The anthem rings, and a group of Peacekeepers take me by the arms and escort me back into the Justice Building. Even though I'm a good wrestler, I don't even try to escape. But the thought is tempting. Best-case scenario, they would shoot me in the head and this would all be over before it had to start. But more likely, they would give me a concussion and bruised ribs, and I'd have to enter the arena at a disadvantage.
The Peacekeepers shove me into a room that looks similar to the one where we held my grandmother's funeral years ago. The thick carpets and dreary, red velvet furniture haven't changed. I lower myself onto the couch, barely sitting as if I would need to jump up again at a moment's notice.
Thinking back, I had said goodbye to someone—other than my grandmother—in a room like this. Probably this very room.
They reaped my good friend Elm when we were thirteen. I had been one of the lucky few who could say goodbye to him that day. But instead of speaking about his impending death, all he wanted to do was talk about the wrestling tournament we'd had that weekend.
He died quickly, in the initial bloodbath. As a merchant's son, there was no way he had the survival skills to survive much longer than that. I told myself it was better that his throat was slit and he died quickly, instead of merciless dehydration. But now, I faced the question of which I'd prefer if it was my own life.
Maybe I could find someone—maybe even Katniss herself—who could kill me quickly right in the beginning. If she had a bow in the arena, I'd trust her to shoot me straight through the eye.
But what kind of coward would that make me?
No. I had to die with more honor than that.
Then, my family comes through the door, looking like they couldn't decide who had to face me first. Farro is the bravest. He holds out his arms to me, and I rise to his embrace. I couldn't remember a time we'd ever hugged.
"It'll be okay," he murmured, even though we both knew it wouldn't. "You're strong. You're a good fighter." This year was the first time I'd ever been able to best my older brother. But he was nothing compared to the tributes from Districts 1 and 2.
Teff just squeezes my shoulder, unable to meet my gaze. "I'm sorry," he muttered under his breath.
"Just enjoy the tesserae." The words held bite I didn't quite mean, but they were already out of my mouth. "It doesn't matter now. I'll be fine. You all mourning me now won't make anything better."
My mother, normally so cold and unyielding, actually had tears in her eyes. Maybe she felt guilty, or maybe not. Someone had to make a sacrifice to keep the rest of our family alive. It might as well be me. "You know, District 12 might finally have a winner."
Was she serious? My heart swelled at the thought of my mother finally believing in me, finally thinking I stood a chance.
But then she continues, "She's a survivor, that one."
And my heart plummets to my feet. I should've known. "She really just might win," I mutter. I start to back away from them, already wanting my family to leave. "If anyone from 12 has a chance, it's her."
My father catches my eye and says, "Can I say goodbye to Peeta alone?"
He never asks for much, so my brothers and mother just nod and file out of the room, giving me last looks of regret over their shoulders.
"Here." He hands me a wax bag full of cookies. I recognize their frosting through the white film, since I was the one who iced them. They would fetch a good amount of money on reaping day, when everyone was trying to celebrate their good fortune of surviving one more year.
"I can't take them."
I try to hand them back, but he pushes them into my chest. "No. They're yours. You might want some taste of home before you go in."
The lump in my throat just grows. It will probably be the last time I taste anything from my family, from the bakery that was so important to us. "Thank you." I tucked them into my pocket, just in case the Peacekeepers would try to take them from me.
"Listen here," he began, actually looking me in the eye. "I think you should team up with that Everdeen girl."
I immediately shake my head. "She's not the ally type. And we don't do that, not in 12."
"Listen to me!" My eyebrows shot up; I'd never heard him raise his voice before. "I don't have much time, and I need you to focus."
He waited until I nodded ever so slightly.
"She's got all the survival skills, and she's a great shot." He rested both of his hands on my shoulders, squeezing them. "But we both know she doesn't have the personality that the Capitol loves. You, though, my boy… You have a way with words. You know what to say to reach people. You have just as much power as her."
"Dad, I can't talk my way out of a knife fight—" I began, but he cut me off. My eyes had long since been welling with tears and they finally started spilling out onto my face. I can't tell if they're from frustration or anger or desperation, but I don't swipe them from my cheeks.
"The other tributes are only half of the game," he insists. "But you can't ever forget that the Capitol is calling the shots. Make them love you. Make them love her. Try to reach them, however you can, to remind them you're still a person. If she can handle the other tributes and the arena, you can handle everyone else."
My mind is swimming, trying to remember every word he said to me. I didn't understand, and I didn't know what questions to ask in the short time we had left. "But we can't both win," I argued. "What does it matter?"
"I just want you alive as long as possible." He paused as if he was deciding what to say. "And I think you two have a chance at showing them that District 12 isn't just the brunt of their jokes. We matter here. You're both smart, attractive, good kids."
"But why does it matter?" I pushed. "We'll die anyway!"
He shook his head. "No. Your actions will be recorded and broadcasted to Panem for the rest of time. Show them who you are, who we all are. You can't let them change you. They'll try to turn you into just another piece in their Games, just another body to prove their point. You—and Katniss—need to remember who you are."
"Okay," I finally relent. He'd certainly watched more Hunger Games than I had; maybe he understood something I didn't. "I don't want them to change me."
"They're going to put you in ridiculous costumes and then hunt you for sport. Your death will be nothing but entertainment for them, and they'll never think of how it affects us. Your death has to count for something."
I can't comprehend the way he was talking to me, like I was a grown man and not his son. Like he knew this would probably be the last time he ever spoke to me, and he didn't have to preserve the rest of our relationship.
"You are kind," he continues. "You care about others. You are generous. You are honorable. Don't let them take that from you."
The Peacekeepers open the door, and my father backs up from me. "Katniss is on your team," he insisted, eyes fervently locked on mine. "And so is Haymitch. Please remember what I told you. We love you, Peeta."
The Peacekeepers grab me by the arms again. When they lead me out to the hall, I can see a crowd of my school friends, probably hoping to say goodbye to me. We just stared at each other, all of our eyes wet and noses red.
"I love you all," I called out to my family. If that was the last thing they heard from me, so be it.
They shove Katniss and me into a car headed for the train station. But as we're driving, the hot tears start pouring. I'm terrified—of dying, of killing, of surviving. I don't know which is the worse fate.
I don't even try to hide my tears from the cameras, gobbling us up. Katniss is stone faced, not paying them any mind. But with my father's words echoing in my mind, I can't help it. They don't deserve my stoicism. Why should I hide my emotions, on my last day of freedom, for their comfort?
The train finally starts moving. It practically throws me into one chair, and I run my hands over my face for a moment of privacy.
But then they're leading me to a different part of the train, to a bedroom much nicer than the one I share with both of my brothers. I decide to take a shower and am surprised by how much the warm water actually helps, washing away some of the dread I face for just a few minutes.
I'm the first at the dinner table. Effie chats with me for a few minutes before she finally goes to fetch Katniss.
When they return together, Effie asks, "Where's Haymitch?"
"Last time I saw him, he was going to take nap," I say. More specifically fall into a drunken coma, but that wasn't appropriate.
"Well, it's been an exhausting day," says Effie.
They serve us course after course of rich food. Soups and salads and meat on the bone. I try to pace myself and breathe between bites, but Katniss isn't pausing, like she'll never see food again.
"At least, you two have decent manners," says Effie. "The pair last year ate everything within their hands like a couple of savages. It completely upset my digestion."
Last year's tributes were both from the Seam, who'd likely never had enough food to eat, ever. I was a merchant's child, as was Katniss's mother. So even if we'd both gone hungry, we knew how to handle a fork and knife.
But Katniss must have hated her comment, as she proceeds to eat with her fingers and wipe her hands on the tablecloth.
All the food and the speed of the train is catching up with me. I'm afraid I might throw up, and I'm praying they'll let me go back to my room alone. But we're forced to go to another comporting and watch the recap of the other reapings.
The faces of the other tributes stick in my mind. Someone else loves each one of them. Who would I have to kill? And who will end up killing me?
When they finally reach District 12, Effie is disgruntled. "Your mentor has a lot to learn about presentation. A lot about televised behavior."
I actually crack a laugh. "He was drunk." Wasn't it obvious? And why did she expect anything else from Haymitch? "He's drunk every year."
"Every day," Katniss adds. Her smirk brings a smile to my face.
"Yes," hisses Effie. "How odd you two find it amusing. You know your mentor is your lifeline to the world in these Games. The one who advises you, lines up your sponsors, and dictates the presentation of any gifts. Haymitch can well be the difference between your life and your death!"
As if on cue, Haymitch staggers into the room. "I miss supper?" He slurs. Then he vomits everywhere, and then tumbles into his own mess.
"So laugh away!" Effie leaps around the pool of vomit, and Katniss and I are left to deal with our only hope.