I miss Gale already.
Enoy.
Topsy
"Ah there you are," she said, getting to her feet atop her ridiculous purple heels. My pulse quickened; a visit from a Capitol-ite never brought good news.
"Been hiding from us all morning," piped up a hoarse voice from near the shiny new fridge. My heart sank even lower as I saw that its owner was Haymitch, leaning against the glossy new appliance with a look of extreme boredom. I was about to demand to know what more they could possibly want from me when—of course—the back door slams shut and none other than the blond-haired boy himself ducks into our cozy little gathering.
"Sorry," he muttered, settling his shoulder against the doorframe as he took in his company. "You… wanted me?"
"You knew they were here?" I exclaim, subconsciously moving away from him and towards the massive table.
"Yeah—I mean, they called this morning. Where were you?" He raised his tone to match mine.
"Out! Doing… stuff. Living—unlike you, who were probably huddled up in your mansion all day, admiring your new winnings!"
"Alright, let's not get too cozy now, lovebirds," Haymitch warned—reminded, really, that we were totally blowing our image in front of Effie. But she didn't even seem to take too much notice of our yelling; she was pacing in her own little clipped way, examining her clipboard and scratching multiple things off with a huge orange feather pen.
Dread froze my gut as I took in the meaning of this kitchen-crashing: in my mind, Effie equals Capitol, Haymitch equals Games, and Peeta equals large pounding headache of foggy confusion. All three of them together equals bad.
"So," Effie sang in her odd Capitol accent as Haymitch shot us a sharp warning glance, "Reaping Day is in exactly one month and six days." Her neon pink painted lips opened to continue, but I didn't let her.
"Why so soon? The Games only happen once a year!"
"In the old times they did," she said, pronouncing 'old times' as one might say 'dead rat'. "But this is the dawn of a new age! Two victors! The Quarter Quell up next! We can't possibly wait a whole year to do it all again!"
No. Not even a year of life without the intended deaths, the planned gore… But I understood what was going on, and, by the set look on Peeta's face, he did too. This was the Capitol's way of getting back at us. We showed them a handful of berries; they show us a Games that promises to be extra-painful, extra-sickening—and now, extra-early.
"Any other, er—changes in this new age?" Peeta asked somewhat awkwardly, which showed how hard this had hit him, too; words normally came so easily to him.
"Oh, lots of them!" Effie squealed as if leaking hot gossip. "Of course, we all know that the Quarter Quell has been planned for years—the arena is state-of-the art, took a good piece of time to design! And, of course, this new time change—because honestly, who can wait for the next Games after the fabulous show you two presented!"
"And," coughed Haymitch, "Imatring."
"What?" Peeta and I both leaned forward a bit to make out his mumble.
"Immareting."
Peeta, apparently, understood him, because he fell back against the doorframe with a time-weathered groan, rubbing his face with both hands. "So we're on our own?" he demanded of our mentor. "To prep these two kids for almost guaranteed slaughter?"
"He's retiring," I murmured to myself, staring blankly at the man as if I'd never seen him before. How could he—back out on us when we need his coaching the most? Renewed anger startled to sizzle in my chest as I realized how much we really needed him. I can't talk my way out of a paper bag, and Peeta—to put him through getting attached to a kid then having to watch it die?
"No—Haymitch, I—"
"I'm afraid you don't have much choice in the matter," Effie piped. "There can only be two mentors, and to split you two up would be unspeakable! And Haymitch himself has already produced not one but two very able victors—surely you agree that he deserves a vacation?"
A vacation? In 12? What was he going to do, move into the Victor house next to him for a change of scenery while Peeta and I grasp at straws to prepare these kids?
"Anyway," she sang, "I did a little favor for you two, I did. I—and this is very exciting!—I requested to have Cinna and Porsche as your tributes stylists!"
A tiny trickle of cool relief found its way into my rushing river of panic and need for someone to blame. Cinna… the thought of working with him again gave me the tiniest comfort. He is my friend, after all. Having a friend in the Capitol isn't something many District people can claim.
"Thank you… Effie," Peeta managed to choke out.
"You're very welcome! I am quite brilliant at times—they were going to be assigned to better Districts since they designed the Victors, but the seemed happy enough to stay with twelve." A furrow of airheaded confusion creased her unnaturally white brow. "In the meantime," she perked considerably, "you two will be having a very special interview with old Caesar in place of the drab so-called tradition of the Victor's Tour. I mean, what did we get out of that old thing anyway?" She chirped a laugh.
Another bout of relief. An interview with Caesar could only last an hour, hour and a half at most—and I had Peeta to smile and look good and do all the talking. With the Tour off my chest, I felt a bit more light-hearted—or as light-hearted as I could while still knowing that we had to somehow raise tributes.
"That," Effie clipped, consulting her clipboard, "will take place in three weeks and don't you forget it! Your stylists and I will come to pick you up the day before so we can get you pretty again before Panem has to see you. Because a bit—" she scrutinized my dirty boots and blood-stained pants, "—hm, a lot of make-up and some decent clothes make all the difference!"
I ignored the Effie-ized insult and tried to focus on how much time that left for me to be in 12… out of the five-ish weeks we had until Reaping Day, two, probably three, days were going to be taken by the Games. Another interview. More fake smiling. I can do that. This is doable. I just survived the Hunger Games.
"And in the meaner time," said Maymitch gruffly, moving to lean his forearms on the smooth marble counter, "I don't want to see any of this." He indicated the large space between us with a waggling forefinger. "Yelling at each other? You two are in love, c'mon, I know you can do better than that."
"But that's just for the cameras," I pointed out before thinking. Peeta flinched the slightest bit, a muscle in his jaw twitching in discontent. Guilt hit me a moment too late and I wished I could snatch my words back from the air and stuff them back down my throat.
"And it's that mentality that's going to get you," he fixed his oddly sober gaze heavily on me, "found out. Gullible as they may be, your acting skills are slipping. So I want you two together all day, every day, eating at the same table, sleeping in the same house, going about whatever mundane things you do all day. Together. Understood?"
I nodded solemnly; Peeta just stared at his shoes.
"And don't think," he said, tone creeping into a warning, "that I won't know if you two separate. I have eyes in many places…"
"Won't this be lovely?" Effie suddenly chirped, snapping back into reality at just the right time. "We've arranged one of the Victor's houses for you two lovebirds." She grinned a tiny, mischievous sort of grimace that made my stomach churn. Apparently, the whole kitchen between us, and unwillingness coming off us in waves didn't mess up her picture of happy lovers.
"Right-o! I'd better be off. Hovercraft is waiting—good-bye now!" And with that, Effie trinket clipped her way out of my house, clipboard tucked under her elbow.
Taking that as his cue, Haymitch unsettled himself and slip something small and shiny across the counter in our direction. "Seriously," he warned with one last penetrating glance. Peeta and I stood where we were as we listened to him shuffle down the hall, get frustrated with the fancy doorknob and eventually yank the door open by brute force, and slam his way out.
Peeta moved first. He plucked the shiny set of what I now recognized as highly decorative keys and jangled them out in front of him. "There's three," he noted blandly. "Mine has four."
I didn't grace this petty observation with a reply, but instead trumped upstairs and ducked my head into every empty room until I found the one all my things had been dumped in.
"Don't leave the house," he called up the stairs, "in such a way that I can't follow you."
With my one bag of things, I headed back to the top of the white staircase, at the base of which Peeta stood with a hand on each railing.
"Because I will trail you, you know," he said, softer now. "Wherever you go. It will be like I'm not even there, if that's what you want. You can try and loose me if you feel like it. I won't bother you like I have been all this time. You're obviously happier without me."
Review? Pretty please? For me?
Topsy