Somehow I managed to finish another chapter already! Probably because about half of it was written while I was stuck on the train, but let's count that as the silver lining of the cloud. ;)
The days that follow Madge's reaping are long and difficult, much more so than I had anticipated. I keep reminding myself that whatever worry, anxiety, anger, grief, frustration, or any other negative emotion I'm feeling it's nothing in comparison to what the Undersee family is going through. Madge especially. How can I allow myself to feel so bad when I know that in comparison to her, I'm never better? She is constantly on my mind, and the lack of knowledge of what goes on in the Capitol during the days between the reapings and the start of the Games is its own brand of emotional torture. Supposedly the tributes are training, but what does that entail, precisely? How is Madge fairing? Does she have skills I never knew about that come to the forefront now? Is she discovering hidden talents in herself? Or does she retire to her bed every evening with a growing feeling of ineptitude and hopelessness?
I believe that there is more to the mayor's daughter than meets the eye – an underlying strength and above all a cunning that could help carry her far in the arena. But at the core of her being, Madge is gentle and sweet, a mild-mannered girl who lacks the ruthlessness that I utilise when I'm in the woods aiming my arrow at a living creature. It would be devastatingly difficult for me to take the life of another human being, and yet I have ample experience killing animals. I cannot even imagine how a person like Madge feels, knowing that in order to survive she is going to have to take human life, and soon.
Walking through the mostly deserted streets in town, I feel both nervousness and relief that I'm on my way to the bakery to watch the pre-game interviews with Caesar Flickerman. I'm not entirely comfortable with the idea of stepping inside Peeta's home with his entire family there, but I'm not regretful that I accepted his invitation. Having the company of my new friend is the one thing that I think could help me get through this evening. Yesterday I was on the couch at home with Mother and Prim when the tributes' scores were announced, and it was not a pleasant experience. Mother was as pale as a ghost and retired to her bed as soon as she possibly could. Prim was stressed out, seeming unsure of who to offer the most support and consideration for – her sister, whose friend is a tribute, or her mother, who is a selfish basket case. I have no sympathy left for my mother at this point. What about all of this is so difficult for her? It's my friend going into the arena. I don't care if she is picturing me instead of Madge, and that this is what triggers her frequent episodes of whatever it is that ails her. Her actual daughter is in her house, needing a mother's care and support. I haven't spoken a word to my mother since yesterday, and I'm fine keeping it that way for now.
I make a right turn onto a larger street. I will be at Peeta's door in about five minutes. The show doesn't start for another twenty, but there aren't a lot of people out and about. Most are at home already, getting ready to watch. Around ten minutes from now, peacekeepers will spread out across the streets, ready to catch anyone who is outside and not glued to their television set. If they do find you out on the streets, you had better have a good excuse for not watching the interviews. A sick family member is typically the only acceptable reason, and even then that family member has to be sick enough to require emergent attention. I have calculated my walk to the bakery to allow me to get there in time to avoid any peacekeeper run-ins, but to also make sure I'm not there too early and risk having to make small talk with the Mellark family. The only person I want to see this evening is Peeta.
Finally I reach the street Peeta lives on, and I head down into the alleyway. I knock firmly, hoping that the sound will carry to whatever room the family might be in. The door opens, and I feel a little bit more at ease when I see the friendly smile on Peeta's face. He always looks happy to see me, which is a relief these days when it seems nobody else does. He holds the door open for me and, after a moment's hesitation, I step over the threshold.
The back door leads directly into the kitchen, which has three large ovens, a couple of large metal containers that I know serve to keep things cold, a square kitchen island in the centre, three bar stools adjacent to the island, and countless shelves holding baking tins, bowls, measuring cups and the like. The place is perfectly clean, not even a spot of flour on any of the surfaces, but it still holds that lovely new baked smell that I discreetly try to fill my nose with each time Peeta's father opens the door to trade with me. I've never seen the kitchen this quiet, or this clean before. I've never been here after closing.
"Where is everybody?" I ask. I'm walking slowly around the room, taking in each detail with wide eyes, afraid to let myself touch any part of the room other than the floor I'm walking on. The place looks so immaculate, and I'm probably covered in coal dust.
"At my aunt's."
I relax a little. No Mellark family. Just him and me.
"This place is..."
"What?" he asks, sounding pleased at my reaction to seeing the room.
"Not what I expected."
"What had you expected?"
I turn and look at him. He's sporting a warm smile, standing on the other side of the room, leaning back against the counter with his arms crossed under his chest. It's a good question. I don't know what I had expected. Something smaller, busier, more crowded. Without the bustling activity during their business hours, the kitchen feels like an entirely different place.
"There's a lot of space here."
"No, not really. You should be here when the entire family is working together. It would turn to mayhem in five minutes if my mother hadn't implemented strict discipline right from the start."
It's strange to hear him say the word family. I don't know why. I guess I just never pictured the baker and his wife and children to be a unit like that. When I think of family I think of the love between my parents and how comfortable and safe our home was when my father was still alive. I think of Gale and his mother and siblings and how they take care of one another and care about each other. I don't think of the quiet baker, his shrew of a wife, or the two older boys I've rarely spoken to.
"So you all work here together?" I ask, trying to picture it. The place looked crowded enough the other time I was here, and only Peeta and Ryean were working then. "At the same time?"
"Well, not so much anymore. Ryean isn't really interested in the business, says he hates the feel of flour on his hands and the heat from the ovens. He likes running the books, and that's all. My father's back is becoming a problem for him and bending to take stuff in or out of the oven several times a day or leaning over the work bench to knead the dough isn't helping."
"He should come see my mother," I say, thinking to myself that I don't even know what flour feels like on my hands. It's always my mother who bakes our tesserae bread. "She might be able to help him. She's good with ointments and things like that."
"I don't think he would do that," says Peeta, slightly hesitantly.
"Why not?"
"They knew each other when they were young."
"So?" It hadn't occurred to me before that they might know one another, mostly because I don't know how old Peeta's father is, but it doesn't surprise me to hear it. Mother was born a merchant, after all. What I don't understand is how that means Peeta's father can't go to her now.
"Did you know they used to date?" asks Peeta.
"What? They did?" My jaw drops a bit.
"Yeah." He shrugs but seems surprised that I didn't know. "I guess it would be awkward for him to go to her for help now."
"But why?" I ask. "That must have been almost twenty years ago."
"My brother Scotti is twenty-one, so I should think at least twenty-two years," says Peeta dryly. "And time doesn't matter really… It was pretty serious between them. From my father's side, anyway."
"Meaning what?"
"He wanted to marry her. She wanted your father instead. Don't know the details, never asked. It seems enough for him to not want to seek her out now. And I don't think my mother would like it."
For the life of me I can't imagine that Mrs. Mellark would react with jealousy. The idea of her having strong enough feelings for another person to be jealous seems impossible to me. I can, however, picture her being possessive and not wanting her husband to go visit a woman he used to be in love with, especially when she now lives in the Seam. But even so, if her husband has a bad back and it's interfering with the way they make their livelihood she is stupid if she doesn't support him getting help, regardless of where that help comes from. Pride only goes so far.
"I don't want to talk about our parents," shrugs Peeta. "Can I get you anything before the broadcast starts? I thought we'd watch it in here if that's alright by you."
My mouth waters immediately at the thought of the kind of delicious treats Peeta could offer me. Knowing that they often have to eat stale bread makes it improbable that they have cookies and cakes lying around the house but on the other hand they probably don't get to sell everything they bake and maybe they can keep what's not been sold for themselves. If there is stale bread, maybe there are dry cookies. Or maybe they baked more cookies than they could sell today.
"Well..." I say, trying not to let my voice betray my desire for sweets. "I wouldn't mind a little something... If it's not too much trouble."
"We don't have any bread, unfortunately," says Peeta, getting to work immediately. He walks over to a cabinet and lifts out a round tin box. "No cookies either. We only make them when people order them."
"That's fine," I say, trying not to sound disappointed.
"Crackers okay?" he asks, lifting the lid off the box.
"Oh. Sure."
"Okay." He opens another cabinet and finds a small glass plate. "I think these are cardamom, lemon and... possibly one or two whole-wheat."
"That's fine." It's more than fine. I've only tasted lemon in lemonade, and only rarely tasted cardamom. It's unreal to me how Peeta can have such flavours in his home. He may not be well off but compared to how we live in the Seam he still has a lot of luxuries in his life.
"Tea to go with that?"
"Thank you."
He sets the plate down on the kitchen island, six small crackers on it. My stomach growls a little and I hope he doesn't hear it. He puts the tin box away in the cabinet and grabs a kettle which he fills up with water. While he busies himself with preparing tea I look at the large clock hanging on the wall. Ten minutes until the show starts.
"Do you take sugar in your tea?" asks Peeta.
"You have sugar?" I ask in return. I've only had sugar in my tea when I've visited Madge and I definitely prefer taking it that way but at home we can't afford wasting luxury items on a cup of tea.
"This is a bakery," he answers with a smile.
"Oh. Of course."
He pulls out a small square drawer from a compartment by his head and from where I stand I can see that it's filled with beautiful, white sugar. To have that much sugar in your kitchen, right there in front of you. I can't imagine it.
"One or two spoons?" asks Peeta, scooping sugar with what looks like a silver teaspoon.
"One." I would absolutely like two, but I don't want to be greedy.
He adds the precious white grains to my mug and stirs, but I note that he doesn't put any in his own. Immediately I frown. Should I have declined the offer? Did he only ask to be polite and the expected answer was no?
"Whatever it is you're thinking so hard about, cut it out," he says in a friendly tone, eyeing me from the side as he stirs my cup. "Have a seat, instead."
"Are… are you sure you can spare the sugar?" I manage, feeling like a fool.
"Yes, quite sure," he says with a smile, thankfully not laughing at me. "My father and my brothers seem like they can't drink tea without it, so…" Before I can comment on the lack of sugar in his mug he carries both mugs over to me and sets them down on the corner of the kitchen island. "I'm going to get a bit of cold water in mine, to cool it enough so I can drink from it right away. You want some?"
"No," I say, perplexed by the idea.
"Have a seat," he encourages and brings his mug over to the faucet. I do as told and return his small smile as he walks back to me. "The cold-water thing is probably rather silly," he says, sounding a little bashful which to my surprise tugs at something in my chest. "I just really hate burning my tongue."
"I hate burns in general," I offer by reply and blow a little on my tea to cool it. Then I surprise myself by holding out my mug to him. "Actually I think I'll try your cold-water trick too. Sounds worth a go!"
He grins at me and takes the mug. He nods at the remote to the television and tells me to turn it on while he fixes my tea and with that any positive emotions I was feeling before are gone. I'm not here to spend time with my new friend and enjoy some tea and biscuits. I'm here to have some friendly company and moral support as I watch Madge Undersee, the only female friend I've ever had, be interviewed by Caesar Flickerman on the eve of her entering the Hunger Games arena.
Peeta walks over to me and hands me my mug, his hand landing on my shoulder and offering a comforting squeeze. He doesn't say anything, doesn't have to. Holding back I sigh I cradle the mug between my hands and lean in towards him, drawing strength from the comfort he offers. He squeezes my shoulder again and allows the silence to linger for as long as I need it to. It feels surprisingly good under the circumstances. I close my eyes for a few seconds and breathe deeply, wondering if I would have been able to stand whatever is to come without the support of a friend like Peeta. With Gale gone I would have had nobody anymore if not for him. Out on the Meadow after the Reaping, Peeta assured me that Gale would come through for me in spite of everything, given what has happened. Some part of me wanted to believe he might be right. But he doesn't know Gale, and he doesn't know the kind of pain I've caused him. No dark-haired, grey eyed coalminer has shown up at my door in the days following Madge's reaping, and I doubt that will change during the course of the Games.
Caesar's familiar theme tune begins to play and the man of all smiles and frighteningly white teeth and colourful wigs comes on screen, looking like a proud papa here to showcase his babies before they head off for brighter futures. His hair and eyebrows this year are canary yellow with a dark brown streak in the middle. It looks utterly ridiculous but nothing about this man, or his function, invites laughter. He flashes his trademark grin and this year his teeth seem even whiter than normal. He must have gotten himself someone new to do his teeth – or gotten himself brand new teeth.
"Happy Hunger Games," I mutter along with him, wondering to myself if he actually believes the excitement he tries to sell. Then I scoff at myself. Of course he does. Nobody in the Capitol knows the first thing about fear or sacrifice or fighting for survival. Caesar Flickerman no doubt lives and breathes the Hunger Games.
"I'm always ambivalent about this part," says Peeta, taking a seat beside me. His hand leaves my shoulder and the absence of his heat is noticeable as always. "On one hand I want to pay attention and try and pinpoint which tributes are the biggest threat to ours. One the other I don't want to feel any interest in what goes on at all, I mean, it feels like if I do I'm feeding the monster." He sighs. "And then on yet another hand I kind of feel like I owe it to all twenty-four of them to hang on their every word."
"Why?" I scoff. The first tribute, the female from District 1, is being called up for her interview and just the sight of her, proud and cocky grin in place and a cold, almost murderous glint in her eyes, makes me dislike her deeply. There must be something wrong with a person who can be up on that stage, less than twenty-four hours to go before they enter the arena, and feel excitement and anticipation.
"Because they matter," answers Peeta. Judging by the look on his face he doesn't share my view on the girl from the career district. "This is their last chance to… I mean… Tomorrow many of them will die and the rest will be suffering for days, or weeks, until they, too, die. Career tributes included. This is their last night of relative safety and comfort and most of them didn't choose to be there. They deserve my attention – to be seen. And to be heard." He pauses and leans forward to grab his tea mug. "That goes for the careers as well. Deep down I don't think they necessarily like the idea of fighting twenty-three other kids to the death." He sips his tea carefully, trying to avoid burning his tongue even with the added water. "But peer pressure, from an entire district at that, is a powerful thing."
I turn my eyes back to the television and to the eighteen-year-old girl with thick, gorgeous mahogany hair falling in perfectly styled locks down to just below her shoulders. Her dark brown eyes are full of confidence and the way she tosses her hair and laughs merrily at Caesar's remarks doesn't make me think she has any problem whatsoever being in the situation she is in. If anything I think she looks like she's loving every minute of it. But when her interview is over, and we're treated to a shot of the next five tributes who will be interviewed, I have to admit to myself that most of them seem a bit on edge.
The boy from One takes the stage, grinning cockily. He can afford to be cocky. Not only is he a career tribute, he looks to be strong and burly, and he received a score of ten. The highest one this year, tied with two other tributes.
"I root against that fellow already," I say grumpily. Peeta gives me a raised eyebrow but instead of commenting he holds up the plate with crackers and offers me one. I manage to stop scowling and take one. "Thank you."
"He's a threat, for sure," Peeta finally says, setting the plate down and taking a cracker for himself. He bites into it and makes a surprised face. "Oh. I was wrong," he says, mouth full of cracker. He chews, wipes crumbs from his mouth and swallows. "These aren't whole-wheat. They're cinnamon." His brow wrinkles comically. "I didn't know we'd made cinnamon crackers."
I can't tell if he's serious or trying to wring a smile out of me. If it's the latter then he succeeds a little bit, and I bite into my own cracker, finding it to taste of neither cinnamon nor lemon, which means this is cardamom.
"They're good," I offer.
"They're dry and can literally seem to grow in your mouth if they've got enough days on them, but it's all we've got."
"They're great, Peeta."
Up on stage with Caesar, the boy from One brags about how his score from the gamemakers proves that he is a force to be reckoned with this year. Peeta chuckles dryly and dunks his cracker in his tea before taking another bite,
"He seems to be forgetting that he's not the only one with a score of ten," he remarks.
"He's either an idiot or high on his own self-importance, or both."
"It's not like he got an eleven. Not like he got a twelve. That would be something worth bragging about. I mean, when was the last time someone got a score of twelve?" He points with his pinkie to one of the crackers. "Try that one next. It's lemon."
"Thanks." I reach out and grab the cracker, so I won't forget which one was which.
"So what do you think of Madge's score?" He sounds almost too casual. "Think it will help her?"
"She got an eight. That's a helpful score."
"Yeah. Yeah, it is," he nods. "A strong number, yet not so high it makes her a target." A look of sadness clouds his face for a moment. "Far better than Eric's five. His family must be…" He shakes his head and wipes crumbs off his thighs. "You know what, sorry I brought it up. Let's not talk about him, just for this evening. It's difficult enough with Madge."
I say nothing, but on the inside I feel like some form of monster. I had put Eric Riven from my mind as much as I possibly could. I don't want to think about the boy from the Seam who turned fourteen just five weeks ago. He needs to die in order for Madge to live, that's unspeakably cruel but unavoidable no matter how you shake it. I don't want to sympathise with Eric Riven, or his family. I don't want to spend a single moment wondering what's going through his mind, if he's crying himself to sleep at night, how his brothers and sisters are holding up. I want him to be… not really a person to me. I can't tell Peeta that, I can't even tell Prim that, because I know that says something about me that… I mean, what good person, what decent person, what humane person would take that stance? The truth is that I am no better than the Capitol people this year, and I am not sure that this threshold that I'm crossing is one a person can fully come back from once it's all over. I will have to find a way to live with myself. As long as I get my Madge back home alive, I think I stand a chance at doing so.
"Maybe we should talk as little about him as possible," I mumble in a low voice.
"Oh. Right. Absolutely. Do you, uh, would you like more tea?"
"No, thank you."
Right now I just want to think about anything else except for what an awful person I am, and having someone genuinely kind like Peeta offer me tea and crackers makes me feel even worse, like I don't deserve to sit here and enjoy such refreshments when the poor fourteen-year-old whose existence I wish I could forget all about is suffering in the Capitol, and about to enter an arena where he will no doubt starve and thirst – if he even survives the cornucopia bloodbath, that is.
Peeta looks at me with a slightly furrowed brow, no doubt wondering what put me in such a withdrawn mood all of a sudden. He turns his eyes to the television, where the girl from Two is currently being interviewed.
"She got a score of 10, as well," he points out. "Our District 1 friend is already looking less stand-out impressive."
"What was her name again?" I ask dejectedly, just trying to keep a conversation going so that I can hopefully think of something other than, well, the thing I don't want to keep thinking of.
"Servilia. Sounds a lot like 'servant', don't you think?"
"Yeah, perhaps."
Servilia, the eighteen-year-old girl from Two with a score of ten, whose blonde hair reaches down to her knees – which is more than can be said for her dress – is full of confidence, typical for a career. She's telling Caesar how she's got so many talents that it was hard to choose just one to impress the gamemakers with for her private session.
"The problems some people face," says Peeta, shaking his head dramatically. He takes a deep sip from his mug, wiping his mouth while setting it back down again. Then he looks at me with spiked interest. "What do you suppose Madge did for her individual session with the gamemakers? Do you know of any skill she might have, that would have impressed them? She must have done fairly well for herself; a score of eight isn't bad."
"I don't know," I say, embarrassed to admit it. "She's never talked about… having any skills. And I never asked."
"Well, why would you? That's just morbid, going around asking your friends what their impress-the-gamemakers-skill would be in case they were reaped."
"You're just trying to make me feel better."
"No, you feeling better would just be a bonus." He looks pensive as Servilia's interview finishes and her district partner Mars takes the stage. He's eighteen too and holds a score of nine. Better than Madge. He takes a seat and Caesar begins the interview, but Peeta's contemplative face turns back to me again. "Are you thinking about visiting her parents?"
"What?" I don't quite understand what he's asking me, and my bewilderment must be written plainly on my face, but he's kind enough not to spell it out for me like I'm an idiot or something.
"The Mayor and his wife, are you thinking about visiting them?"
"No, why would I?" I ask, reaching for my mug and finishing the last sips of tea. "Should I? Do, do you think I ought to?"
"I don't know if I think you ought to," he says with a scowl, grabbing his mug and sipping some more tea. "I would consider it, if I were you."
"So, you think I ought to," I surmise, annoyed that he can't just give me a straight answer.
"Considering it is not the same as doing it. I don't know Madge's parents. I don't know if it's something they would appreciate. You do. I don't know if it's something Madge would appreciate, but you do. That's what I mean when I say I think you should consider it."
"Got it," I say curtly.
I think about it for several minutes, not saying a word while Caesar interviews the tributes from Three and the girl from Four. The thought had not even crossed my mind, but for Peeta to ask me about it then it must be something some people might expect me to do. Including Mayor and Mrs. Undersee? Despite what Peeta just said I don't know if they would want me to visit, or expect me to. I don't know them very well at all. Mayor Undersee is usually busy working when I've visited Madge, and Mrs. Undersee seems to spend a lot of time lying in bed with whatever ailment it is that she suffers from. Madge and I would normally be by ourselves. Though maybe that is a reason why I ought to visit them. And knowing that Madge is only really friends with me there won't be many others who come to see how they are doing.
"People are strange," says Peeta, breaking the silence. I try and focus on the interviews, wondering what I just missed to prompt him to say that. "There might be any number of people who come and visit her parents while the Games are on, pretending to be their friends, maybe genuinely wanting to offer sympathy and support… I can imagine at least a handful of people we went to school with who would come by and make out to have been good friends with Madge while we were in school, either because they are those kind of people who genuinely want to offer support, or because they're curious to see the inside of the Mayor's home, or… well, because some people simply like to be at the centre of where things are happening. It makes them feel more important, more alive even, perhaps."
"I… don't follow…"
"What I'm trying to say is, there might be all kinds of people coming to visit Madge's parents in the near future. No doubt their own friends will be there to support them. Only you, though, are Madge's real, actual friend. I think they would really appreciate a visit from you if you feel like it's something you're comfortable doing." He pauses, then makes a face. "Or I'm all wrong, and no one comes by and claims to be a friend of Madge's. That's a distinct possibility, too."
"I guess I should go, then," I say, far from convinced that I want to.
"Yeah – only if you want to, though. If you're not, you shouldn't do it."
"Why does this matter to you?" I have to ask. "Why even think to ask me about it, I mean? It's not something you ask someone when you're friends, is it?"
"No, I guess not." He sets his mug back down again and grabs another cracker. "I think… if you want to, and feel comfortable with it, then going to visit her parents could be a great help and maybe even source of comfort for all three of you. She doesn't have any siblings, and she doesn't have a boyfriend..."
"She probably could have had," I sigh dejectedly. Watching him take a bite from the cracker I pick up the lemon flavoured one I grabbed for myself earlier and move it in my hand as if to study it from several angles. "She really likes Harry Storm, who was her project partner. I think he liked her, too."
"Yeah?" he asks with a bite of cracker still in his mouth. He quickly swallows it down. "Do you know why they didn't take it further, if they both like each other?"
"Both too shy, I guess."
"That's such a shame," he says, looking really troubled. "Not that I can't relate…" He clears his throat. "I take it her parents don't know about Harry?"
"What's there to know?"
"Right…" He takes another bite from his cracker, this time chewing and swallowing before speaking. "Which brings me back to my original thought. You are the person she is closest to outside her family. I think it would mean a lot to her mother and father if Madge's best friend came to visit them while she is in the arena. I think it would help you, too, to spend some time with your best friend's parents. Kind of like… you are each other's link to her, you know?" He blushes. "Or am I just talking nonsense? Platitudes and blue skies above clouds and such?"
"No…" I say, furrowing my brow as I think about the things he's said. "No, you're not talking nonsense. I don't know if it's something I'd want to do, but… but I should probably give it some thought at the least."
"Okay," he nods, smiling faintly. "Are you sure I can't get you more tea?"
This time I nod.
"Yes, please. More tea would be great."
"And you wanted sugar?"
"Add some cold water, too."
He smiles at me as he rises and grabs both our mugs to go fill them up again. While he's off doing that, I watch the screen, where currently the fifteen-year-old girl from District 6 is being interviewed. I remember that she had a low score, but I'll probably have to ask Peeta to know exactly what it was. Watching her speak to Caesar, doing a poor job of hiding how nervous she is, I begin to wonder about her friends and family back home in District 6. Have they gathered together to watch this tonight? Does she have brothers or sisters? Are both her parents alive? Grandparents? Will her friends do what Peeta suggested that I could do, and go visit her parents? Ought they to?
Peeta comes back again and hands me my mug. I stir it with my spoon absentmindedly, and when I take a sip I notice that it tastes sweeter than my first mug. I look over at Peeta but say nothing. He must have guessed that I would have liked another spoon of sugar and gone ahead and added one on his own behest. That's just the kind of thing he would do. The kind of thing that would drive me crazy because it's a form of charity, and I don't take kindly to that. He has a frustrating way of circumventing me on that score, in a way that makes me accept the things he does for me without question.
"Did you like the lemon cracker?" he asks.
"It was nice…" I stop myself before I can praise it further. Why am I doing this? I don't particularly care for sour flavours, and this is not some acquaintance I have to be polite with at all times. This is Peeta. My friend. I can be honest. "Actually, a little too sour for my preference."
"You should have told me," he says. "I would have foregone the lemon ones and gotten more of the cardamom!"
"Don't worry about it."
"Well I want to be a good host," he smiles.
"You are," I assure him. My eyes turn downward, away from the television and the interview with the sixteen-year-old boy from Six. "And a good friend." His hand is on the kitchen island, resting right beside his tea mug, ready to pick it up whenever he fancies a sip. I place my own hand on top of it and give it a squeeze. "You've been such a good friend to me, and you've had no reason to be."
I look up at him and our eyes meet. His voice has a strange, husky quality to it when he answers me.
"Do I need a reason to be?"
"Most people haven't wanted to be my friend. Most people find me unappealing."
"No," he says, shaking his head slightly. "Katniss you have no idea at all, do you?"
"About what?"
"The effect you can have," he says, tentatively smiling. He pulls his hand away from under mine, ostensibly to have a drink from his mug. I'm about to ask him to elaborate, because I don't have the slightest clue what he's trying to tell me, but he continues on his own volition, nursing the mug between both his hands. "You know, most people at school admired you. It's true! Don't scoff at me. You are the brave girl who goes out beyond the fences, who trades at the Hob, who jokes with peacekeepers."
"I joke with one peacekeeper."
"That makes one more than most of us. Katniss you are such a strong, fearless person. People may have avoided getting to know you, but I assure you, it was not because they think you're unlikeable."
He doesn't say anything more, leaving me frustratingly curious. I would very much like to know why, then, they have avoided getting to know me better, but I feel foolish and self-absorbed asking. Peeta looks oddly uncomfortable for some reason. I furrow my brow and lean a bit closer to him.
"Perhaps you are right…" I say. "Perhaps a lot of people at school would have liked to get to know me better, strange as that sounds to me…" I put my hand on him again, this time a bit higher up on his forearm. "But you were the only one who bothered, other than Madge. I don't know why you did, but I am very grateful. I've never needed a friend more than I do right now."
"What, uh, what about Gale?"
For a moment the question makes me uncomfortable, like he's asking about my boyfriend and what he would think about me sitting here in another guy's home, touching his arm. But of course that's not what he means. I shake my head slowly, sighing heavily.
"Gale hasn't shown up to check on me. I told you, I hurt him pretty bad, and he doesn't want to see me."
"It's none of my business whatsoever what occurred between the pair of you," says Peeta softly. "You don't have to tell me. I'm asking though because I'm your friend, and I want to be there for you. I want to help you."
"With Gale?" I ask with a questioning laugh.
"With anything. Everything." That leaves me speechless, my hand slowly falling from his arm, down my side. I glance over at the television, wonder if I can suggest we just watch the interviews like we said we were going to, but all the same this is a conversation I might want to have. "Katniss," says Peeta. "Did you cheat on him? You don't have to answer that if you don't want to."
"But if I don't answer that pretty much means I did, right?" I point out with a joyless chuckle.
"I… didn't think about that. Never mind. Ignore the question. I was just asking because that's the worst thing I can imagine someone I love doing to me. But even if you did do that to him, if it had been you and me together and you had done it to me… Your best female friend has been reaped! She's going into the arena tomorrow! Nothing else matters right now, except being here for you."
A tear escapes my left eye and I quickly wipe it away. My hand finds his again and he lets go of the mug to allow our fingers to intertwine. I give his hand a squeeze. He squeezes back.
"You are so good to me… Why are you so good to me?" His cheeks turn mildly red and he looks away, as if he's embarrassed. "I didn't cheat. But I'm not so sure that what I did wasn't more or less as bad to do not only to a boyfriend, but one who was my best friend going in."
"Even so," says Peeta, meeting my eyes again. "I think he's wrong to not show up and offer you support. I am more than happy to be there for you, whatever you need, come what may, as long as this nightmare with Madge goes on – and after, for that matter. But I wish for you to have Gale as well. He knows you better. He's been your friend for so long. I think you need and want him there."
"I gave up that right," I sigh, releasing his hand and taking a sip of tea. "I can't judge him for not being able to set aside his hurt and all the betrayal he feels. You shouldn't either."
"Katniss being somebody's friend, somebody's genuine friend, means that when something terrible happens to that person you are there for them. Whatever is going on between you can wait. You press pause, you set aside the ugliness of whatever that person did to you, whatever it is you might be fighting about." He furrows his brow, bites his bottom lip, then draws a deep breath. "Let me ask you this: If things had been the other way around, and it was Gale who did to you what you did to him, and Gale's only male friend was reaped, would you turn your back on him?"
That's an impossible question for me to find the answer to. To begin with, I cannot even imagine being in Gale's shoes right now, because I've never been in love like that. I've never wanted another person so much that I was convinced that we would be together forever, that anything else would be unfathomable. It goes to follow that I've also never had that person date me but fail to fall in love with me in return, yet all the same stayed with me after that should have been obvious to him. I can't put myself in Gale's shoes. I try to imagine if Gale had hurt and betrayed me in some other way, doesn't matter how, just really, really badly. I'm still not sure. Or maybe I am, but I don't want to admit to it. I am not a forgiving person. I'm just not.
"You're such an idealist, Peeta," I sigh, looking down at my hands that are moving the cracker back and forth.
"Maybe," he nods. "This is not about idealism. It's about what being a real friend means. And I'm not judging the guy. Yet. He might need some more time before he can take a breath and come knock on your door. Katniss, I'm telling you, if he is your best friend, if he is that guy I've seen you haul dead animals all over town with, if he's… He will come through for you. Friends don't leave one another hanging. They don't walk away when they're needed the most, regardless of what has transpired."
I feel a lump forming in my throat, and my voice feels thick when I speak.
"I guess he doesn't want to be my friend anymore, then."
Peeta looks down for a couple of seconds, giving me some space. Then he reaches for the plate of biscuits and holds it up to me, offering me the last one.
"So I get to have monopoly of you until Madge gets back?"
It's not all that funny a joke, but I laugh nonetheless, more from the tension breaking than anything else. I take the cracker, wrap my arm around his neck and lean in to kiss him on the cheek. With a surprisingly comfortable sigh I then rest my head against the nape of his neck.
"Sucks to be you, Peeta. I hope you're prepared, because I might need a whole lot of friending until this is over."
"Good thing seniors graduate early. I've got time on my hands."
I pull back my arm and he sets the plate back down, shifting on his barstool to get a more comfortable position. I smile shakily at him.
"So, uhm…" I say, feeling very sad yet kind of happy at the same time. I might as well come to terms with having lost Gale's friendship for good but having gained Peeta's is worth more than all the turkeys and the rabbits and the squirrels in the forest at this point. "Should we watch the interviews for a while? They're already on District 9."
"We should," he says with a sigh. "Here I was making this big thing about how it's important that all of them are seen before they die in the arena, and I barely even watch their interviews. As far as friends go, you're very distracting."
"You love that about me," I declare cockily.
"I suppose I do," he says with a light chuckle.
So we watch the rest of the interviews, making sure to pay good attention to what they all have to say, trying to get some measure of an idea of who they are as persons. We talk throughout, making comments about their scores, their chances in the arena, how big of a threat they might be to Madge, if they could possibly be an ally for her… It's about as relaxed as watching the pre-arena interviews can be, and I have to admit that I've never had such a comfortable experience watching these interviews before. Not even when I've watched with Prim. Nor when I've watched them with Gale. It's not a fun evening in front of the television, this is still the Hunger Games we're watching, but in Peeta's company it doesn't feel one hundred percent awful.
When Madge walks on stage it seems my emotions, as well as my face, can't seem to make up its mind as to how to react. All at once I'm so glad to see her and see that she's looking well, and heartbroken that this is the last time I will see her safe and comfortable until the Games are over – or ever, possibly. I want to smile, and I want to scowl, and I want to cry, but my face decides to settle on tightly pursed lips and a furrowed brow.
"She looks good," offers Peeta. "Like she's keeping it together."
"I've never seen her with this much makeup before…" I comment, more to myself than to him.
Her stylist has not gone overboard and packed on the makeup like the girls from some of the early districts, but she's wearing a softly glistening copper coloured eyeshadow, and her beautiful blue eyes are framed by eyeliner and mascara. Her eyebrows have all but disappeared, remaining only as thin, bowed lines. There's light rouge on her cheeks and on her lips is lipstick that is vibrant without being too red. The eyeshadow matches the gorgeous copper coloured gown she's wearing, a floor-length creation with a heart neckline and below her shoulders falls a few rows of what I guess are sleeves, made up to look like shimmering copper wings. And around her neck is a very expensive looking necklace with a mockingbird pendant. Every now and then the bird seems to gently flap it wings.
But more importantly than clothing and makeup, she looks well. Almost as if she's not going to enter the 76th arena tomorrow morning. A new kind of confidence and strength seems to radiate from her, and it makes me so damn proud to see it. So proud, in fact, that I have to blink away a stray tear or two, hoping that Peeta doesn't notice. When she begins to talk her voice sounds a little bit deeper than normal, calm and strong and resilient. For the first time since the reaping I'm beginning to feel a genuine sense of hope awaken in my chest.
"So tell me Madge Undersee," says Caesar, "how have you prepared yourself for the battles to come? What strategy have you come up with to take the victory in these, the 76th Hunger Games?"
"Surely, Caesar, you know full well that I can't divulge my strategy right here, right now, with all my fellow tributes listening," Madge says with a strangely serene smile, clasping her hands on her lap. She looks calm, in control. The knot in my stomach grows tighter, the thought that I might watch her die tomorrow morning really beginning to take hold of me. "But I can assure you that I have a plan in place and I will execute it to the detail."
"Oh, come now," says Caesar in his flamboyant fashion. "You can't just tease us like that! You have to give me something!" He turns to the audience. "Right folks?"
The entire studio audience roar with encouragement and Madge laughs, actually flirts with the camera, with the audience. I've never seen her like this before.
"She's good," says Peeta in a low voice, careful not to speak over anything she might say. His eyes are glued to the television, just like my own.
"Yeah," I nod. I can tell she's putting on a performance. I've known her for so many years now. But the people watching at home, those who've never seen her before she stepped on to the stage on Reaping Day, they are going to swallow this hook, line and sinker.
"Tell you what," she says, leaning forward and patting Caesar on the knee. "Be a good boy and I might give you a hint by the end of our interview."
Caesar turns to the audience again, his mouth forming a big O and his hand coming up to cover it. The audience eats it all up with enthusiasm. As the crowd quiets down Caesar's expression turns serious, the hint of compassion in his eyes.
"Now, Madge… Besides being the District 12 mayor's daughter, you are also part of our extended Hunger Games family already. Isn't that right?"
Madge's smile fades almost completely. She looks down at her lap, swallows and nods. I frown, wondering what this is all about. More showmanship? I can't tell.
"Yes Caesar, it's true," she says. She looks up at him, keeping her eyes on him and avoiding looking out into the audience or into the cameras. A complete shift compared to a moment ago. "My aunt… She was a tribute, you see."
My jaw drops, and my heart begins to pound. The studio audience goes wild over this bit of trivia. I look at Peeta, who has leaned back on his barstool and crossed his arms, scowling and clenching his jaw.
"What aunt?" I ask. "Did you know she had an aunt? Her parents are both only childr…" I stop myself before I can finish the sentence. Her parents are only children now. If Madge had an aunt who was a tribute I can deduce what happened. I turn my eyes back at the screen, my heart feeling heavy and sad, even more so than before.
"I don't know the details," Peeta answers in a murmur. "I know, though, that Mrs. Undersee had a sister. My mother told me once."
"Oh God…" I say faintly. In the corner of my eye I think I see Peeta turning his attention to me, like he's waiting to spring into action if I should start to blubber again or something. I lean forward, my eyes again glued to my best friend. How come she never mentioned this aunt to me?
"Your aunt was a tribute," nods Caesar solemnly. "And I know she didn't win her Games. The second Quarter Quell, no less. It was District 12's very own Haymitch Abernathy who won that year."
"Yes. Maysilee, my aunt, was in the same arena as my mentor."
"What?" I say in a croaking exhale. This explains a whole lot. It explains Haymitch's behaviour from the moment her name was drawn. I just assumed it was due to who her father was, that Haymitch was an elitist snob at heart, but I got it all wrong. If he was a tribute with Madge's aunt no wonder he wants to go the extra mile for her. But is it to honour a fallen friend and co-tribute? Or is it to make amends for past betrayals? I get the strong, sudden urge to watch the second Quarter Quell and find out every detail for myself, but I'm not sure I can stomach that right as the 76th Games are about to start.
"Well, I hope you will have better luck than your aunt," Caesar says. Still sounding compassionate, which he doesn't have to do – to the Capitol audience being related to a tribute, even a dead one, is a great honour. "I hope the odds will be ever in your favour – more so than for her. And I know that you will make her proud."
"Thank you Caesar," says Madge, a touch if steel in her voice. Her hand comes up and tosses a long tress of hair over her shoulder. On its way back to her lap her fingers graze the mockingjay, and its eyes seem to light up, its wings responding to her touch. "But, you know… Those two are actually not connected. Having good luck and having the odds in your favour, I mean."
"Oh?"
"Luck means leaving it all to chance. You can optimize your odds as much as possible." Her eyes finally turn back to the cameras, though this time she's not smiling nor trying to charm the audience in any way. She is still performing though, I can tell. Her gaze through the camera lens seems to bear straight into you and there's a strong unspoken message there. Madge Undersee, to my admitted surprise, knows how to play the game and she intends to be a force to be reckoned with. "Believe me when I tell you… I have spent my whole life optimizing the odds as much as possible."
"Wow," says Caesar. "Well you are going to be a thrill to watch, Madge Undersee!"
"Wow indeed…" says Peeta. As Madge's interview has ended now I turn to look at him. "I think she's telling the truth. I think she has been optimizing her odds as much as she possibly can."
"Yeah, but it's the Hunger Games," I object. I cannot bring myself to feel confident over her statements. There are far too many dangers awaiting her, not the least of which is 23 other tributes who are all prepared to kill up to 23 times if necessary, in order to win the Games and their lives. "Gamemakers control everything. How can you optimize anything with all those variables in play?"
"But she didn't say she had prepared herself for any eventuality," replies Peeta. He reaches forward and grabs the remote, turning the volume down even though it's Eric's turn to be interviewed now. "You can probably do all sorts of calculations on how the arenas have looked, what kind of weapons have been most effective…"
I shiver at the thought. I can't even imagine Madge killing a mouse, much less another human being.
"I don't know," I say. "I still think it sounds so very… So much like it's still down to luck. It doesn't matter if most arenas have taken place in a woodland area if this one takes place in a desert."
"True," nods Peeta. "But no one can ever know exactly what you're facing as a tribute. All you can do is maximize your odds. Frankly it sounds like one of the better strategies I've seen in recent years. Take studying the arenas as an example. Say that this year is one of the more common types of arenas and she's prepared herself to survive in that environment. Right there you've got one up on the others."
"Only they'll probably be aware that it's a common kind of arena, too."
"Well then, say that she's done her homework and figured out that the most effective weapon has been… the spear. And she spent the prep week mastering it as much as possible. One more factor in her favour. Now add a dozen, two dozen other details like this. Madge will have a clear advantage over the rest of the lot."
I can't formulate a proper counter argument, yet I remain unconvinced. We turn our eyes back to the television where Eric's interview is coming to an end. We barely heard a word of it. So much for owing it to the tributes to hang on their every word.
Peeta gets up and begins to clear the kitchen island. I remain seated at his insistence. Caesar wraps up the evening and I feel my nervousness nearly get the better of me. I can only imagine what the mayor and his wife must be going through. Especially Madge's mother, who lost a sister in the Quarter Quell. She's already had to experience a loved one interviewed by Caesar, getting their score, going into the arena. To have to do it all over again, with your own daughter, is a form of hell I cannot even imagine.
We get to see another shot of Madge, standing amongst the other tributes, and I try to memorize every detail. I tilt my head slightly, noticing something just as the brief shot of her shifts to one of a different tribute. Her face looks fuller, doesn't it? Her whole body, in fact. She's never had to starve but she's never been a chubby girl. She isn't now either, but she definitely looks like she's gained a few kilos already, in the brief week that's gone by since she left District 12. Despite myself I smile. She's been loading up on food, building reserves. Good girl. That is a very smart move.
In fact, it seems like just the kind of thing one might do if they wanted to heighten their odds.
"So how do you feel?" asks Peeta. He's walked back to me and is taking his seat again, this time shifting his body towards me rather than the television. His concern warms me, and I wish I could give him a genuine smile, but I know he's not going to mind the lack thereof. It's funny, but in a way he knows me so well after those months spent working on the project that it almost feels like he is my boyfriend – in a strictly non-romantic sense, oxymoronic as that may be.
"I don't know." I laugh briefly, mirthlessly. "Well I feel incredibly nervous and all but who am I to feel that way? I'm not her family and I'm not her. By comparison I'm doing swell."
"Don't say that Katniss, of course you get to feel frightened," he replies. "People should feel that way when someone they care about go into the arena."
Now I actually do smile, even if it's only a very small smile.
"I'm really glad it's not you there in the Capitol with her," I say. The words tumble out of my mouth on their own accord, but I don't regret having spoken them. The bashful blush and endearing smile I get as a reward makes me feel better than I have in days. Since we parted ways in the Meadow. "It would have been an absolute nightmare having two of my dearest friends there at the same time."
"Is it an awful thing to say that I'm really glad it's not you there in the Capitol, too?" he asks.
"No," I tell him. "No, you've never been as close with Madge."
As I say the words I realize their hidden message – that he is close with me. And I find it feels like a good statement to make. It doesn't feel like a lie. His hand lands on my leg, just above my knee, and gives a reassuring squeeze.
"I honestly do believe that she's got a great chance to survive," he tells me. I notice that he didn't say win. "Just look at how she carried herself tonight. She charmed people at the start of her interview, won their sympathies in the middle and presented herself as someone to keep an eye out for at the end. And if you want to know what I believe, I think that being interesting is one of the best ways to go. We all know the gamemakers can control the arena to push the narrative in certain directions. To the people in the Capitol this isn't a lethal sport as much as it is high entertainment. Keep them entertained and they will try to keep you around for as long as possible."
"You make it sound like something different than what it really is."
"The goal of the Hunger Games is to entertain the masses in the Capitol," he says, moving his hand off my leg. "To subjugate the districts, sure, but ultimately – to entertain the Capitol."
I have nothing to say to that. It's getting late, and now that the program is over I'm sure his family will be on their way home. They have to be up before sunrise to get the baking started in time. I don't wish to head home and leave the comfort of my friend's company in exchange for my mother's total mental and emotional absence and my sister's insecurity over how to speak to me after the weeks I've had. But I have to get going nonetheless.
"I should go…" I say, sliding down from the barstool. "Peeta thank you so much for tonight. You don't know what it means to me."
"Anytime, Katniss," he says, a small, sad smile on his face. "I mean that. Anytime you want some company watching the Hunger Games you come knocking here, do you hear?"
"What if you're not home?" I blurt out.
"I will be." He pulls me close for a hug that feels dangerously good, some measure of the attraction I've felt for him on-and-off rising to the surface. He kisses my cheek, releases me from his embrace far too soon and follows me to the door. "And thank you… for trusting me."
I pause with my hand on the doorknob, giving him a soft, unhappy smile. The ache in my chest intensifies at the thought of leaving this warm kitchen and this warm-hearted boy and head out alone into the dark night. I pull myself together, thinking of how Madge must be feeling right now. Who am I to feel unhappy in comparison?
"Sleep well, Peeta," I mumble, then I hurry out into the darkness, hearing the door close behind me.
Some of the interviews (including Eric's) kind of go by at warp speed, but call it plot time or something.
I know in "Mockingjay" Katniss brings up Peeta not taking sugar in his tea, but the cold water thing is nowhere to be found in canon. I threw it in there because it's a quirk of my own. Maybe Peeta picked it up in the past year or so, in-story. =) Maybe it's odd that all he can offer her here is crackers, when he's brought her family cookies in the past, but I'm thinking that whatever he brought her when they were studying were things sent by his father, and he doesn't want to give away any fancier things without permission. Or maybe they simply didn't have anything else on this particular occasion.
As for Madge's Hunger Games, I have made the decision to only include the most essential events in this story, along with some minor bits and pieces just to help the story flow better and make sense. It's a slow enough burn as it is, so I don't want to go sloth-speed with the Everlark aspect of the story for a while in order to cover Madge's happenings in the arena. It's possible that i might write up a separate single-chapter piece chronicling the 76th Games from start to finish at some point down the road. It mostly depends on whether or not I have time to do so,
Thanks for reading!