"Madge?" I repeat, still squinting at the waitress. I'm sure it's her. She has the same blue eyes and long, blond hair, though she usually kept it tied up back in District 12.
Madge stares at me for a few seconds, blinking in confusion. I guess she's trying to put me into context. "Gale Hawthorne?" she finally says, disbelief in her voice.
"Yeah," I say, giving her a genuine smile. Despite the alcohol, my head suddenly feels completely clear. "I didn't know you made it out of District 12," I say, pulling up a stool.
Madge sets down her heavy tray and slips onto the stool next to me. She looks at me closely, but I can't read her expression in the dim light. "When the bombing started my dad bribed the Peacekeepers to help us out of District 12," she finally says. "We lived in District 11 for a couple years, until the fighting there got really bad. I moved here about a year ago," she explains, reaching behind the bar for a clean glass. So that's why I had never seen her in District 13; she had moved here while I was away fighting.
"What is going on here?" Starla interrupts rudely, pulling a fistful of my jacket so that I am forced to face her. "Who is this tramp?"
I had completely forgotten about Starla when I saw Madge, meaning I am probably more drunk than I realize. I feel a flush climbing up my neck as I think how this must look to Madge. "Just get lost for a minute," I whisper in Starla's ear roughly, pushing her away.
"Jerk," Starla sneers as she slips off my lap and flounces away. She takes my hat with her.
I turn back to Madge, hot with embarrassment, but she doesn't look like she's noticed the interruption. She is focused on pouring herself a glass of whiskey.
"Sorry about that," I mumble, running a hand through my hair in embarrassment. Then I think about my dirty hair, unshaved chin, and alcohol breath. "I'm not really like this…all the time." I stop. I'm not sure why I am trying to justify my behavior to Madge Undersee. I think of her back in District 12, always perfectly groomed and glowing with health from the food she received so easily and which we never seemed to have enough of. I, on the other hand, was always dirty from hunting and suspicious because of my illicit trading. I guess I had always felt inadequate around Madge. Maybe that's why I'm trying so hard to explain myself.
"Forget it," Madge says, shrugging. "A lot has happened in the past few years. We're not the same kids we were back in District 12." She throws back her head and swallows her glass of whiskey in one go.
"I can see that," I say with raised eyebrows. I give Madge a hard look. She is certainly not the clean-cut mayor's daughter that I remember from a few years ago. What's happened to her? "So what are you doing in this place?" I say casually, pouring her another glass of whiskey before taking a swig myself. I hold my breath, not wanting Madge to see how interested I am in her answer.
Madge gives another one of her nonchalant shrugs. "It pays the bills." She pulls the glass of whiskey towards her and runs her finger along its rim thoughtfully. "And I don't really have anywhere else to go," she adds. There's no sadness in her voice. She's just stating facts.
I look at her in surprise. There are all types of wealthy people living in the upper levels of District 13: Capitol citizens who fled because of the war, merchants from other districts, even some of the rebel leaders have amassed enough wealth to live in luxury on the first few levels of the District. Why isn't Madge up there with them? Madge doesn't seem like she wants to talk, but my stomach is burning with curiosity. I can't say why. Maybe I've been starved for news of anyone from District 12 for a long time. Or maybe because I don't understand why Madge's eyes, that were once wide with innocence and good fortune, are now tired and empty of emotion.
"Hmph," I shrug, matching Madge's careless demeanor. "I just never expected to see the mayor's daughter down here slinging pints."
Madge throws back another shot of whiskey. "Yeah well, I'm not anyone's daughter anymore," she says. My head swivels toward her in confusion. Madge is looking down at her hands, twisting the hem of her apron in her lap. She tries to keep her voice steady, "We didn't have time to go back for mom in District 12, and my dad died in 11. That's when I moved here."
The words are like a punch in the gut. "Madge…I'm sorry," I say with genuine feeling, reaching out to touch her shoulder. I know what it's like to lose a parent. I can't imagine losing my entire family, and that too in the middle of a war zone with no place to go. "And the only place you can work is here?" I say without thinking. Talk about adding insult to injury.
Madge turns her clear blue eyes towards me. "I lost everything in 11, and don't have anyone to help me here. This is the best place that would take me." She looks down at her hands again, "Like I said, a lot has happened." She throws me a sideways grin, but the effort is trembling and half-hearted, and her eyes glisten in the dim light.
"Margie! Drinks!" one of the men from the card game calls out rudely, shattering the moment and distracting Madge from anything else she was going to say.
Madge shrugs my hand away and gets up, her emotionless mask falling back in place. "I should get back to work," she says, brushing some crumbs off the front of her dress. I hadn't noticed how tight it was until now. And short. "It was good to see you, Gale," she says before turning away. "Sal," she says to the barkeeper, indicating my empty bottle with her hand. Sal nods and drops a fresh bottle of whiskey in front of me.
"Thanks," I say, but Madge is already gone, balancing her tray laden with beer mugs towards the men playing cards. She hands the mugs out with a smile. One of the men drunkenly reaches out and grabs her thigh. I squeeze my hands into fists, ready to get up and punch the guy in the jaw. But Madge doesn't panic or call for help. She just smiles and slaps the man's hand away playfully, handing him a mug of beer. The other men laugh and throw around a few dirty jokes. Madge laughs along with them and hands them their beers, ignoring their crude remarks. My mouth opens slightly in shock. How can Madge let them treat her this way? Then one of the men hands Madge a crumpled bill, which she slips into her apron pocket. Then I understand.
My jaw tightens. Madge is so much better than this. Anger burns in my stomach as I watch Madge work her way around the bar, picking up dirty dishes, handing out drinks, laughing at the men's insults, and collecting her tips. I can't believe she has sunk to this level, allowing men to insult her and touch her in order to collect a few coins. I take another angry swig of whiskey thinking that this is another reason to hate the Capitol. They took a young girl and destroyed her home and her family, and with no one to help her, she has to make ends meet by allowing letches to grope her in a seedy bar.
Despite her smiles, the more I watch Madge, the more I realize that she hates her job. She smiles at the men, but there is tightness around her eyes. She accepts their tips with a clenched jaw. Just like me, she's doing what she has to do to survive, I think with a little bit of admiration.
But a moment later I rescind the thought. As Madge walks past the bar, a man reaches out and tweaks her hair. Madge looks up and smiles at the man. I am taken aback. This is not one of the fake smiles she gives the drunkards around the bar as she hands them their drinks. This is a real smile. Her shoulders relax and her face softens as the man says something to her. Then she laughs.
My eyes narrow as I take in the man. He's tall and trim, wearing a fitted rebel army uniform. His dark brown hair is swept back neatly under his captain's hat. I don't recognize him, but when he turns a little I recognize the flashing insignia on his lapel. I snort. Air force. Must be some clown from District 13. Thirteen was the only district with the resources and time to have developed really good fighter pilots before the war, a fact that the D13 fighter pilots never let anyone else forget.
I look back towards Madge and realize with dismay that she doesn't think this guy is clown at all. She is still smiling at him. And she doesn't stop smiling, even when he reaches out a hand and runs it gently up and down her bare arm. Slimy bastard.
I clench my jaw, but the alcohol has softened me around the edges so that I can't quite grasp the anger I'm looking for. Instead I feel an unexplainable wave of sadness. Madge may be working in a dump, but even she has managed to find someone. Just like Katniss found Peeta. After meeting Madge again after all this time, I had let myself think that I had found someone like me, broken after the devastation of the war. But Madge isn't broken, I think grimly, looking at her blushing in front of the slick air force schmoozer. She's whole enough to be with someone. Only I am broken beyond repair.
The thought makes me so sad, that I grab the bottle of whiskey and take several desperate gulps. I want to forget all about Madge, her blond hair, dead parents and slimy boyfriend. I look around quickly and see Starla skulking near by.
"Hey Starla," I call out, plastering a cocky grin on my face. "Still want to get out of here?"
Starla glares at me, "Not after the way you ditched me for that tramp," she says, but she still walks towards me. It's almost too easy. She grabs the bottle of whiskey and takes a sip. "Not after the way your eyes just followed her around the bar for about an hour." I gulp. I hadn't realized I had been staring at Madge.
I take a quick glance over to Madge. She is blushing and handing the air force captain a drink. His hand is on her hip, and their faces are only inches apart. I swallow my pain and turn back to Starla. I lean in and give her a long kiss. "Well, who am I looking at now?" I say, breaking away from her.
Starla giggles. "Alright, handsome. Come on," she says, pulling me up by my collar. I follow her out, making sure to grab the whiskey before we go.
Part II"Madge?" I hear a familiar voice call my name. It takes me a moment to register. No one in the bar knows that I used to shorten my name to Madge back in District 12. Only people I care about still call me Madge instead of Margaret of Margie.
I look up and inhale quickly. It can't be. But it is. There he is in front of me. After more than three years. He's more muscular and his chin is covered by a dark shadow of stubble, but it's definitely him. In a disheveled rebel uniform.
God he looks good.
All of the nervousness and long-forgotten giddiness of my youth come flooding back like I'm still 16 and answering his knock at my back door. "Gale Hawthorne?" I say, still not quite believing it.
"Yeah," he says, his face lighting up in a real smile. A smile he has never directed at me before. He pulls out a stool, asking me about how I got out of District 12. I take the stool, looking at Gale closely. He seems a bit worse for wear, and the drunken bimbo on his lap is a little distracting, but he seems genuinely happy to see me. This is something new. Something I could get used to.
"When the bombing started my dad bribed the Peacekeepers to help us out of the District," I say as calmly as I can. No need to hyperventilate over the fact that I have been pining over this man for years, only to find him at my place of business after three years' absence with a bottle of whiskey in one hand and a plastic floozy in the other. "We lived in District 11 for a couple years, until the fighting there got really bad. I moved here about a year ago," Keep breathing, Madge, I coach myself.
Just then, the bimbo makes her presence known, demanding Gale's attention with a few petulant words. I feel like shouting the same petulant words at Gale myself, I mean does she really think I am the tramp in this situation? But even this floozy has more of a claim on Gale's affections than I do and more of a right to his attention. The thought makes me cringe inside. I have wanted Gale for as long as I can remember, and when he finally looks away from Katniss Everdeen for one second, he would rather have this half-drunk tramp than me. I turn away from the two of them and hide my pain by carefully pouring myself a glass of whiskey. Gale sends the girl away, but I don't react. Play it cool, Madge, I think. No need to let Gale know how much his presence is affecting you.
Gale asks a few questions, obviously trying to figure out how Madge Undersee ended up working in this hellhole. I try to avoid giving him too many details, but when he mentions how my dad used to be mayor, I can't help it anymore. I feel my eyes prickle and I fight to keep my voice from breaking when I tell him about my parents. Thank goodness the glass of whiskey in front of me gives me something to do.
When Gale tells me he's sorry about my parents, there is such feeling in his voice that I think I really will cry. And when he reaches out and touches my shoulder, the only thing I can think is that this is the first time we've really touched aside from the occasional brushing of fingers when he handed me a bag of strawberries and I handed him a handful of coins. The memory of my anticipation of his visits to my back door is so sweet and seems so far away that it takes all my strength not to fall into his arms bawling right here at the bar.
"Margie! Drinks!" comes the rude call, shattering the mood completely. I quickly withdraw inward, shocked that I had been so close to weeping all over Gale Hawthorne. This is Gale Hawthorne, I remind myself sternly as I get up and straighten my dress, I may have been pining over him for the past five years, but I'm pretty sure he hasn't given me a thought in all that time.
I look up to tell Gale that I have to get back to work, and I think he actually looks disappointed. I brush the thought away quickly. Gale Hawthorne never liked me. Why would he start now?
I heft my tray of beers and get back to work. My job isn't mentally taxing, and I go through the motions without paying much attention, my mind a whirlwind of thoughts and conflicting emotions. It's been three years since I've seen Gale, and many months more since we've had even a semi-conversation with one another. I cringe at thought of our relationship back in District 12: my shy admiration of his strength and bravery, which I always hid behind an indifferent façade. His tolerance, bordering on rudeness, because I was a rich but reliable customer.
After I had escaped District 12, I had been too busy to spend a lot of time dwelling on my past. I had to deal with my mother's death and still had trouble doing so because I had no closure. There was no opportunity to recover her body from the ashes of District 12, and I was plagued by nightmares of my mother burning to death or surviving the fire but slowly wasting away because there was no one left at home to take care of her. My father and I had been busy too, trying to stay hidden from the Peacekeepers in District 11 and aiding the rebellion in our own small ways.
Once the Peacekeepers began to clamp down on rebel activities and my dad was killed, I managed to make it to District 13 with a group of refugees. Once I found this mind-numbing job, I had time to think about my old life in District 12. It seemed so far away and depressingly unattainable after all I had been through.
It was at those times that I would remember Gale. I don't run into many nice men in my line of work, and whenever I meet an especially crude customer, my mind inevitably flits to Gale. Ever since moving here, I have wanted desperately to meet someone like him: someone who loves and respects his family, someone who is strong and capable, someone who can help me rather than give me more to worry about, and, let's face it, someone who is really damn good looking too.
I never thought that the real flesh-and-blood Gale Hawthorne would ever appear in my life again in all his broad-shouldered, casually-stubbled glory. And I certainly never dreamed that he would return with a Haymitch-esque tendency to drink himself into oblivion and a very un-Haymitch-esque proclivity for cheap women.
And more than anything, I never thought that Gale Hawthorne would ever see me like this: squeezed into a ridiculously tight dress and accepting tips from drunken oglers. My jaw clenches at the thought, and I refuse to look in Gale's direction, afraid of seeing judgment in his eyes. Or worse yet, seeing blank apathy in his eyes because he doesn't care about me at all.
I am so lost in thought, that I don't notice the man at the bar until he reaches out at tugs one of my curls. I look up, and I can feel my whole body relaxing at the sight.
"Hey honey, you'll break a tooth if you clench your jaw so tight," he drawls, and I can't help but laugh.
"What are you doing here, Mazer?" I ask, moving closer. I can't help but notice how clean and handsome he looks in comparison to the other men in the bar. His coat tapers perfectly with his body, his clipped hair is neatly swept under his cap, and he leans on the bar with the nonchalant grace of the supremely confident.
"I came to see you, honey," he says, reaching out a hand and running it lightly up and down my arm. I take embarrassed pleasure in the tingles his touch elicits. "I'm still hoping to convince you to go out with me. Just say yes," he says with a smirk. "You know I won't stop bothering you until you do."
"Let me get you a drink," I say with a smile, stalling for time. When I get behind the bar, I look down with a soft sigh and go through the same mental debate I always have with myself when Mazer asks me out. I begin by acknowledging how I am very attracted to him. But I also know in the back of my mind that he's a little too slick for his own good. He's too well versed in the art of flirtation to have not gotten around.
But then again, Mazer has been nothing but sweet with me. I remember back to the day we met several weeks ago. I was hurrying past the Level 2 rebel captains' quarters on my way to work when I bumped into Mazer without thinking. Instead of brushing me off and moving on, Mazer stopped to check if I was all right. He made small talk as he walked me to the elevator, claiming he was headed down a few levels too. But when we reached the elevators, Mazer ushered me in and winked at me as I blushed, finally realizing that he didn't need the elevator but rather had gone out of his way to talk to me.
After that, I found myself running into Mazer; he would show up at the bar or happen to be perusing the shelves at the convenience store where I normally shop. He was always polite, asking me about my day or sharing funny stories about his superior officers. And he always gave me a smile that held a promise of something more. I began to look forward to running into Mazer, and seeing him always sent spirals of pleasure and embarrassment racing down my spine.
Mazer is one of the only nice men that I've met since arriving in District 13. And there is no doubt about it; I am ridiculously attracted to him. He is sweet and funny and a little dangerous. And he knows his way around women, meaning that I would be guaranteed a good time with him if we ever went out. Whenever I ask myself why I haven't agreed to go out with Mazer, I can't seem to come up with a satisfactory response. Maybe it's because he is so slick and confident. Or maybe it's because I find him so attractive; I know I wouldn't be able to control myself with him.
I can't say why, but I take a quick look over at Gale.
He's talking to Starla again.
My stomach twists with disappointment. I glance back to Mazer, and it hits me. Why should I be afraid of losing control with him? My life has been hard enough the past few years. It can't really be so wrong to enjoy the attentions of a man who actually finds me attractive and who treats me like more than a pretty face and nice body. Why should I spend all my time mooning over Gale, who would rather flirt with a walking STD than give me the time of day?
I grab Mazer's drink and walk back to him with new, rebellious resolution.
I hand Mazer his drink, and he surprises my by putting his hand on my hip and slowly pulling me closer before taking the proffered bottle of beer. He gives me a slow sideways grin, and my breath catches in my throat. "So what do you say, honey? You still haven't answered my question."
I hesitate for a split second, and my eyes flit involuntarily towards Gale. He's actually kissing Starla.
I turn away quickly, bile rising in my throat. "Yes," I say, before I can change my mind.
"What?" Mazer says in surprise.
"Yes, I'll go out with you," I say clearly, looking into his eyes.
"Well, I'll be damned," he answers, a dazzling smile lighting up his face. I can't help but laugh. We set up a time and place for our date, and it isn't until I've laughingly convinced him that I do in fact, really want to go out with him that I look back at Gale.
He's gone.
So is the bottle of whiskey.
And Starla.