Chapter 24: Worst Nightmare
I can't believe it. My second-worst nightmare (the worst being if I have to watch either of my two youngest sons or my niece, Madge, get Reaped) has come to life right before my eyes. Primrose was one slip of paper in thousands! I can't help but think of my own Reaping 24 years ago, though at that time, I had five slips in the bowl. Still, out of all the thousands of slips Dolly Evana could have picked that day, she happened to select one of the five with my name on it.
And today, out of all the thousands of slips Effie Trinket could have picked, she just had to choose the single, solitary one bearing the name of my best friend's youngest child.
Out of my peripheral vision, I see a floating, high-tech Capitol camera hovering closer to me, zooming in for a better shot. I don't know what kind of expression is on my face, but it must be something juicy, if the Capitol is zooming in on it so viewers at home don't miss one, wretched second of the drama. Out in the Square, many folks are shuffling about, whispering to each other, exchanging glances, confused. We haven't Reaped a twelve-year-old in over a decade and a half. And for us to have Reaped a 12-year-old who could pass for a Merchant child now that her father is gone…. well, it has simply never been done.
No matter whether you are Seam or Merchant, just about every person in Twelve knows and adores Primrose Everdeen. She's an angelic, perfect child, I've heard some people say… even if, in the very next breath, they'll murmur how she is easier to appreciate than her standoffish, shrewish sister – though, you have to admit, that Katniss really is a beauty, isn't she? I have always wanted to come to the defense of my goddaughter when I have overheard such comparisons being raised, even if there is a grain of truth to it.
I try to scan the shuffling crowd for any sign of Belle, suddenly wanting to silently communicate something, anything to my best friend – an apology I don't know how to put into words. In the sea of faces, I cannot pick out my old Maid of Honor, but my eyes do focus, like a heat-seeking missile, onto a simpering Prim just stepping out of the 12-year-olds' pen. Here on the stage, Effie clamps her jaw shut, from where she must have just been preparing to call the chosen tribute's name again. This little girl who has been selected for death.
"That's it, come on up, my dear!"
Primrose begins her death march down the center aisle, all the eyes of the district upon her. It is so quiet in the Square, you could hear a pin drop.
Then, something primal and anguished pierces the stillness, and my eyes and ears follow the sound to land on a striking young woman in a blue dress stepping out of line and stumbling towards the smaller girl in a daze, trying to chase her back down before she reaches the stage. Katniss….
"Prim!" Her breath sounds almost choked off, she is so paralyzed with fear. "Prim!"
Two white-plated Peacekeeper officers move out of position, with the intent to cut the eldest Everdeen girl off and block her path. In sheer panic, Katniss wails out, "I volunteer! I VOLUNTEER! I volunteer as tribute!"
The officers freeze, standing down and aside to let her pass, though beyond this, they seem at a loss for what to do next. I barely know myself, and I can feel the damn hovercamera nearly in my face again, capturing my expression that must now be positively shattered, for that is how I feel inside. My soul and heart are howling, even if my slightly more rational brain has to praise my goddaughter's chutzpah. The smashing of precedent. District 12 has never had a volunteer – ever. In 74 years. With that handful of words, Katniss has already guaranteed that sponsors in the Capitol will sit up and take notice – and as her mentor, I too can only stand to benefit from them.
Even if, at the likely price of her life, I don't want to.
"Wonderful!" Effie trills, beckoning her taloned nails to Katniss now instead. A tall, stocky boy emerges from the 18-year-olds' section and moves fast to pick up a wailing Primrose and carry her off to safety. No Peacekeeper moves to stop the lad, and perhaps they appreciate the young man doing their job for them. As the young man and my littlest surrogate niece melt back into the crowd, I recognize him: it is Clay and Hazelle's oldest boy, all grown up. This would be his last Reaping… and Effie might well pick him within the next few moments. We will just have to wait and see.
Katniss is mounting the stage, sending a crestfallen stare in my direction. I nod to her, trying to appear as encouraging and hopeful as I can, despite already knowing that my goddaughter won't want me to lie to her about the odds, such as they stand. Effie drifts to Katniss's side with the microphone, quite enraptured with this spirited young lady who has managed to bring District 12 the most self-respect it has displayed in years.
"And what's your name, honey?"
"Katniss Everdeen." Her voice is now wooden, in a fog, the dullness of it quickly followed by a screech of static feedback from the microphone. She must be in a state of shock.
"Well, I bet my hat that was your sister!" In the 16 years I've worked with her, I have never wanted to strangle Effie Trinket more than in this moment. Don't get me wrong, we get along decently, and although Effie's….. intellectual density and lack of self-awareness is ordinarily harmless, it could now very well get someone killed. Effie is twisting the emotional knife into my best friend's daughter – and worse still, the Capitol liaison likely doesn't even realize that's what she's doing.
"Yes….. it was." Katniss's voice is still flat, monotone, like she still doesn't fully comprehend where she is or how she got there.
Effie finally has to move on, reaching for the boys' Reaping bowl. My emotions are already shot, and I squeeze my eyes tight, perversely hoping that Effie draws a twelve-year-old, scrawny Seam boy this time, so I may be allowed to solely focus on my goddaughter's chances.
Effie doesn't draw a twelve-year-old, scrawny Seam boy. She draws someone far worse. "Peeta Mellark!"
Gray spots are dotting my vision. I can feel my nails digging into the armrests of my chair, but I can see or hear nothing. A sharp voice blasts across the deadening stillness ("She's going! She's going!") and I feel hands – perhaps Merle's – prop me up just enough so that I don't go toppling out of my seat. When my vision finally clears to a reasonable degree, I am staring into my son's blue, petrified eyes – my eyes – as he mounts the stage. Effie prompts the two tributes to shake hands, and in both their faces, I can clearly see the agony of young heartbreak.
That is when it fully hits me: my son and my goddaughter – one child by blood, the other by choice and responsibility…. Two young people who may or may not be in love with each other, judging by how passionately they were kissing just this morning – are going together into the Hunger Games.
And I can only bring one of them home alive. Which means I have to lose one of them, if I don't lose them both.
Yup. This is officially my worst nightmare.
It would appear that Katniss has passed her stupefied condition over to me, for I soon find myself in the lobby of the Justice Building, except I cannot fully recall how exactly I got from Point A to Point B. I think I was trying to run after Peeta, but the crunch of bodies rushing for the oaken, double doors impeded my pursuit.
The Peacekeepers on post are giving me an unusually wide berth, and acting skittish. It's as if they fear I will try something drastic. Like throw myself at the door to the holding room currently imprisoning my son. Bang on it and scream until they release him back into my arms.
I don't do this, of course, though I am sorely tempted. I won't give any of the officers the satisfaction. I am, however, consumed within a private and tempestuous sea of emotion, as I try to process what the hell just happened.
This has Snow written all over it. He's found me out. He somehow knows that I am involved – however tepidly – with Chaff and the rebels' efforts to eventually overthrow him. All these years, he's lulled me into a false sense of complacency, until I came to almost forget that anyone associated with me will always remain in grave danger. With this Reaping, he has let me know that I still belong to him…. and simultaneously, spiced up these Games by drawing in two direct descendants of District 12 Victors into battle.
Not that he knows there are two. But in thinking back to one of the first conversations I ever had with Glen – the first day we met, in fact – I remember him telling me how his grandmother (that would be Katniss's great-grandmother) was a cousin of Lucy Gray Baird. That means that our district's first Victor is a direct ancestor of my girl tribute. Even if Lucy Gray is a relatively forgotten Victor, it is possible that the Capitol will make this connection by the time Katniss gets into the arena. Everyone knows who Peeta is to me; even if the general Capitol audience does not, they will find out soon enough.
My eyes finally land on one Capitol officer standing guard outside the room which I am guessing holds my son…. if the visitors waiting outside said room are anything to go by. I am moved that the line to see Peeta is close to stretching out the front Justice Building doors; I recognize several of his friends from school.
My eyes land on a Peacekeeper standing guard outside this room, and I approach. "Excuse me, Officer, may I request permission to see my son – my tribute?" I amend, too late.
The officer sends me a sympathetic smile. "Sorry, Miss Donner, no can do. Mentors are not allowed to meet with their tributes before the train. Unfair advantage, you see."
I gawp at him. "I'm asking to see him as his mother, not as his mentor!" I actually am a little insulted that he thinks I would run afoul of what little rules there are in the Hunger Games. I've been at this business long enough.
The Peacekeeper can only send me a sorry smile again, and I back off. I don't want to make a scene, and run the risk of having it bite me – or worse, Katniss and Peeta – in the ass later.
I feel a hand on my shoulder, and I whirl around to stare into Merle's pained face. Behind him, Kaydilyn and my niece, Madge, are holding each other and weeping.
"Maysie! I'm sorry, I…."
I wordlessly touch Merle's cheek. "It's not your fault," I murmur. And it isn't. Effie was the one to draw the names, not him.
"Can…. can we see him?" Merle floats. "I don't know if it's legal, or if it might be viewed as a conflict of interest – I am the Mayor, after all, and…."
"Try it," I encourage him. "The Peacekeepers won't let me in, but you could probably make it through."
Merle nods resolutely and moves to take his place in line and say goodbye to his nephew. Seeing him, several of his Merchant constituents try and stand aside, to let him cut ahead of them in line, but he waves them off. Passing me, Kaydilyn squeezes my hand, before turning to sob into her handkerchief. My niece, Madge, throws her arms around me, also teary.
"Oh, Aunt Maysilee…."
I wordlessly rub her back. "I know…. I know…."
Madge moves on to get in line. I see him dance around an elderly Seam lady who is making for Katniss's holding room upstairs… and then my husband is in my arms, kissing me, and I am kissing him back, and we hold each other and sob while our tears fall on each other's cheeks.
Both Jonadab and Rye are too much in a daze still to say much of anything, though Rye's eyes and cheeks are as wet as mine. Mashing Danny's face in my hands, I kiss him deeply.
"I promise you, our son will come home alive."
He nods, though he looks torn. "What about… Katniss?"
I bite my lip, thinking of our godchild. "I…. I don't know. There's going to be 24 of them, Dannel; only one comes out."
Danny winces horribly; whatever is clawing at his conscience is clearly tearing him apart. He must feel like he cannot prioritize Peeta's life, if it will mean Katniss's death and thus hurting Belle, whom I know he still cares about, even if it's no longer in a romantic way. I must confess I am feeling the same emotional lacerations to my insides.
Despite this impossible choice, my husband makes one, though his eyes are tinged with grief as he does and he kisses me passionately again. "Bring our son home, Maysie. I don't care what you have to do – just bring him home alive."
I nod, whimpering. "I will…. I will…." We kiss again in hurried, desperate pecks, and I wave him and our other two sons forward to get in line. I hope the Peacekeepers will ensure that everyone who wants a visit with the tributes will get one. "Tell our son I love him." Danny nods to me.
My eyes lift up to where an admirably lengthy line is twisting its way down the spiral staircase up from the second floor; Katniss must be housed in the living quarters of the mayoral residence, where I once waited as a tribute. Right before her door, I see two very familiar heads of blonde hair. The Peacekeepers must be just about ready to start waving people through. Biting my lip, I hustle past the people in line up the stairs, catching Belle and Primrose just before they are admitted in.
"Belle…." Beyond her name, words fail me for a moment, until I manage to get out. "I will do all I can to bring Katniss back home to you."
Belle regards me sadly. "Best friends don't lie to each other, Maysie." She doesn't say anything else for a moment, but she doesn't have to – she must assume that, in the choice I will eventually have to make, I will choose to spare my own child over hers. "And if you try to deny it, and say you would save my child over your own, then you're not the kind of gal I can be friends with anyway."
That… is absolutely true, and she's right; I can't very well deny it.
Primrose is cuddled in her mother's arms, still small enough to be picked up and held. She is staring at me over Belle's shoulders, her sparkling blue eyes wet. I happen to glance down at my mockingjay pin, affixed to the breast of my dress as it has been every year for nearly a quarter of a century. Glancing back to Primrose, I get an idea.
"Primrose, baby…. Can you do something for me? This is really important," and I detach the fastener of my pin from my dress's fabric and hand the pendant over to her. "Can you give this to your sister, please, and tell her it's from Auntie Maysilee? Tributes are allowed to wear one token into the arena…. I want her to have this."
Prim nods meekly. For her part, Belle seems taken aback by my act of goodwill, but then the Peacekeeper officer is opening the doors and waving them through.
"Say hi to my goddaughter!" I call to my best friend's retreating back.
I move morosely back down the stairs, glancing up only long enough to scoot past the broad build of Clay Hawhorne's oldest son, Gale, in line. He is holding the hand of one of his little brothers, who looks to be about Primrose's age and is sniffling quietly.
With nothing else to do, I find a seat on a bench and wait, watching with increasing dread as both lines, upstairs and downstairs, start to dwindle. When the last of the people have been funneled through, white-plated guards deliver my son and my goddaughter into my hands. Resignedly, we meet up with Effie at the armored car and climb in, enroute to the train station named after me. Through his reflection in the windowpanes, I can see Peeta's eyes are red and puffy from crying, and he isn't trying to hide it. I let him emote it all out – it's OK to cry, especially in this case. I want to cry too, but for the sake of appearing strong for my tributes, I refrain.
We mount the train platform amidst a sea of paparazzi and board the train looking all but dead inside – well, everyone does except for Effie, who is bouncing on the balls of her feet in excitement. The hydraulic doors close behind us and in the next moment, we are speeding away from District 12.
I am guaranteed to come back here. My son and my goddaughter may very well not.
Dinner is a silent affair. It is close to evening before Katniss is finally the one to break the tense peace that has permeated the dining car. Turning her head slowly to Peeta, her voice comes out calm, but nonetheless deadly. I don't think she is aware of how terrifyingly beautiful she is even when she is consumed with rage.
"This is all your fault," she spits at my son, tears streaming down her cheeks. After that declarative statement, her voice only continues to grow progressively louder and shriller. "I believed you! I trusted you! All your promises and your kisses and how you said we would be lucky! That none of us would be picked! And your kiss damned us all anyway!" Hot, angry tears are streaming down her face; Peeta is so shell-shocked that his tongue is silently trying to work, but no words come out. There seems to be nothing he can say.
I wonder if this might be the time to mention that the Reaping Kiss does not actually guarantee that you won't be Reaped; rather, it is designed and believed to give you luck more generally. Haymitch and I both got kissed on the morning of our Reaping, and we still were chosen anyway…. though the perceived luck from those kisses carried us all the way to the end together, and conferred onto me the Victors' Crown.
Katniss is still working herself up into a frenzy. "I can't believe I ever… I ever thought…." But she doesn't finish the sentence, saturated with bitter regret, before fleeing from the car in tears.
Effie blandly dabs at her lips with her napkin. "How rude!"
I am tempted to scream my own abuse at her. I don't agree with Katniss in regards to on whom the blame should fall. It certainly isn't my son. If it's anyone's fault, it's Effie's; she's the one who drew the names. For the first time since I began this arduous task known as mentoring, I am beginning to understand why some Victors treat their escorts with open hostility. For years, Chaff has felt himself completely justified in treating his district's escorts like dirt, because of how they do the Capitol's ugly work, picking kids to die for mere sport. While I myself have never subscribed to that view, I feel the impulse to do so now. To take out my misfortune on somebody…. instead of looking inward and wondering, What if this whole situation is my fault?
I come up out of my thoughts, and my frightened eyes meet Peeta's.
"Mom….?" And he sounds so much like the little boy who would burst into Danny's and my room in the middle of the night, whimpering about having a nightmare and asking if he could sleep in our bed tonight, that I nearly burst into tears. Never more have I wanted to reach over and hug him, but the clinical, mentoring side of my brain squashes the desire. I have a job to do, regardless of how much I have a deeply personal interest in this year's outcome, more than I ever have before. I cannot afford to let the intense love I feel for both of my tributes this year distract me from the hope that I can bring one of them home alive with me. That the Capitol, with what little mercy it has, will allow me to keep one of them.
Even though, as I cannot answer Peeta's unasked question beyond mumbling something about needing to go to bed, my greedy heart still cries out in protest that I must keep both of them. I must.
As I drag myself into my quarters, I vow to myself that I will bring one of them home. I don't care what you have to do, my husband told me…. and neither do I. To the question of how far will I go to save one of my kids (and they are my kids, more than any of the other 46 previous, and now dead, tributes have been my kids), the answer is…. pretty damn far. To the ends of the earth. I will do anything – and I do mean anything - to make sure one of them wins.
Even as I have to remind myself, I can't play the Games for them. Only Katniss and Peeta can do that. But which one of them will do it – my youngest son or my goddaughter? Which one will I be allowed to keep, if I get to keep either of them at all? Which one will I have to choose?
I am adrift in a dreamless sleep before my head hits the pillow.
