Last Finnick checked, swimming in the school's indoor pool wasn't a crime.
Well. As long as you had a pass. During school hours.
And as long as you were wearing swim trunks.
Technically, he hadn't done any of those things. But he was still kind of offended that he was being forced to serve out an eight-hour sentence on Saturday morning.
"Look, I get it. I wasn't supposed to be here after-hours," he'd said, trying to reason with the security officers, a task made difficult by the flashlight burning a hole in his retinas and the pungent chemical smell of chlorine burning his nostrils. It was also kind of difficult to make a logical argument with a flimsy towel wrapped around his naked lower half as he dripped onto the wet pavement. "But Cashmere had a key."
"An unauthorized copy of a key," one of the officers said gruffly.
"Right. I know." Finnick wracked his brain for a way out of this. He was uncommonly persuasive—after all, he'd managed to secure himself the election for student council president last spring—but flashing a dazzling white smile at these two unsmiling, gray guards probably wasn't the right approach. "It's just, uh. I didn't make the key. So I don't really see why I'm being accused here."
The meatier of the two guards grunted. "Because you're the one standing here naked with a key on a lanyard around your neck."
Damn.
But it wasn't his idea to break into the school on a Saturday night. Because that wasn't something that Finnick would do, ordinarily.
It's just that Cashmere Ellis had this power over him, this incredible sexy and rebellious aura about her, that made him say, "Hell, yeah," when she hijacked their date and coyly suggested that they take a midnight dip in Panem Central's pool. Sans clothes.
Just like Cashmere to leave him naked and stranded in the shallow end with planted evidence just as campus security pulled up.
It's unbelievable to him that she escaped punishment. Because Finnick couldn't prove that the key wasn't his. Because she wasn't at the scene of the crime.
Because her father is Mr. Snow's personal attorney.
And this is going on Finnick's permanent record.
Suffice it to say that he won't be seeing Cashmere again in the foreseeable future.
His father keeps reminding him in a haughty tone that he's lucky that the school isn't pressing charges. And Finnick knows this, because if he thinks that an isolated infraction on his transcript will look bad, what about an appearance in court?
"You almost threw your life away for some girl," his father had snapped on their drive home from the school late that evening. "For a girl, Finn. What will it take to get that through your thick skull?"
It's all a little melodramatic. As if an ill-fated late night swim in the school's aquatic center was going to destroy Finnick's life. But that doesn't mean that Finnick isn't feeling particularly stupid sitting here with a bunch of burnouts.
He hasn't attempted to write a single sentence for his essay. All he wants to do is lay his head down on the desk and sleep, but apparently, that's against the rules, too. A surprise visit from Mr. Snow, and a rather violent wake-up call, confirmed that for him.
So there's nothing left to do but stare straight ahead. Avoid Johanna Mason's eyes at all costs. Imagine himself submerged in silky water, his lips trailing down the slender curve of Cashmere's outstretched neck. Her legs unspooling from their warm purchase around his waist, and—
Shit. He's already sporting a partial, and he hasn't even allowed his thoughts to wander too far down a dangerous path. For God's sake, he's in a library.
Finnick buries his face in his hands. Less than five hours to go, and he's already thoroughly fucked.