ever going to let that go? She already hated me to begin with.
"I told everyone that you came down with a 24-hour stomach bug," he continues. "You are going to stick to that, okay."
"And the stomach bug broke ribs and gave me a concussion?" I ask with whatever sarcasm I can muster.
"You puked so hard you broke your ribs. And then you hit your head on the toilet. I really don't care, Juniper," he says. "Just don't tell everyone what happened, and don't let them get suspicious and guess. If you ever want to survive, you need to be able to control yourself. Pick your battles carefully."
"I think I did a damned good job picking battles. I didn't break Quintus' fingers when they were trying to go up my dress," I snort.
"I'm not saying that you have to cut down the number of battles numerically, I'm saying you have to be logical about it," he says. "Halving the number of people you punch won't do a damned thing if you're still punching powerful people. You need to cut that crap out and decide what things are really, honestly worth risking your life and lives of other people over."
I stare up at the ceiling unable to say anything. There's nothing I can say in response because he's just going to shoot back some reply or another that will absolutely negate anything I say. The Capitol is allowed to spew forth filth and hatred and violence. Their licentious behavior goes completely unchecked. They can torture and kill and rape whoever they want, and we're just supposed to roll over and let it happen. Doesn't matter if we want to stand up for others or for ourselves; we're damned to this hellish misery until we die. Really, truly die. The thing we fought so hard to escape is now our salvation.
Tears roll down my cheeks from my eyes. Are they from anger or sadness or pain or something else entirely? I don't know. I don't really feel anything right now, at least not consciously. But I must be feeling something inside, somewhere.
Pitch leans over, grabs a tissue out of the box on the nightstand and gently wipes my face.
When will I get it through my head? When will I finally understand what Pitch keeps trying to tell me? Fairness doesn't matter. The only thing that matters is that I don't express myself in a manner that will bring the Capitol discontent. I can show them happiness and sadness, but only for superficial things. Any other emotions must be suppressed and buried away where they will never again see the light of day. I've never been that angry of a person. I was never an unhappy teenager. But ever since I was reaped, something inside me snapped and was released, exposing nothing but raw and uncontrolled rage that thrived within the arena. And since then, I've struggled to contain it. It bubbles just below the lid, waiting to froth over at any moment. The Capitol brought this on me, but they don't have to clean up the mess. Ultimately it doesn't matter when it started or who's at fault. Pitch is right—I need to figure out how to control it.
"Okay," I finally concede. "Okay."
Pitch gives me a small smile.
"But," I add. "I need help. I don't know how to deal with them. Or with me."
"I know. We'll figure something out," he agrees. "And I really am sorry about this." He motions towards me, broken and strapped to the IV. "Dr. Castillo is a good doctor. She understands how much mentoring means to us and wants to make sure we are taken care of so we can take care of our tributes. And she doesn't ask questions when she's brought to the training center."
Pitch then stands up. "You need anything else before I go to sleep?" he asks.
"No," I say. "I'm sorry I took over your bed."
"It's okay. I'll just go take over yours. Now get some sleep—it's after 10:00 PM and the doctor said you have to be well rested."
"You don't need to tell me twice," I say as I push the sleep aid button on my controller. A flicker of a smile passes Pitch's lips, and then my eyelids grow too heavy to keep them open. I hear him walk across the room. The door opens and closes, and that's the last thing I remember.
~.~.~
~.~.~
CHAPTER FIFTY
The next morning, Dr. Castillo returns to check on me. She asks me how I slept, and I told her very well. It was only moderately well. I woke up once briefly and tried the bladder elimination button which was quite the experience, and then I fell asleep only minutes later. Otherwise my sleep was hazy and the dreams faint. I felt like I was sometimes too deep and other times too light. But overall, I'm feeling better today despite the discomfort in my ribs.
She watches me eat breakfast and drink water before unplugging the various lines that are going into my body. She hands me a pill vial. "This is for pain. No more than one every six hours."
I roll the vial over in my hand but don't recognize the drug name.
She waits outside the room while I take a shower and dress. Once she sees that I'm on my feet and not about to keel over, she nods, bids myself and Pitch a good day, and then leaves.
"Remember," Pitch says. "Don't tell anyone the truth."
"I know, I know," I grumble.
"Want me to go to the mentor room with you?" he offers.
"No, not really," I lie.
Down in the mentor room, I take my place at the District 7 computer. It's Day 9, and all five tributes—Fjord and Oceana from District 4, Nicola from District 5, Rosa from District 7, and Phil from District 10—are all alive. Fjord and Oceana have found a relatively dry little platform hidden from the trees. Water still drips through, so they used a tarp strung up above their heads to deflect the stray drops. Phil is still in his treehouse. Nicola has managed to drag herself to a small nook under a sturdy bough where she can stay dry if she wraps her reflective blanket around her body. And Rosa has settled into the wide branches of a thick deciduous tree whose leaves offer enough protection from the rain.
Rosa passes her time playing with the parachutes she got from the sponsorship gifts. She folds them and shapes them and then shakes them out to restart. It doesn't look like she has any real intended use for them. Finally she stuffs one back in her pocket and uses the other one as a handkerchief to blow her nose. Gross, but resourceful.
Elijah eventually comes and sits next to me. "Ah, you're alive. I thought that party totally knocked you out," he says.
"Got a stomach bug," I reply monotonously.
"Must've been something to require a doctor, but I suppose that's none of my business," he says.
"Yes, that is none of your business." Though I think that if anyone would understand, it would be Elijah. I don't say anything, even though I'd like to have someone appreciate what I've gone through and how much I hate what the Capitol has done to me. However the mentoring room is pretty empty with only the five of us. The others can easily listen in on our conversations without even trying to eavesdrop.
I slump back in my chair with a wince. Forgot about that injury.
Elijah clears his throat.
I start talking before he can say anything else: "How is Nicola?"
"She's . . . alive. Broken tibia and fibula on the left leg. Right knee is messed up. Made a split for herself and is probably hoping that she'll magically heal before she sees more action."
The day continues on. I take breaks to lay on the couch as often as I can, per Dr. Castillo's instructions. Then I return to watch the cameras show how the tributes are faring in the rain. Oceana receives a gift of medicine to help her wounds heal. She shares it with Fjord because, she says, they're both injured and she wants the final fight to be as fair as possible. Good for her. If she wins, she'll realize that nothing is truly fair.
An avox comes in and hand-delivers me lunch. It's awkward, but I pretend that I don't care as I take the tray from him. Sipping the juice, I watch Rosa strain to see between the trees. She stands up, always holding firmly to a solid branch, and watches the world around her. Does she understand that she may never have another view of the world again? Does she realize that her final hours may be approaching and this will be the last glimpse of life she has?
I send Rosa a pair of small binoculars. She spends the rest of the daylight hours birdwatching. Great. At least she's keeping herself entertained.
And then I return back to the District 7 apartment for dinner.
~.~
Something smells good when I step into the apartment, and I am immediately famished despite the meal I had a couple hours ago. I hear avoxes scurrying around to get things in place and the clatter of dishes and silverware. Then there are voices I recognize. When I come around the corner, I see Pitch, Esther, and Isolde all waiting for the avoxes to finish their job.
"Hey," I say. Their presence surprises me, but pleasantly so. Even Isolde is a welcomed site.
"Hi, Juniper," Esther greets me with a smile. There's still pain in her expression, but there's also genuine happiness.
"Juniper! Lady of the hour. We heard about your little 'stomach bug'" (air quotes included) "the other night and thought that we'd come cheer you up so that you're not puking so hard you break ribs or, what was it again?"
Esther laughs. She who is so reserved and quite just lets out a loud laugh. "Hitting your head on the toilet and giving yourself a concussion."
I shoot a look at Pitch. "You're an asshole."
He shrugs, but looks pretty proud of himself.
"By the way, Lala got admitted to the hospital the other night," Isolde says. She plops down in the nearest chair, and the rest of us take it as our cue to follow suit. "Said you punched her in the face because she accidentally startled you."
"Who'd you hear that from?" Pitch asks.
"Friend works in the hospital," Isolde says casually.
"Great," I say.
"It sounds like it," Isolde agrees, even though I didn't mean it that way. "Wish I could have been there to see it happen. How I've longed to punch my escort in the face." She sighs dreamily.
I smile a little to know that I'm not the only person who has wished this. But then I understand what Esther and Isolde are doing here. Pitch must've invited them to help me figure out how to handle things. It's a little irritating, but I did tell him that I needed help, so I can't hold it against him.
The avoxes serve up a splendid dinner with salads, soups, mutton, and vegetables. The others have various drinks, but I'm required to drink 350 milliliters of an electrolyte syrup which is far too sweet for my taste buds and wash it down with a liter of water. It's only after I drink it that Pitch tells me with a hint of amusement that I should have mixed them together first. I don't even humor him with a comment.
Dessert is a simple ice cream which we take into the sitting room to enjoy as the avoxes clean up the dining room table.
"Where are you guys staying?" I ask Esther and Isolde. "Still in the training center or somewhere else."
"Elsewhere," Esther says. "We normally get kicked out as soon as our tribute dies."
Isolde wiggles her eyebrows. "Pitch got a special allowance."
Did he? He never told me that.
"Worked out. My apartment hasn't been touched in more than a year. Didn't even use it last year," Pitch says. Because, I assume, I ended up living. I wonder where he went between my victory and when we returned back to District 7. "The place probably needs to be aired out and fumigated, and I really don't feel like dealing with that."
"How do you get an apartment?" I ask.
"They'll provide you a real estate agent who will show you properties—usually virtually—and then you choose whichever one you like the best," Esther explains. She sits curled up in a chair, bowl of ice cream balancing on her knee.
"But because you're normally doing this after your first tribute has died, you just point at whatever doesn't make you cry the most and go with it," Isolde explains. "Some victors don't have to mentor their first year, or they move to the Capitol before their first Hunger Games, or whatever. Then they have more time and freedom to choose a place more rationally."
"But you can always move later, if you want," Esther assures me.
"Did you have to mentor your first year?" I ask Isolde.
"Yeah," she said. "My fellow mentors said I had to. Even though there are, like, so many of them. They thought it would be great if Hammer and I were mentoring since we won back-to-back. It was both of our first years. And, needless to say, it was pretty shitty."
"That's the year Elijah's tribute won, right?" Esther asks.
"Oh yeah," Isolde rolls her eyes. "But it turns out that he doesn't appreciate it if you tell him that he only won because you were such a newbie at mentoring."
Geeze this conversation is so crass.
But I'm beginning to understand that everyone handles this in their own ways. It's hard to really appreciate until you realize that this is one of the few ways people have of expressing themselves. The way that the mentors banter back and forth to each other is nothing more than an emotional shield erected to keep themselves from falling apart. From punching mechanical deer and mauling their escorts. It's like how I allowed Rosa and Green to break everything they wanted in the apartment, except it's not just a one-time release of pent-up emotion but a way to abate the constant drip of anguish and turmoil.
When the evening ends, Esther makes me promise to keep in touch, no matter what. I know she's thinking that I'm going to go off the deep end if—when—Rosa dies. And Isolde makes me promise to include the two of them in my apartment hunting, even if I don't ever want to see them ever again and I don't feel like looking for an apartment. I agree to both their requests because I know that it was probably hard for them to show up at this place so soon after they lost their tributes. But they did it for me.
