Dreamers Live to Die
I did the cowardly thing and tried to avoid the future as much as possible, even with all the devastatingly powerful information behind my lips. But alas, fate found its way to bite me in the ass. [SI-OC Gale's twin sister]
Published 2020.01.03
Waking up was a nightmare.
At first, with the feathery pillow and weightless sheets and warm pumpkin-cinnamon smell wafting through the air, it felt like one of those lovely day dreams people had while taking idyllic late summer picnics in lush open meadows of a quiet park. But then the sheets were too soft, too wrong, and it felt almost like snakes were slithering up my body and around my throat to choke me and kill - .
I jumped out of bed in an instant, blood pounding in my ears. When there was no immediate danger beside the horrible pit sinking back down my stomach when remembering 'I'm in the Hunger Games now,' my legs dragged the rest of my trembling body to the bathroom and tried to drown itself in the shower.
The options for scents had been removed from the shower stall alongside the gels and after shower moisturizer options.
Potentia revealed the reason behind why, when I greeted her at the breakfast table, smelling of pumpkin pie and cold autumn day drinks. The outfit laid out in the closet had been a simple black skin-tight tracksuit with irritatingly tiny zippers and silicon lined shoes that resembled athletic wear.
"Oh, absolutely marvelous, isn't that right, Gregorius?" She flattered, patting down my wild hair. "I handpicked the scents and facial gels for you that represented your district best."
Except the fact that Appalachia weren't particularly known for pumpkins?
Yonnor emerged from his room, smelling sharply of honeysuckle and wet grass. They weren't bad choices, per se, but both of us honestly preferred to remain scentless than have a distinct way to track us. I sincerely hoped our stylists didn't spray us with heavy perfumes right before entering the arena.
My district mate wore a similarly designed track suit to mine, except in an ashen grey, not coal black.
By the time Haymitch stumbled into the room, groaning about a hangover before immediately swinging back a large gulp of whiskey from his vest pocket's secret stash, avoxes had already set a large buffet of foods onto the long stretch of the glass table.
I had really thought the man had been convinced of my absolute conviction to win, but perhaps he was too damaged from his past experiences to truly break out of his self-destructive habits. My pity for him barely outweighed my heavy conviction to throttle him for drinking so uncaringly, not lifting a finger to help either of us.
"Anything to say to us, mentor?" Yonnor rightfully so bites out in between sips of coffee.
The last living victor of district twelve snarled when his flask finally came up empty. He tucked it back into his vest and leaned his head back against the chair childishly. "My advice to you? Be prepared for your obviously imminent death, and know that from the bottom of my heart, I'll always mourn for you."
That statement had to contain an inkling of truth, as every child's death took a toll on the man's mental health.
"Carbo-load," I suggested instead, shooting the drunken man a nasty glare. Or, tried to. Gale had always sad that my glaring looked more like I was on the verge of tears and was about to guilt-trip someone. "If finding food is difficult, we can try to gain as much fat weight as possible, so we can live longer on the starvation scale than others."
"Never do strength training exercises when doing that," Haymitch chimed in unexpectedly. "If you begin lifting weights while eating a high calorie diet, your metabolism will shoot up and you'll only starve to death quicker once you're out in the arena. I'd really recommend just eating normally, though, since overeating can cause interesting stomach problems."
Yonnor and I shared a look before drilling the still mildly unwilling mentor for more information.
He ended up clamming up by the fifth question, citing an urgent need to visit the mini bar in the kitchens, and practically ran away in his awkward hobbling gait.
I turned to Potentia. "So, what now?"
My stylist blinked, as if visually digesting the information, then smiled wider than a Cheshire cat's. "Aha! It's almost ten, so you should be going to the elevators now, where Effie will be waiting to lead you all to the training areas underground. Good luck, now, and make sure to flip your hair up every half hour so the pumpkin-cinnamon scent lasts as long as possible!"
Yonnor and I ignored our stylists with practiced ease, immediately bounding for the elevator, where the doors conveniently opened to reveal one Effie Trinket.
"Good, you're both here. I'll be taking you two down now. And remember," she warned as we stepped inside the glass tube. "the gamemakers are the audience to the gymnasium. They see everything you do from their seats. Some may even walk around the gymnasium to examine the training processes even closer, or to engage in a conversation with a particularly interesting tribute. Remember to smile, walk straight, and always be charming!"
In the large, monotonous designs of the expansive gymnasium, were built in bleachers all around the center training stage. About twenty gamemakers in deep violet robes sat on a focal stage where a theater-like opening had been built in for an open display of never ending feasts and wine. Even a few minutes earlier than ten a.m., we were the last to join the other twenty-two tributes standing in a loose semi-circle in front of a tall dark-skinned woman. An avox scurried over to us to pin on a "District Twelve" badge to our backs before the trainer spoke.
Her name was Atala, the head trainer for the districts' tributes. She explained the basic rules inside the training center and the training schedule. Tributes were free to enter any station of their or their mentor's choosing. No fighting with another tribute. Lunch would be served from twelve-thirty to one-thirty in a room adjacent to this one. Her words were concise and extremely clear, which I respected. Atala appeared to be a fair judge of a trainer.
Once released from her introduction, Yonnor immediately left my side to investigate the fire making station. The boisterous Careers veered off to claim the entire section of stations dedicated to large weaponry items, leaving the remaining shifty tributes to drift between the easier to handle knife stations and climbing stations. Because I didn't want to operate alongside someone I'd know would die in less than a week, I chose a station that everybody was avoiding.
"What station is this?" I asked politely, eyeing the trainer helper with carefully hidden disdain. The fact that this bearded old man had more pudge than a baby walrus while Gale and I still struggled to feed our family sometimes, really hit home the differences between the Capitol and the districts.
He laughed jovially, gesturing wildly at the ensemble of bronze wires and mechanical tools laid out on the ground. "This is the electrical and mechanical foundations station. Almost no one visits through here, but I keep recommending for this station to stay open for the victors out of respect for our beloved Beetee Latier."
Beetee Latier of district three, nicknamed "Volts" for having won the forty ninth Hunger Games using only a spool of wire and a well timed lightning strike. His year's Hunger Games had been set in a rocky tundra surrounded by a lightning field. The famed genius of a man had electrocuted the remaining six tributes using physics, mathematics, and a magical stroke of luck at being able to secure a spool of wire from the Cornucopia. Each year, there were weapons included in the Cornucopia that weren't really conventional items and possibly a gag-gift from a rich comedian to a gamemaker. However, Beetee had been able to very effectively win his games using just one spool of wire, so they appeared to have kept this specific station open ever since then, in hopes of seeing a new bright mind pop up and wow the crowd.
"Sure," I shrugged amiably, noticing a surprised look on a few gamemakers nearby. "Why not."
After an hour, I had memorized the basics of electricity and voltages in different types of metals and their conductivity, basic how-tos of building and fixing mechanical features, and a brief introduction on physics. Of course, I had taken a Physics course in college Before, but relearning all the complicated electromagnetism formulas and recalling the chain rule to calculate acceleration, speed, and velocity took my mind for a delightful trip down memory lane.
Because Haymitch had advised to spend no longer than an hour at each station, I thanked the man for the crash course and moved on.
It was eleven now, meaning I had an hour and a half till lunch. I filled that time period by focusing on the empty stations, still not having gathered enough nerves to visit the more popular and more likely exceedingly useful ones. I spent half an hour learning about weather patterns, how to read the sky based on temperature, color, density, winds, and clouds, and the telling signs given by the surrounding nature and wildlife. Perhaps this station truly could be put to use, but the woman's droning voice resulted in at least a third of the information going in one ear and out the other.
Worn out already, I let myself go to a station I knew I'd enjoy - climbing. The rope climbing lessons were full, but the lessons where the sharp, slick surface with streams of water squirting out periodically onto the rocks that were basically devoid of hand holds? Perfect.
Mud caked under my fingers and sprays of water misted my hair as I pounced up the side of the twenty foot tall climbing wall using nothing more than elegant and swift movements using every strategic nook barely the size of my knuckles. At the top, I rolled onto a provided small dry ledge that smelled dustier than the bathrooms at school back home.
"Six seconds," a hidden scoreboard emerged from the ceiling just above my little ledge. The monotonous tone of "six seconds" from the computer aided voice almost made me leap off the ledge, I had to admit.
Immediately, all the tributes stopped to stare at a chart forming on the screen, placing my name as first place in the rock climbing challenge. God fucking dammit.
A ladder emerged from a hidden panel by my side, but I ignored it in lieu of climbing back down the cliff side in another extraordinary display of dexterity. If I were to be going out, it might as well be with a bang, right?
The Careers rushed over from their spear throwing station to challenge my first place status. Being first place in a memory game like the boy from district three had announced just an hour ago - that was nothing special. Everybody moved on with their lives. But first place at rock climbing, a potentially life saving skill? That took the cake.
Using my slight stature, I breezed away from that back station to head over to a now unoccupied popular station - fire making. Gale and I knew how to make a fire using sturdy twigs and bits of string, but it seemed exceedingly useful to know how to build warmth through pretty much any and every biome on earth.
By the third day, I had gone through nearly all of the stations for at least a couple minutes, gaining the basic knowledge of what the station even was. I avoided the Careers, Yonnor, and everyone else who was basically bigger than me by more than fifty pounds. Not a hard feat, as I was pretty sure I tipped the scales at somewhere between eighty and ninety pounds at a hair above the five foot mark. In a previous life, this would've been called malnourished. Too skinny. Dangerously unhealthy. A growing girl needed to eat more, and such and such. For district twelve, this was on the better side of the scale. There were children in my age group at school who were as light as birds, with protruding ribs showing grotesquely through faded shirts and frail wrists as thin as their playground chalk sticks. Our family's daily intake of fresh meats from Gale's frogs and squirrels would surely not allow for Rory, Vick, or baby Posy to fall into such extreme levels of starvation and hunger.
I felt guilty gorging myself on feasts during lunch now reminded of my family. How were they? How did they feel about seeing my face plastered all over national television, seemingly enjoying the festivities of the Capitol? The sweet orange based sauce soaking the chicken dish dripped steadily off my fork and back onto the plate. Drip. Drip. Drip. I imagined Rory and Vick glimpsing into the extravagant food the Capitol had to offer and how they'd cry from the wonderful taste being like nothing they'd ever eaten before. That made me feel a little better, thinking about them. How excited they'd be when I returned home to their arms. If I returned home.
If I were to make it out the arena alive.
After the third day's lunch period, officials began calling out the names of the tributes in number and gender order. The time for the private showcases had arrived.
"Thist Roserock," The official called out, waking me out of my thoughts. The boy from eleven - had I been sitting here alone in my thoughts for that long? - stood up from his position on the other side of the cafeteria.
Five minutes later, the girl from eleven, a girl whose name I thought to be Zinnie but was actually Zanna Cresh, stood up and sauntered to the door. Three tables ahead was Yonnor drumming his fingers on the his table's surface. It felt awkward and empty with just me and him, especially since that we had come to the wordless mutual agreement to avoid each other during the pre-Arena times so that eventually trying to kill each other off during the actual games would be less awkward if we had actually bonded.
The fact that we had never interacted while inside our own district worked wonders for that type of distancing.
Eight minutes later, Yonnor left with the official, leaving me to dwell in my thoughts alone. What were my strengths? Creating traps, snares, ropes, and nets. Climbing virtually any type of rock or tree. Tracking. Foraging.
Initially, I had planned on forming an intricate snare using only the bare essentials, then writing a cheeky message on the ground that the gamemakers would surely enjoy. But as the official brought me into the empty gymnasium, surrounded by loads of everything I needed, I began to panic. Of course I had forgotten the part in the games where Katniss discovered the hard way that the district twelve female was the worst position to impress gamemakers. They were all tipsy or flat out drunk from their constant feast of refreshments, paying more attention to the salted hams and great big pots of fish stew avoxes brought out.
Everything from the wires of the electronics section to the crumbling leaves in the foraging section had been brought out. Instead of creating a clever snare that would rank me at somewhere between a six or a seven, I instead needed to be impressive.
Taking spools of wire, a self contained arduino chip, a power distribution panel, and several other random gadgets here and there, I worked on creating a masterpiece they wouldn't forget.
When the project was completed less than six minutes later, I gave a shrill and booming whistle, making all the feasting gamemakers turn their heads to me. I connected the electricity from the PDP to the first wire, then jumped to the side to watch my progress. I threw a fist sized rock against a tightly coiled line of wire woven between two standing platforms, then covered my ears. A deafening boom filled the gymnasium from my self made explosives trap. The use of explosives were unique to my district's coal mining, and I knew that this private session would definitely hammer in the connection between me and my pride for my district.
The head gamemaker, a man named Dresdee Harribel with indigo blue dyed skin, slowly began clapping. "Very good. You may return to your quarters, Miss Blaire Hawthorne."
I tilted my body forward, unsure whether or not to bow out of respectful deference, but decided against it and responded with a sweet smile before fleeing the room.
The main components of an improvised explosives device were power, initiator, explosive, and switch. The input, or trigger, had been via motion sensor of the trip wire. Instead of locking down into a typical mechanical motion trap, where a tripping the wire would result in a hatchet raining down, it triggered the power to generate in the planted bomb above or below, instantly killing the victim.
Even though the method was chaotic, running straight into a bomb surely made a quick, merciful death.
"Traps and snares?" Haymitched drawled as way of hello when the elevator opened to our floor.
Effie stood up from her seat by Yonnor, where wrinkles etched into his hardened jaw. "Ah, Blaire! How'd you do?"
Terrible. Absolutely terrified that the gamemakers didn't enjoy bombers, as those people were too eerily reminiscent of district thirteen's people. It had been a swell idea at the time, but now I was simply terrified.
"Meh. I think I did average," I lied, giving a half-shrug.
Our stylists, Potentia and Gregorius, entered through the elevator two hours later just in time for the official ranking scores to be announced to all of Panem. The lot of us snuggled deep into the long fluffy couch in front of the huge hologram TV. The Capitol born people squealed when the channel shifted to the nationwide broadcast of Caeser Flickerman announcing the premise of the games and the current games score. It felt utterly surreal, to be in the center of the media when all I wanted in this life was to wait for the second rebellion uprising to fix everything. I hadn't counted on actually being thrown into the games out of godforsaken unluckiness. Instead of being a content wallflower, biding my time for peace, I was now going to rather be memorialized in history as a victim of the sixty-ninth Hunger Games, or emerge a victor but with a sizeable amount of mental issues and PTSD from the arena.
"As you know," began Flickerman's smooth honey-like voice. "tributes are rated on a scale from one to twelve after three days of careful evaluation by the gamekeepers."
The beginning speech remained a constant throughout the years. As expected, the Careers all scored between eight and ten, the kids from three scored moderately high scores, the other districts scored between a range of four to seven.
"District Twelve." Everyone leaned forward in anticipation. "Yonnor Bayaurch. Score of eight."
He sunk back in relief alongside a gasping Gregorius and Effie. "A great score for district twelve," they cheered. "My, my, how wonderful."
And when the screen behind the famous host's body shifted to view a picture of my full body shot and portrait three quarter views of my head (how had they gotten those pictures? Digital artists?), Haymitch set his glass of scotch on the rocks down.
"Blaire Hawthorne. Score of nine."
Effie and Potentia screamed in their overwhelming joy at how impressive the score was, but all I could think was that at least the gamemakers had enjoyed the display, not gotten the wrong message.
I slumped backwards, feeling suddenly too tired to finish watching the broadcast.
It was unfair, all of it. That children were thrown into an arena and expected to fight to the death. That the Capitol made an eighteen year old pit against twelve year olds, thinking it to be a just, fair fight in response to the first rebellion all those years ago. Sixty nine years of Hunger Games, sixty nine years of suffering, sixty nine years of torture.
It was also unfair because I wasn't really a tiny thirteen year old girl. My mind was that of a woman passing thirty-three, more than twice as experienced and mature than the rest.
Really, majoring in Chemical Engineering and interning at a big shot power company gave me quite the leg up from the competition. Once the man from the electronics station had ignited the fire of passions from my previous life, tidbits of mathematical equations, how to spark a blinding white light using zinc and fire, and even a homemade battery from a lemon, zinc metal, copper nails, and some wires.
While not faced with moral dilemmas as seriously as a developing child would have, it still hurt to think that I'd have to kill innocents for Gale and I's selfish promise.
I woke up the next morning at the crack of dawn. Because there wasn't much to do in my room other than stare at the small wooden elephant still resting besides a lamppost, I tiptoed downstairs out of force of habit. So used to creaking stairs in our old family home, I learned to walk gently and silent over even the loudest of floorboards. As today was the day before interviews, also known to be a day of rest for tributes who had no need to learn how to talk to crowds or walk in high heels in one day, the closet had set out a simple black tank top and bohemian styled green shorts. All the clothes were comfortable, but almost too comfortable to the point where I forgot if I was even wearing clothes at all.
Effie found me like curled up between couch cushions and throw pillows watching television reruns of past Hunger Games. She reached for the remote and turned the screen off right as the eleventh Hunger Games finale film ended in a flourish of Mags Flanagan being crowned victor.
"We've got quite a bit of work cut out for you, Blaire," she sniped, tossing the remote away. "Come on, up you go, now. Haymitch somehow convinced me last night to help you for your interviews tomorrow night."
I recalled the woman helping Katniss with her form and posture in the books for a few hours. Did Effie not usually do that, directly help the tributes?
"Thank you," I remembered to say, knowing the woman needed to hear constant affection in her life.
Her green tinted lips stretched into a haughty smile before beginning our first lesson.
By lunch time, my ankles were more sore than the time Gale dared me to jump-kick a giant boulder with my bare feet. Due to my age, I doubted Potentia would even make any kind of heel on my shoes, but it was still good practice, this formal sort of stuff. She then taught me how to sit up straighter by relaxing the shoulders and having the small dip in my back always be perpendicular to the ground, not the other parts of the vertebrae.
"You've done a much better job than the past tributes," Effie said simperingly when all I wanted to do was face plant into my soup and sleep like the dead. "You might even make an impression. Of course, everyone can make an impression when there's Caesar Flickerman right next to them. You'll do just fine."
She dragged Yonnor into her clutches for the afternoon for his etiquette lessons. I stared down Haymitch, who was pouring copious amounts of a clear white liquid into cranberry juice.
"Your liver must be as damaged as your head after the games," I shot at him. He continued pouring his drink, then threw the empty bottle against the wall, where it broke in a terrifying noise into a million tiny pieces.
"Yeah, well. The Capitol offers live-in therapy services, if killing people in the arena ain't your thing."
"I know that everyone says they want to win, but don't you think I can do it? Become a sociopathic monster for the sake of seeing my family again?"
He laughed harshly. "The youngest ever victor to come out that arena was Finnick Odair at fourteen. But when he was fourteen, he was already six feet tall and was the prettiest peacock in the bunch. You're a thirteen year old squirt who somehow scored a nine in the training center. That means all the Careers will be hunting you down like a turkey for dinner. Just enjoy your last few days in the glamours of the Capitol."
He needed to hear a winning statement, stat.
"Bombs," I cut in abruptly. "That's how I scored that nine. I made a bomb."
He raised an eyebrow and set down his drink, as if to say "go on."
"I know I have above average intelligence, possibly could be considered smart. I made an explosive trap by making a wire trap motion sensor using eight feet of wire, copper nails, and an energy source of fire." I leaned forward menacingly. "I can win this."
"Then prove it."
"From district twelve, we'd like to welcome Blaire Hawthorne!"
Walking to the front of stage from where I had been waiting from the eeves, Caesar Flickerman pressed the three minute timer and began gesturing wildly at the crowd at my entrance, making them go even more wild. The cheering of the booming applause drowned out every last thought in my head, so it was only by reflex did I sit down on the pristine white chairs provided when the colorful host took my hand in signal.
He wore a lazy smile as the cheering slowed down. "So, Blaire. I understand that while you're young, you're still feisty. I mean, wow! - a score of nine? That's insane! Tell us how you did it!"
The crowd began clapping again while I struggled to start the sentence. "Well," I said casually. "Since it's illegal to disclose the private training show, I'll instead tell you what my strengths are."
A great big smile stretched across his face. "Whoa, I like this fire!"
The crowd agreed.
"I'm very good at climbing and making things like traps and snares. I'd like to think that out of all twenty-four tributes, I've got the best survival skills." My words were arrogant, but the Capitol lapped it up, enjoying the firey and snarky manner a little kid like me behaved.
The host nodded in agreement alongside the audience. "Wow! That's pretty impressive! Which reminds me, how do you think you compare against the other tributes? You're the smallest one in there, which means you get to be extremely sneaky."
Mentally, I congratulated him on providing an example of how smaller could mean sneakier, therefore allowing me to catch a few sponsors' eyes. He truly was a strong attribute to a victor's victory and for getting everyone sponsor deals.
"Well," I laughed, curling a stray curl of hair by my ear (an intentional design because Potentia liked my natural sprightly aura or some other divine bullshit). "Because of my stature, I could chop off someone's knees before they even looked down. It's great, right?"
People whooped and whistled at that statement. Flickerman clutched at his stomach and bellowed out deep chortles. "I love that! Wow! We've got a natural fighter right here! From what I can gather, you're young, you're smart, and you're definitely skilled at surviving. Hear that, sponsors? We've got ourselves an amazing tribute from district twelve!"
Those words rightfully should have shaken me to the core in the fear that other tributes would gunning for me now, hoping to steal off potential sponsors. However, Caesar Flickerman had essentially demanded that the audience sponsor the girl from district seven after she proclaimed that she wanted to win to pay off her baby sister's medical bills. That tribute, Cynthia Corinne, had only garnered a score of four, so I had in full confidence that her pity-ploy would not work in the arena, where the Careers would be kicking her into a six foot deep grave.
"How does district twelve and the Capitol compare?" He asked, knocking me out of my temporary stupor.
The exquisite food. The out of the box fashion choices. The loopy accent where people spoke by moving their mouth as little as possible. The existential crisis of being under President Snow's dictatorial styled regime. It spoke volumes of the sway of the consumer market about how communism hadn't been put into place (yet).
Panem et circenses. Food and entertainment.
"It's amazing," I gushed in half-truths. "I've never known such luxury before. Back home, you'd be lucky to eat three meals a day. Over here, I can press a button in my room and a server knocks at my door ten minutes later with a tray full of sugary treats!"
Playing the amazement card? No problem.
"And last question, as we are running out of time - " the crowd groaned at this, at which I was relieved that they seemed sad to let me go, hopefully signifying that enough of them chose me as their favorite. " - do you have anyone important back home who you want to win the games for?"
A pause.
"My family," I said resolutely, staring straight into a zooming hovercraft camera at the base of the stadium. "I love my family more than anything. I promised to them that I'll win the games no matter what, just to see their smiles again. I've got the best, most hardworking mom in the world, a twin brother, Gale, who I swear knows me better than I know myself. And I've got a pair of twin brothers, Rory and Vick, who are five years younger. And a little baby sister, Posy, who's going to be turning two years old next month."
The crowd cooed at the mention of Posy, then the buzzer lit up.
"Aww, so sad to see you go! I wish you the best of luck, Blaire Hawthorne!"
People applauded respectfully as I took my leave.
"Why's she saying weird stuff?" Vick tugged on Gale's arm, pointing at the rickety screen. The Hawthornes still owned a physical screen the shape of a lumpy box - a rarity, given how common hologram technology had become in the past century.
Blaire, sitting on a staged platform that sparkled brighter than the lake on a summer day and wearing a shimmery rose-gold dress that had to cost more than a thousand tesserae, spat out a disgustingly sappy speech to please the Capitol viewers. "She needs to pretend to be nice," Gale replied after a long pause. "If the Capitol likes you, you survive longer in the games."
Vick huffed. "Whaddya mean 'survive longer?' Of course she's going to win!"
"Yeah! Blast through 'em all!" Rory cheered from the kitchen. Gale heard a light slap and an "ouch." Probably mom reprimanding him for yelling inside.
When his twin sister's interview ended with a full hearted applause from the audience, panic tightened in his chest. He knew Blaire was more than capable of surviving alone based on their own experiences in the mountains outside the district's fences, but her unusually high ripple in the crowd made her stand out more than she could handle on her own.
Blaire's knife skills only extended to whittling and carving - creation. She had never been a destructive person, never enjoyed cruel activities. She leapt from tree branch to tree branch like those monkey tricks he saw on TV once, climbed steep slopes as fast as her normal running speed, and had an unnaturally keen eye for tracking animals. Without her around, he had been forced to rely more on Katniss' hunting ability to detect near unnoticeable shifts in the wind's direction and her skill with large game. Some days, he just wanted to sit in front of the screen all day, grasping at memories of his sister, but by Katniss' urging, they spent nearly all of their daylight hours productively hunting down food for their family's bellies.
"I like her dress," Posy whispered shyly, toddling from her spot on the matted floor. Her wooden animal toys laid chaotically strewn all over her little play corner. "Blay-yuh is sooooo pretty."
She still couldn't pronounce Blaire's name correctly. Everyone thought it was adorable. Except for Rory, Gale supposed, because Posy kept calling him "Wor-yee" instead of "Ro-ry."
"But if she wins, we have to live next to that mean old drunk guy! Can't we just ask the Mr. President Snow to let her leave?" Vick questioned innocently.
Gale couldn't bring himself to answer.