When I reach him he's lying flat on his back on the grass, eyes closed, muttering something to himself under his breath. A tall young man halfway dressed in his cameraman insect shell stands beside him. He can't be much older than me, and he looks tired. I don't blame him. Lying next to Haymitch is not one, but two silver flasks, their caps unscrewed, and I have plenty of experience dealing with Haymitch when he's loaded. I'm torn between disgust and a species of exhausted pity. Really, did I think any of us were going to sail through this untouched?
I'm not sure what question to ask first. What happened? rises in my throat, but really, the answer to that seems self-evident. Finally I settle on something trivial.
"Where did he get that other flask from?" I query. The young man shrugs helplessly. I wonder why he hasn't tried to pick Haymitch up and get him over to where the rest of us are. Maybe getting some food into him would help mediate the effects of the alcohol. But apparently I haven't given him enough credit, because when I lean down and reach for Haymitch's arm his eyes fly open and the knife I hadn't even identified speeds out from under his coat and fluidly stabs the ground between my feet. I have a second to wonder if his aim is bad or if he was just trying to drive me off. I stop, hand halfway extended.
"I'm out of this nonsense," snarls Haymitch, his voice unsteady. I remain silent, as this is rather general. I raise my eyebrows at him but I don't know that he even notices it. His eyes are stormclouds of rage and bitterness even behind the haze of booze.
"I didn't sign up for this!" Haymitch howls ineffectually. "I came for you!" He unleashes a torrent of expletives, I don't know if at me, at the Capitol, or for no reason at all. "I've spent how many years being dragged back here! Now I'm supposed to…supposed to…what do they expect me to say?"
This gives me pause. Really, what DO they expect Haymitch to say? We've all been instructed to talk about our lives. For Peeta and I, that means growing together, living together, working together. For Johanna it means her dog, her solitude, peace and quiet, us. For Gale and Beetee, it's all about rebuilding, making things new again. Annie has a child. Haymitch? Haymitch is where Haymitch has always been, drinking himself into oblivion to try to forget the family he lost, the terrible things he's done, and the Tributes he mentored only to watch them die, year after year, in the Games. Haymitch has no lover, no child, no pet, no lovely story of change and growth to tell the cameras. He only has the ability to get out of bed most mornings, to occasionally sit down for a meal with the only people in his life that matter at all—us. Change came early in the lives of Peeta, Johanna, Annie, Gale and I. By the time change came for Haymitch, he had already given up. What did they expect?
"You don't have to say anything," I tell him.
"Oh, yes, I do!" he snaps. "I have to bow down with gratitude that they've rescued me, describe my new life in this wonderful government." His voice drips a sneer with every syllable. The cameraman winces.
"No, you don't," I tell him firmly. "They'll just have to do without."
He glares dolefully at me. "Right, so we can move on to some other space where I can spill all my turmoil, pour out all my troubles and sorrows and be healed, isn't that right, Mockingjay?"
Mental health check-ins. Shit.
"Can we just do this one step at a time? Come on, Haymitch, pull it together, let's get all this crap done today so we can go home." I hope maybe this will motivate him.
"There isn't any home," he mumbles, and rolls over to vomit on the grass.
With the help of the cameraman, I half-carry, half-drag him back to the others. Lyme has sent the camerapeople away ("Of course, Katniss, you'll see your friends at the dinner," she reassures me when I look mutinous) and Annie, Beetee, and Gale have headed over to their own check-in. Peeta and Johanna stand, expectant. Johanna looks utterly unsurprised, Peeta dismayed at Haymitch's condition.
"We have to…" begins Lyme.
"We know!" I snap before she can order us off to the next thing. I'm at a loss, for once, as to what to do with Haymitch. "But don't you think what's happening right now constitutes Haymitch's mental health check-in?"
What a nightmare. Bad dreams, visions, anxiety attacks, substance abuse. Our mental health is worse now than it was three days ago.
Peeta speaks quietly. "Vice President, it might be best for Haymitch if you just let him get some rest right now. I don't think it's going to help to bring him along with us."
"I'm not going anywhere!" Haymitch splutters, and dry-heaves again.
"He shouldn't have been drinking," says Lyme. "Drinking is not perm…."
"We KNOW!" seethes Johanna, that familiar bite in her tone. "Thanks for the update. Do you have any other useful information?" Lyme gives her a warning glance and Johanna glares fearlessly back at her. Lyme stands silent, weighing her options, and when she speaks, she sounds resigned and worn-out. She looks at the cameraman who's still helping me hold Haymitch up, and tells him, "Take him back. And stay with him."
The rest of us are loaded into another car as a half-conscious Haymitch is returned to our house. Wish I was going, I think. Maybe he had the right idea. Peeta looks unsettled about Haymitch.
"Think he'll be okay?" he asks the quiet car. Johanna laughs humorlessly.
Our next stop is even closer to the park than the salon…or maybe it just feels closer because I'm dreading this portion of the day. All three of us are. I feel angry again, unsettled. Peeta has my hand on his lap and is cupping it in both of his.
The building is plain, stark. Barren even, squatting unceremoniously among all the colors and flourishes. It looks like a medical building. The windows are small and spaced far apart. An attendant opens our door once the car rolls to a halt and I reach back for Johanna's hand to pull her out, too. We stand in the happy spring sunshine for one more minute, and then a set of steel doors swings open all on their own for us, and a dark, cool expanse of lobby opens up to us. Potted plants line the grey walls and hard chairs in a futile attempt to make the place seem more homey. The attendant gestures towards the elevator.
"Third floor, please," he says. "Miss Everdeen, you'll be in room 304. Mr. Mellark, 305. Miss Mason…"
"Oh, do call me Johanna, please," snarks Johanna.
"Room 314, if you don't mind," he says.
"I mind," says Johanna.
Nevertheless, we're herded into rooms. Peeta looks worriedly to both of us. Johanna pulls up a hood from inside her jacket and slouches inside. I try to look calm and lean up on my toes to kiss him before we separate. I try to carry the feel of his lips on mine into the room, as my feet feel heavy with dread carrying me over the threshold.
It could be worse. That's the best I can say. I recognize Dr. Aurelius when I enter, so at least it isn't starting over from the beginning. He knows how I operate and what happened to get me to this point, which saves me some talking. I take the old tack I took with Snow and tell the truth, hoping it will shorten the meeting. Yes, things have gotten better. Yes, I'm still having nightmares. Yes, Peeta is helping me deal with it. Yes, I'm working and hunting and having Johanna over to visit. No, I'm not taking my medications. Because I don't like the side effects. Because I forget to take them. Because I don't think they'll help anyways. Because I'm stubborn. Because I've taken more medications in the past three years than I think I should take in a lifetime. Yes, I resent the hell out of having to come back here. He doesn't ask about that. I offer it up anyways.
"If I send you home with medication to help with the nightmares, will you take it?" he asks.
"Probably not," I respond.
"If I call to check in, will you answer the phone?"
"Probably not," I repeat. He looks exasperated.
"I'm fine," I say neutrally. This is only situationally true. I am not fine today. But I am not home today, either. "Being here isn't helping much, but I'm fine at home."
"You've done remarkably well," he says, in a softer voice. "I'm glad to hear about the progress you've made in your relationships and that you've managed to find things to keep you occupied. Have you spoken with your mother?"
This stings. "Not recently," I tell him. I don't really want to get into this. "I'm trying to deal with things one at a time." He nods.
"Look, Katniss," he says after awhile. It feels interminable, this reviewing of my life, detail by detail, treatment options being bandied back and forth. I tell him that physical activity helps, because it does. Peeta, Johanna and even Haymitch do, too. I'm coping. Most days. "I'm aware I can't force you to do anything, especially not from this distance."
"Glad you noticed," I say dryly. My foot is tapping restlessly. Dr. Aurelius is better than some strange new doctor, but doctors are doctors, and I'm definitely jaded about them.
He ignores me. "I'm going to send you home with some medication that will help the anxiety and the nightmares. I want you to think about taking it as needed. I'm going to be calling the first of each month in the evening. If you don't respond to my calls, I'm going to have no choice but to come out to you or have you come here. In the interest of time, stress and expense, I urge you not to let it get to that. We'll continue checking in until such time as I feel you don't need it anymore."
"How negotiable is this?" I ask.
He smiles. "Not."
"Well, am I done then? I want to see if the others are okay." I know he'll like the way this sounds, me and all my human connections, but it's also true. He unlocks a tall cabinet by his desk, rummages through it briefly, and produces two small bottles, which he hands me. I tuck them in my pockets without looking at them. I did what Paylor asked of me. She freely admitted that they couldn't force me to take medications. The phone check-ins might not take too long. Aurelius shakes my hand and then lets me exit, which I do at some speed.
Peeta is out, but Johanna is nowhere to be found. I don't see the others, either, so I'm unsure if they've been taken to another floor or if they haven't yet finished. I join Peeta as he sits on the carpeting against a wall outside the doors. I lie back on the floor with my head in his lap. He plays with my hair and it feels so good. "How'd it go?" I ask.
"It was alright," he replies. "It was one of my old doctors from 13, so it wasn't like I had to go over all the details with someone again."
"Me, too," I said. "They brought Dr. Aurelius."
"He gave me something to help me sleep," Peeta says. "I told him I'd give it a try. I don't like that I'm still waking up and getting…getting physical with you." Peeta's ashamed of this and I can hear the note in his voice. Because of that, he probably will take the medication, I'm guessing.
"Not your fault," I remind him, snuggling my head deeper into the crease at his thigh. I close my eyes. I could sleep here. I wonder idly what time it is, wishing I could calculate what percentage of this day is over. I hear Peeta yawn, too. If Johanna doesn't come out soon, she'll find us both snoring right here in the hallway. We don't talk much about the check-ins, but we don't have to. We both know what's going on with one another, and we have a similar resigned weariness about the interference of Capitol doctors. I silently hope that there comes a day when neither of us will need this anymore. When a new generation of citizens blossoms who doesn't remember the war, doesn't remember the Mockingjay, doesn't need our words of encouragement and speeches and input anymore. I spent my life never thinking I would grow old—so few people did, in 12. Now I'm faced with the hope that maybe, I might. Peeta might.
Thinking about time and change and getting back out of the Capitol, I remember, suddenly. "Peeta!" I start in his lap. "Rue's family is probably here by now!" Peeta smiles to me.
"It was good of Gale, asking them to invite the family for you," he says. It was good of Gale. I think he probably understands just how good, because he knows me. I haven't seen Rue's family since that day on the tour, when all the trouble began. I have no idea how they've fared since the war ended. It's a miracle that all those kids made it out alive. Suddenly I'm nervous. What will I say to them? What will they say to me? Will they resent being dragged from their home and into the Capitol, just to help me get through my day? Suddenly I feel selfish again, like I'm exploiting my social capital to get whatever I want. Before I can ponder this too deeply, the door down the hall opens and Johanna emerges from her meeting. Her face is unreadable.
"Hey," Peeta calls, "How'd it go?"
Johanna closes her eyes like she's gathering herself together and then sighs. "More reminders about my…" she makes air quotes… "instability." I remember how Johanna has continuously been on medication ever since she cut her arm up all those months ago. The ugly scars are still visible at the crook of her elbow. I think Johanna has a natural inclination towards the sedatives they give her, anyways, so perhaps that's why she puts up with the rest. I haven't forgotten the days in the hospital when she used to unhook my morphling drip.
Suddenly she laughs. "They're sending me home with a boxing bag," she says. I only have a reference point for this because they had these bags in the training gym to practice combat. "They think it'll help me express my anger," Johanna tells us. "Like it'll just disappear overnight."
"I wouldn't mind having one of those," I muse.
She rattles a pocket and I hear the pills. "Oh, and lots of drugs. Punching things and drugs. That's the best they can come up with. But hey, they're good drugs."
"Let's get out of here," I tell them, and Peeta and I stand and stretch. "Where are all the others?" As if on cue, we hear voices drifting up the stairs at my feet. We start down and on the second landing, meet up with Gale, Beetee, and Annie. Annie's drifted away again, humming to herself and staring off into the distance. I never know what to do when she does that. Finnick used to. Gale is guiding her arm down the stairs. He and Beetee look nonplussed, and I feel a flicker of…hostility? Jealousy? Disgust? I'm not sure. Some emotion about the fact that they're accustomed to all of these Capitol interventions and mores now; that it's become just an ordinary part of life for them. Especially Gale. It still feels a bit traitorous, but for the first time I understand how he felt when I got sucked into the styling, the tours, the food, the interviews of the Capitol. How I must have seemed like a product created somewhere else instead of the person he thought he knew. As if he can read my thoughts, he catches my eye. I want to avoid his gaze but I'm still thinking about Rue, too.
"Family should be here soon," says Gale. I nod.
"Where now?" I ask no one in particular in response. Gale checks his watch… just an ordinary watch, handsome but plain, which reassures me a bit. "We're early," he says. "I think we're actually heading back to base now. Most of us will just be preparing for dinner later. Katniss, I think you need to go over your speech with someone, and meet with your stylist again." Of course I do.
"Who's going with me to do this speech?" I ask nervously. I know Beetee will be sequestered in a room somewhere behind the scenes, airing it. I overheard Lyme speaking to one of her ministers yesterday saying that it's not required viewing, but it's recommended and it's been highly propagandized. They expect most people are curious enough to watch it anyways. For the first time, I wonder what my mother will think. Like I told Dr. Aurelius, speaking with her has been too much for me to cope with on top of everything else. We used to talk on the phone now and then, but it's been a few months. She and I both go out of our way to keep ourselves busy. We were never close; Prim was the bond that held us together, and without Prim, there's only pain and unsaid things to fill the spaces. I wish it were different, but I'm still trying to learn how to navigate the hole that is Prim. I don't want to reminisce with my mother about her, and our conversations used to peter out quickly after we mentioned the basic details about our lives—her working in District 4 as a healer, tending the many who remain, disfigured from the war and still learning how to breathe, eat, walk, and talk again, me roaming the woods and curling into Peeta each night. I wonder if she'll even watch.
"I'm going," says Peeta. This will be expected. Johanna nods, too.
"I'll be in the Capitol building," says Beetee. "Making sure that you're making it to the rest of Panem."
"I'm meeting my family at base and then Annie and I will head over to watch," Gale exposits. Then he asks abruptly, "Where's Haymitch?"
"Indisposed," says Johanna. I have no idea if Haymitch will sober up enough to be there for my speech, but I kind of hope so.
The desk attendant by the front doors speaks up. "I've called a car for you. It should be here presently." Gale nods a thank you. I wonder if there will be time for a nap before I'm thrown into this next activity. Any bed, even if it's not our bed, beckons at the moment. I check Gale's watch. 15:00. We are early. But somehow I don't think the nap will happen.
Johanna puts her arms around me from behind and rests her chin on my shoulder. Her hands are freezing and I take them in both of mine to warm them. Her cheek presses to mine and I have a moment to be grateful that we're friends now. No one will fill the hole where my sister used to be, but Johanna is the one who will come the closest, I think. Our anger meets in the middle. I remember the time she stripped in the elevator and can feel the smile creep onto my face.
Our car arrives and we pile into it for what feels like the hundredth time that day. Johanna stretches out and puts her head in my lap. She closes her eyes. I remember that she, too, didn't get much sleep last night. We're all running on nothing. At least this is it, really. A speech and a dinner. Tomorrow morning we board the train to return home. The visit hasn't actually been that long, but it feels interminable. We're more than halfway through, though.
I run my hand through Johanna's hair absently, spiking it up further. I have a feeling Johanna misses the touch. She hasn't had her lovers, as far as I know, since we came back. She doesn't really talk about it much. It occurs to me that maybe I should ask her sometime. Peeta's on my other side and my cheek droops onto his shoulder. The ride back to the house will take awhile, again, and lulled by the silence, I begin to drift. By the time we're back, Beetee and Annie have to wake the rest of us. Gale has an imprint of the seat fabric on one cheek. Johanna's drooled into my lap. I make fun of her the whole walk into the house. Payback.
Lyme is waiting for us at the table. The schedules from this morning still lie in front of her. Her ministers are gone, but Fulvia and Plutarch flank her. I see no sign of Haymitch, but Brandi waves to me from a casual repose, leaning against the back of the couch. The rest of the stylists are nowhere to be seen. I wonder about my preps. Surely they'll be needed for this big speech. The final guest in the room is someone I don't recognize. He sits cross legged in the chair next to Plutarch, hands folded neatly in his lap. He's slender, and his dark blue sweater and denim pants match eyes of cobalt blue that regard me with interest under a sweep of cinnamon-colored hair. A pendant of some kind of stone hangs in the open neck of his sweater. I notice that, like me, his nails are bitten to the quick. He inclines his head towards us as we assemble back around the table wordlessly. All of our faces reflect our exhaustion. The primary job my prep team is going to have tonight, I think, is trying to make me look like I'm not decimated by the emotional labor of this day. I hope this meeting is short.
Mercifully, I get this hope. Lyme reviews the remainder of the day's schedule, which is short, confirms that Peeta and Johanna can travel with me to the site of the speech, which is, she reiterates, not in a location that we'll recognize from previous visits. Gale and Annie can join us there once we're set up and ready to go. She smiles when she tells me that Rue's family has indeed arrived and settled into the house where they'll be hosted for the night, and they've been invited to meet us for the speech and the dinner. I can't help but interrupt here.
"How are they?" I ask.
"Doing well," she responds, "I think the children are looking forward to really meeting you." It's true that our only interaction can't properly be called a meeting. Her face softens. "They look good, Katniss. Don't worry." My worry must read on my face. I nod, still anxious. I think that pill Johanna gave me this morning must be wearing off.
"Katniss, you'll have about half an hour for edits, and 45 minutes for prep. Your team should be arriving here shortly," she continues in a businesslike way. "You've probably noticed we have another guest joining us."
The man with the cinnamon hair stands and reaches across the table to shake my hand. His hand is warm and engulfs mine. When he speaks, his voice is low and musical.
"I'm Tristan," he says. "I've been working…"
"He's been working on your speech for tonight with me, Katniss," Plutarch breaks in rudely, looking puffed up and proud. He's been nodding importantly during this entire presentation as though from beginning to end it's been his baby. Maybe it has been. He seems bursting to talk and I have a feeling someone has been instructing him to tone it down for today. The young man takes it all in stride and waits politely. "Oh, they'll be so excited to see their Mockingjay once again!" Fulvia claps her hands. I spare them a glare and then look back to Tristan. "So, you're going to let me make some adjustments?"
"Nothing too severe, of course!" Fulvia bursts. "You must understand…" Lyme waves a hand at her impatiently and she falls silent, looking grouchy.
"Yes, we'll have some freedom to make edits," says Tristan calmly. "If it makes you feel better, it's not going to be a particularly surprising speech."
"Not very long, either," Lyme adds. "Only about thirty minutes." This is still long as far as I'm concerned, but as the schedule had blocked out ninety, I'm still relieved. I hadn't accounted for travel time and set-up, I guess.
"Is anyone else speaking?" I ask.
"Just you, tonight," says Lyme. "We think the propos will cover the rest." Just me, again. I grit my teeth, because that's all I can do.
"If there's no further questions, Katniss and Tristan, you can meet now. The rest of you should be ready to leave by 17:15 on the dot, if you're going. Gale, your family should arrive about then, and by the time you get down there, set-up should be complete." Gale nods and rises. He and Beetee move out of the room and I hear their voices fade away. Fulvia and Plutarch begin talking, and Lyme gathers up her papers. Before she can move away again, I approach her.
"How's Haymitch?" I ask her. She sighs.
"Hopefully he'll sober up by the time you're ready to move out," she says. "I think he's sleeping it off. We did manage to get a shower in there." She says nothing about the missed mental health check-in. I think they might even be at a loss as far as Haymitch goes, with this. Still, I'm glad they're taking care of him as best they can.
"I'll check on him," says Peeta, and he kisses my cheek. I tuck a stray strand of hair behind his ear and think about how we'll get to lie down in a few hours. I don't even have the energy to think about sex today. My only priority is sleep. Johanna is already ascending the stairs.
"Wake me up in an hour," she calls down to no one in particular.
Tristan leads me to a small room off the parlor that turns out to be styled as an office. A large desk sits under a window with two rolling chairs in front of it. A copy of what can only be my speech rests on the desk blotter. I drop into one of the chairs with an audible flump.
Tristan smiles. "Tired?" he asks.
"You wouldn't believe it," I tell him.
"Well, we'll make this quick, then," he says, and slides the paper over to me. "Read this and let me know what you think."
I skim the speech. It seems pretty much like what I expected—greetings, niceties, space for commentary about my life—to be determined, I guess, since it's marked by ellipses—and a couple of paragraphs singing the praises of the Capitol's new innovations and improvements. A wrap-up intended to boost morale, I guess—loosely connected commentary about keeping spirits high, looking forward, healing. Nothing very surprising. I must look unimpressed because Tristan laughs.
"I've been told you're not a big fan of prepared speeches," he says.
"I'm not a big fan of speeches in general," I confirm.
"What do you think of this one?" he asks. I shrug noncommittally. I wish I were upstairs with Peeta. That's about all I'm thinking at the moment. It doesn't really matter to me what kind of speech they want me to give.
"Can you get behind it, at least?" Tristan queries, one eyebrow raised at my apathy. I forget sometimes that it takes new people awhile to get used to my personality. I don't feel any great desire to improve upon it now. I glance over the remarks about the Capitol—new civil liberties, rebuilding, democracy. None of them are untrue, really, although there's a glossy, propagandic quality about them that I feel ill-equipped to sell effectively. I wonder how much discussion there was over the possibility of my mutiny on this front. I'm going with it mostly for the sake of simplicity.
"It's fine," I say. I'm doubting my ability to stand up and speak any prepared words, but I don't think it's to my benefit to say this now. It'll probably be viewed as defiance, and I'll probably bring down Plutarch, Fulvia and anyone else they can dredge up on my head. It strikes me that their timing is really quite unfortunate. Haymitch is the one who usually mediates my troublesome media appearances, and he's indisposed. They must know what a loose cannon I am once a microphone is clipped onto me. If they don't, it's really on them, now.
Tristan must be reading my face this entire time because he takes the speech away and flips it over to the blank side. He picks up a pencil and inches his chair around to me.
"Alright," he says. "Let's think about this like an outline. There are certain things you're supposed to touch on. No one can force you to say these actual words, and from the clips I've seen…" Ahh, they gave you a warning, I think. "…you don't do so well with constraints." He begins etching neat numbers on one side of the page.
"First," he says, "Introduction."
We go through introduction, personal details—pretty much the same things that we spoke about for the propos—and most substantively, what I should say about the new government. Tristan outlines three areas: new liberties, postwar efforts, and ideological frameworks. We wrap up with "reinforcement." Throughout our time breaking down the topics, he never turns the page back over. He has the right idea—the outline makes me feel less itchy than the stark paragraphs—but I'm still restless, preoccupied, and resentful. I try to stay patient and pretend to be focused, but I'm probably only taking about half of it in. I learned to nod in all the right places when Capitol people are talking to me a long time ago.
I appreciate that they kept Plutarch out of this part, but I have to admit it was probably unwise for them to send in an unknown intermediary to deal with me. Tristan lets me get away with too much, takes my absorbed front for actual commitment. I hope I don't end up getting him in trouble. Once we're done, he pencils in a few perfunctory comments on the correct side of the speech and smiles. "Better let you get to prep, now!" he says. "I'll see you once we're there. I'll hold on to this for you."
I thank him politely. When I exit the room, Brandi is leaning against the doorframe, clearly eavesdropping. It's all I can do not to laugh. The rest of the first floor seems deserted. She greets me in a stage whisper. "Wow, you're really excited for this speech, huh?"
I cover my mouth to muffle my laugh as Tristan exits and he and Brandi exchange waves and greetings. Once he's gone, I turn back to her. "Totally," I say.
As soon as I re-enter the living room, Flavius and Octavia descend on me, chattering happily and hugging me. Venia smiles at me but I see her taking in my ragged appearance, the dark circles I'm sure are under my eyes by now. Since they've already bathed and waxed and lotioned and plucked me earlier today they're basically here for hair and makeup. Brandi gives them a couple of quick instructions before disappearing to the front hall again, I'm assuming to retrieve my outfit. My makeup is natural, but darkened to appear on camera—long eyelashes applied, copper eyeliner, neutral lips, flushed cheeks, minimal coverage of my burn scars again. My hair is returned to the crown of braids that my mother's clever fingers once created on the morning of a long-ago reaping, making me hugely recognizable to the audience once more. As I stare at myself in the tall mirror they've set up, I try to see myself the way all the people of Panem will see me tonight. I try to drink myself in, compare this girl to the girl in the arena, the girl in the wedding gowns, the girl in the Mockingjay outfit, the girl who, when expected to execute the President, executed his successor to the shock of everyone. Which version of Katniss am I today? Peeta's happy lover? The scarred but triumphant heroine? A nonentity, now that I'm past my use? I look for so long that I begin to dissociate and I feel far from that reflection, as though I should ask her who she is.
I tear myself away when Brandi enters the room, my outfit draped over her arm. Skinny black pants of a material I can't immediately identify, shot through with some sort of sheen. When I reach out to feel them they're cotton, and stretchy, zipping up the side with a long silver zipper. A silky, sleeveless top that is long, like a tunic. It has a scooped, drapey neck and I'm surprised.
"This top is going to show off all the scars on my arm and neck," I tell her. She nods.
"I know," she says. "Does that bother you?" I think about this. I think about how not too long ago fake blood and strips of cotton were employed to cover up my ugly scars, potions applied to erase them. I think about how I missed the calluses on my fingers built up from years of hunting, once they were removed after the first Games. A part of me, gone. I earned the scars I have now.
"No," I say firmly. She smiles. "Cinna knew that. Cinna knew you."
I know, I want to say. But I'm afraid I might tear up so I just nod and raise my arms. Once I'm dressed, she retrieves a long, black, skinny, velvety knit scarf that she winds around and around me, pinning it at one hip so it drapes in long tails down my leg. The ends of it are knit through with tiny black feathers and sequins. We take my pin off my propo outfit, which I'm still wearing, and reaffix it to my shoulder. I slip on low, rough, broken-in black boots of supple leather, folded over at the tops. They're so comfortable I think I might steal them after we get back. I look in the mirror. It doesn't escape me that I look like I'm mourning, dressed in all black. I am no longer on fire, not today. I am tired of fighting. Like everyone else.
Brandi stands behind me as I look, adjusting the scarf subtly over my shoulder. "All done," she says. "Do you approve?"
Octavia sniffs as I nod. "Oh, Katniss, we did miss helping you look so pretty!"
I hear movement above me, and Brandi looks up.
"About time to move out, I think," she says. "Do you want to fetch the others?" I can't wait to escape all this preparation, so she barely gets the words out before I'm heading for the stairs. I push open the door to our room, but Peeta's not there. The mirror is steamed up like he's just showered. I call his name, but then I hear noise from down the hall and it clicks. I push Haymitch's door open next, and there's Peeta, sitting on the edge of the bed in a casual, lightweight suit with a silver shirt, open at the collar. He looks handsome. He's coaxing water into Haymitch, who's looking bleary but sober. Peeta's managed to coax him into a clean shirt and pants, which is about all we need.
Peeta looks up and smiles at me. "You look beautiful," he says.
"Beautiful," mumbles Haymitch, looking totally apathetic. "Remind me why I have to go to this again."
"If the rest of us have to go, you have to go." I turn around. Johanna is camped out against the doorframe I've just vacated, wearing exactly the same clothing she was earlier and yawning.
"You didn't change?" I ask incredulously.
"Why should I? I'm not the one going on television," she smirks. "I don't have anyone to impress. I took a nap."
"Everyone gets a nap but me," I grumble. "And now we have to leave. My stylist sent me to come get you." The door of Gale's room is open at the end of the hall and I hear him in animated conversation with Annie, so I suppose he's been up too, but they aren't going with us.
"No more drinking," says Peeta, and tugs on Haymitch's sleeve. "Just watch and have something to eat and don't make a scene so we can wrap this up and go home."
"Seconded," I say fervently.
"I know what I'm doing," growls Haymitch, his eyes glinting at me. The tone is actually reassuring, since he sounds much more himself when he's getting an attitude with me.
"All evidence to the contrary," I retort.
Peeta links my arm and Johanna and Haymitch come behind, Haymitch's toes dragging against the floor. He's mumbling under his breath about a headache, but I ignore it. The end of the day is so near I can almost taste it.
When we arrive I see that my speaking platform is set up with a podium and microphone in front of a towering pointed monument lit by floodlights in the fading day. There are additional lights trained on the podium itself, which sits in the middle of a vast flat lawn and is draped with the flags we spotted in the War Room—the flag of Panem, but the other one as well, with the white stars and red stripes. Plutarch is checking the cameras trained on the stage. When our car pulls up and the four of us step out, Pollux turns away from the one in the middle to wave at me, and I wave back. Tristan speaks briefly with Lyme, who is nodding, and shows her the sheet of paper we marked up in the study. She waves him up the stairs so he can place it on the podium. I'm standing with the others taking in the whole staging, which seems simultaneously enormous, crowded, and claustrophobic, when I hear the patter of feet racing over cobblestones. My eyes dart around and as I turn to my right, I catch just a flicker of a dark brown stripe closing the final feet towards me before a warm, soft object hits me around waist-level, and almost at that exact moment, the applause begins.
I look down with wonder, and as I kneel to put my arms around her, the applause increases, and my tears begin to fall. There are differences—she's not as tall as Rue, and her hair is braided tightly against her head, but she has Rue's big eyes and slight build, and I can't look at her without seeing her older sister reflected back at me. My mind blocks out the whistles and cheers of the assembled group as I cup her face in my hands. She must be the oldest—she looks about ten. Tears are running down her face and I wipe them away with my thumbs, but more keep falling. I embrace her again and hold her to me. Her heart is beating wildly. I recognize her immediately as the child who gave me the reproachful look in District 11 during the Victory Tour, when Peeta was the only one speaking. She was the reason I spoke.
She's smiling through her tears, but I'm still trying to speak through the heaviness in my throat when she speaks.
"I'm Nayari," she says. "Don't cry."
"You're crying," I get out, but now I'm smiling too.
She giggles. "I'll stop if you stop!"
"Deal. I'm so glad you could come," I tell her.
"Come meet my mama!" she says excitedly, and tugs at my hand. When I stand, I see the rest of them waiting for me, the three littlest ones holding hands. The tallest of the remaining siblings is probably about eight, her soft, full hair pulled back into pigtails. Her father rests one hand on her shoulder. His lip is trembling, and the woman beside him—Rue's mother—is crying. Nayari holds my hand as I approach, and it sounds absurd after everything, but it's her small hand in mine that attaches me to the Earth, keeps me in myself as I approach Rue's family in a dream-state after so long. Everyone else must be watching, because it's utterly silent behind us. I move forward tentatively, still unsure. I was the Victor that came out while this woman's daughter died. I will never be able to tell her how sorry I am. My hand stretches out as the tiny girl tugs me insistently. The kids watch me with big eyes, uncertain. There's a moment where I'm not sure about my reception, and I begin to be afraid, and then her arms, like iron, encircle me. I lose all my breath in that hug. Nayari's arms wrap around both our knees, and the spontaneous applause begins again. The woman whispers thank yous, over and over, in my ear. I whisper sorries, again and again, in hers.
When things have settled down a bit, after my embraces with Rue's parents, I'm introduced to the younger ones. The one who looks about eight, not as nervous as the little ones but not as gregarious as Nayari, introduces herself shyly as Aylen. She, too, hugs me, and once they've witnessed all this hugging, the rest of them must decide I'm okay, because they crowd around me. The youngest one, maybe three, is a boy, his chubby legs probably only recently introduced to running with confidence. His name is Zuri. His is the only male face in the crowd besides his father's, as the other two little ones, who exclaim all over the sparkles in my scarf, stroking its velvet texture over and over and sticking their fingers through the holes, are also girls. The littlest one, who might be four or so, introduces herself as Nnenna and takes a deep bow to me that makes both Nayari, who never leaves my side, and I laugh. Peeta's come over and introduced himself to Rue's parents as well, and there are more emotional embraces, as I meet the last of the kids, about six and the one most entranced by my outfit. She's so quiet that I have to ask her to say her name twice before I catch it. "Imani," she whispers. "Your name is so beautiful," I tell her. She quietly strokes my scarf some more, plucking at the feathers on the ends.
"Come here, I'll tell you a secret," I say to her. She inches closer. I put one hand up to cup her ear. "When I'm done giving my speech, you can have it," I whisper. Her eyes light up.
"Really?" she asks, delighted. I smile to her. I can't help smiling over and over, looking at them. I feel like the part of my heart ripped free when Rue died is poured back into me again, meeting her family. "Really," I tell her.
I look up when Lyme touches my arm gently at the elbow. "We're ready. Ready?" she asks. I'm not actually ready; I want to stay here and talk to the kids more, and I'm pretty sure I'll never be ready to give this speech. I look back to the kids, torn.
"You'll have plenty of time with them afterwards," Lyme reassures me. "I promise."
The promise is what carries me up the stairs to the podium after I squeeze Nayari's hand. "I'll see you again in a couple of minutes, okay?" I tell them. They nod eagerly. I see Gale's family out of the corner of my eye and have the time to shoot the kids another smile and a wave, which they happily return. Hazelle blows me a kiss as the families converge, all eight kids sitting together.
I climb the stairs, steeling myself for tonight's final act.
I look down at the white sheet in front of me, up at all the expectant faces—the lineup of tiny, bright-eyed kids, Gale's siblings mixed easily in with Rue's on the sidelines, Zuri perched on Rory's lap, Posy sitting with Nayari like they're new best friends. Gale, standing with Annie beside Rue's parents. Even Haymitch looks like perhaps he's not totally appalled at having been dragged out of bed. And front and center, Peeta, blond curls falling over one eye, arm draped companionably around Johanna's waist. It's Johanna who winks at me as I carefully pick up the sheet, fold it firmly in half and then in quarters, and place it aside. I can almost hear the team of government officials gathered on the opposite side of the stage—Paylor is among them—hold their breath as I look up again.
"My name is Katniss Everdeen," I say, "And I really didn't want to be here."