CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE

"Where's Pitch?" Esther asks as soon as we are out on the street.

I shrug. "Back at my place, probably," I say.

Esther eyes me curiously. "This is the first time I've seen you out and about without him. Is everything okay?"

Honestly, I really don't want to start complaining about him right now. Yeah, I'm a little weirded out about what happened last night, but he was drunk, right? So it's not like he really wanted to kiss me. But at the same time, I can't help but shake the nagging feeling that things are going to change for us very soon, and I don't really want that. I just want to know that he's my friend.

"Yeah, I think so. I just thought I'd try an interview by myself," I respond lamely.

Esther rolls her eyes. "Geeze, Juniper. You can tell me. I'm your friend, remember?"

Friend? Yes, I think she is my friend. I hadn't really thought too much about what relationship category other people fall into because I was so often consumed by what was supposedly going on between Pitch and myself.

"I'm just a little uncertain about the relationship thing," I admit. "Last night, he came home drunk and said that he wanted to kiss me and of course I said no because he was drunk, but then I started wondering if we're going to have to make this relationship into something more than what it is."

"And you don't want to?" Esther confirms.

"No, I don't. I like Pitch as a friend."

Esther and I walk in silence for a minute. I try not to be too enticed by the shop displays. I don't want any more attention than what I already have. To my relief, people don't look nearly as interested in me as they did a couple weeks ago when my tribute was still in the running and I was the newest victor. I'm getting "old" now that they have Fjord as the most recent champion.

"Did you meet Joule Leonard?" Esther asks me.

I shake my head. "No, who is that?"

"One of the victors for District 3," Esther explains. "She married a Capitol man about 30 years her senior."

"Ugh, that's unfortunate."

Esther shakes her head. "No, she did it intentionally. He was a good person who was able to protect her from some of the harsher realities of being a victor. They didn't love each other; it was just a good match. Maybe they eventually fell in love, I don't know."

"Like some sort of arranged marriage," I say.

"Pretty similar. But they arranged it themselves."

"So why are you telling me this?" I ask. "Am I supposed to marry Pitch?"

"I'm not telling you that," she replies. She kicks a little stone across the ground that's in her path and watches it bounce out into the street. "But sometimes people end up with those they don't love romantically because it offers them protection."

"And would you do that?" I ask. "Marry some Capitolite—or even a victor—way older than you who you don't have any romantic attraction to?"

"I might," she admits. "If it came down to it. I don't want to be like some of the other victors."

Some of the other victors such as Pitch. I don't know to what extent she knows about Pitch's personal engagements, so I don't bring it up. But I do know that marrying a victor wouldn't offer you the same protection as marrying an influential Capitolite. And there is no way in hell I'd marry one of those beasts.

"Anyway, as I said before. Pitch is a good person. And he always watches out for you."

On that point, she isn't wrong. He has been my pillar during this whole ordeal, even when his duty as my mentor was no longer required. Despite all the shit he had going on, he managed to make sure that I stayed as in control of myself as I possibly could, offering guidance and encouragement.

"So . . . are you like a matchmaker? Is that your victor talent?" I ask.

She laughs. "Maybe that's what I should be," she says. "But I just don't want you to write him off. Being a victor is very different than being a regular citizen. We have to adjust differently."

Eesh. I don't even know how to respond to all this.

"Oh, here's my bus," Esther says as she motions to a bus that's pulling up half a block away. "I'll talk to you soon!" And then she takes off running, backpack bouncing on her back.

I watch to make sure that she gets into the bus okay and the bus pulls away from the curb. I push away all that she said and tell myself that I'll deal with it later. My eyes migrate to a bookstore I see about two blocks away on the other side of the street. This is a different bookstore than the one I visited earlier, so I'm hopeful that Quintus Laurentinus will not be there this time. I mosey down the street before crossing and entering the bookstore.

Once more, I am able to immerse myself within the world of literature. I choose titles that intrigue me, and some that just have funny covers. It doesn't matter. As a victor, I have pretty much an endless supply of cash, and it's not like these purchases will be wasteful. If read something I know I'll never read again, or if I end up with a book I have no desire pursuing, I'll just donate it or give it to someone in District 7. Books, unlike food, don't spoil or go back, and they can be shared even after they have been consumed.

As I sit down at a table inside the coffee shop with one of my recent purchases (the rest are being sent to the apartment), I find that I have no ability to concentrate. Esther's words keep appearing in my head, and no matter how hard I try to block them out, I realize that there is truth to them. Being a victor is not all it's claimed to be, and sometimes you have to do things that you don't want to do just to protect yourself from having to do worse. I'm going to have to face Pitch again at some point in the near future, so I might as well get it over with. I chug the rest of the coffee, pick up my purse and my book, and head outside to call a cab.

~.~.~


~.~.~

CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO

Pitch is gone when I get back to my apartment. He's added to my note that he has his own interview at 3:00 PM. It's 2:00 PM. He left pretty early to get there in time.

Well, nothing I can do about it. I grab my book, flop onto the couch and begin to read in order to distance myself from my own thoughts.

~.~

The door opens at about 5:30 PM and Pitch steps in. He closes the door quietly, clearly unaware that I am sitting here on the couch. He takes a deep breath and then wanders further into the apartment. I roll my eyes. Talk about unobservant. So I flutter the pages of my book. He snaps to attention and looks at me immediately. I can't read his expression. Is it embarrassment or regret? Or does he just look disappointed that I'm here.

But he comes over to me regardless. I move my legs out of the way so he can sit on the opposite end of the couch.

"Juniper, I'd like to apologize for last night," he says. "I didn't mean to upset you."

"I'm not upset," I say sharply.

He raises an eyebrow.

I sit up on my end of the couch and set my book on the coffee table. "You just caught me in the middle of a chapter, that's all."

Pitch leans forward with his elbows on his knees and rubs his eyes. He's probably trying to decide what to do with me right now. How to fix the fact that the dynamics of our relationship may have changed dramatically with that one comment.

"I just enjoy being friends with you, that's all," I say. "I don't want to lose that."

He looks up at me. "Yeah. I get it."

After a moment, he leans over and picks up my book off the table. "You went back to the bookstore?"

"Not the same one. A different one."

His fingers flip through the pages of the novel. It's nothing of great significance, just a little adventure book I picked up written by someone from District 5. As with all books, there's a bit of censorship, or at least the authors have an understanding that there are certain topics they aren't allowed to outright write about. So many books take place in alternate worlds or different realities that aren't overtly "better" than Panem. Just different. And when I'm reading, I'll take "different" over what I experience on a daily basis.

"I still want to be friends with you, Juniper, don't get me wrong." He fiddles with the cover of the book as though it will reveal to him great secrets if he messes with it enough. "But at some point, we're going to have to be more obvious about our relationship—the fake one, that is—and I guess I just want to do it on our own terms, not because the Capitol is pushing us."

"So you want to kiss me now because you know you'll have to kiss me later when there are cameras," I say skeptically.

"You put it that way and it sounds pretty dumb," he grumbles, setting the book back on the table.

Why does it matter? The Capitol will be forcing our hands regardless of whether we speed things up or not. Because that's all we're doing: accelerating something they've pushed onto us.

"This is why I don't drink," he mutters as he sits back in his seat.

A random thought occurs to me. I've been blaming the Capitol, and rightly so, but it wasn't the Capitol that originally started this rumor. I give a little snort. "To think this was all Rosa's doing," I say.

Pitch looks at me. "Seems like a million years ago."

"Well, I guess if there's one thing that's good about it all, at least I didn't have do to those first few interviews and parties by myself," I concede.

"I saw you on TV today," Pitch says. "You did well. Held your own pretty good."

"I admit I'm a little jealous of Elijah's tactic," I say.

Pitch only shakes his head. "Don't follow in his footsteps. The man is going to get himself—or someone he loves—killed if he doesn't watch is tongue."

Still, it's pretty ingenious. I don't admit this to Pitch. It's pretty clear over the course of the past couple weeks how much he dislikes the way Elijah talks so openly about his hatred for the Capitol. The thing is that I can't really blame either of them. I feel very similarly to Elijah—I, too, have a hatred for the place—and who can blame him after he was brutally tortured for entertainment, far surpassing that which most tributes are expected to endure? But I also understand that Pitch is only discouraging in Elijah what he discourages in me. Except where I lash out physically, Elijah lashes out vocally.

"When's your next interview?" I ask, straying a bit from the topic of our fellow victor.

"You mean 'our' next interview. Tomorrow morning at 10:00 AM."

"Who else is going?" I ask.

"Just us," he says.

"I can't wait to hear what wonderful rumors they've managed to come up with in the span of 72 hours," I mutter.

"Whatever it is, we'll get through it," Pitch says.

'We.' He is never planning on leaving me behind and saving himself on any of these interviews. Damnit, Pitch. Why does he have to be such a good person? It would be easier to reject him if I didn't like him. But I remember what Esther said early on, about how I was lucky that I got along so easily with my co-mentor. It would probably be much, much worse if we hated each other. That would require acting skills far surpassing what little I have.

Still, I don't want to destroy the friendship we have. It's been the only thing that's kept me going the past few weeks, and to have that shattered would be devastating.

"Do they always focus so much on victors whose tributes haven't won?" I ask.

"Sometimes, especially if their tributes were big contenders," Pitch replies. "I don't think anyone gives a rat's ass about Green anymore—nobody expected he could win and aside from one daring escapade, he didn't really do anything that made people interested in him—but they probably remember Rosa fondly. Plus, of course, there's us. And I'm sure you're right that they have managed to get some more rumors since we were last interviewed."

The thought chills me, and I suppress a shudder.

"Do you have any idea what it may be?" My voice is barely more than a whisper. What if they found something to charge me for? What if they're going to have me arrested for assault or something?

"Let's see. They've already had the pregnancy thing negated. They 'know' that we're sexually active and that's not just a rumor. And they have already brought up the potential assault," he says. "It's entirely possible that it's something else, but I'd be prepared to be asked about your mental stability. There is a moose's head that was torn off in the meadow somewhere."

"It was a deer," I reply sharply. "I don't know how to answer any more questions about my mental stability. What am I supposed to say? Of course I am struggling with handling this all and whatever. There's no way I can deny what I've actually done."

My shoulders slump and I stare vacantly off. It's far easier to make up things you haven't done than it is to claim that you haven't done something that you did. What if, like Esther, I get arrested? But unlike her, I won't have any way to disprove what I did. They'll bring out the deer for proof. They'll bring out Lala for proof. I'll be guilty before I can even say anything.

"We'll come up with something," Pitch says. "Don't worry."

"Pitch, what do they do with victors who are not mentally stable? I mean, besides the ones like you who they can sweep under the carpet? If they find me to be mentally unstable, everyone will know about it." My voice shakes with unease. I look at Pitch expectantly, hoping that he will tell me that everything will be fine and that I'll just get a bit of a check-up with Dr. Castillo and be on my way.

He doesn't answer right away, and I know that's not a good thing. It means either he doesn't know or he knows but doesn't know how to break it to me.

"Please," I say. "Don't try to protect me by not telling me."

He looks at me, studies me. "It hasn't happened in awhile," he explains. "But the last time a mentor had to be hospitalized for mental issues—publicly-known mental issues—he was locked away for almost a full year. We don't know what happened to him during that time, but he's never been the same since he got out of there."

No, I don't want to be imprisoned and tortured and whatever else just because of Lala. That despicable woman! I'm too scared to be angry, though, because I'm aware that the Capitol is quick to jump to conclusions without hearing the full story. That's what happened to Esther, and even in Hammer's and Isolde's stories, they were outright overruled because people preferred their own stories rather than the truth. And with me, there is truth to it. I did hit Lala. I've gotten into confrontations with her on more than one occasion. No one will care about my side and about the things I overheard the woman say, not when they fully support that mindset.

"Juniper. You're getting yourself worked up," Pitch says. He's right. I'm shaking and feeling so cold. I want to wrap myself under a hundred blankets and hide from everything right now. "I would offer you a hug . . . if you don't think I'm trying to make advances."

"You're an idiot, Pitch," I say, but I'm already crawling into his arms and curling up into his chest. I let his warmth flow through me.

We stay like this for an hour, maybe more. I'd remain that way forever but I can hear his stomach growling. So we find something to cook in the kitchen and spend the rest of the evening doing our best to avoid thinking about what tomorrow might bring.

~.~.~


~.~.~

CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE

In the morning, I wake up before Pitch but don't move until I hear the alarm clock go off. Then we drag ourselves out of bed and head to the showers. The apartment has several bathrooms, so there's more than enough space for both of us. And, unlike back home, we don't have to worry about one person having cold water while the other one enjoys all the heat.

~.~

When we get to the interview, I'm surprised to find that it's not actually an interview. It's a photoshoot. The director explains that we are promoting some sort of Capitol-driven campaign to enhance the morale of the districts. "The district residents get a little low when the Hunger Games aren't in session, so we'll release this in a few months to help them focus on what's important," he says.

Yikes, okay. That's totally not what happens, but who am I to tell them otherwise?

I can handle a photoshoot. I hate them because I hate promoting whatever bullshit the Capitol wants me to, but otherwise it's normally a matter of being put into a stupid outfit and told how to pose. Talking is at a minimum, at least for me. Of course, I haven't had many photoshoots myself. There were a few within the past year when Capitol-appointed photographers showed up to my house, but I'm not one of the most well-loved victors who constantly has the cameras following after her.

But then in strolls Lala. She wears high heels that make her appear a half head taller than normal, or perhaps it's the way she has her hair piled up and curled with little birds' nests tucked into the ringlets. Her makeup is heavy, especially around the fading bruise, but if I didn't know she had been punched I'd think it was just the lighting. At first, Lala doesn't pay any attention to either Pitch or myself. She goes to the director and starts talking with him about various angles, wardrobe changes, lighting, etc. Pitch and I exchange looks, but neither of us dare to say anything.

Because if this were an interview, there would be no need for Lala to be present. A photoshoot, on the other hand, requires the guiding hand of an experienced escort to make sure that everything is handled with perfection.

And then Lala is right in front of us, a formidable force that won't let us escape her presence.

"A word with you two," she says. She waves towards the crew, and they nod. Lala puts a hand on each of our shoulders, half-guiding, half-pushing us towards the door. We step into the bright sunlight. She releases her grip and immediately rounds on us.

"You two think you're so clever, don't you," she hisses. Her mouth barely moves. Her expression remains cheerful. We're in public and appearances must be kept up.

Pitch and I exchange another look. What the hell is her problem now?

"I think you're going to have to explain," he says to her. Good that he said something because whatever was going to come out of my mouth wasn't going to be nearly so professional.

"You tell everyone that what Juniper did to me was an 'incident,' when it was clearly assault!" she responds. "Now everyone thinks that it was some silly lark and not nearly as serious as it was, which makes everyone think that I over exaggerated the entire thing! How do you think that reflects on me?!"

"You told us that you weren't going to tell everyone as long as there were no further issues," I frown.

"Things changed. I had to adapt for evolving situations," she said.

What a deplorable witch! I ball my hands into fists, but Pitch takes the closest hand, unfolds my clenched grip, and interlocks his fingers with mine.

"Furthermore, you have undermined my influence—all of my hard work—as the District 7 escort. Not once have you credited me with anything that I have done this Hunger Games. You have taken all the success for yourselves!" she hisses. "I can't believe what selfish, self-centered mentors I have to work with! I thought that Pitch was a terrible mentor, but that was before he got his hands on you, Juniper. I had such high hopes for you! You could have been like dear, sweet Vesa, or even like quiet Elm. Now I have two insufferable victors to deal with."

"Tell us how you really feel," I say dryly.

Lala's eyes dart to my face and drill into me. If we weren't here where passers-by could see us, I'm sure that she would be eager to try to pay back the bruise I gave her.

"You are a wretched girl," she snaps. But somehow she still has the smile on her face to let anyone watching know that she is in control of the situation.

"Lala, what do you want us to do at this point?" Pitch asks, weariness weighing down his words.

"I want you to give credit where credit is due. I want you to tell everyone what a terrible pair of mentors you are!" she says. "And when you make sure that everyone knows how I was the driving force of District 7, only then will I drop the assault charges I have against Juniper."

"What?!" I demand. "You did what?!"

Pitch squeezes my hand. "Damnit, Lala, you said you weren't going to do that!"

"I told you. Things changed. If you hadn't been so selfish, then maybe we wouldn't find ourselves in this position!" Her saccharine smile is too much for me.

I turn away and look back at the building we're supposed to be in right now getting our pictures taken. How the hell do people look at this woman and think she's a marvelous person?

"So you get back in there, and if you don't change your story, then you can expect that things will take a very different turn for Juniper's future," she hisses. With one final smile, she opens the door and motions for us to enter. We are not allowed to linger behind and talk this over. We must face this entirely unprepared.

Pitch leads me back inside where we are greeted by a wardrobe and makeup team. Lala gives them permission to start working on us, and we are whisked away to dressing rooms just off the main room. I am able to give a small look in Pitch's direction only once before we are separated.

The wardrobe team strips off my street clothes before stepping out of the room, leaving me standing in the room completely naked. I'm contemplating what Lala said and how we're going to handle this when that wretched woman strolls right on into my dressing room. She looks me up and down before she meets my eye.

"Really, Juniper, you know that the things I'm telling you are for your own good," she says with a drop of what may be real sadness. "Pitch isn't a good influence on you, and I'm concerned about your future."

I'm sure you are, lady. Which is why you chose to discuss this with me when I am completely naked in a dressing room. But then, moments later, the wardrobe and makeup team come back, wrap me in a gown, and sit me in a chair. They begin to work on my nails and hair, chatting with Lala as she follows after me. I don't give her the satisfaction of having my attention. Instead I pretend to be mesmerized in whatever the team is doing to my nails.

"Make sure to put her in something a little slimming," Lala instructs the head of the wardrobe team. "Her stylist always made sure to cover up the little bits of unwanted fat she gained back after her victory."

I will not roll my eyes, I instruct myself. I am not fat. If anything, I've lost weight since I came to the Capitol. And even if I had excess fat on me, I wouldn't care. Perhaps the insult would work better if I were a Capitolite concerned with the amount of food I gorge myself on, not a district resident whose meals are more focused on nourishment than opulence.

"She will look beautiful regardless of what anyone puts her into," says one of the team members, oblivious to the fact that Lala was trying to insult me. It's a very kind thing to say because although sometimes I do look nice in certain outfits, I'm definitely not the type of girl who can pull off any color or style. The woman looks up at me with admiration.

"Thank you," I reply. I swallow the lump in my throat and stare down at the color of polish that's being applied.

"Juniper was just telling me how hard the past couple weeks have been," Lala casually slips into the conversation.

"Oh, I bet it's been pretty tough. You've been so busy—I've seen all the interviews with you," says one man.

Lala looks pointedly at me.

I clear my throat and force out some words: "I'm just . . . grateful that Lala has been with me to help." The intonation of the last word rises, as though I might be asking a question. It doesn't pass Lala's standards, I can tell from her expression, so I try again. "She always makes sure that we get to where we need to go on time."

Which is a massive lie. Lala pretty much bailed on us as soon as she saw the cute little tributes she got to play with this year. And then once she thought that Pitch and I were neglecting them, she wanted nothing more to do with us. I haven't seen her since we left the training center, and she definitely hasn't been the one to keep me up-to-date about interviews and meetings.

They all begin talking about the challenges of trying to herd people to the right place at the right time. Apparently the wardrobe and makeup team has tons of experience making sure that people are present when and where they're supposed to be, so Lala has plenty of opportunity for people to truly understand her struggle. I start to tune them out, but I consciously force myself to listen.

"It's the other one that is more troublesome," Lala is saying. "Honestly can't keep his hands to himself. Dating Martha and trying to take advantage of Juniper." She shakes her head and gives a tsk.

Martha. . . . Why does that name sound familiar?

"He'd rather be out wooing some lady than worrying about his tributes."

No way. Is she really saying this bullshit about Pitch? Pitch who has been by my side for the past two weeks, who has been guiding all of us on how to survive the Hunger Games, who has cried himself to sleep over the death of his tribute?

"Shut up, Lala," I snap, a blaze flaring inside of me.

Everything stops. All chatter, all movement, all everything. The entire room stares at me.

Shit shit shit shit shit.

What do I do?!

Why the hell did I say anything at all?

"Excuse me?" she asks incredulously.

How do I recover from this?

I lick my lips. "Is that not how we get people's attention here?" I ask with as much innocence as I can push into my words. "I saw it on TV and thought it was what I was supposed to do."

Lala doesn't buy it, but a collective breath is released throughout the entire room. The various team members start reassuring me that it's okay to make mistakes, and that I'm not just supposed to tell people to shut up mid-conversation. One lady explains that some of the 'young people' do that to their friends, but, she tells me with great seriousness, it's nothing that we should be doing in professional situations or with our superiors.

I nod like I'm thankful that they explained it to me.

"Well, you have my attention," Lala says when things calm down. "What did you want to say?"

All I wanted to say was for her to shut up and to stop talking about Pitch like that. But now I have to pretend that whatever I was going to say was much more . . . appropriate.

"You're exaggerating the situation," I say. "You put a curfew on him, remember?"

Is that good enough?

I don't meet her eye to find out. I'm instead watching as the last bits of my nails are being finished.

"Besides," I add. "He was—we both were—following your schedule to the T."

When I catch the eye of the woman who is slipping a sock onto my foot, I say with a shrug, "Lala says that it's like trying to herd cats."

And then things carry on as usual. I'm clothed in a pair of overalls with a lacy flannel blouse that no one in all of District 7 would dare to be caught dead in. But at least it's comfortable and it isn't revealing. Then they drape a towel over my chest and shoulders so they can start on the makeup. I dare to glance over at Lala once, but she is busy in conversation with one of the workers, neither of them paying a bit of attention to me.

I wish I knew if I were doing this right. I wish I had the ability to speak easily and clearly. Some victors are very good at that. Isolde, for instance. She can be goofy and silly but when she's placed in the spotlight, she is flawless in speech and diction. That was one of the reasons that it was so jarring to meet her—aside from the fact that she was a Career victor, of course. I had only seen her in interviews and on TV where she came across as powerful and in control.

When they finish with me, I take the hand of the lead wardrobe person who helps me stand up and out of the chair. The towel is removed and they lead me over to the mirror where I can admire their work. It's mediocre—not bad at all, but certainly not something to be in awe over, especially when they seem to think I should be—but I give them smiles and thanks regardless. Then they leave me with Lala to wait to be called onto set.

"Don't forget to tell them about you and how you failed to be a sufficient mentor," she says with a smile before the doors open and it's time for the photoshoot to begin.

~.~.~


~.~.~

CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR

Do I abandon Rosa to save myself?

~.~

I take my seat on the chunk of log the director motions me to. The set is simple with a log on its side—I'm now sitting on it—and a couple of small pine tree seedlings behind me. Many times, people from District 7 are represented with axes or hatchets or other equipment, but they'll never give me anything like that. Although murdering the photoshoot people is extremely illegal and very much forbidden so it's highly unlikely anything would come of a weapon in my hand, there is also the unspoken fear that a victor will lose their shit at any time.

The director instructs me where to put my hands, how to hold my head, where my shoulders should be placed, etc. It's tedious but otherwise not nearly as painful as an interview. Though, I remind myself, if it were an interview, there would be no need to have Lala present. But I smile and frown and stare off into the horizon at all the times they tell me to do it. The bright lights help me forget about the people on the other side of the equipment, and I allow myself to space out until it's all finished.

When I'm released, I'm whisked back into the dressing room.

"Where's Pitch?" I ask the woman who is helping me unbuckle the overalls.

Lala walks over to me. "We decided to do your photoshoots separately."

That surprises me. Honestly. The way people have been harping over our relationship made me think that they'd do everything in their power to get us pictured together to fulfill their fantasies.

I slip out of my overalls and unbutton my shirt. Handing the clothes back to the attendant, I wait for them to return my street clothes. I consider scrubbing off the makeup before we leave, but I want to get away from Lala and back to Pitch as soon as possible. Removing the makeup enough to not look like a smeared-face freak would take a good five to ten minutes more.

Lala comes up to me and cups my face in her palms. Looking straight at me, she says, "You poor thing. You're so naïve, aren't you? I really think it would be a good thing if you forgot about Pitch. He's far too old for you, and he really enjoys other women so much that it was only a matter of time before he broke your heart."

I blink at her.

Is she telling me to break up with him?

After hyping up the relationship?

"Thanks for looking out for me," I say perhaps a little too loudly when one of the workers comes back into the room with my clothes.

Lala releases her grip and takes the clothes from the lady. But not before pinching my cheeks between her thumbs and forefingers so hard that it brings tears to my eyes. She hands the clothes gently to me. Gifting me back my own wardrobe. Benevolent.

Then she turns to the workers coming back in and says sympathetically, "A first break-up is a hard thing to deal with. At least I was able to break the news after the pictures were taken."

And I'm left there in Capitol underwear, holding my clothes against my chest, with tears welling up in my eyes.

The others murmur in agreement.

So I guess I was not good enough at convincing people of Lala's greatness, was I? And this is her retribution. I'm so stunned that it's all I can do to remove the undergarments and dress in my own clothes. Then I'm out the door into the main room before anyone can stop me.

Pitch isn't here.

"Where is he?" I demand of Lala when she appears at my side.

"I don't think you should confront him in public. Wouldn't want you to get too angry at him for the callous way he treated you," Lala says.

So I turn to the nearest crew member. "Where did Pitch go?"

"Said he went home," he replied.

At least there is an answer. When did Lala dig her claws into him? When I was getting my pictures taken? What did she tell him that made him completely abandon me here?

"Thank you," I say to the man, and to the nearby workers. "It was a very nice photoshoot."

They smile at me, and I turn to head out the door. Pitch probably went back to my place. I doubt he went to his own. I am eager to get back and see what the hell just happened to us.

But Lala stops me, "I do hope you're not too upset."

I glare at her. "Yes, I'm going to go cry myself to sleep right now."

"Not at your own place—he might be there collecting his things."

"Yeah, sure. I'll go wallow in misery somewhere else."

She doesn't receive any more of my attention right now. I leave without a formal goodbye, and head back out into the sunlight. As much as I want to go home right now, I'm afraid that she has people following me. It's stupid, but I'm supposed to be madly in love with him, so what Lala delivered to me is supposed to be a devastating blow. I don't want to accidentally reveal to her that it's not the end of the world that we're finally officially broken up. In fact, it will be a relief.

But as I climb onto the bus and take my seat, I realize with a jolt that this means I will no longer be able to hold his hand during interviews when things get too tense, or have him by my side when I'm overwhelmed. I won't be able to use him as an excuse to get away from creepy Capitolites. She thought she was destroying our love, but in reality, she stole away my protection. In some ways that is far worse.

I lean my head back and stare at the ceiling of the bus as the vehicle jolts forward.

Even worse was not the fact that I no longer can use Pitch as my support and protection, but that it was not my choice. Sure, it wasn't our choice to be in a relationship, but at least we had a little more freedom in how we handled it. Now that relationship has been ripped away from us without our permission. We are cold turkey cut off from each other. And if we try to say that Lala was mistaken or that we got back together or anything like that, then I will be shipped off to the Capitol's favorite insane victor retreat.

The bus comes to a stop in the trendy industrial section of the Capitol and I clamber off. I'm not sure where to go from here, but after asking a few people, I find my destination. I ring the doorbell and for several long seconds afterwards, I panic that maybe nobody will be home. I'm not sure why I panic; it's not like I can't go somewhere else. But then I hear shuffling of feet and the door opens.

"Hey, Juniper," says Esther.

"Hey. I'm here to cry into a bowl of ice cream and pour out my feelings," I say flatly.

~.~.~


~.~.~

CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE

It takes Esther a bit to get the story out of me because 1) I don't really have any desire to talk about it, and 2) I don't want to drag her into the fiasco. But eventually she sends me to the bathroom to wash the makeup off my face and when I return, she has made us a nice little nacho bar at the kitchen counter. And then she sits me down in the chair.

"You came here," she says. "Obviously you want something."

"Pitch and I broke up, courtesy of Lala," I say. And then I launch into the whole story.

By the time I finish, I'm so heated that I have abandoned all thoughts of food and am pacing frantically around her kitchen with heavy, uneven steps. My voice has risen, and I'm flailing the one tortilla chip I have in my hand around in the air as I gesture wildly.

"The good news is that tomorrow is the presentation of the victor and the final party," Esther says calmly. "Then we can all go home and you don't have to worry about it. By the time next year comes around, nobody will remember a thing. If they remember it, they won't care."

"That's not what pisses me off!" I exclaim. Then I force myself to be quieter, though I can't push away the anger in my voice. "She just waltzes in and tell us that we aren't together. That's it. We can't be friends, we can't be seen together in public, none of it!"

"Did she say that you can't be friends or anything?" Esther dips one of her nachos in guacamole and takes a dainty bite.

"Not exactly, but she was giving me warnings to stay away from him and to not go home right now in case he's collecting his things, blah blah blah," I say. "In public. With everyone around.

"I'm sorry, Esther. This is so stupid. I'm just terrified of being deemed mentally unstable and being sent away somewhere." I flop down on a chair at the counter and put my head in my hands. "What am I supposed to do when I have assault charges over my head?"

I look up in time to see Esther double dip into the guacamole. Our eyes meet and she starts to laugh. "Sorry, I forgot that I'm not alone. Not that I think that you're boring or anything—quite the opposite!—I've just gotten so used to living here by myself whenever I come to the Capitol."

"It's weird, isn't it," I say. "If you were sixteen at home, you'd be required to live with adults unless you got emancipated or something. But here you're given your own place at thirteen. Like things weren't crazy enough for you at that time."

"I've gotten to become very independent," Esther says humbly.

"That's not necessarily a good thing," I point out.

I kind of feel like an asshole complaining to Esther when she's had much worse to deal with. Winning at thirteen, not having many mentors in her same district to help her out, having to navigate the Capitol by herself, living on her own, being charged for a murder that never happened. It makes all my problems seem so insignificant.

"I should probably go," I say with a sigh. "I really appreciate the nachos, and I'm sorry I didn't eat more. But I'm sure that Pitch is done 'removing his things' from the house or whatever." I stand up and push my chair in.

"I'll be ready to go to the party at five tomorrow," Esther says. "Pick me up, okay?"

"Sure."

She follows me to the door and leans against the frame as I leave. But then she says, "Juniper? They will always have control. But they can't take away who we are." She closes the door without waiting for a reply.

The apartment complex is pretty quiet at 3:00 PM, and I'm thankful that I don't have to look at anyone as they go about their usual, day-to-day, not-controlled-by-the-government lives. The bus won't come for another few minutes and I don't feel like waiting, so I call a cab and climb inside.

I should be happy that the relationship was broken off, but I'm not. I'm pissed. And the more I think about it, the more pissed I become. They will always have control, and it angers me so much that there will never truly be any respite for us. They come to our houses in the districts to have interviews and photoshoots. They make us come to the Capitol at least once a year for the Hunger Games. They bother us when we're not mentoring in order to remind us of the tributes we've lost. They have complete control over our lives. Everything is a constant reminder of this.

And who am I? I am nothing but a pawn.

And I am the girl who climbed on the stage. I am the girl who became tribute without being reaped and without volunteering. And I will not let anyone tell me who I can and cannot love, who I can and cannot be friends with, who I can and cannot respect.

~.~

When I get back to my apartment, I find Pitch about to leave. He really is taking his things. But I step inside, close the door, and block it.

"What's going on?" I demand. "What the hell just happened?"

Pitch looks defeated. His eyes are dark and his shoulders are slumped like a great weight is pressing against his body. "I am pretty sure we just broke up."

"That's all you're going to say about it?" I ask.

"I thought you'd be happy to at least not have to deal with a fake relationship anymore," he says. "Silver lining to this situation."

"So did you break up with me, or did Lala?"

He sets down his bag and studies me carefully. Again, I know he is assessing me to figure out how best to answer. Not that it will affect the truth—he has never been a deceitful person—just how the truth will be delivered.

"Lala 'explained' to me what a bad influence I am on you, and that if I didn't break up, then you would be driven insane, no doubt," he says.

I slump against the door, suddenly exhausted. That woman is an unfathomably monstrous beast. I don't know what to do at this point but accept it. Pitch and I are no longer together officially. Whatever. He's right that neither of us have wanted to be together since this has started.

Pitch looks genuinely torn up about this. It's in his eyes, his expression. Nothing about this makes him happy. It doesn't make me happy, either, but he looks like this, for some reason, affects him more. He doesn't have the anger I have; he only has an emptiness.

"What else?" I ask.

"Huh?"

"What else aren't you telling me?"

He rubs his cheek absently and stares at the floor. "I was enjoying spending time with you. Not as an actual relationship—I never viewed it as that—but it was nice to have company in the Capitol for once." He looks up at me. "And now I've been told that if I come near you, more than what's socially appropriate for tomorrow's event, then you'll get arrested. Technically I shouldn't even be with you here right now."

"We just have to give Lala what she wants," I say. "All she wants is to be promoted. And, frankly, I never want to see her face again, so I'm willing to do that."

"And say we are terrible mentors in the process?" he asks.

I think about Rosa and Green. We did everything we could for them. We clung to them as they struggled in the arena. We fought for them to stay alive. We cried for them when they died. Their suffering, their death—it brought us indescribable agony. To say that we are terrible mentors would be to deny all that we did for them, all the emotions we felt. It would deny that we gave them hope when they had none. All of that would vanish. So was it worth letting people believe that we didn't do what we were supposed to do, just so that we could save our own skins?

"Yes," I reply.

"How could you . . . so easily . . . I mean . . . ."

"Because Rosa was a brat and a damned good manipulator. I don't think she would have any qualms with us playing the game."

Pitch gives me a wry smile. He doesn't answer for a moment. "You certainly know your tribute," he finally says.

"But I think that if we're going to give Lala what she wants, then we should also make sure to give her what she doesn't want," I add. I don't wait for Pitch to say anything because I'm afraid I'll chicken out. I slip into his arms and press my lips against his. He wraps his arms around me and kisses me back. The warmth, the comfort, the happiness that he provides is inside me now, and I am contented and safe. At last we release each other.

"Let's maybe . . . hold off on doing that again," he says.

"Yeah, that's okay with me."

But I grin at him, and he grins back. We're such idiots.

"I still want to be your friend, and I don't want anyone to take that away," I say.

"They won't, Juniper. I promise you, they won't," he says. Then he gives me another hug, kisses my forehead, and releases me. "I've got to go. If I don't see you before tomorrow night, good luck. Everything will be fine."

I pick up his bag and shove it at him. "Don't forget this." He takes it from me, and I add, "I'll see you later."

He heads out of the apartment, and I yell after him "And stay out!" and slam the door shut. But behind closed doors, I'm still grinning like a moron.

~.~.~


~.~.~

CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX

I pick up Esther at 5:00 PM sharp. She climbs into the waiting cab, struggling with the hem of her floor-length dress to keep it from getting snagged on anything. Once she's all settled in, she smiles at me. "You ready?" she asks.

I hand her a coffee. "As ready as ever," I reply.

It's the night of the recap viewing. Presentation of the victor. It's a terrible event in which the victor must sit on the stage in a large chair fit for royalty, and then everyone watches him as he watches the recap of the events that unfolded while he was in the arena. Of course all of us get to watch the recap as well, but there will be so much focus on how the victor holds himself together—or doesn't—while seeing the arena as we saw it. Many Career victors gobble up the recap with enthusiasm, but not all. Some look just as horrified as any other victor. Others manage to hold their head up and pull through gracefully. And for those of us who lost a tribute, a family member, a friend, or a classmate, it's just another painful reminder of their suffering and death.

As much as I miss having Pitch by my side, I'm grateful that Esther is here. Moreover, I am happy that she is not by herself for this, that she finally has somebody to stand with her and to support her. We arrive to our destination—the same massive amphitheater in which the interviews were held—and head inside together.

It's chaotic inside. Everyone is dressed in long gowns and tuxedos as though this were a grand ball I've read about in many books. But instead of a celebration of marriage or birth or anything of the sort, it's a celebration of murder. That, for certain, is not something that is ever written about.

I slip my hand in Esther's as we make our way to our seats. The victors have our own section. No assigned seating, but it's roped off so others can't wander in. In passing, we greet other victors, or sometimes stylists, or the occasional escort. I haven't seen Lala, but I'm also not really looking for her. I do, however, see Pitch. We hold each other's gaze for a moment before tearing away. It's hard not to laugh at the seriousness of our expressions. It's like we're trying to see who can be more serious than the other.

Bris is here. He and many other victors who weren't mentoring came just for this occasion.

"Vesa had boys. Two of them," he says.

"I knew it! I knew it had to be more than one."

Bris says that he has been doing well. I can see that he is fatigued. Even being home and watching the Hunger Games from inside his mansion, he has felt the stress of being a victor. It's something that we will never escape no matter where we are.

"Glad you and Pitch had a good time," says old Liberty as she hobbles over.

"Oh, we aren't together anymore," I say.

She smiles at me a knowing smile and pats my hand. "I understand, dear." Then she slowly heads off to find a seat.

Does she? Does she understand?

I let it go and lead Esther over to a couple of empty chairs. We end up sitting between Demeter from District 11 and Rikuto of District 6. As we wait for the event to start, we chat idly with each other, talking about our next steps in the near future. Demeter is eager to go on her honeymoon which had been delayed over two months after the wedding so it wouldn't interfere with the Hunger Games. It turns out that she married a man from the Capitol, and I can't help but wonder if she did it for love or for protection. I don't ask because that is not something that I am meant to know. Rikuto is considering opening up a nonprofit to help elementary school kids get first-hand experience on transportation design. It doesn't sound interesting to me, but then again, I prefer trees rather than cars.

The lights dim. The crowd gives excited "oooh!"s and "shhh!" Then the curtains draw back and there is Caligula Klora. He waves to everyone, greets us all, and gives a small talk about how exciting this Hunger Games was. Then he begins to introduce the various people who were influential in the development of the victor: the prep team, the escort, the stylist, the mentor. This is Gill Tide's first successful tribute, but he handles the entire thing very professionally.

"Are you ready to meet your victor?!" Caligula calls out.

The crowd goes nuts. People cheer, scream, whoop, whistle—all sorts of noises. It takes a couple minutes for things to get back under control. Then a hush falls over the crowd until we see the very top of Fjord's head is peeking up through the bottom of the stage. He is lifted up by a pedestal, just like he was when he entered the Hunger Games, and now he is greeted with an audience that just starts screaming like nothing I've ever heard before. They love him.

Fjord is beautiful. Absolutely gorgeous. Every girl in Panem is glued to her television screen right now, I think. He was not a bad looking person to begin with, but that was when he was rough. Now he has been cracked open and polished so that everyone can see the way he gleams. His features have been accentuated by surgeon's knife and makeup. His hair has been lightened, his eyes are greener, his face looks that much more manly. It's not a massive change—they didn't alter him drastically—but you can see that they have played to his strengths. It's hard to take my eyes off him.

"Wow," Esther whispers beside me.

And as I'm mesmerized by this new victor, a sudden and dark thought flashes ever so briefly through my mind: they have made him the way they want him, just like they chose Pitch to be what they wanted. But the thought vanishes as Fjord raises a hand in a wave and steps forward amidst the wild cheers.

Gill moves out to greet him. They shake hands. Then Fjord shakes the hands of everyone on stage before Gill guides him to the throne on which he will sit for the viewing.

The recap is three hours long and is just as terrible as watching it the first time. Perhaps moreso because they have put it to music and edited it to make it more dramatic. They linger on deaths and highlight kills. It's a disgusting thing to watch, and I wish I could tear my eyes away from the screen. But I can't because it's just so fascinating to know that I was there the entire time. Not physically in the arena but behind the scenes. I remember where I was when certain events happen. I remember the things that went through my head.

Although most of the time is spent on Fjord and his alliance—especially with Oceana—they still show all the tributes at least once, and they show all their deaths as well. Esther squeezes my hand when Taylor disappears into the fog that one final time, and I am almost reduced to tears again when the sword enters into Rosa's small body. But the two of us manage to make it through, and at long last, the lights turn back on. Fjord looks a little stunned, but he recovers well and stands up. He waves again to everyone, and at last the event is over and we are dismissed.

The party will be at the president's mansion. It's by invite only, of course, and only the most powerful or wealthiest people are invited. And we victors are all expected to attend.

~.~

Esther and I stay close together as we pretend to be engaged with all the guests at the party. People aren't quite so interested in us now that our tributes' deaths are old news; they want to be near the new victor in case he might happen to glance their way. After all, most of them paid a good sum of money in sponsorship gifts and it's only their right to be able to spend a few moments talking with him.

"How's your stomach doing?" I casually ask Esther.

"Fine right now," she says, then she takes a bite of her third slice of cake for the evening. I can't help but laugh at her. It had better be fine if she's managing to eat that much sugar. She doesn't seem to understand what I find so amusing and instead narrows her eyes at me.

I'm feeling a bit silly. It's almost the end of everything. I can almost go home. I've ignored Pitch for the entire evening—barely even saw him at all tonight—and I'm thoroughly enjoying Esther's company.

We're sipping glasses of bubbling apple juice when a woman walks by us to get to the dessert table, a large display of excess in the form of sugars, creams, and chocolate. But in passing, she stops and says hello.

"Juniper and Esther! So nice to see you two victors together. Are you enjoying your evening?" she asks.

"Yes, thank you. How about you?" Esther answers.

The woman smiles at her. "It's the loveliest party I've been to in awhile."

Esther turns to me. "This is Lunabelle Garland," she introduces. "She sponsored many tributes this year. And Ms. Garland, it sounds like you already know who Juniper is."

"Yes, of course. It's a pleasure to meet you, dear," the woman says, taking my hand and giving it a small kiss. "How has your first year been mentoring?"

"It's been pretty tough, honestly," I say. Here we go. "I'm really grateful that Lala was such a strong presence, as always. She held us together when things were getting a bit dicey."

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that. But it's good to know that Lala and you guys got along. I've heard rumors. . . ." The woman eyes me with a hint of restrained eagerness. She wants those rumors. She wants to know them all.

"We had our moments. Things got a bit emotional, between it being my first year and, you know, being with Pitch, but I now know that things'll have to be a bit different next year to work out better. I'm just sorry that, you know—"

Lunabelle Garland leans in closer. She doesn't know.

Because I'm about to make it up right now. I am about to channel my inner Rosa.

"Well, I'm really happy for Lala. I hear she's been promoted. It'll just be really weird without her, and I hope that we'll manage not having her around."

The woman's eyes light up. "She's been promoted?" she asks eagerly.

"That's what I've heard. I don't know if it's anything official or not," I say. "Someone else said—" I pause to crane my neck and look over the crowd as though I might be able to identify who that 'someone else' actually is, but then I look back at Lunabelle "—that her ability to hold things together so well, between two young tributes and a new mentor, that she was a shoe-in for a promotion."

"Well! I'm happy to hear that! She really deserves it," says Lunabelle Garland. "And I hear that Tuna McGurlph is leaving District 2 to pursue a musical career, so I guess it all just works out!"

It sure as hell better, I think. Because if not, I'm in deep shit for spreading this lie.

"Oh, I didn't know that! What a great idea to follow her passion for music," I say, assuming that someone named Tuna might be female. Might be male. I don't even know anymore. But I guessed right, I think, because the conversation just keeps going. I hate it all, but I don't even let myself think about it right now. At long last, Lunabelle Garland wishes me goodnight and skidders off to go find someone else to gossip with.

I turn to Esther who is staring at me wide-eyed. "What the hell was that?"

"Just a rumor, I heard," I say. "One that I sure as hell hope is true."

We run into a few other Capitolites throughout the night who engage us in conversation. I drop in Lala's promotion every once in awhile, and it's not long before the rumors start circulating back to me. Somebody who told somebody who told somebody about the District 7 escort getting promoted; have you heard anything about it?

I'm really hoping it works out when I turn around to find Quintus Laurentinus standing at the punch bowl. He sees me and comes right on over. I am tempted to hang onto Esther and keep on running, but I know that one way or another, I will have to face this monster. Running will only make it worse. So I turn around and stand my ground.

"What a pleasure seeing you two here tonight!" he exclaims. He is made up with light accents of color on his beautiful face, and his hair is carefully brushed and styled back and out of the way. He turns his attention to me. "Juniper, would you like to take a walk with me? If that's okay with your friend?"

It's okay with neither of us, but I tell Esther it will be just a couple minutes and let Quintus guide me towards the courtyard outside.

~.~.~


~.~.~

CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN

The evening is cool and lovely. It would be even lovelier if Quintus did not have his hand on my back. I don't like it. I want to run away. I can't, of course, so I just have to deal with the pressure of his palm on the small of my back, his fingers digging into my skin through the soft fabric of my dress. He leads me over to a quiet area and we sit down on the lip of a reflecting pool. The water trembles gently with the soft breeze around us.

"Juniper, it's such a beautiful evening," he says, his hands on mine. "Though there is always a bit of melancholy associated with the end of the Hunger Games. It's bittersweet."

Bitter, definitely. I say nothing but gaze out into the darkness at a bush carved into the form of a great swan. The topiary is perched in a row of bushes at the edge of a sprawling lawn. Quintus follows my gaze and turns to see what I see. When his eyes adjust to the darkness and he sees what I'm looking at, he moves closer to me.

"It won't harm you, I promise," he reassures me.

"It doesn't bother me," I tell him. A lie, but I think it is delivered with enough confidence that it's hard to identify it as such. What bothers me is the way his hand is moving off mine and slipping towards my thigh, leaving my fingers to feel the cool breeze of the summer evening.

He seems to accept it because he's talking again on a different subject: "I hate to see you leave the Capitol so soon. Surely you wouldn't mind staying an extra couple of days."

I turn and look at him. Directly in the eye.

I think of the conversation I had with Pitch, and I know that I cannot tell this man whose hand is rubbing my leg without permission to go fuck himself. Pitch is right—I am playing a dangerous game.

"What do you want from me, Quintus?" I ask him directly.

Quintus' eyes light up at the boldness of my question. His free hand goes to my face and brushes against my cheek.

"Nothing but your company," he says. He leans closer and I'm afraid he's going to kiss me. But I only feel his breath upon my skin as he whispers, "I am one of your biggest supporters."

My heart beats so quickly that I can barely think. There's anger and fear and something else all swirling around within me, and it's clogging my chest, my throat, my mouth, my brain. Is this how it starts? Is this how the descent into undesired relationships start? I am only eighteen, and I have many, many years ahead of myself; will they all be plagued with unwanted intimacy?

I think about what Esther told me: they will always have control, but they can't take away who we are.

And who am I but the girl who issued herself her own death sentence and pulled herself back out? I have simplicity and determination. I have passion. And though I know that I will be controlled for the rest of my life, I will do my damnedest to make it as challenging as possible.

So I reach out and push Quintus back away from me. He starts and the anger flashes in his eyes.

"If that's the case, I want something first," I say before the anger has a chance to reach his mouth.

He isn't a man who gets told no, but I also know that he admires the fight in me. So he humors me, "What is that, my dear?"

"I want a garden. A memorial garden. I want it right in the middle of the training center so that the mentors can visit it whenever we want." I hold his gaze. "It's really uncomfortable sitting in those chairs all day long and it would be nice to stretch our legs in a place of beauty without having to stare at screens nonstop."

A smile plays on his lips. "You want a garden?"

"Yes, is that a problem?" I ask.

He stares at me with amusement. And possibly admiration. "Not at all." His hand is on my cheek again. "I can appreciate the desire for beauty."

I stand up, and he stares at me. "I will talk with you later, Quintus," I say.

Now he stands up, too, and faces me. "And when will later be?"

"Whenever you build me my garden."

He gives me a small smile, then leans over and kisses me on the cheek. "Don't worry—you will have your garden," he whispers, his lips brushing across my skin.

"Thank you," I manage to say with finality before I turn and leave.

I can feel his eyes on my body as I walk away. And I know that as long as I have Quintus yearning for me, I don't have to worry much about the threats of being arrested for assault. Quintus is far more powerful than Lala, and if he wants me around for himself, a mere escort will not stand in his way. But I can play the game, too, and I can draw this out for as long as possible. Perhaps he will get bored and forget me. Perhaps not. But that's something I will think about another time. For now, I rejoin Esther at the party and wait for this whole thing to be over.

~.~.~


~.~.~

CHAPTER SEVENTY-EIGHT

The next morning, I drag myself out of bed. I thought I'd be more excited to leave the Capitol, but now I can understand why Quintus said it's bittersweet, even if he meant it in an entirely different context. I will be leaving many of the people who have helped get me through the past few weeks.

My sleep was sporadic and not nearly as restful as I had hoped. My dreams were uneven, uncoordinated, and confusing. I miss having Pitch sleep next to me, and I find myself aching for his company. Now that we are forbidden from seeing each other, I want nothing more than to be with him. His presence is comforting, and I think I need some comfort right now.

After showering, I box up the belongings I'll be taking with me, and I package the food into bags to be donated. I won't be back here for another year, if I'm lucky, and I certainly don't want to come back to find ants and rodents. I then spend some time making phone calls to Isolde and Esther to wish them goodbye.

"Can I come visit you in District 8?" I ask Esther. "I've always wanted to see what it looks like—really looks like."

There's a smile in her voice as she says, "I don't know if it's allowed, but I'd love to have you visit if you can."

"I'll hold you to it," I reply. "Oh, and Esther? Thank you for being there. I don't know what I would have done without you."

"It was lovely to meet you and to spend time with you." Her voice is so sweet, so kind. "I'd say that I look forward to seeing you next year, but I'm really not looking forward to being back at the Capitol, so I hope you can visit me in District 8."

I have nothing to do until it's time to leave, so I sit on the couch and stare blankly at the television. It's turned off. I couldn't bear to listen to any more of the news. They are still talking about Fjord and his success, and now they're also making predictions about next year's event. How do these people manage to think of nothing but the Hunger Games day in and day out? It's sickening. So I'm happy to just watch a black screen and wait until it's time for me to call a cab.

There's a knock on the door, and I start. I want it to be Pitch, but I know it can't possibly be. The second thought is that it's Lala come to murder me. But when I crack open the door a little, I see that it's Elijah.

"Oh, hey," I say. "I thought you were my escort coming to finish me off."

He grins. "Nah. I'm just here to take you to the train station. Don't worry, we're taking a cab; I'm not driving."

"I wasn't really worried about that one," I mutter. But I grab my bag filled with a few books to keep me occupied, and I close the door behind me. The avoxes will be over shortly to remove the rest of my belongings and get it loaded up on the train, so there's no need to worry about them.

"So why did you really come?" I ask as we head down the stairs.

"I told you—I was sent to pick you up," he says.

"By whom?"

"I think you know that answer." His cane makes a constant but quiet tap-tap-tap across the floor, guiding him on his way.

The only person I can think of is Pitch, but he always voices his discontent with Elijah's outspokenness, so I can't fathom why he'd send him to accompany me. We reach the bottom stair and I open the door outside.

"Thank you, Elijah," I say once we are outside under the morning sunlight. At least, I think it's still morning. The party was so late last night and I laid in bed when I woke up longer than I should have.

"For what?"

"For moral support."

He chuffs at that. "Sure." After a moment, he adds, "Oh, hey, so I heard a rumor. Something about us getting a garden in the training center."

I stare at him. Has that rumor already gotten around? Is nothing private in this place? "Really?!"

"Turns out most people have a tendency to ignore me. I'm actually a lot quieter than people give me credit for," he says.

"You were there? You heard it all?" I demand.

He doesn't answer me directly. "Now, if I were Pitch, I'd tell you to be very careful and watch yourself when dealing with powerful people. And also some optimistic bullshit about tributes. But I'm not him, so I'll say that I think you should tell more people to shove it up their ass if you get the chance. Especially if we get gardens out of it."

"Thanks?" I hesitate. "I think?"

He leads me to a cab and opens the door, motioning for me to get in. I do, and he follows afterwards. It is a short and silent drive to the train station. The city itself is quiet. The last of the Hunger Games parties have finished, and the rush of excitement from the past few weeks has deflated. Everyone must go back to their normal lives, whatever that may be.

"When does your train leave?" I ask him as we get closer to the station.

"About an hour after yours," he says. "Not too long. But I rather hate train rides, so I'm in no great hurry."

"Not excited to get back to District 5, then?" I look out the window at the crowds of people who have no doubt come to see off the District 4 train. I'm happy when the cab driver makes a turn before then and heads to a quieter area of the station where we can get in without being immersed in throngs of people.

"Oh, I am. Just not for the train," he says. "Hope it's not delayed this time. My wife will be waiting for me and I'd hate to leave her on the platform for hours like last year."

"You're married?!" I ask incredulously.

Elijah turns toward me. "What? Blind people can get married."

"No, it's not that. It's just that you're kind of an asshole. I didn't think that—"

"Get out of the damned cab, kid, okay?" he says. We've come to a stop. I grumble something but we each exit out of our own door.

There is still a small crowd come to see us off, but it's mostly people that we know from the training center. Stylists, prep team, various staff members. I don't see Lala anywhere. I do see Bris and Liberty who are catching this train back home with us after their brief visit to the city. Then Pitch approaches us out of the crowd.

"We'll be leaving in a half hour," he tells me. Then to Elijah, "Thanks for bringing her."

"No problem. I enjoy being wrapped up in people's feuds. See you next year for some more child-killing fun." He doesn't give us a chance to say more than a 'goodbye' before he's gone off to wait for his own train.

I turn to Pitch. "I thought you weren't allowed to be around me," I say.

"I'm not. But it's not like we can have a restraining order in the train station, not when there are only twenty people here and we're getting on the same train."

"And I thought you said you didn't like Elijah," I say. "Yet you send him to pick me up."

"He got the job done and in a timely manner," Pitch says simply. "Besides, I had to send someone you'd actually get into a car with."

"Fine, whatever," I say.

Pitch pauses and looks at me. "I miss you," he says. "I don't think it would be good to be seen lingering together, though. So I guess I'll see you on board, or at least back in District 7."

I agree, but for a moment, neither of us move. It's hard to draw ourselves away when it's evident that we both need each other desperately right now. How can we deal with returning empty-handed if we don't have the support we need?

At last, he turns away.

All I can really think is how much I hate Lala and I am glad that she's not here because I may punch her. But instead I just watch as Pitch heads back towards Liberty and picks up her bag for her. They appear to resume whatever conversation they had stopped when my cab pulled up.

Feeling alone and rather empty, I find a bench and plop down. The only person I want to be around right now is forbidden, so I might as well try to fill up the aching loneliness with a book. Pulling a novel out of my backpack, I flip it open and begin to read to pass the time. It's only about fifteen minutes before we are instructed to get on the train. Lala isn't here yet. I don't know if it's because she really has enough of us or if she's been killed in some unfortunate accident. I'm hoping for the latter because I'm probably a terrible person.

I climb into the train and head to my room. I'm tempted to just crawl into bed and try to catch up on the sleep I missed last night, but I know that it would just throw off my sleep cycle and I'd be wandering the train at 2:00 AM. But besides sleeping, I don't know how to deal with the ache and misery that eat away at me. The sadness carves away into my chest, hollowing out my insides. I feel more lonely than I have since I stepped foot on this train after the reaping. It's worse than being in the training center apartment after the start of the Hunger Games because we are returning empty-handed. The ghosts around us are literal; the children who we accompanied are gone. Dead. They will never return. And Pitch and I will step out of this train to an empty station knowing that we were not able to save the children we promised to help.

My room is in pristine condition. The bedspread is tucked neatly under the mattress, the closet stocked with clothing, the bathroom sparkling. It is as though I never once touched this room. There is no comfort here.

After all I've been through, I understand now that isolating myself from others isn't the right choice. I'd only end up feeling cornered and afraid like Pitch was. The misery would eat me alive from the inside out. There are few who understand what I'm going through right now, and I cannot be cut off from them.

So I grab up my book and head to the lounge to read and watch the landscape go by.

In the lounge car, I find Pitch sitting on one of the couches, flicking idly through television stations for something—anything—that is not related to the Hunger Games. I stand there for a moment before coming to join him on the couch. Sitting right next to him, I make myself comfortable.

"Juniper, we're not—"

I look him in the eye and say, "Lala can go fuck herself."

Pitch studies me for a moment, taking in every detail he can. "Alright then." And he wraps his arm around me, pulling me closer so that I am once again in the warm embrace I so horribly need. I hug my book to my chest, put my head on Pitch's shoulder, and close my eyes. I find myself drifting off to sleep, barely feeling the sensation of the train when it finally starts moving.

And that's how Lala finds us, curled up together on the couch. She gives a huff of annoyance that wakes me up. Pitch glares at her. It's a long ride back to District 7, and Lala must keep up appearances. And anyway, what power does she have over me? I've done what she wanted. And I have the eye of someone far more powerful than she is. I'm not surprised when Lala turns away as though seeing us together on the couch doesn't bother her and heads towards the dining car to order some poor avoxes around.

The ride back to District 7 is a somber one. No one speaks much. No one visits the dining car where we spent so much time with our tributes. Even Bris and Liberty stay away, preferring either the lounge with Pitch and me or the solitude of their rooms. When evening comes, I sleep with Pitch in his room. Neither of us mentions Lala. Neither of us mentions what will happen between us when we get back home. Instead we sleep soundly, only waking with a rap at the door from an avox come to alert us that we are getting closer to the District 7 train station.

~.~.~


~.~.~

CHAPTER SEVENTY-NINE: HOME

I have survived my first Hunger Games as mentor. There is a feeling of guilt for returning unsuccessful. Pain of watching a child die, knowing that I was supposed to help her. I will never forgive myself for failing to save her, even if the odds were greatly stacked against her. Logic tells me that it's not realistic to beat myself up over it because that's how it will be year after year after year, and yet I cannot stop feeling this way.

My parents are waiting for me when we arrive. They wrap me up in their arms and kiss my forehead. Neither of them say anything about seeing me on TV, about my relationship with Pitch, about the awful things they watched me go through. Because they were unable to help me, just as I was unable to help Rosa. However, they do greet Pitch, too, giving him hugs and thanking him for being with me. I would be offended that they think I needed to be babysat except that I know now that it's true.

And Willow Elowen is here, just as she was waiting for me last year. She and her sister come over to me and embrace me. There are no words to explain what's going on. How can one say, "Thank you for facing a lifetime of unending suffering just to save me from death last year"? Neither of them—no one here in the district—knows the extent to which they torture us within the confines of the Capitol. But still they see the ache and pain we go through as we struggle to bring back our tributes and they know that I would not have to endure it had I not stepped up and taken Willow's place.

Our welcome home is brief. There aren't nearly as many people here as there were last year, and that's fine with me. I don't think I could handle having so many around me when I know that I have failed.

Where do we go from here? How do we continue on with life knowing that there is a great, gaping chasm inside of us?

As we turn to leave, I take Pitch's hand. "Want to come over for dinner?" I ask. "I think my mom is making something plain and boring and not at all up to Capitol standards."

He squeezes my hand. "Sure."

The End