The bathroom still smells like vomit as I stumble wearily into the shower in the morning. I lean against a tiled wall to support myself against the movement of the train, letting warm water ease me back into a semi-aware state. My face no longer feels numb from the alcohol; that's a start. I'm not barfing anymore, either.
Better than last night.
I hastily throw on a checkered shirt and loose-fitting pants before stumbling out into the car's hall. The scenery flying past the windows has changed; no longer do forests and woodlands mesh into blurred colors, replaced with alpine plains flanked by snow-capped mountains in the distance. It's a scene I've seen before, but in my hungover state, I take a minute to appreciate the landscape's beauty. It's truly a pretty world here near the Capitol. I feel like I could spend weeks, months even, exploring those mountains off in the distance – the white-peaked sentinels watching over the world like ancient philosophers or kings.
I don't have long to admire the view, however. A firm hand slams me out of nowhere, smashing me into the wall of the car and holding me down with brute strength. It doesn't take me two seconds to figure out who's on my case.
"I don't want to see you with him again," my mom hisses in my ear, her face an inch from my own. "Or anywhere near a drop of that stuff."
"It seems to work for you," I mutter back at her, refusing to look her in the eye.
She grimaces, pulling away but quickly returning to her usual unhappy expression: "I've known him for longer. You don't know him. If I hear that you're getting drunk again, I swear…"
I don't bother to ask what. It's hypocrisy; that's what it is. So my mom can drink her painful memories away without any sort of repercussions, yet when I do it, it's some sort of travesty? I don't care if I don't know Haymitch well, or if I just yesterday did my first round with liquor. She doesn't know me. She doesn't understand what goes around in my head, and I don't care what the Hunger Games or whatever else there was makes her moody. We're both people.
My mom lets me go, walking away without so much as a conclusion. I brush my shoulder where she gripped me, trying to get her essence free from my clothes. The last thing I want now is to spend a week with her and the rest of my family in the Capitol. At least the interviewers and cameras should take her away from some of the time, but the rest will be terrible. There will be no escape from the combination of overbearing parents and paparazzi completely ignorant of private boundaries. At least in District 12 I can run to the woods.
Breakfast is a solemn affair. I pick over a biscuit on my plate, eyes down as my mom and Aunt Prim talk over various interviews they each have with the press. Making it worse is Iris; my cousin's far too perky for my brooding start to the day.
"I'm excited," iris tells me as my dad and Reed are in the midst of some serious discussion. "All the people in the Capitol are so different from the district."
"Shallow, maybe," I murmur in response.
"What?"
"They're stupid. They care more about clothes than anything else."
"They're not stupid," Iris says quietly, looking at me like I'm an alien. "It's just…different."
"In a dumb way," I retort. She's a cute girl, but she's so naïve. "Yes they're stupid. They don't understand that people are still starving back home and in other places; that they're just doing everything the same that ended up in a civil war last time. Nobody in the Capitol changes. It's just one big dumb mess."
I realize too late that I'm practically shouting, with everyone's eyes on me. Unable to bear the stares, I quickly push my chair away from the table.
"I'm…going to go back to my room. Tell me when we're there."
I snatch a scone and escape before more questions come in. Why is everyone but me so excited about this stupid trip to please the media? I could be home right now; since it's Saturday, I'd be trying to get out of the house and find somewhere quiet and alone. Maybe I'd even be with Vesta or Flint; people who actually get me.
"Breakfast not a happy affair, huh?"
Haymitch nearly runs into me as I walk with my head down in the hall. He's still clutching the bottle of whiskey from yesterday, now nearly empty with just a swig's worth of alcohol left. Noxious fumes reek from his breath; he's probably been drinking all night.
"I'm not supposed to talk to you," I grunt sarcastically. "You're a 'bad influence.'"
Haymitch laughs: "Guess I was on her, too. I'd give you a 'don't let her get to you' speech, sweetheart, but I really need to sleep. I'm drunk and tired."
He shoves past me, headed back for his car and whatever alcohol-imbued dreams await. In some ways, I envy him. Forgetting a lifetime of pain seems better than living day-to-day with a burden you can't even open up about. I'd rather drink away my simmering thoughts than keep bottling them up inside me like a powder keg ready to blow.
I barely notice as the train starts slowing down when the whitewashed geometric buildings of the Capitol come into view. I refuse to look out the window, staving off the inevitable until the darkness of the tunnel leading to the station engulfs my room. Knowing my mother will complain if I don't look "respectable," I quickly change into a blue blouse and matching skirt, doing my best to pretend to be the prodigal daughter for the cameras. Oh, how I hate them.
The rest of my family meets me by the train's door, each with their own expression ranging from sour and angry to enthusiastic and excited. My dad gives me a pat on the shoulder, trying to sympathize as I cross my arms over my chest.
As soon as the doors open, a thousand flashbulbs light up with a blinding invasiveness. I show off a fake smile for the cameras, doing my best to fit in despite my overwhelming urge to punch the nearest cameraman in the face. I suppose it's just their job, but I can't help but see them as attacking invaders intruding on my space.
My mom and dad take their time weaving through the crowd, each playing the part of a celebrity couple happy to be in the Capitol. I feel my temper rising the longer the tromp to the Remake Center takes. I'm on the verge of balling my hand into a fist under the white lights of the station before we finally reach the curved doors that slide open to welcome us, giving me an opportunity to scamper away from the reporters. I'm happy to take the chance; as I do, I can't help but feel pity for Iris as she waves with a hearty grin to the gaggle of paparazzi everywhere. She'll learn in time that these aren't people to be trusted.
A brown-haired swoosh appears out of nowhere as soon as the doors close, embracing my mom with a loud cry of "Katniss!" Annie Odair's enthusiastic greeting is admirable in a way; she's a woman who has overcome some real troubles, unlike all the things my mom likes to cite. Maybe she is just a crazy girl at heart, but I can't help but smile as she follows up by grabbing my dad in a big hug, her green eyes slammed tightly shut and her wavy hair flying everywhere.
Finnick is unmistakable as he grabs my dad's hand with a hearty shake. The man may be in his late 40s, but Finnick's chiseled face and bronzed hair is still unmistakable even more than two decades after the rebellion. The navy blue suit he wears complements his appearance to a tee; he's the perfect person to go in front of those cameras I hate so much. I'm jealous in a way; Finnick is everything I'm not. Where I'm moody and silent, he's personable and chatty, the perfect emissary to the shallow Capitol audience.
I take a minute while the adults get acquainted to absorb my surroundings. The foyer of the Remake Center undoubtedly puts on a show – high, arching ceilings seamlessly transition into blue granite walls. Spartan furniture leaves the entire entrance hall giving off a feeling of open space, with only a vacant reception desk and several leather couches around. The Remake Center's now used as a convention center, but it's no stretch to see why it used to be the entrance point for tributes to the Hunger Games. This would make a strong impression on anyone.
"Enjoying the view?"
I turn to the voice addressing me, spotting a chestnut-haired boy leaning against a couch with a pair of green eyes watching me. He's well-built, unmistakable as one of Finnick's sons in a green button-down shirt and black tie. Clearly the Odairs know how to dress well.
"Maybe," I respond cautiously. Better figure out what he's after before I get too deep in conversation.
"You don't remember me," he laughs, pushing himself off the couch. "Drake. Drake Odair…I still remember you, Summer."
"I don't really like guys who dream about me," I sniff. What am I doing?
He laughs anyway, despite my misgivings: "Feisty, huh? Guess I should expect that from the daughter of the Girl on Fire."
I've had enough of this Drake guy's rambling. Maybe he is Finnick's youngest son, but I sure as heck don't remember him – and frankly, he's not making a great first impression so far: "Are you…looking for something? Because I'm pretty sure we're supposed to be heading for the hotels in the old Training Center right about now after everyone finishes catching up."
"So eager," Drake chuckles at me. "Where are you in such a hurry to go? Are you that excited to jump in front of the cameras again? I think we'll get enough of that. Frankly, I'm happy for a few minutes to slow down."
His words give me pause. I always figured the Odair family as something of a media spectacle. After all, Finnick commanded the Capitol's popularity back during the Hunger Games and remained a powerful man in social circles after the rebellion. But something about the way Drake mentions the media…and slowing down…makes me wonder whether he's different. I'm always hesitant to give people chances, but perhaps he deserves one.
"Slow down?" I ask tentatively. "I thought life was always fast out in District 4…at least faster than it is in District 12."
"Maybe if you watch Plutarch Heavensbee on TV you'd think so," Drake flashes a look at my dad and his in conversation before returning to me. "But we're just like anybody else. That's not what you're really asking though, is it? You've got something else on your mind. You don't really want to be here, do you?"
He is perceptive, I'll give him that: "No, I don't."
"Well, at least there's two of us."
"You don't want to be here? But…your dad is like…the patron saint of these people in the Capitol."
"And so is your mom," he laughs at me. "Good thing we're not them, huh?"
I notice my finger unconsciously curling a strand of my hair and try to pull myself together. There's something about this boy…
"I, uh…" I manage to say after a pause. "I guess so. So…you don't like it?"
"Let's not get ahead of ourselves," Drake replies with the slightest grin touching his lips. "The food's good. But if you want to talk serious stuff, let's ditch the cameras when we get to the hotel. We can get some actual privacy, as crazy as that sounds here."
For once, I'm not going to argue about this plan.