Chapter 25: Make Them Make a Choice
THWAP, THWAP, THAWP! "Mrs. Mellark?" Effie Trinket's voice politely trills in through the varnished wood, as I wake up in the near-darkness conjured by the black curtains.
"Yes?" I call out, woozy.
"Sorry to wake you, ma'am…."
"No, no, no, you didn't…." I dismiss, throwing back the covers and clambering out of bed. "I've been up for…. hours…." A yawn escapes me, catching on the last word.
"Well… I will be waiting in the dining car. I thought you and I might discuss some strategy before the children awaken."
The children. Images of Katniss and Peeta swim in my head, at various ages. Katniss at four holding Prim for the first time. Peeta, at not quite two, taking his first steps towards me in the center of the Village. Both of them at fourteen, wrapped in a close embrace as they experienced their first real kiss, one that they both wanted…
So yesterday wasn't just some horrible dream. Biting my lip until I taste the rusty tang of copper blood, I cross to the window purposefully and throw back the sash. The pink of early morning floods my quarters and even through the panes, I can smell the intoxicating scent of fresh dew. Plains of countryside are whipping by me in a blur…. District 9, perhaps? It will take us the better part of today to reach the Capitol, and I have to be on my A mentoring game by the time we get there.
Deciding that remaining in the clothes I wore yesterday will suffice for now (I'll change into something more suitable once we arrive in the city), I cross back to the door, ready to throw it open and face the day. Halfway across the room, I momentarily stop as I clue in on something Effie said: she called me Mrs. Mellark. I've been happily wed for over twenty years, and yet neither she, nor Dolly Evana before her, has ever referred to me by my married name. Yanking open the door, I cross down the corridor and step over into the next car. The dining car.
Effie Trinket is watching something on TV when I come in, quickly pausing the tape when she sees me enter. From the ostentatious flag and imposing architecture of a Justice Building, it must be a Reaping, though from which district, or whether it is one from this year or one from a previous Games, I cannot tell. I gently lower myself into the chair next to my escort, who suddenly seems to be having a very difficult time looking at me. Her lips are pursed oddly, and her hands tremble from where she is trying to hide them in her lap.
"The boy is your son, isn't he?" Trinket's voice is very, very small.
A more vindictive Victor – say, a Brutus or a Chaff – might sink the knife in and twist it. Mock her for being so slow on the uptake. If I wanted to use this moment to finally let her have it, let out all of my emotions from the past not-quite 24 hours, I could seize it. There wouldn't be a better time to do it.
But it still wouldn't make me feel better. It wouldn't change the situation in which Peeta, Katniss and I now find ourselves. And though there might be a plethora of reasons for which I would feel justified in unleashing my wrath –the least of which being that of the two escorts I've worked with, I have preferred Dolly's escorting to that of the young woman before me now – I'm too tired to do so. And frankly, now more sad than angry.
So all I do in response to Effie's question is whisper, pained, "Yes. My youngest."
If it were possible for her to feel worse, Effie does, at last daring to look me in the face. "I'm so sorry, I didn't know…."
"I don't want your apologies," I cut across her sharply, though I don't mean for the tone to sound so brusque. Effie leans back a little bit, cringing, stung. "You were just doing your job."
Effie decides she finds the asparagus on her plate far more interesting than continuing to make eye contact with me. By the overhead lighting, however, I can see moisture glistening in her irises – golden in color, I note. I wonder if Capitolites even wear special contacts as a fashion statement. Her bottom lip protrudes out, trembling, and I can't help but think of Primrose in this moment. One tear finally leaks from her eye, before she abruptly doubles over and fails to catch a sob before it flies.
I gaze at her in something close to amazement. Perhaps I've misjudged Effie Trinket all these years. Beyond seeming vapid, she always appeared to be an enthusiastic supporter of the Games, fulfilling her duties with a gusto that has always been a little off-putting to many of my more… jaded colleagues. So I never imagined that she, of all people, would become so wracked with guilt over whom exactly she selected for a fight to the death – at least, she never has before. And Reaping a descendant of a Victor, though by no means ubiquitous, is more common than either of us might care to admit. In the Capitol's view, it is past time for District 12 to suffer that humiliation – for me to suffer it. It is our turn. Elena Perez, a sweet-faced woman from District 10 who triumphed forty years ago, saw both of her children go with me into my arena; friends of mine who knew her before the tragedy say she hasn't been the same since. And though the rumors give me a little bit of hope, that Abram Mills – the tubby boy who won five years ago partially by losing all that extra body weight and keeping it off after the arena – is the bastard son of Ben Cooper (the 29th Victor), I try not to cling to them. The rumors of Abram's parentage have not been substantiated, which means I can't say for certain whether or not the progeny of a Victor has ever won the Crown in his or her own right. Whether or not it can be done. I have to be strong, for Peeta – if he sees me crack the way I almost did last night, he will too.
"Do you know the girl?" Effie's voice has grown stronger, though not by much.
I wrestle with the lump in my throat. "My goddaughter. My best friend's baby. Her mother was Maid of Honor at my wedding."
Effie has now taken on the countenance of someone who wants to crawl into a hole and die. Doubling over again, she at last gives in to the urge to weep. "I'm…. I'm so sorry, Miss Donner…."
Well, at least she addressed me correctly this time. Whatever resentment has been lingering inside me evaporates in that moment. I will say this much about Effie, in comparison to her predecessor: She cares very much about the kids she picks; she wouldn't be so wracked with guilt if she didn't. And although Dolly cared about us in her own way, I don't believe she ever lost any sleep over or felt any regret for ultimately sending children to their certain death. I have a feeling that, no matter the outcome, Effie will be guilt-ridden about the fate of the two kids she pulled this year…
… And I surprise even myself when I realize that I don't want her to be. It may be the most thankless job in the world, but she does it. Someone has to. Slowly, I reach across the table and take her trembling hand in mine. Effie's sniffling subsides as she finally wills herself to gaze at me again.
I just smile at her softly. "I forgive you."
Effie lets loose another sob around a weak, and hopeful, smile, lacing her fingers tighter through mine. "Let's help one of them win, shall we?"
A pang shoots through me – one of them…. There can only be one…. – but I ignore it, smiling back. "Sure."
A HISS from the hydraulic doors makes us both glance up, and here comes my son, smiling blearily. "Morning, Mama." He stoops to kiss my cheek, and I beam at him. He settles into a chair opposite us. "Never imagined Mommy would ever get to experience a bring-her-kid-to-work day…"
I laugh genuinely. He is trying to make me feel better, playing the jokester even though it is his life on the line… It is so Danny…. Well, at least the joking part.
A moment later, there is another HISS as Katniss arrives, morosely taking a seat next to Peeta. I expect her to promptly change places when she realizes how close she is to him, but she doesn't, which fills me with relief. It's small comfort, however, as she doesn't acknowledge him, hands folded and head bowed in her lap. There are dark circles under her eyes. She too must have fallen asleep in the Reaping dress she wore yesterday, though I note with encouragement how my old mockingjay pin is affixed to the blue fabric, directly over her left breast.
If my goddaughter notices how Peeta is studying her with deep concern, she doesn't let on. Glancing between the two, Effie finally breaks the silence with, "Well, my dears, why don't we all watch the recaps of the Reapings?"
I am able to sort out contenders from the deadwood almost instinctively, as the playback begins. It's a mentoring skill that I have acquired over a very long career. By virtue of being a Career district, the District 1 kids will stick around for a while, but I am fairly confident in predicting neither one of them will ultimately take the Crown – both the boy, Marvel, and the girl, Glimmer, come across as ditzy and vain. Vainness leads to overconfidence, overconfidence leads to arrogance…. which can lead to fatal missteps.
Speaking of arrogance, we all stiffen a little in our seats when a hulking, blonde boy named Cato is called for District 2. He saunters onto the stage as though he has the Games already good and won. He will be Pack Leader, I am sure of it… and although Cato has reached the arrogance stage of a typical Career's braggadocio, I feel queasy as I conclude he has the skillset to back it up. His district partner, Clove, is petite and can't be any older than 15, which comes as a surprise. But judging by how the Quarry District's Victors are all beaming, pleased, and from the shifty look in her eyes, I have a feeling Clove will be just as deadly. Never judge a tribute's potential on the basis of their youth, I remind myself. I learned that lesson close to twenty years ago, just before I became pregnant with Peeta. I had written off 15-year-old Cecelia Rheys… until I couldn't anymore.
The rest of the Reapings seem to fly by after that. Beetee's boy from 3 seems smart, though he's also tiny. District 4 is in for quite a shock when a twelve-year-old boy with curly red hair is called… but no one older and stronger steps up to volunteer in his place. The girl from 5 is also a ginger, and comes across as sly and elusive. Districts 6 through 10 go by in a forgettable blur, though Peeta points out how the boy from 10 walks to the stage with a pronounced limp.
District 11 also selects a twelve-year-old, in the form of their girl this time. I silently consider how Katniss straightens in her seat and seems to pay attention for the first time all morning. The girl on screen now could be Prim with darker skin; Seeder appears anguished as she sets her hands on the little thing's shoulders. Sad moans can be heard, along with some discontented grumbling, though it's muted, by District 11 standards. The bad luck of the draw is quickly counteracted by their chosen boy, aged 18 – if the little girl, Rue, is a black Prim, then this giant called Thresh is a black Cato. He'll last for quite a while; Chaff evidently thinks so, for how he seems so pleased.
And then it's our turn. Prim is called, before a near-hysterical Katniss rushes forward to volunteer. Then Peeta is selected. For the rest of the coverage, Claudius and Caesar remain laser-focused on District 12. I almost want to blush with excitement. Much attention is made of how Peeta is mine; a photo is aired of Danny and I holding him, all smiles, just after his birth. It would be invasive if I didn't recognize the image – it was submitted alongside my son's birth announcement in the Capitol newspapers. But it is Katniss whom everyone is enchanted by. "A true beauty from the coalfields!" Caesar marvels, and I wouldn't be surprised if he isn't jolly due to regions…. far below. Peeta is watching Katniss as the host says this, but she doesn't pay him even the slightest of mind.
I flick the remote, and turn to my charges. Time for the hard part. "OK. The good news is that the media has crowned you as top contenders due to the attention you both brought. Use that. When we arrive in the Capitol and you begin training, do whatever is in your power to keep those Capitolites thinking you are winners."
Katniss scowls. "Because, deep down, you think we aren't?" Her accusatory tone kicks me off-balance for a moment.
"I'm not saying that," I pounce quickly. "I know you both are winners, and I'm not just telling you that because you're both mine and I'm biased." Katniss's cheeks glow pink, the hardness in her expression dimming slightly. "Your stylists will control how much you stand out during the parade, but in training, I want you both to hide your true skills." I level Katniss with a pointed stare: No bows and arrows. I then do the same to my son: No wrestling. They both nod, comprehending the subliminal messages. "We'll be arriving in the Capitol by late afternoon and the stylists will want to get their hands on you immediately." However, I think, if one of them draws the short straw and ends up with an Antonia, I am putting in a request for a stylist transfer, proximity to the parade be damned.
Antonia mercifully retired the year after Katniss and Peeta were born, capping off what perhaps might be the most forgettable career in Capitol fashion history. The woman and man who greet us in the Remake Center, following a truly insane and enthusiastic greeting by the citizenry at the Capitol train station, already appear a damn sight nicer and wiser than my old stylist. I like the man in particular, Cinna, right away – and to my pleasant surprise and relief, Katniss seems to as well. I know from experience how Katniss isn't willing to let very many people in, but once she does, once she decides she likes you, she'll back you to the hilt. It's very much a Glen trait.
So far, Cinna is doing a remarkable job at ingratiating himself into Katniss's limited inner circle and staying there. "That was the most remarkable thing you did, for your sister… My name is Cinna."
"Katniss," my goddaughter mumbles in reply. She turns into herself shyly. "So you're here to make me look pretty?"
I note how Peeta glances to her sharply, bewildered, as if he can't fathom how Katniss could possibly think of herself as anything but pretty. Cinna just smiles at my godchild easily. "I'm here to help you make an impression," he clarifies, gallantly holding out his arm. Tentatively, Katniss takes it, and they stride away to the salon chairs.
"So, they assigned you to District 12…?"
"I asked for District 12," Cinna smiles, further earning Katniss's respect.
Behind me, Peeta and his stylist, Portia, are already hitting it off famously. She even makes a point to stop me, as she leads him to the makeover chairs, and say, "You've done a remarkable job with him, Maysilee! He looks just like you."
I beam proudly. "Thank you."
I decide to step outside the Remake Center and get some fresh air. Soon after, Effie joins me. It hasn't even been a few minutes before a happy shout makes me turn my head.
"Hey, Mama." Finnick's million-watt grin floods my vision before he is pecking me on the cheek. I pretend to eye him up and down, bemused.
"Funny, I don't recall giving birth to you." I squirm at the thought that, if I had, he would have been born the year after I won, my first year as a mentor. Technically, I am old enough to be Finnick's mother, but barely.
He throws back his head and chortles, drawing the beautiful girl on his arm further into his side. "You know you've practically adopted me anyway." He nuzzles his face into the waves of auburn hair. The woman attached to them beams up at him like he channels the light of the sun.
I smile at her kindly. "Hello, Annie."
Annie Cresta became Victor the summer after Katniss's father died. She was a very promising tribute, but tragically went insane after her own district partner was betrayed and beheaded by the rest of the Career pack. When a dam in the arena broke later on, she won because she was the best swimmer.
In the ensuing four years, Finnick has been glued to her side, a point that has left me more than a little curious as to the nature of their relationship. They certainly seem to be holding each other now with that intimacy that can only be seen in lovers.
Finnick murmurs something to her, and she shyly waves. Finnick nods to me, impressed. "You certainly got yourself a good crop for once. Our tributes suck ass. The boy's going down at the Cornucopia, and if the girl doesn't go down with him, I'll be shocked."
I nod sympathetically. "Who are yours?" Finnick asks conversationally. "Know their names?"
Ah. So he clearly didn't watch the entire coverage of the Reapings, or at least the tail end. I still manage to get out, "He's my son."
Finnick freezes, sea-green eyes widening. "Wait…. not your littlest one? Not the one you've always shown me School Picture day shots of? …. Peeta, isn't it?"
I nod grimly. "That's him."
Finnick looks shattered. "It's… it's happening again," he bemoans. "I thought after Abram, we'd be done with that for a while." (I don't bother to correct the record). He sighs heavily. "Well, at least we know who you'll be choosing between the two of them. Though your girl seems fierce."
I cringe again. "It would be an easy choice… if she wasn't my goddaughter."
Now Finnick nearly topples over. "Your…. goddaught…?" Quite suddenly, he rounds on Effie. "Trinket, what the fuck have you done?" His tone is as accusing as Katniss's was on the train, though his voice is also colder than ice.
In response, Effie bursts into tears anew. Finnick just regards her with absolute disgust. I glower at him, chiding but soft.
"Nice. Classy. I just spent the entire morning calming her down, so thanks for that. Looks like someone went to the Chaff Habarti School of 'Let's-All-Treat-Our-Escorts-Like-Crap.'"
"Someone say my name?" And here is the man himself. Eyes sad, he wraps me into a hug without another word. I nod silently.
"Don't you want to?" Finnick ogles me. "Mama Maysilee, she drew your own son! Don't tell me it was an accident!"
No. It wasn't, I think. And with how naïve she can be, I doubt the possibility of a rigged Reaping (I wish I could say such a thing is the stuff of conspiracy theories) has ever occurred to Effie. And technically, she didn't Reap Katniss. She Reaped her sister; Katniss just volunteered. Regardless… "… Whether or not Peeta's drawing was an accident isn't relevant here. I am most concerned with keeping him alive."
Finnick squeezes my hand. "We'll try and help you," he tells me sincerely. My eyes prick with tears at his generosity. He nuzzles Annie close. "Come, Annie." The might-be-a-couple leaves.
Chaff whispers in my ear. "A word alone?"
I nod. Glowering at Effie like she's the scum under his shoe, Chaff steals me away into a small garden in the shadow of the Remake Center. He procures an egg-shaped device from his pocket. At my quizzical look, he explains.
"White-noise amplifier. Little invention of Beetee's. Should buy us a few minutes." A green light illuminates the top as he turns it on, and he begins talking in rapid-fire immediately.
"Listen up. I want you to tell me everything you can about both your kids, because judging by your reaction, they both mean a lot to you."
I tell him what he no doubt already knows: Peeta is my son. Though when I get to the part about how Katniss is my goddaughter, Chaff perks up.
"Fuck-in-nay…. They really gave you an impossible choice, didn't they?"
I nod, sniffling. "That's not the worst part. My boy is in love with her…. and I think Katniss might love him in return."
This gets Chaff's attention. I can practically see the gears turning in his head. Slowly, a hopeful grin comes over his face. A glint in his eye.
"I think I have an idea. Now, it's going to break a few rules. But if it works… it'll help everybody. And if we play it right, it might even help you get both of your kids back alive."
I freeze, my heart hammering in my ribcage. Two tributes…. Two Victors coming home alive? It's never been done. It's forbidden, absolutely. "How?" I clutch at his one good hand.
Chaff's eyes gleam. "Every year, we Victors have to make a choice between our two tributes, right? Choose who we want to keep alive. Given the circumstances, you can't make that choice this year without being torn apart. It's the Capitol who has put you in this position, Maysie. So pass the buck over to them. Make them have to make a choice, for once. Make them have to choose. And the way you do that is by presenting your boy and your goddaughter as a team. Together. As lovers. If you make Katniss and Peeta one entity, each of them indistinguishable without the other, the Capitol will feel what you're feeling. They won't be able to choose. And if they are unable to choose…. They'll have to demand to either have them both, or neither at all."
I can understand exactly what he is telling me. A star-crossed lovers story. I think back to one play I read in Literature class by that olden author, William Shakespeare. Romeo and Juliet. In this modern reimagining of the tale, the one that Chaff is proposing, I know my son will play the part of Romeo willingly. But will Katniss want to play Juliet, especially if, as I suspect, she seems at best uncertain of her feelings towards my youngest son…?
"Don't worry, I'll talk to Plutarch. He's in the Gamemakers, and a friend." He sends me a loaded look, and I recall a letter he sent to me some years ago, about how there might be a mole in the Gamemakers' ranks. I squeeze Chaff close, pecking him on the cheek, and I dash back to the Remake Center. He may already have a design concept in mind, but if anyone can be a miracle worker, if anyone can flex with the flow and change this up, I imagine it would be my goddaughter's new stylist. I have to find Cinna.
