Author's Note: A great big THANK YOU, you awesome readers you, especially those of you who have followed/favorited this story (MissJulia96, NamiiLove and Pyro'sPrincess052012), and to my reviewers! Meilan and morningstar115, thank you! I can't thank my anonymous reviewer by name, but thank you anyway!
Two of you have commented on my name choices for Peeta's brothers. Don't hate me if I admit I thought the symbolism behind Peeta's name (and even Gale's for that matter) was a little too obvious. If any of you can tell me the connection between Colm and Jemin, and why I chose them, I'll enlist your help in naming a character in an upcoming chapter. You can either leave your guess in a review or PM me (shameless plug for reviews, I know!). I'll use the time stamp from FF to judge who got the correct answer in first. You can participate as an anonymous guest, but I won't have any way to contact you for your prize, and where's the fun in that?
Again, thank you for reading! Can't wait to hear what you think about the chapter and your guesses!
Disclaimer: The Hunger Games are not mine.
Chapter 4
When I was very young, the anthem of Panem used to fill me with happiness, and pride. The melody dips and weaves, like the flight of birds through buildings of a town, ending with a crescendo that can stir even the coldest heart. I would hold onto my father's hand and listen, enraptured, as the notes painted a picture of triumph and strength. Music sparks art in my mind, each note a different color in a vast tapestry of sound.
It wasn't long though, until the anthem began to evoke hate, and fear in me. It's only played when something horrible has happened, and the circumstances stole my joy in the music. Workers killed in a mining accident, played at their funeral. Public executions for law breaking, though those are rare. Tributes chosen in the Reaping.
As the final notes fade into silence, Katniss and I are surrounded by Peacekeepers. The closest to us are all unfamiliar, not our district's normal crew. They've obviously been brought in by the Capitol for the day as a show of power to the people of District 12. Look how easily we take your children. Look how they walk to their doom, like lambs to the slaughter.
Like a lamb, I follow their directions to turn and make my way into the Justice Building. Katniss seems still routed to her spot, and I look around to see what's holding them back. One of the strange Peacekeepers has to take her arm to get her moving. I want to yell at them not to touch her, to leave her alone, to let her go, but like the good little lamb I am, I proceed through the slaughter gates.
The inside the Justice Building is one of the few beautiful places in District 12. The furnishings are kept pristine for the occasional Capitol representative, like Effie Trinket, who might be required to stay overnight in our town. I catch glimpses of rich wooden tables topped with sheets of smooth greenish-tinted glass over immaculately white linens; richly upholstered chairs with plump pillows; a stately fireplace made of the same white stone as the outside of the building where a roaring fire crackles merrily, reminding me of the fires that burn at home. I'll never see them again, I think. Not the fires or the ovens above. Not the long prep counter in the kitchen, or our own wooden table, worn from years of hard use. After today, District 12 will be nothing but a memory to me.
These images and thoughts flash past me as I'm escorted to a small room. Our friends and families have an hour to say goodbye before Katniss and I will board a train to the Capitol. The room they've selected for my final farewells faces the front of the building. Directly across from the door, there is a bay of windows with a bench tucked below, more of the same soft pillows I saw in the foyer covering its surface. The window looks out over the square. I can see the crowd dispersing, a huddled mass moving as one, clinging to each other in the knowledge that everyone present is safe, at least for another year.
I'm not sure what to do with myself. I still feel grubby from my very hasty morning washing and I don't feel right sitting on any of the expensive furniture in the room. I worry I'll ruin the fabrics. What are they going to do to me if I do ruin them? What could they possibly do that would be worse than what I'm facing right now?
The thought brings a faint smile to my face. The smile turns into a grin, and before I know it, I'm chuckling to myself, still watching the people of District 12 walk as fast as they dare back to their homes and relative security.
I continue to laugh, a little hysterically, until I hear someone cough softly behind me. I whirl around, the laughter dying on my lips as I see my father, two brothers, and mother standing just inside the door. I look at each of their faces. My father's solemn and a little shocked at my levity. My brothers' identical grimaces of discomfort, Colm's especially. I wonder if he's feeling guilty for not volunteering in my place. I don't feel angry towards him, or blame him in any way, but I'm sure he'll get over his guilt as soon as the Games start. My mother's, eyes narrowed, arms crossed tightly over her chest, toe moving but making no noise on the think carpets.
"You think this is funny, do you? Well laugh away, you stupid creature! You're going off for a week of the best food and finest treatment anyone from this sorry District could ever expect, and us left here with one less person to help with the chores! Funny, I don't think!"
My mother's vitriol is expected, if not welcome. She honestly believes that she's been put out by the Reaping more than anyone, and that I'll have a great old time in the Capitol, up until the point some Career tribute puts an end to it with the sharp end of a knife.
She flounces into the room and plops herself down on the most comfortable looking chair, a small white cloud of flour dust rising from her skirts and floating gently down to settle on the green fabric of the chair and into the deep woven fibers of the carpet at her feet. I almost start laughing again at the sight, certain some poor servant of the Capitol will have to spend hours scrubbing at the upholstery to remove the fallout from my family. Flour is almost as persistent as the ever present coal dust in our air.
My father and brothers follow her into the room and settle on the couches and chairs around me. I still can't bring myself to sit, and just stare at each of them trying to memorize their faces, even my mother's. They may not be perfect, they may not always understand me, they may tease or even beat me, but they are my family, mine, and the Capitol can't take their memories from me, even if they want to take my life.
None of them can look at me. My mother is too preoccupied with the lush surroundings to care who else is there, and my father and brothers just stare at the floor. For several minutes we just sit in silence until Jemin finally gets up, apparently unable to take any more. He crosses to stand in front of me, puts his hand on my shoulder, looks me in the eye briefly, and just leaves. The soft click of the door closing behind him gets Colm moving. He actually speaks to me though I can barely understand what he mumbles. It sounds close to "I'm sorry," and then he is gone, too.
Just my mother and father now. She focuses her attention on me, her gaze traveling from my feet to the top of my head, and sighs.
"District 12 may just have itself a winner this year," she says, pushing on the arms of the chair to lever herself out of the deep cushion. She doesn't even say goodbye, just walks to the door, but pauses before opening it. She turns back, and I don't know what I'm expecting her to say. I'm shocked she even thinks I have a chance to win the games. It's a rare vote of confidence, and my heart warms a little towards her. Maybe she'll offer an even more rare word of affection, or a wish of luck, anything, other than what comes out of her mouth next.
"She's a fighter, that one," she says. She shrugs her shoulders, opens the door and walks out, not even bothering to close it behind her.
A silent Peacekeeper reaches through the doorway and grabs the knob to pull the door shut. For a moment I'm stunned, and then angry with myself for ever believing she would have faith in me. My own mother thinks Katniss has a better chance at winning than her youngest son. Not only thinks it, but said it to me! What a horrible women!
That thought breaks me. It's the last straw on top of a heap that's been piling up on my heart since Katniss volunteered to take her sister's place. I let out a single sob, and then shake as silent tears course down my face. My terrible mother, with her terrible words, has yet another good point. That's two for one day, which may be a record for her. I have no chance of winning this. Never really thought I did, but her words bring it home. Inside of two weeks, I'll be dead.
I feel strong arms circle around my shoulders, holding me tightly against the tears. I wrap my arms around my father's waist and he rocks me, like he did when I was little and I was afraid of the dark. I feel hot tears spill into my hair and I know, at least by him, I'll be missed here.
He pulls away first, wiping his eyes on a clean white rag he's pulled from the pocket of his best trousers, and hands it to me. I dry the tears from my face. He reaches into his pocket, and pulls out a small white paper package, and hands it to me, too.
"Goodbye, son," he says, and then he's gone as well. Through the door and back to the bakery where the fires burn and everything is in order. I didn't speak a word to my family, and now it's too late. I wish I could call them back, tell them I love them, promise them I'll try, even if I can't win, to not let the Games change me, that I'll make them proud.
I make it to the chair my father just vacated right before my knees give out. Closing my eyes, I open the package and hold it under my nose. I inhale deeply, and I know what's inside. These are the cookies my father makes every year, hidden away in small packets without the knowledge of my mother, and given to the tributes' families before they go to say their goodbyes. He is a kind man, my father, and I've tried all my life to be like him. To show kindness to others, to think of them first and myself second. These cookies he baked for another family he's now handed to me as the best form of comfort he can provide.
I wonder if Katniss will get her cookies. I hope so. I would hate to think, here at the end, my father wouldn't give them to her family even though we are now competitors.
Another grin comes to my face. I'm not really competition for Katniss. My mother was right, she's a fighter. She braves the forbidden woods outside the security fence that surrounds our district to hunt and provide for her family. My father says her aim is perfect, that she hits the squirrels she sells him dead in the eye, every time. Put a bow and arrow in that girl's hands and she really could win the whole thing.
I sit up straight in the chair. A thought, a hope, a glimmer of an idea comes like a whisper in my mind. She could win. She could come home and be safe and live the rest of her life without fear, without having to struggle or starve. She could win, and I could help her…
The image of Katniss triumphant, wearing the traditional Victor's crown as she steps off the train from the Capitol into the arms of her loving family, turns my earlier grin into a full blown smile. I'm seeing her happy face in my mind's eye, hearing the roar of the crowd as our people lift her up and carry her to the square to be celebrated, the third victor from District 12, when the door opens again.
Madge Undersee timidly enters the room. She takes one look at my face and stops, her confusion apparent. I hold out one hand to her and she starts moving again until she reaches me, takes my hand and sits in the chair closest to mine.
"Peeta," she says in her soft voice, "Peeta, I know this must be hard for you."
She says it as a statement, but at the end her voice trails up ever so slightly, making it almost a question. She wants to know why I'm smiling.
"Yeah, you could say that, I guess," I say, "Terrible, awful, worst day of my life." I chuckle a little, looking at her stricken face.
"Don't. Don't joke now."
"Who's joking?" I ask, "It is the worst day of my life. I'll be dead soon, and maybe so will the girl I… well, so will Katniss. What else do you want me to say?" I can't say out loud that I love Katniss. Madge may know, but finally acknowledging it to someone may send me over the edge again, and this time, I don't think I could ever come back.
"Say you'll try, Peeta! Say you'll fight to win. Say you'll not give up hope so easily," she's angry with me now.
"You know I won't, Madge. You know I can't mean it even if I do say it, not when trying will mean killing her."
"You don't have to kill her! Someone else may take care of that for you! So don't give up just because you couldn't bring yourself to end her life." Madge says.
"That may be true," my eyes bore into hers, "But do you really think I could let that happen? Do you think I could just abandon her, my feelings, everything, just to try and win myself? I can't let them take it away from me. Loving her is all I have left."
There, I've said it. I don't feel the hysterical need to cry like before, so maybe I won't go crazy. Maybe I'll make it through this ordeal sane, be able to keep it together long enough to make some kind of plan.
Madge just stares at me. She looks just like her father now. Sad, tired, resigned.
"She better be worthy of this, Peeta. You know she's my friend, but I don't think anyone is worth more than you." She blushes, and I wonder if I weren't so hung up on Katniss, if maybe Madge would have accepted my kiss that starlit night.
I just shrug, suddenly uncomfortable where our friendship had always been so easy.
"Are you going to say goodbye to Katniss, too?" Madge nods. "Don't say anything to her. Not about me, or what I feel or what I'm thinking or any of it. Promise me, Madge!"
I'm squeezing her hand too tightly. Her fingers convulse in my grip. I release her hand from mine, but she reaches over and grabs it again.
"I won't. I wouldn't. Not ever. I've kept your secret since we were five, Peeta. I'm not changing that now."
So she has known all along. It doesn't really matter now, though. None of it matters, if I can't get Katniss home.
"Thanks, Madge. Just… thanks," my words aren't enough right now, but I can't think of anything else to say. I stare at the floor, still not entirely at ease with what I've said, what I think I've discovered in our conversation.
"A few of the others wanted to come to say goodbye, but I told them not to. I thought you may like as few of these meetings as possible. Was that ok? If not, I'm sure I can find them before your hour is up," she says. Madge knows me better than anyone, it seems.
"No, you were right," I look up at her, "thank you." I hope she knows what I am trying to say. That I'm thankful for her friendship, her thoughtfulness and kindness, her courage to come in to say goodbye to me. That I will miss her.
She stands, leans over and kisses me on the forehead, another butterfly of a kiss, and says, "Goodbye, Peeta."
"Goodbye, Madge." I whisper. I close my eyes, and the soft breeze from the hall as the door opens and closes tells me she's gone.
oOoOoOo
I sit for a time in silence, realizing that no one else is coming. District 12 has said its goodbyes, and I'm thankful for the remaining minutes of my hour allotment to collect myself. There's nothing I can do to erase the evidence of my tears but I straighten my shirt, dust flour from my pants, and retie my ragged shoe laces, the shoes hand-me-downs from Colm. Then I just sit and breathe. The days ahead will hopefully pass swiftly, but I'll have cameras around me almost the entire time and it's comforting to know I have this last, unobserved moment on my own.
Without knocking, the Peacekeepers enter and stand just outside the threshold. I've been cooperative so far, so they seem amenable to letting me walk around without their assistance. As I cross into the hallway, I hear her.
"Don't let them starve!" Her voice holds panic.
"I won't, you know I won't! Katniss, remember, I know you can do this!" I don't know if she even heard his words. They've slam the door in her face before he can finish and a struggle has broken out. The boy, that same boy who took Prim, who is so close to Katniss, bucks against the hold of two Peacekeepers. My two rush over to assist their counterparts. Am I that docile, that they don't even worry I'll make a run for it?
The boy shakes off the Peacekeepers' grasping hands, saying, "Enough, ok? I'm going. See, I'm going!" He stomps past them, fury in his clenched fists, his tight shoulders. He vanishes out the front door into the sunlight.
The uniformed guards wait until they are sure he is gone before opening Katniss's door and ushering her out. All traces of panic are gone, and her steely mask is back in place.
We're escorted from the building, down the front steps. The makeshift stage has already been removed, the banners, flags and ribbons that covered the shopfronts taken away. A car pulls smoothly around a corner, glides to a stop before us, and a Peacekeeper opens the rear passenger door, gesturing for us to enter.
I go first, and slide across the leather seats until my shoulder hits the far door. The interior is the dark, rich color of cranberries. We get a small shipment from the Capitol at the end of every year, to make the special New Year's cakes the inspectors from the Capitol expect to have when they come for their annual visit. I've only ever tried one, when I was sure my mother wasn't looking. They are tart, no real hint of sweetness like other berries, but smell delicious when soaked in the golden liquor we use to moisten the batter.
The leather, the carpets, the fabric on the ceiling, everything around me is deep red. It matches the warm flush inside me when Katniss slips into the car and the door is shut. We are very close now, even closer than we were on the stage, and I can't help but look at her out of the corner of my eye. She hasn't been crying, her eyes are clear and dry, shoulders straight and proud. A flash of gold on her chest makes me curious, but I won't go so far as to stare openly at her.
A Peacekeeper gets in the front seat beside our driver, and the car pulls away from the building. It's a short ride over to the train station, but I wish it would last forever. I've never been in a car before, the feeling is strange, but it's Katniss that makes this trip so enjoyable. Even with the silence between us, her presence is like a balm to me, soothing me, calming me, helping me to accept the things I'm preparing to undergo.
We reach the train station, and it's hard to see the train for the people. Reporters from the Capitol, camera men, some familiar faces from District 12, all vying to catch a glimpse of us as we exit our vehicle.
They part around the determined march of the Peacekeepers who arrived ahead of us, making an aisle leading to the doors of the train. We're escorted as far, but made to stand in the opening while the cameras flash, recording our images for the greedy eyes of the Capitol viewers. I'm so close to her now I could stretch out my littlest finger and touch her hand. Questions are screamed at us from every side, but I take my cue from Katniss and keep silent. Most of the questions are being directed at her anyway, but she acts like she can't even hear them.
Finally allowed to board, the doors close behind us and the train starts off. I become a little unsteady on my feet, the speed of it briefly unbalancing me. It's a day full of firsts for me, as well as lasts. I've never been in a train either, as District dwellers are not allowed to travel outside of their district except on official Capitol business. Those who work the coal trains only get to see the train stations in the other districts, never permitted to leave the platforms after unloading is completed. This is no coal train though, and it should get us to the Capitol in less than a day.
Our District was created from an area that was known as Appalachia, or so we're told in our history lessons. The Capitol itself is in another string of mountains once called the Rockies. Their mountains are taller, steeper, more easily defensible than ours. Its location played a crucial role in the outcome of the Dark Days. The rebelling districts just couldn't find a way to penetrate their defenses, or overcome the tactical advantage of high ground. The teachers read us these things from Capitol approved textbooks. When they would start the history lectures, I would amuse myself by imagining some hideous idiot, sort of the male version of Effie Trinket, sitting at a desk writing the Capitol's version of the truth about the Dark Days to disseminate to the districts.
But the Capitol idiots do have style. The tribute train is even more beautiful than the Justice Building. We're each given our own set of rooms, with separate sleeping, changing and bathing areas. There is even a shower, and hot running water. Hot water in my house is reserved for my mother's baths and any cooking that needs to be done. I sit on the bed, instantly sinking into its soft, white cotton folds. It's bigger than my bed and Colm's combined, and can't all be meant for me.
I'm still trying to take it all in, my feet skimming the plush carpet, when Effie Trinket sticks her head in my door.
"Peeta, there are soaps and lotions and all manner of cleaning supplies in the bathroom, and clean clothes in every drawer. It's all for you, and you can do or wear anything you want, just be clean and ready for dinner in the dining car in one hour. Please be punctual!" she trills, whisking out the door and sliding it closed. I hear her give the same speech to Katniss across the hall.
I step into the bathroom, stripping out of my clothes. I'm not sure what to do with them, so I fold them neatly and place them on the floor right inside the doorway. I am grateful for the opportunity to get clean. The shower is a new experience, the soft falling water is soothing and I want to stay in there forever. But Effie's urging pushes me, so I scrub myself quickly and dry off with one of the fluffy white towels stacked in a woven basket on the floor.
Choosing clothes shouldn't be difficult. At home, I have seven pairs of pants and seven shirts, not counting the clothes I wore to the Reaping. A clean getup for each day of the week, and then wash them on the seventh day. I'm not used to having to make decisions. When I open the drawers, I discover more clothes here than my whole family owns. And they are all for me.
This angers me. Out of everything I've seen and heard today, this extravagance for a boy who will be dead in a few short weeks nearly finishes me. How many meals would these clothes buy for families in the Seam? How many girls like Katniss could have been given bread, without having to hide it from my mother?
So many questions today and no answers. I just grab whatever is on top, jerking on soft cotton undergarments, followed by a pair of dark blue pants and a lighter blue shirt. I scold myself. Anger and frustration will get me exactly nowhere at this point.
Dressed, there's nothing to do but sit back on the bed and wait. But I can't stand to sit still. I jump up and go to the door, pressing my ear to the edge to hear if anyone is moving out in the hall. I don't hear anything, so I slide it open and look around. My ever-present Peacekeepers have disappeared, and I'm alone. I step out slowly, know I'm being watched and hope I'm not breaking some rule by leaving my room.
When no alarms sound, no Peacekeepers lunge from behind the doors lining the hallway to apprehend me, I walk more confidently toward the end of the car. Another sliding door with a glass window, about head height, waits for me to open. I peer in the window and see a beautiful room with polished paneled walls and crystal chandeliers rocking gently with the motion of the train. I open the door, and I can see more of the long table set with fine porcelain the color of new fallen snow, shiny silverware and glass goblets ready to be filled. The idea of the fragile glasses in a place where they could so easily be broken reminds me of my family's precious drinking glasses. They would look like crude tin next to these perfect flutes, but that makes me value them more, all the same. I can't believe it was just this morning I drank from those glasses. It feels like a year ago.
I step closer to the table to examine the place settings. The door on the opposite side of the car slides open. Effie Trinket hops in, bright and bubbly as usual.
"Ah, Peeta! Thank you so much for being early! Good time management is a sign of excellent breeding, and I'm so pleasantly surprised to find the trait in a person from one of the outer districts!" She smiles at me, as if she's given me a great compliment.
I don't want to tell her I was just restless, I hadn't meant to be early for dinner, so I simply say, "Thank you, Ms. Trinket."
"Oh and so polite, too! You must call me Effie, dear! Ms. Trinket is my grandmother!" She winks at me, "Now I'm off to find Katniss! It was too much to think both of you would be so good mannered." She looks at the sparkling gold watch adorning her wrist, tuts, and strides down the length of the car out the door I just entered.
I'll never understand people from the Capitol. They act like people from District 12 aren't even human, and their accents! The strange vowels, the prolonged "s" and the clipped consonants, and they barely open their mouths. It's a wonder we are even from the same species. This is, I guess, exactly how they feel about us.
I take a seat in the nearest chair when the rocking of the train gets particularly rough. Effie comes back into the room, followed by Katniss who looks very pretty in a dark green shirt and pants. It compliments her dark complexion. I can clearly see the small glint of gold on her shoulder, now. It's a pin, a circle surrounding a bird in flight. The bird looks familiar, but I can't quite place it until Katniss moves into the car, her swaying shoulder making the bird look like its flying. It's a mockingjay.
Mockingjays are common around our district, where the rebellion was apparently strong. They're a bird with a funny past, and I'm sure the Capitol would love for it to be forgotten.
During the Dark Days, Capitol scientists genetically engineered many different animals, called muttations, to serve in their war efforts. One of which was a bird dubbed the jabberjay. Exclusively male, they were homing birds like pigeons, and had the ability not only mimic human speech, but remember and repeat entire conversations. The Capitol would release jabberjays into know rebel areas, recording the information they heard and repeated when the birds flew back to their bases.
It took a while for the rebellion to figure out how the Capitol was spying on them, but once they did they used the jabberjays to their advantage. False information on troop movements and strategy were sent to the Capitol for weeks, until it became apparent that their weapon had been turned against them. The jabberjays were abandoned, as are all Capitol creations that outlive their use, and left to die in the wild.
But they didn't die out. They survived by mating with female mocking birds to give birth to a whole new species. Mockingjays lost their ability to repeat actual words, but they can replicate other human sounds in the form of music. They can retain and repeat complicated melodies, if they are willing to listen to you sing.
Katniss has a beautiful voice, one all of the birds, not just mockingjays, stop singing to listen to. I haven't heard her sing since her father died in a mining accident five years ago. Just months before I threw her the bread. She got that voice from him.
Effie brings me back to the present by making that little tutting sound on the tip of her tongue indicating she is annoyed. She glares at her watch, then looks at me and plasters a smile on her face.
"Where's Haymitch?" She says brightly.
I honestly don't know where he is, but I don't really want her to go looking for him. Dinner would be much more pleasant without him.
"Last time I saw him, he said he was going to take a nap," I lie smoothly, I think.
"Well, it's been an exhausting day," says Effie. I can't tell if she believes my lie, or wants an excuse to have Haymitch absent for our meal, too.
Katniss has been standing through our exchange, but Effie now directs her to a chair across and to the left of mine. Effie sits directly in front of me, and the dinner begins.
We're served in courses: a thick carrot soup, bright orange and vibrant; a green salad with peppery leaves; juicy lamb chops with creamy mashed potatoes; an entire course of cheeses and fruits both familiar and exotic; and finally, a rich chocolate cake, the frosting a little too sweet for my taste.
Throughout the meal Effie is the only one who speaks. She warns us at the start of every course more food is to come, but I don't really pay attention. This food is so different from the stale bread and broth I'm used to eating at home, and I'm trying to get as much as I can, as fast as I can. The food is so delicious I barely notice Katniss the entire meal, except to note she's eating at the same pace I am.
As I'm finishing my lamb chop, Effie says, "At least, you two have decent manners. The pair last year ate everything with their hands like a couple of savages. It completely upset my digestion."
I sent down my fork, my digestion a little upset now, as I think about the two tributes from last year. They were two of the kind my mom complained about the loudest. They lived in the community home, for orphans and children whose parents aren't fit to care for them. They had probably never had so much as a plate of food to themselves their entire lives.
I don't respond, and neither does Katniss. She does, however, employee a little bit of District 12's flavor of dissension, by ignoring her silverware for the rest of the meal and wiping her hands on the tablecloth. She's beautiful when she's angry.
I'm feeling slightly queasy as the meal comes to an end. The rich food and the sheer quantity have overturned my stomach, but I think I'll manage. The dirty plates and glasses are all cleared away as Effie stands and insists we follow her into the next car.
It's the door she came through earlier, and it leads to a sitting area with a viewing monitor and plush chairs. What is it with these Capitol people and overstuffed furniture? The upholsterers there must make a fortune.
We each select a seat, and turn our attention to the monitor. The Panem Seal appears on the screen, accompanied by the anthem. Then the screen fades to black, and we start in with coverage of each districts' Reaping. Each victor makes some impression on me, but a few stand out. The staggeringly beautiful girl tribute from District 1; the monster of a boy from District 2; the clever looking boy from District 3; and sadly, the tiny girl from District 11. She looks so like Katniss's sister Prim, if it weren't for her dark skin and curly hair, I would have thought we were seeing our own Reaping.
But no, ours follows. I'm forced to rewatch the worst moments of my life so far. Seeing a close up of Katniss's face when she volunteers for her sister breaks my heart, her stoic bravery and the gesture our district offers her in return, the gesture I started, mends it again. The commentators say something about our backward ways and quaint traditions, then Haymitch plummets off the stage. A good laugh there, right before Effie reads out my name. I close my eyes, unwilling to watch myself walk onto the stage. I hear the anthem again and I know it's over.
Opening my eyes, I see the disgruntled look on Effie's face. She pats her hair in sympathy with her past self and says, "Your mentor has a lot to learn about presentation. A lot about televised behavior."
This strikes me as funny, so I laugh. "He was drunk," I say, "He's drunk every year."
"Every day," Katniss adds.
We look at each other, and smile. Warmth spreads through me at this small joke we've shared. We can make fun of Haymitch, but Effie can't. He's ours, alcohol and all.
"Yes," hisses Effie, "How odd you two find it amusing. You know your mentor is your lifeline to the world in these Games. The one who advises you, lines up your sponsors, and dictates the presentation of any gifts. Haymitch can well be the difference between your life and your death!"
It's like he knows when anyone says his name. In comes Haymitch, staggering to one of the chairs, and puts both hands down on its arm for balance.
"I miss supper?" he slurs out. Then he turns his head, vomits all over the expensive carpet, and passes out, falling in the mess.
"So laugh away!" Effie says, eerily echoing my mother's comment. She daintily sidesteps the vomit-covered Haymitch and hurries from the car.