***Congratulations to user BDB84! She was randomly selected from my contest to become Katniss' new stylist in this new chapter. Happy Catching Fire week, everyone!
I'm ready for the hostility I'm assuming is imminent, since I'm ordinarily programmed to despise anyone unfamiliar, especially if I meet them here, and the ache in my heart for Cinna seems to stab me with every breath. I'm prickly that they could ever assume, or even try, to replace him, after all he did for me. What I'm not prepared for is the weight of the sadness that hits me, full-bore, as I realize, looking up and with utter finality, that he is gone. I thought I knew this, but I only really know it when a stylist enters who is mine, and it is not him. This stylist, in fact, looks about as far from Cinna as I could get. I assess her coolly, not moving from my perch in this uncomfortable gown, feet dangling. She enters slowly, as though determined not to spook me. The first thing I notice is her hair; though as flaxen as Prim's—another stab—it's draped over one shoulder in a long, careful braid, like mine. Even braided, it descends almost as far as her waist. She's slender, maybe Johanna's age or a little older, with open, calmly assessing eyes that meet mine without trepidation. She's taller than me, but not by much, and I take in on my first glance that she's wearing some kind of high, laced brown boots not unlike the pair I wore in the first arena, only with stacked heels that add a few more inches to the few she already has on me. She's dressed in straight, simple chocolate-colored pants made from some cottony material and a silky, draped shirt patterned with pink blooms and with long, flowing sleeves, open to her waist in the back and then tied in a neat bow. Her golden eyelashes are long and lush like Peeta's. The only concession I can see to Capitol fashion trends are elaborate tattoos of what look from here like fish in shades of blue and green and turquoise on the inside of each wrist. Her hand with makeup has been extremely light. Despite the long pants and the drape of the shirt, I can tell she's strong, wiry.
This is as far as I get before there's a tremendous CLANG that makes me leap about a mile off the table, and then the fashionable stylist with the lovely hair who isn't Cinna is sprawled at my feet, hands covering her face. I jump off the table, not because I'm feeling particularly gracious—in fact, I'm ashamed that I feel a bit smug—but because I can't not extend her a hand. I'm trying unsuccessfully to conceal the smirk I can feel on my lips. A muffled voice sounds from between her hands.
"That was not how I planned on meeting you," she mumbles. Then she removes her hands and scowls, not at me, but at her feet. "It's these damn boots. I can't walk with heels." Almost violently, she begins to yank on the laces. My eyebrows must rise into my hair, but she yanks them off angrily with savage satisfaction and I see her blinking back tears. I don't know what to do with this information and, as her bare feet, toenails painted a careful shade of lilac, emerge, I begin to laugh. Some of it must be stress, but I can't stop myself. She looks up, face flushed, but when she sees I'm not laughing at her she smiles wryly. I hold my stomach and laugh and laugh. The whole situation is so ridiculous. Me naked in this gown in the Capitol, mourning all my dead friends, some stylist girl splayed beneath my feet like a subject in a king's court. My eyes are watering and my chest hurts by the time I can stop myself. She's gotten to her feet and extends her hand as I calm down, little giggles still bubbling up.
"I'm Brandi, and I'm sorry," she says. Her voice is deep for a girl, and calm.
"You're awfully clumsy!" I giggle. I can't help myself.
"I know," she says, looking a little embarrassed. She looks at her bare toes and wiggles them. "But I think that will help." I look down and start laughing again. This time she laughs too. I take a deep breath and finally stop. In a way, I'm glad she tripped, because I've been able to swallow the bitterness in my throat in the interim, and somehow, some way, it's made me like her more.
"So, I bet you're thrilled to see me," she tells me, and I shake my head. "Not really," I say honestly. "I've had enough of this to last a lifetime."
She nods seriously. "I know. We're going to take it nice and easy today, if that's okay with you."
"Sounds great," I say honestly. Nice and easy is about all I can handle.
"I think your prep team probably let you know that we still have a lot of clothing that your previous stylist left behind for you," she tells me. I bite back the ache again and nod. "We'll be using some of that today. I'd like some input from you on what you feel comfortable wearing. I'm thinking we should probably pick something that reflects your District a bit, give some reference to the fact that you're back at home in something more or less resembling your own life. Peeta's stylist will be taking the same approach."
This sounds divine to me. I wasn't looking forward to being primped and prodded into one of Effie's uncomfortable dresses and high heels, a face full of makeup. As though she's reading my thoughts, my new stylist adds, "We'll go light on the makeup, too, I think." She tips my chin up with one hand and smiles. "You have lovely eyes."
"Thanks?" I say. I'm used to things like this coming from Peeta, but that's about it. She crosses to the corner of the room where some kind of rack on wheels has been inconspicuously placed. I didn't notice it until now, when she whips off the cloth cover and instantly, I catch my breath, because Cinna is right there in the room with me. I can almost feel his warm hands on my shoulders, the comfort of these clothes. Fitted, tailored red pants that cling tightly and zip up my calves. A thin black shell with little straps meant to be worn under a soft, elbow length button-down shirt, threaded with tiny red pinstripes and open at my throat. Black wrap made from some heavy, ribbed material that drapes artfully over one shoulder and pins at the joint. And boots such as I've never seen, red boots with black leather trim that lace to my knees over the pants. I can see immediately how these clothes reflect the simpler fabrics of District 12, but also how they are different, how they will conform to my body in places but still be comfortable and allow me to breathe. The pants are really quite spectacular. My stylist must see me smiling because she begins to take items down and carry them over to me.
"I brought a few other things over"—indeed, I see several other items of clothing hanging on the rack—"but I thought we'd try this first." She helps me dress as I struggle with the form-fitting pants for a minute, kneels to lace up the boots, arranges the wrap over my shoulder and, smiling, produces my pin from a pants pocket. I blink. Last I saw it, it was pinned to my Mockingjay outfit, but here it is once more. She affixes it to close the wrap and then turns me by my shoulders to face a long mirror. My hair is still loose and my face free from makeup, but the outfit has the desired effect. In it I feel stronger, but still like myself. It gives me just enough of a shield to face the Capitol as more than the girl who only wants to hole up in Peeta's arms and cry, but not so much that I feel like a puppet. The shirt is as soft as a kitten, with a homey, worn-in feel.
"Gorgeous," she echoes behind me, and I nod.
She opts to pull my hair into a version of her own, a braid that drapes to one side instead of my usual one down my back, and sprays it with something to make it shiny. For the first time, as she pulls a palette of little bottles and jars and flat cases from a vanity, I have a say in what I want on my face, vetoing a lipstick she favors until we agree on something more subtle, helping determine what shade of auburn eyeliner will help my eyes stand out. Unlike Cinna, she tries on one color, lets me look, and then erases it to try on something else. It's refreshing. Despite myself, I like her. She's talkative but businesslike, and eschews the superficial Capitol chatter I'm used to from my preps.
"I was terrified again that I'd get some stuck-up Capitol fashion plate," I admit, as she carefully outlines my eyelids.
"I'm not from here," she tells me, her eyes meeting mine in the mirror. "I came here after the war. I spent years watching the Games and I was inspired to learn their tricks. I made all my own clothes back home. When I had the chance to come here and work, I snapped it up. The fabrics they let you work with here are like nothing I'd ever have been able to afford at home, even saving up."
I'm surprised, and this lends itself to a lot of questions.
"Where are you from? You're making your own clothes? Why…didn't they ask me to wear yours?" What I almost ask is, "Why aren't I wearing your clothes?" but I catch myself, because it feels disloyal to Cinna and given the choice, I'm pretty sure I would pick his, anyways.
"I do, yes," she says, stopping adjusting my makeup for a moment to answer. "Although I'm studying under someone else here to learn more. There are few opportunities these days to really exercise skill in styling, now that the Games are over, for a wider audience. I guess my mentor must trust me a lot, to send me in to see you." The implications of this make me grin, despite myself—she implies it's more than just my status that makes me daunting.
"I'd like to see your work," I tell her, and it slips out of my mouth before I can stop it. She laughs. "Maybe," she says. "We'll see. Cinna left you plenty for your address and for dinner later tonight. Although if it's fine with you, I'd just as soon attend dinner. The food in the Capitol is great."
A girl after my own heart, I think.
"Where are you from?" I ask her again.
"District 4, originally," she tells me. "Stay still, I'm almost done." My eyes dart to the fish tattoos and I understand. My mouth is being spectacularly traitorous today because something else blurts out before I can anticipate it.
"Did you know Finnick?" I ask. Her eyes flicker to mine again in the mirror, and I can see the sadness in them.
"I did," she says. "Not well, but I did. He was in the class below mine at school. How he used to make us laugh with the antics he'd pull when the instructors weren't looking." Free and easy Finnick, self-deprecating and sweet. "All the girls would fall all over themselves just to walk next to him for lunch." I smile.
"Done," Brandi says, adding a final touch to my face and stepping back. "What do you think?" I assess myself. The makeup resembles a bit the makeup that I used to have in the first Games, when Cinna didn't want to make me too unrecognizable. It's just enough to enhance my features, but not too much. My skin is smoother, my eyes a little deeper, my hair a little silkier. She's expertly and swiftly covered up the majority of the burn tissue that still mars my jawline and neck from that final blast, but not so thickly that it's invisible. I guess she thinks it's good for everyone to see that I'm still healing, like them, in all sorts of ways.
"I think your mentor was right to trust you," I tell her, and I see her flush a bit. "I'm glad you're satisfied," she says, a little brusquely, I think to cover up her pleasure at the compliment. "The other stylists should be finishing up now."
I hear the doors, sure enough, begin to swing on their hinges. All of a sudden I miss Peeta. "Can I go see the others now?"
"Sure," she says, "The stylists will be coming with you to the shoot in another car, so I'll be seeing more of you later on today."
"Okay," I say, and she throws me another lovely smile before I exit through the swinging doors to find Peeta. She's no Cinna, but of course, no one will ever replace Cinna.
Peeta's outfit resembles mine, only his pants are black and he wears a red shirt, sleeves carefully but casually rolled up, his hair tousled but obviously styled so as to appear windswept, the curls more defined than usual. He kisses my cheek when I approach him. "What do you think of your new stylist?" I ask him, but before he can answer, Lyme is emerging through the front door as Johanna, looking gorgeous in shades of mahogany and deep amber and russet patched pants, emerges from another door, her wide eyes made wider by some makeup trick. Haymitch bangs his open in quick succession, although it doesn't look to me like he's acquiesced to much besides being slapped into a clean pair of pants and a collared shirt and having himself bathed and his hair brushed. He too wears fire tones—deep orange and charcoal black, like us.
"We're on a schedule," Lyme reminds us, and unbelievably, I wish it were Effie's dulcet tones, instead, trying to corral our unruly group. Beetee's wandered in, and as the room begins to crowd with us and our new stylists—who, of course, I can't differentiate—I crane my neck around, trying to see who we're missing. The top of Gale's tall head begins to break through towards us, but I see him turned, appearing to be in conversation with someone else. I stand on my tiptoes, but Peeta recognizes her before I can, because I hear his happy intake of breath.
"Annie! Hey, Annie!" he calls happily, and as if by some unspoken signal, the crowd parts. Annie Cresta emerges. Her dark hair falls in smooth, rippling waves to the small of her back, cascading over a simple, long dress of deep sea green tied at the waist with a gorgeously embroidered belt, layered with a long, knit shawl of cobalt blue. Her eyes grow questioning for a moment—I see that Gale's arm has been guiding her out—but when she sees us, they clear and she cocks her head, as though listening to something we can't hear. Everything seems to freeze for just a second, but Peeta, being Peeta, is holding out his arms happily, and finally her silver slipper-clad feet move her forward and she accepts the embrace, tentatively at first and then more fully. I see her whisper something to Peeta and he nods, taking her by the shoulders gently and whispering something back. I look up to see everyone smiling just at her presence. I think again how much I miss Finnick and how much I'd love to see their baby.
"Congratulations on the baby," I address her. "Thank you," she says, almost shyly, twisting her hands nervously in front of her. "Feeling okay about today?" I ask.
She chews at the side of her cheek and her brow knits together, and I hope I haven't tripped some unseen wire, but she surprises me and says, very seriously, "I'm going to hug you now, okay?"
"Okay," I agree, and when she steps in to hug me, she smells like seagrass and lavender and that soft curtain of dark hair enfolds me. We stand together and just breathe, in and out. She doesn't let go, and neither do I. I close my eyes. In and out. In and out. As though we're drawing strength from this simple moment. Though I know we're running late, no one speaks, or even moves. We pull away together, and I touch her cheek lightly with two fingers. She puts two fingers on top of mine, and then says again, "Okay."
This kicks everyone into action, and in a finely-dressed rush, all of us begin to queue towards the door. Peeta takes my hand and holds on to me. It takes me a minute to realize this might be more for him than for me. I want to ask him about the past few hours, tell him about my new stylist, but there's so much commotion getting the crowd of Victors out the door, the stylists following behind to their own car. I don't recognize anyone in the crowd of stylists, but then, a lot of Capitol people died in the war too, especially the ones associated with the Victors. We file into another long, black car idling outside the building, and I'm getting nervous again, though Lyme reassures us it's a shorter ride this time to the park where we'll be shooting our propos. No one has coached us on what we'll be saying; there's been no elaborate staging beforehand, like I'm used to. The camera people must be there already. I feel a stab for yet more people killed in the war. Castor, eaten by the pack of lizard mutts that took Finnick from us, deep under the streets of the city that we're driving over. My breathing begins to quicken. Peeta doesn't notice right away, and I'm sure that this is because he's fighting his own demons—what we saw as we fought our way towards the Capitol were not the only things buried under the city. Gale does though, probably because he remembers it, like I do. I see him mouth the words at me.
"It's not real."
He's right, I remind myself. I swallow and nod back, mouthing the word "thanks." His eyes look troubled for me still, so I mouth, "I'm okay." I'm safe now. That's over now. The horrors in those tunnels have been razed, the mutts eradicated forever. But it was real, and that's the part I can't let go, always lugging the past around like a giant boulder on my back. I begin to bite the insides of my lips until they bleed. I refocus on Peeta, who needs me too. I lean into him and kiss his neck quickly. This is what brings Peeta back, the way he's always been quieted from nightmares by my mere presence. He turns to me and his response begins to have that effect on me, too. I brush his hair out of his eyes and he even gives me a smile. I feel a little guilty with Gale sitting right across from us, but I'm not forgetting Peeta this morning with me in the bathroom as I struggled to choke back the rest of my stomach.
"You okay?" I ask him quietly.
"Nope," he says. At least one of us is honest. I squeeze his hand, because there's nothing I can really say to change that, no words of comfort. Surprisingly, it's Annie who lifts his spirits, not me.
"Peeta," she calls from her seat next to Gale, "Are you still painting?" He turns to look at her open, interested face and I can feel his body next to me as it relaxes the tiniest bit. He's smiling to her as he talks about the bakery they're trying to rebuild, and I silently thank her inside my head. I don't know if she's that intuitive or just curious, but it doesn't really matter. Soon we're saved anyways, as the car begins to slow at a curb and then stops. Lyme climbs out, gesturing for all of us to follow. I'm sure Gale and Beetee are used to finding their way around the Capitol now, but the four of us are tense. I see Haymitch take another quick swig from his flask before joining us outside. I begin to look around, taking in my surroundings. There's something that looks like a pavilion rising from the edge of a pond framed with lush willow trees. I can hear birds—not Mockingjays—singing in the bushes. A smooth green expanse of lawn extends in all directions, intersected with loops of a rock-lined pathway that wanders under the trees. I notice flowerbeds, no doubt planted for spring, everywhere, arbors covered with vines. At my feet, poking up from one of the beds, are the first spring flowers—crocuses. It's a lovely location, but I only see it peripherally, because in the distance—I could spot her vine tattoos from a mile away, and there he is, climbing into that old insect shell—are Cressida and Pollux, setting up equipment under the pavilion. I drop Peeta's hand without a thought and then I'm taking off over the lawn, my boots gripping the ground as I move through space without thinking. Pollux turns just in time to catch me. He's laughing, a sound that's much different coming from the mouths of Avoxes, but unmistakable. Cressida is beaming at me. Pollux actually picks me up, lifting me in the air in front of him, and when he puts me down, I kiss his cheek and he blushes. I reach for Cressida and she hugs me tightly.
"How are you, Katniss?" she exclaims. "We were excited to learn we were seeing all of you again today!" The others are still catching up as I realize that this is something that at least some of them already knew. I have a moment of annoyance that no one filled me in, but it's swept away by my gladness at seeing them here after so long—more friendly faces. Pollux has one hand on my shoulder and I reach back and squeeze it.
"I'm having a little bit of a hard time, being here," I admit to her. "It makes it easier to see people I know, though."
Pollux taps me and then gestures towards Cressida and himself, and nods in agreement. "We don't like it much, either," she confirms. "It's a bit easier to shoot out in the districts, but of course, we wouldn't miss the chance to see you again, and the President thought it might be easier to have people you know around to shoot these new propos, of course." When I realize she'll be directing me, I instantly stop caring what the content of the propos is, because Cressida knows me, knows how to work with me to get the footage they need, when to step back. Cressida has power in this way.
The others have caught up and though Johanna, Haymitch, Annie and Beetee give friendly waves and nods as they approach, Gale and Peeta approach side-by-side. Peeta shakes Pollux' hand warmly while Gale hugs Cressida. Of course, they were there too—the last remaining members of Squad 451, standing under this pavilion, as a reunion. And though so many of us didn't make it out of that final, nightmarish trek underground, we did, and I'm suddenly so grateful to be standing among them, between Gale and Peeta, both of whom I was sure I would lose. I remember the terror vividly. I turn to look behind me and Lyme is standing, arms crossed but smiling, waiting us out. I mouth a thank you to her, too, and she surprises me by winking back. Gale and Peeta switch greetings, and once everyone's been properly reintroduced again, Lyme lets us know that of course, Cressida will be directing us this afternoon. Each of us will be asked to talk for about twenty minutes, and this will be edited down. Peeta and I will give an additional interview together. Extra camerapeople are arriving so we can shorten the shoot by doing several interviews at once, but Cressida has been given the helm of the shoot. The idea is simple—we're asked to talk about our lives after the war, being back in our districts, and the new government. Lyme interjects here.
"Try to stress the differences between the old and new governments, please. Don't mention specific policies that we've discussed in our meetings, as many of those details are for private record, but you can speak more generally." She turns pointedly towards our little group of four, who have coalesced together again without my noticing. I doubt she's too concerned with Peeta, so it's really Johanna, Haymitch and I who she's addressing. "Keep in mind the seriousness of our first chance to have you communicate with the Capitol citizens after the upheaval. What you say today has weighty political capital after your high-visibility positions in the war. We will not ask you to do this frequently, but we will ask you to do it right today." There's a note of warning in her voice that's new so far today. I suspect she's willing to threaten us with re-shoots if we can't get it together, and as none of us wants to extend our stay here, it benefits us to behave ourselves the first time around, which I'm sure they realize. Johanna's looking underwhelmed but she manages to resist an eye-roll. Haymitch looks as surly and uncompromising as ever, and an irresistible urge to mock him begins to bloom in me when I remember how he always got to be behind the camera during my shoots, helping to order me around and get me in line, laughing at my inability to fake emotion. I'm glad Fulvia and Plutarch haven't been invited to this particular party. I don't think that's an accident.
"Dance, puppets," I hear Johanna mutter under her breath. I poke her boot with mine in the grass. I'm on the receiving end of the eye-roll this time.
"Try to be relaxed," Lyme continues. "This is supposed to be an informal shoot. Our aim is to let the citizens of the Capitol know that you're still invested in the success of the country and the rebuilding, and that you share some of their experiences and concerns."
"And to make the new government look good," adds Haymitch.
"Or at least not to make it look bad," counters Lyme. "I urge you all to remember that there is very little chance you would even be standing here to talk about it, if the old government was still in place." Can't argue that. I rarely think about this reality, but she's not wrong. The plan was for me to die in the Quell, after all.
"Any questions?" Annie has picked a purple crocus and is dreamily pulling the petals off one by one. Gale looks impatient.
"You reserve the right to not answer questions that make you uncomfortable," Lyme says, looking at him. I wince, inwardly, thinking about which questions exactly they would be, for Gale.
"Let's get started," Cressida says, and the camerapeople lined up behind her leap into action. Johanna, Gale, Annie and I are swept away. I have time for a quick hug with Peeta before I am tugged under the pavilion. Annie is led towards the pond under the willows, and I see Johanna pointing towards a bench set up by a path in the distance. I notice that the corner of the park we're in is either strikingly underpopulated, or it must be cordoned off somehow, because none of us see any citizens wandering in or out. Gale moves away too, and I lose sight of all of them as I am seated and arranged into position, my hands clasped in my lap. I try to remind myself not to twist them together nervously. Lights in the corners are positioned and I notice that at some point Brandi must have arrived, because she steps in quickly to adjust my hair, and smiles at me. "Looking good, Katniss," she tells me.
"Alright, Katniss, Pollux will be shooting you and Peeta, since we wanted to keep you especially with someone you'd know," Cressida says. Notoriety has its perks.
"I'm going to start with some simple questions," she says. "You let me know if you need a break, okay?" I nod nervously. My stomach is roiling. I'm glad this is before lunch, and before my speech, so I have time to get my mind in order. It's been awhile since I've been asked to perform, but my crew, of course, knows this.
"Now, what's changed for you since you returned to District 12 after the war?" Cressida asks me, and the red light blinks on, and I begin to talk.
It's easier than I think it will be. Peeta sits by Brandi behind the camera to watch, and I focus on them when I get stuck. I talk about going home, about the rebuilding crew—the higher-ups will love that—the freedom to spend time in my woods without threats, and of course, living with Peeta in our house. I can only imagine the sighs and tears this will invoke around Panem, but I can't keep the happiness out of my voice as I watch him smile behind the camera.
"Also, the food has gotten a lot better!" I blurt out, and I see Brandi laugh. It's true, we've gotten a lot more food since the war has ended, even with the shortages and the trouble with transportation. This new government is much more invested in their population not starving to death. They can't really afford to lose more of us, anyways.
After this, Cressida fields me a harder question.
"What's it like, not having everyone from your original district around?" She is careful not to mention my sister, but I know this question implies Gale, his family, my mother. I swallow hard. I wish there were a big clock—this is the first and last time I will ever wish for a big clock, I think ironically—counting down the minutes until this is over. I take a minute to answer and all is quiet. Far in the distance, I hear Johanna speaking. Cressida and Pollux wait. I see Peeta nodding silently to me. You can do this, it says.
"Hard, of course," I begin to speak. "I miss…a lot of people. It's not the same. We knew it wasn't going to be the same. But…" I feel my face almost begin to crumple and I will it to stay composed, "We know we're not the only ones who have lost people they love in this war. Everyone's going to have to heal, I guess. What we did had to be done."
Cressida mercifully switches subjects then, and asks how the new government compares to the old. I behave myself, mentioning the new rights guaranteed the citizens, the lack of starving kids. I don't mention the elimination of the Hunger Games because I'm not sure if I'm allowed to speak about it, but I do mention how much I'm looking forward to not having a Reaping this year. I talk about the relief at having slipped loose from Snow's regime.
"And what do you want to say to all the people who are watching you now, who have been wondering how you are all this time?" she follows up, and I sense this is the end.
I think carefully for a moment.
"I feel your pain," I say simply. "Really, I do. But it's a little less every day for me, just a little less, and I hope it is for you, too."
"That's a wrap," says Cressida, the light blinks off, and I exhale and lean forward to put my head in my hands.
"That was exhausting," my voice is muffled through them. Indeed, I feel suddenly wasted, as though they've taken everything I have.
"You did great," says Brandi, and then Peeta is there, pulling me onto his lap for a minute as we rest. Without Gale there I'm more comfortable slumping into his closeness and he cradles me gently. "She's right, you know," he says to me. "On the next one we'll go together, after I'm done." I dread having to do this again, but it will undoubtedly be easier with Peeta there. More joy, too.
I take his place behind the camera as what must be his stylist—a woman with brown skin and a severe, geometric haircut and bright red lipstick—comes forward to turn him towards the camera. She has an easy manner about her, teasing him about the curls that keep falling in his eyes and the girls who will swoon over them. I think she's a fine match for Peeta's easiness. He begins to talk and like always, it's smooth, calm, and funny. He tells stories about living with Buttercup and how I can swing a sledge "just like a man," to knock down buildings in the square. He talks about baking, painting, our book project. As always, I'm envious of this ease, his rapport.
His interview seems to go fast. Pollux hands out bottles of water to all of us as he rises, stretches, and comes over to sit by me. Looking at the shadows under his eyes, I know that even for him, these interviews are taxing. I lean my head on his shoulder.
"We'll take a rest for a bit, shall we?" says Cressida. "We're on time, anyways. After this, we'll have a bit to eat before you move on through the rest of your day." She and Peeta's stylist and the camerapeople all sit on the grass a little ways away from us, chatting amiably.
"Our big, big, big day," I whisper softly.
I wonder where lunch will be, since I don't remember being given a location. After that are mental health check-ins, which I'm dreading, but I can't think that far ahead today. I need to focus on each thing at a time, otherwise I feel like I might go crazy. At least I'm a little hungry, though.
Without warning, a huge yellow missile shoots between our two groups and Cressida shrieks. I jump to my feet, my hand flying to my shoulder automatically looking for an arrow, of course. Only Peeta is calm, and he whistles.
"Come, boy!" I lower my hand and sigh exasperatedly, because sure enough, there's Johanna loping across the grass towards us, her laughter leading, as her giant yellow dog bounds up to Peeta and leaps on him with such force, trying to lick his face, that Peeta's bad leg wobbles and he almost goes down. I grab his arm to steady him.
"Johanna, control this animal, please," I groan. The dog is whining and pressing his nose into Peeta's hand, getting yellow fur all over the bottom of my pants. Pollux surprises me and stands up, smiling and holding out his hand. Mutt changes direction and storms towards him. Johanna flops down beside us, chewing on a piece of grass.
"How did your dog get here?" I ask her, wrapping a protective arm around Peeta's waist.
Johanna averts her eyes for a second, and when she speaks, I know she's not telling me the whole story. "I mentioned him to someone, and they thought it would add a bit of color to my propo, you know. He is colorful." She recovers and smirks at both of us.
"Yeah, yellow," I groan, trying to brush fur off us both to no avail. I know Johanna well enough to know what she's not saying—they've brought Mutt over especially because she was having trouble performing for their cameras. From the way she avoids the subject, I suspect it's out of anxiety rather than fury. But whoever's idea it was, it was a good one. Johanna is indeed much calmer around her dog in just about any circumstance. She pulls a bit of something out of her pocket and he runs over and grabs it, flopping on the grass to chew.
"Aren't you two DONE yet?" she asks us, as the camerapeople begin to rise and stretch. "I've just finished up, and the others are done too now, I think." I glance over to see Gale sitting on a stump by the pond with Annie, who's picking flowers from the edge of the water and weaving them into a chain that grows longer as I watch. I don't see Beetee or Haymitch anywhere but I guess she means them, too.
"How'd Haymitch do?" I can't help but ask. She shakes her head and looks down at the dog, avoiding the question. "He couldn't exactly drink through the entire thing." I make a mental note to check on him as soon as we're done.
"They say someone is bringing food over here, though," she says. "Before we have to head over to their bullshit check-ins." She puts this last word in air-quotes as though it's a concept they've made up entirely. "That reminds me." She pulls a small silver box from one pocket, expertly flips it open with one thumb, and produces a small blue pill like the one she gave me this morning. She pops it into her mouth, swallows, and grins a sharklike grin. "Of course, I'm going to be so high by the time I get there that everything will be a-okay." I worry when Johanna relies too much on the Capitol's drugs, although I understand it entirely, but I see her point. Her baseline state is utter hostility and contempt, and it's bad news for all of us, though mostly her, if she goes into this appointment radiating those emotions. At best, it'll keep us all here longer, at worst, they might decide she needs some sort of drastic measures taken, even though as far as I can tell, she's doing pretty damn great, all things considered.
"Ooo, goody, I get to watch you snuggle up on camera again," she smirks at me. "I haven't seen enough of that in my life so I'm so glad I'll get to fix the deficit." I sigh. I'm sick of shooting anyways, but having Johanna behind us making faces isn't going to make it any easier…though it might make it more fun, I suppose.
"Can't you take your dog to fetch a stick or something?" I ask her.
"Now why would I do that, when there's so much fun happening here, brainless?" she retorts, and I can't help but grin. She takes a seat and Peeta and I are led back over to our seat. We begin next to one another, but Peeta scoops me into his lap to Cressida's approving nods, and we begin. She asks us questions about how we've grown together since moving back home, what challenges we've had to face—I have to let Peeta answer this one, because when I swallow to answer I hear a click in my throat, thinking of last night, and my eyes begin to burn in a way that signals tears are close at hand. I train my eyes on Johanna, and far from interfering, she nods reassuringly to me, one hand stroking her dog as the other gives me a thumbs-up. Cressida asks about our house and I brighten, because that's something about home that I love and I'm excited by the very thought of being back. Every now and then, I kiss Peeta's cheek. It's so funny how natural this all seems at this point, even in front of Capitol cameras. It used to feel so stilted, false and uncomfortable all the time—which for me, it was—but now it's reassuring, holding on to Peeta, listening to him unspool our story. I feel a strange emotion inside me that I can't place, until I realize it's some alien feeling of glad anticipation, not just for us, but for the people who will see this propo—people across Panem who I know have been cheering us on. This seems uncharacteristic and I try to push the thought away, but behind it glows a reality I can't deny—we have made it. Through all of it, we have made it out, against all the odds, and we've found and kept each other, and I am, with Peeta, happier than I dared to think I could be, no matter what scars from the war and the Games we still bear.
With Peeta, the time goes faster, and before I know it, Cressida calls, "That's a wrap!" Then, almost deliriously pleased with herself, she sings out, "Oh, Panem will love to see the two of you together again!" For a moment she sounds more like Effie than herself, but I realize that for her to get the scoop of resurrecting the Victors must be quiet a professional achievement.
"Soooo cute, I'm crying on the inside," Johanna calls as soon as the light blinks off.
A new black car arrives soon after we finish, loaded with baskets containing thick ham and roast beef sandwiches, fruit, tea, crackers, cheese, carrot sticks, more water. My stomach is rumbling as a delicious smell wafts from them as they're deposited near the benches lining the pavilion. I remember that it's been awhile since I've eaten, being as how breakfast made its reappearance almost immediately. I see Gale offer Annie a hand up as the two of them notice the trucks and move towards the rest of us. Other camera teams begin to filter towards us, and I see Beetee chatting animatedly with one of them as he shows off something on his camera. I have no idea where Lyme had gone, but she, too, shows up, talking into a small, flat, square metal phone with a glass cover—something about a time crunch—and sounding worn. Haymitch is the sole figure that does not appear, as I scan the park rapidly with my eyes.
"Lyme, where's Haymitch?" I ask, forgetting to use her title and rudely interrupting her conversation. She shakes her head at me, raising a hand. Impatiently, I bounce on my feet as the others begin to distribute food for all of us. Peeta moves up to get sandwiches for both of us, and he, Johanna, Annie and Gale take a seat together in the sun. Peeta keeps throwing little glances back to me as I wait impatiently. It seems to take forever, but finally the Vice President hangs up her call.
"Where's Haymitch?" I ask again. She looks me up and down and then says, "Why don't you eat something first, and then we'll go get him." It's phrased as a command, not a question. I'm beginning to get worried since everyone else seems to be here, but as though she's reading my thoughts, Lyme adds, "He has someone keeping an eye on him, Katniss. Give me some credit." Seeing no alternative, I nod and move to sit with the others, and Peeta hands me half a roast beef. I immediately dig in, but I can't stop myself from asking, mouth full, "Does anyone know where Haymitch is?"
"They were going to shoot him after I finished," Annie says dreamily. She's wearing the daisies she was weaving around her neck, like a necklace, and picking pieces out of a roll. Her feet are bare. "But I went to talk to Gale and didn't see."
Gale looks around, noticing Haymitch's absence. "That's strange," he says.
"Lyme told me he was off somewhere but she won't take me to find out what's up until after I eat," I say, wolfing down the other half of my sandwich to finish faster.
It's Johanna who speaks.
"Couldn't do it," she says shortly, filling in her offhand comment about his drinking from before. I don't ask how she knows this, or what he couldn't do, since I know the answer. Her eyes have gone flat and dangerous again. Seeing him not appear has clearly solidified whatever her doubts were from before. The others look at her and fall silent, but she merely shrugs and picks up an apple, taking a deep, vicious bite. Her other hand opens the pouch at her waist expertly and begins flipping that knife blade open and closed, open and closed again.
A million questions run through my head as we mull this over in silence, and although the food tastes great and the warm sun feels wonderful as I sit with Peeta and the others, I jump to my feet the second I finish. "I've gotta go find him," I say.
"Do you want me to go?" Peeta asks immediately. I shake my head. Who knows what I'll find when I get there.
"It might be better if it's just me," I tell him, and he nods. Lyme sees me standing impatiently, craning my neck around, and I see her speak quietly to Pollux, sitting near her and listening to the animated conversation bouncing around. He nods. She speaks and he nods again, and then stands and walks over to me. Offering me his hand, I take it and we begin to walk. I want to ask him where we're going, what's going on, but Lyme waves a hand at our backs and so I turn around and move away. Pollux can't answer my questions. He squeezes my hand, though, and we begin to cross the vast expanse of lawn, the sounds below us slowly quieting as we put distance between the others and ourselves. It's only when I hear the unmistakable raised, growling shout that I know so well coming from a clump of trees a few hundred yards ahead of us that I drop Pollux' hand and break into a run.