Chapter 2: 65th Annual Hunger Games
Fish are always for sale and trade in District 4. It is the one item the district is never without, and for that reason, it is rare that the citizens of the district ever go hungry.
Finnick works at the fish market after school most days. He unloads the hauls, his biceps growing thick with muscle over time. He skins and guts the fish, as his father taught him, and works at various booths to sell it, fresh and ready to be cooked. He's paid a bit of money for his efforts, but mostly he works to see the approval on his father's face.
The fishmongers greet him pleasantly every day, and he knows that they vie for his loyalty. Though there are a lot of young adults working in the fish market, there's something about the way the sun shines on Finnick's golden hair and reflects in his sea green eyes that attracts the customers to whichever booth he chooses to occupy.
Most of the time, Finnick prefers to work with Roscoe Roe. Roscoe is a fat, balding fishmonger who sweats profusely in the hot weather and swears to high heavens. Finnick doesn't have much sympathy for the man, but knows that Roscoe attended school with his father and often buys Leander's catches of the day.
"The sea bass are very good," Finnick tells the mayor's wife one afternoon, leaning across the booth to command her attention, as if he's telling her a secret. "Better than good, in fact. Roscoe only buys from the very best. To catch the best sea bass, you have to go up the coast about thirty miles. The engine has to be cut about a mile from the bay, otherwise the fish know what's coming. The place is very unknown, very untouched by man – the smallest disturbances send them scuttling away. Oh, but it's worth it, all that effort – the fish are so fat and so ripe. Like nothing else."
After he sends the gullible woman off with five pounds of sea bass, he wipes his hands on a cloth and turns to Roscoe with a grin. Roscoe stares at him with a frown and shakes his head.
"Impressed?" Finnick asks him.
"By your bullshit? No," Roscoe mutters, his words gruff and hard.
Finnick laughs. He knows Roscoe better than that – the man has a well-concealed admiration for his sales tactics. "How about that I sold five pounds of sea bass with a one hundred and fifty percent profit?"
"I suppose that's impressive," Roscoe grunts. Patting Finnick on the shoulder with his bulging fingers, he adds, "Ah, life'll come easy to you. Just you wait."
Finnick presents him with a charming smile, returning his pat on the back. He uses the cloth to wipe down the tables of the booth, using vinegar and water to dissolve the smell of the fish with an even stronger (and oftentimes more unpleasant) scent. It's no use – the stink of fish encompasses District 4, and it's all Finnick has ever known.
Up the hill and in a glade of trees, his friends are engaged in another game of Kick-The-Ball. When the market quiets down, Finnick can't help but watch them with a mournful expression. His limbs ache to be pushed to their limits, his heart screams for exertion.
But his mind patiently reminds him that this is where he belongs. There is no other life designed for him but the life of a fisherman's son.
Every evening, Finnick dumps his wages on the kitchen table for his father to collect and count.
"Well done, Finn," Leander says to him one night after dinner. "Another week with wages like today's and we may be able to afford the wood to repair the front steps."
"That's bloody fine," Fletcher grumbles from across the room. If the family didn't hear his words, his scowl is certainly unmistaken. "As if I don't have enough to do."
Finnick raises his head in surprise, wondering how his brother has taken offence this time. "You sore?" he asks.
"'Course not," Fletcher replies darkly. "While you're out charming the townsfolk, I'm working my fingers to the bone with dad, actually putting my skills to use."
Their mother sighs in exasperation, tired of the constant tension, but Finnick feels the need to strike back.
"What's more useful than money?" he puts forth.
"Learning to provide for your family when the money's gone," snaps Fletcher.
"I can swim laps around you," Finnick retorts. "I can fish, I can prepare, I can even make a stupid net."
Fletcher opens his mouth to argue when Leander interjects, "Enough."
With one final sneer in his brother's direction, Fletcher exits the kitchen, sliding past their mother in the hallway to arrive at the bedroom that he shares with Finnick.
Finnick seethes with anger as Fletcher retreats. His hands clench into fists as he hangs his head to collect himself.
"He doesn't understand you, that's all," Dixie says to her youngest son, a worried crease in her forehead. "You're both so different."
"He's reliable," Leander adds, his voice deep but quiet. "Steady as a rock. And Finnick, you're…"
Finnick raises his head, feeling as though he's just been punched in the gut.
Leander lets his last word trail off as he searches for an answer. Finnick waits, his heart sinking with every passing second. After everything he's done. All those days he could have been playing Kick-The-Ball…
Finally, Finnick gives up. Heart in his throat, he pushes out his chair and stands, staring his father in the eyes. "I'm the opposite," he announces.
He leaves the room despite his mother's soft pleas to return. Fletcher is sulking in their bedroom, so there's only one place to go.
Finnick flings open the back door and marches down the steps, peeling off his shirt and letting it fall to the sand. He strides through the water, not caring if he wakes the whole neighbourhood, and when the water is up to mid-thigh, he dives in and swims.
The water is cold, but fresh, and Finnick stays underwater just so he can escape the stench of fish that permeates every grain of sand, every particle of air, every pore of his skin. He swims forward, forward, desperate to get away from it all. Finally, when he is as deep as he dares to go, he treads water as he contemplates what to do next. Gasps of breath come in short spurts from his mouth; the water is too cold. He can't stay out for long. Before heading inland, he allows himself one more moment – a moment to close his eyes, sink underwater, and imagine he is anywhere else in the world.
Wading through the shallow water on his way back to the beach, he shakes his head to rid his hair of the excess water. He shivers. It's a good thing the night air is still warm, otherwise he'd have to race inside for a towel right away. And he can't bear the thought of facing his family again, not right now.
As it is, he picks up his discarded shirt from the ground and shakes off the sand. He bends over and uses the shirt to dry his unruly hair. When he raises his head and stares bleakly at his house, he senses a flicker of movement from the corner of his eye.
He looks to the right. Annie. She sits on the stoop just outside her back door, hands intertwined as they tug her knobbly knees to her chest. She waves at him, not saying a word.
Finnick rolls his eyes in the dark, but ultimately decides to sling his damp shirt across his shoulders and join her. Better than going inside.
"What're you doing out here so late?" he asks as he approaches.
While he situates himself beside her, she replies, "Just thinking."
Finnick leans forward, elbows resting on his knees. He turns his head to meet her eyes, wisps of her long, roan-coloured hair swaying in the breeze.
"About what?"
"My dad," she answers thoughtfully, "and what he'd say to me so I wouldn't be so nervous for my first Reaping."
The word hits him like a bullet, and Finnick realizes that he's forgotten all about the impending Reaping. It's that time of year again. Time for the 65th Annual Hunger Games.
Annie is twelve. He's forgotten that, too.
"And what does your mom say?" he asks, concealing his surprise.
"Not much, these days."
Finnick figures as much. It was stupid to ask her such a question. Poppy Cresta has been ever-so-slightly batty since Wren, her husband, went to work for the Capitol. And Annie's suffered for it. Finnick senses an unfairness in this, though he can't figure out who's to blame.
"Well, you won't be chosen," Finnick assures her, as if it's his job to do so. "You're only twelve."
"Taye was chosen."
Another knife twists in his gut. He thinks of Taye more often than he thought he would, and sometimes expects him to come lobbing around the corner in the schoolyard, a huge grin on his face and a new, fashionable game in mind he picked up from another trip to the Capitol.
He hasn't seen Taye's parents since the day he died. They still occupy the same house just a block from the District Courtyard, but they're shut-ins now. The Capitol doesn't come calling on the Ellerys anymore.
Despite his tortured thoughts, Finnick can only think to reply, "It's an honour to be chosen."
Annie's eyes flicker, meeting his with an intensity she's never shown before. Not to him, anyway.
"You really believe that?" she asks.
Truthfully, he isn't so sure. But it's all he's ever been told.
With a sad smile, he answers, "Yes."
Marcocia Duterre is sporting an alluring, skin-tight, sequined lavender ball gown with straps so thin, they barely exist. The sun beats down on District 4, not a cloud in the brilliant blue sky, and the reflection on Marcocia's sequins is enough to blind the crowd.
As always, Finnick and Fletcher wear their best clothes to the Reaping, their bronze hair tamed by their mother's comb. And as always, Fletcher abandons his younger brother at the boys' pool, and Finnick joins his friends in the middle of the pack. There's a malfunction with one of the videocameras, so the Peacekeepers fight to keep the audience under control while they wait. While his friends chatter excitedly, Finnick looks to the right, trying to spot Annie in the girls' section. If she was nervous two weeks ago, she'd be scared witless by now.
He can't spot her. Some of the girls are seventeen oreighteen years old, and Annie's just a skinny little thing at twelve. She's lost in the pool somewhere.
Finally, the cameras start rolling. Marcocia does all the usual introductions. Mags is mentoring again, looking frailer than the year before, and next to her is Qais, a middle-aged victor who won the games by making smart alliances… and turning his back on them.
"No point beating around the bush," Marcocia says, her lips so large that her teeth are a mystery. "Ladies first!"
As Marcocia hunts in the bowl for a slip of paper, Finnick feels his shoulders tense. With her name entered only once, it's highly unlikely that his next-door neighbour will be chosen. Still, he finds himself fiercely hoping that it's anyone else.
Marcocia unfolds the slip of paper, holds it in front of her, and announces into the microphone, "Saskia Gage."
Finnick exhales, relaxing his shoulders. The crowd cheers, but all he can hear is his heartbeat as it slows, thumping loudly in his ears. He doesn't know Saskia, and she's not Annie. Safe for another year.
"Finnick Odair."
The male tribute is called, and Finnick raises his head to another round of cheering. He waits for the tribute to make his way to the stage, repeating the name in his mind.
Finnick Odair.
Before he can even fully process it, his feet are moving mechanically out of the roped area, down the middle aisle, past the Peacekeepers and up the stairs to the platform.
"Congratulations, Finnick," says Marcocia, flashing him a wink.
Saskia shakes his hand with a terse smile. She's older, but can't be much more than sixteen. Time seems to have stopped and rushed by all at once. Finnick can't register what is happening.
"And congratulations to District 4 on two strong tributes to compete in the 65th Annual Hunger Games!" Marcocia grabs Finnick's wrist in one of her hands and Saskia's in the other. She holds them up to the masses, adding the traditional, "May the odds be ever in your favour!"
Finnick stares into the crowd, still at a loss for words. They're cheering for him. For him. It's a great honour. A great honour.
He can't think; can't act. With Marcocia holding his hand in the air as a sign of triumph, his eyes scan the hordes, searching for anyone who's familiar. Anyone he recognizes whose expression can confirm what has just happened to him.
And then he sees her. Little Annie. He spots her because she is the only person in the flailing crowd who is frozen in place. Who doesn't seem to know what to do with herself.
Finnick knows how she feels.
Their eyes connect and he hangs onto the exchange – at that moment, it's the only thing that seems real.
It may be just a trick of the sun, but he can swear he sees a tear dribble down her cheek.
The fourteen-year-old tribute is permitted only a few visitors who wish to say their last goodbyes.
His friends from the schoolyard. Keane and Odin. They put on a cheerful front, saying their games of Kick-The-Ball will finally be an even match while he's gone.
"Now that you're off to the Capitol," Odin says on his way out, "bring us back another game, will ya?"
The Capitol. He's going to the Capitol. He's barely wrapped his head around the idea of his name being called out of hundreds and hundreds of eligible contestants, let alone to process what this really means. A reminder that he's going to the Capitol, the futuristic, glamorous hub of Panem, is too much to take.
Roscoe Roe enters next. Finnick is shocked that the crotchety old grump owns a set of clothing that doesn't reek of fish, let alone that he'd come to visit his young salesman.
"Too arrogant for your own good," Roscoe says crustily. "Thought you could get away with just about anything."
Finnick raises an eyebrow, wondering if that's all he has to say. If this is his idea of a goodbye.
"Ah, but you were a good worker," Roscoe adds, patting Finnick's shoulder. "A good kid. Made a pretty penny off you."
Were? A new thought enters into his mind to conflict with his already-muddled emotions. People speak to him as if he's already dead.
His parents are next. Dixie has tears welling in her eyes, but Leander has clearly warned her not to cry in front of their son.
"This," he says, placing his hands on Finnick's shoulders and looking him straight in the eye, "is a great honour. You represent our district with pride. You remember what is home."
Gulping, Finnick nods bravely. His throat is dry.
"My boy," Dixie whispers, pulling him in for a hug and stroking his hair as she weeps quietly. "My boy."
Finnick is choked, suffocated. Words arise to be trapped in his throat.
Finally, smothered in his mother's embrace, he asks in a weak voice, "Fletcher?"
"He'll come," says Dixie. "He just needs a moment."
And he does. When his parents exit, Fletcher is ushered in by a Peacekeeper. Finnick stares expectantly, waiting for him to speak.
Fletcher opens his mouth, then shuts it, rethinking his words.
Finnick sits on the bench and rests his elbows on his knees, staring at his hands. He'll let Fletcher have all the time he needs to gather his thoughts.
"Must be nice," Fletcher finally says, bitterness dripping from his tongue. "Charmed life you have there."
Suddenly on edge, Finnick raises his head to glare at his brother.
"You know, I almost volunteered," he continues, nodding to Finnick as if Finnick should already know. "Almost took your place, just so I could be the important one for once. Just so you would have to stay at home and work your fingers to the bone every day while I was the center of attention. I just wanted to know how it feels. Just once."
His green eyes darkening, Finnick suppresses the urge to attack his own flesh and blood. For his idiocy. His ignorance.
"But then I thought," Fletcher continues, pacing around the room with hands in his pockets, "when you don't come home, maybe that won't matter anymore."
He stops. Stares unflinchingly at Finnick, who can't believe what he is hearing.
The older Odair shrugs, his expression solemn, eyes blank. "Guess we'll just have to wait and see."
He leaves without another word, and Finnick is alone. He waits. He waits and waits for another visitor, but when he is finally ushered out of the room and into the train, he realizes that was it.
There are no neighbour-girls coming to say goodbye.
If you've made it this far, then thanks for sticking around! My idea for Knotted is just to give Finnick and Annie a history - Suzanne Collins wrote them in a way that left so much to the imagination, and their story is just so sad and so lovely that I had to know what it was... even if that meant writing it myself.
With that said, I think I have enough material at my disposal to update fairly regularly. I'm hoping that twice a week, every Thursday and Sunday, will be a fairly realistic goal for me :)
Thanks again for reading!