Chapter Nine

Mags has to find someone from the Capitol to teach me dance, and it's another week before they come. I wait on my front porch, peering down the street to the entrance of the Victor's Village, and see the iron gates slowly open, and sleek black car driving down the cobblestone street.

The car stops in front of me, a driver getting out to open the passenger-side door, and I see Tomas for the first time. They're only a few inches taller than I am, with bright green cropped hair, gold lipstick, and a jumpsuit that looks intricately woven as if it had been wrapped around their body and then sewn. Tomas stifles a grimace as they walk up to the stairs, before putting on a wide-toothed smile to greet me. They extend their hand to mine, and I take it. "Hello, darling. I'm Tomas, your new dance instructor."

"It's nice to meet you," I say, timidly, only now aware of how my hair has faded, my nails are unpainted, and I'm wearing a plain shirt and stretchy pants. I must look like a mess to someone from the Capitol. "Thank you for coming to teach me dance."

"Oh, of course of course," Tomas says in a drawn-out tone. "You really are lucky to have me. I only work with the best of the best. My last client was the Antonia Sustar."

I have no idea who that is, so I just smile and nod.

"Now, show me your dance studio. Let's get to work."

I show Tomas inside and up the wide staircase. There's an extra bedroom that I've cleared out to make room for dance lessons. It's now bare except for a large mirror opposite the windows, and a music player. The light reflects off of the waxed-wood flooring. I turn to look at Tomas, and am glad to see them smiling.

"Oh, this will do nicely." Tomas says.

We start by doing stretches and a simple warm-up, and then Tomas teaches me a few moves. They've decided to teach me freestyle dance, as it should be the easiest for me to pick up—there won't be any hard and fast rules I need to stick to.

I had hoped I'd be able to pick up dance quickly, but I instead end up with an exasperated Tomas as they have to give me instructions several times because my mind keeps going blank and I forget what they've said.

After my third session with Tomas, I do find that I'm picking it up, and I find myself enjoying it more and more. Dancing makes me feel powerful in a way I never had before. To learn such control over my body, and to be able to express myself through movement offers a kind of release, and sometimes I find my eyes wet with tears at the end of our sessions.

"You've done well, Annie," Tomas says at the end of one of our sessions. "You're really improving. We'll have you Capitol-ready in no time!" They hum to themselves as they walk back to their car. I watch them drive away, and see Finnick walking up the path toward me. He's wearing a long grey coat, and a yellow cap. I smile and wave at him, but he doesn't seem to see.

"Finnick!" I shout, hoping he hasn't begun ignoring me.

He turns to look at me, his face gaunt and eyes brimming with tears. "Annie," he says, trying to muster up a smile.

I rush down the steps toward him. "Are you okay?"

Finnick wipes at his eyes. "Oh this? It's nothing. I'm always okay."

"I don't believe you. Why don't you come inside? It's cold, and my father said he'd be out late tonight, so it would be just the two of us."

Finnick looks down at his feet. "Okay."

He follows me inside, and we sit down in our sitting room on one of our stately black couches. The marble fireplace is empty, and I wish I'd had the foresight to light it earlier.

Hesitantly, I ask, "Do you want to talk about it?"

Finnick nods, his eyes fixed on his lap. "Sometimes, my jobs in the Capitol are worse than others. This was one of those times."

My heart aches to see him this way, and I wish there were something I could say that would make it better, but I know, deep down, that there isn't.

Finnick continues. "Sometimes people enjoy inflicting violence on top of the other things they make me do, but today, they chose violent words. One of the only perks of my life is that I'm adored everywhere I go, and I've gotten used to that. So I'm afraid I'm not as equipped to be ridiculed and berated as I probably should be."

"Nobody should be able to handle that. It's terrible to be treated that way." I say, but I know what he means. I've not been able to take father's harsh words as well as I did before the Games. I reach out my hand and hesitantly place it on Finnick's entwined hands on his lap. He then leans his head on my shoulder, and I feel a wet spot pooling beneath his eye. "Whatever they said, Finnick, it wasn't true. You didn't deserve to hear those things. That person doesn't dictate who you are."

I'm reminded of how not too long ago, Finnick was consoling me by saying something similar. Then Miguel crosses my mind as well and I remember how he helped me overcome false beliefs about myself, and suddenly lose my train of thought for a while when visions of past nightmares flood in. I'm not sure how much time has passed, but Finnick hasn't moved from my shoulder. "What is true, is that you are very handsome, Finnick." He chuckles, and sniffs as he wipes his nose. "But I hope you know that you are so much more than that." He doesn't say anything, so I continue. "You are smart, talented, genuine, and the kind of person who can make anyone feel at ease. You always seem to know the right thing to say when I need it. I can tell that you make Mags's life more joyful, and I'm sure you've brightened so many people's lives as well. You are a good person, which is quite the feat considering everything you've been through."

"Thank you, Annie." Finnick slowly lifts his head off my shoulder, and looks at me. His sea-green eyes seem to hold lifetimes of sorrow behind them. "I really needed to hear that."

"You're welcome, Finnick." I say, patting his hands with my own. "I meant every word."

Finnick wipes his face and takes a deep breath. "Well, I better get out of your hair. I'm sure you've got lots to do."

I open my mouth to protest, but Finnick is already on his way out the door.

I wake early the next morning, my chest light with a strange feeling of hope. I make my way downstairs to the kitchen to make breakfast for my father and I. Thanks to my earnings from the Games, we're no longer resigned to eating sparse meals each day. I cook up some eggs, tinned sardines, and toast a few pieces of bread before my father joins me in the kitchen.

He grunts in greeting, and I set a plate of food in front of him at the table. It's a glossy white table, able to fit up to eight people, though I can't ever see us hosting that many guests. My father does seem to be doing better with the extra food and amenities this house provides. He keeps himself cleaner, and even his work shirts are pressed smooth.

We eat in silence, and as I get up to clean up, my father says, "I'll be out late again today. No need to wait up."

"Okay." My father leaves as I'm washing the dishes. I'm not sure where he's been going lately, but I've learned in the past not to question his actions—he sees that as an act of rebellion against him and his authority as my parent.

Once I've cleaned up, I decide to bundle myself up and have a walk outside. I've been sent clothes from the Capitol, and I put on a white wool coat, dark green scarf, and some high-tech boots that would keep my feet warm even if I were walking through snow. We don't get much snow in District Four, but it is getting to be that time of year.

I begin walking down the street that is feeling more familiar and more like home to me. Our neighborhood is lined neatly in stately houses, definitely all too big for the residents within. Mags and Finnick each live alone, Felix lives with just his wife—the two never had kids. I've never actually seen the other two Victors, though the one closest to me, who I think is Theo Rand—the Victor who won his games a few years before Finnick did—has a lot of visitors come in and out at all hours of the day. There's a large fruit tree by each house, and a fountain in the middle of the cul-de-sac where a sculpture of a triumphant-looking young boy and girl spout water from their lifted hands. Instinctively, I make my way to the middle of the cul-de-sac, to Mags's house, and I'm happy to see her lights are on already.

"Annie, thank goodness you're here," Mags greets me when she answers her door. "Come in."

I follow her in, and begin to remove my coat when she stops me, "Don't get too comfortable, I've got an errand for you."

"Oh?" I say, starting to feel anxious, as if I've done something wrong.

"Finnick called me this morning and says he's sick. I was about to bring him this medicine, but my old bones move much slower than yours. Can you bring it to him instead?" She holds out a small vial of purple liquid.

Relieved that it's nothing I've done wrong, I take the vial. "Of course."

"Thank you, child." She says, and then shoos me out the door.

I knock when I get to Finnick's house, but there's no answer so I let myself in. It's dark, but I'm surprised to see his house so fully decorated. Mags always says he practically lives at her house, so I pictured his house would be sparse like mine, but instead, his sitting room is full of bookshelves, green-shaded lamps, his table decorated with small sculptures and vases of flowers, and there's a small writing desk and chair facing the window. Down the hallway I can see he's got paintings of himself hung on the walls leading to the kitchen.

"Finnick?" I call out tentatively.

I'm answered by a fit of coughing, followed by a weak, "Up here."

I make my way up the stairs and pass an open door that's full of exercise equipment, not unlike what was in the training center. My heart skips a beat, and I feel myself breathing more quickly, but I try hard to remember the task at hand and tamp down my fear response as I walk down the hallway to the next open door, which I assume is his bedroom.

I almost laugh when I enter and find Finnick, tucked into sheets on the biggest bed I've ever seen. He's got a purple velvet headboard, large windows overlooking his back yard, and a few lamps.

"I've brought some medicine, from Mags."

Finnick sits himself up, and I can see his nose is red and his hair disheveled. "Thanks, Annie. You can set it on the end table there. Don't get too close, I don't want you to get sick too."

"I don't mind," I say, though I set the medicine on the table as he said. I look around and notice he doesn't have a water glass. "Let me go get you some water." He doesn't protest, but instead reaches to get the medicine, so I make my way down to his kitchen.

The layout is very similar to my house, so I'm able to find a glass and fill it in the tap in the sink. I have an idea when I'm down there, but want to get permission first.

"Have you eaten?" I ask, after setting his water on the table, just as I did the medicine.

"Not since yesterday," Finnick responds, his voice hoarse.

"I can make you something," I say.

"You don't have to do that, Annie. I'm sure you've got other things you'd rather be doing."

"I don't mind at all. There's nothing else I planned to do today."

Finnick coughs. "In that case, thank you, Annie. That's very kind of you."

I smile before turning to make my way back downstairs, thinking about what I might make him. His fridge and pantry aren't as well-stocked as I would have liked, but I find some rice and some vegetables and decide to make him a rice porridge.

As I'm cooking, I think about how different it feels to cook for a friend rather than for my father. I simultaneously feel more and less pressure to make sure it turns out well. I finish making the porridge and pour half of it into a bowl—I accidentally made too much. I'm distracted by a bird I see out the window. It's one I haven't seen before, black with white tipped wings. I make my way upstairs, feeling as though I've forgotten something but not remembering what it was.

"Did you decide against making me food?" Finnick asks. Embarrassed, I realize the thing I had forgotten was his food. "It's okay if you did. I can fend for myself."

"No!" I say, "It just slipped my mind. I'll go get it."

"Actually, the medicine you gave me has started to kick in. I can get up. Did you make enough for yourself too? You're welcome to join me." Finnick scoots to the side of his bed and slides out. He's wearing a plain white t-shirt and boxers.

I blush and quickly turn away, not wanting to stare at Finnick in his state of undress. "I did, a-actually," I stammer.

Finnick chuckles. "Sorry, would you like me to put more clothes on?"

"No!" I squeak, a little too high-pitched. I clear my throat and look at Finnick. He looks amused. "No," I say again. "You should wear whatever you feel most comfortable in." I turn and start downstairs.

Finnick follows me, still in his just his shirt and boxers, and grabs his bowl before sitting at his table—a white glossy one that's similar to the one at my house.

I serve myself the rest of the porridge and join him at the table. We eat in silence, only the sounds of our spoons scraping against the bowls.

"Ah," Finnick sighs. "This is just what I needed. You're a great cook."

"Thanks," I say, finishing my bowl as well. I get up to start cleaning the dishes. "Your house is beautiful, by the way. I love your study room."

Finnick gets up and grabs the bowls from my hands, putting them gently in the sink. "You don't have to clean up. You've already done enough. And, thanks. That's where I work on my poetry. Would you like to read some?"

I am curious about his poetry. I don't remember if any of it was shown to the Districts during his Victory Tour. I follow him down the hallway, Finnick lighting the lamps as he goes so the hall and rooms are cheerfully lit.

"You know, I started writing poetry as a joke. Because I had to do something for my talent. I wrote meaningless fluff about the Capitol just to please them and get them off my back. But as time has gone on, I've found that poetry actually helps me collect my thoughts and process what's going on in my life." Finnick scans his bookshelf, before pulling down a large brown binder. "Here it is." He sets it on the coffee table, and sits on the couch in front of it. He looks up at me. I'm standing awkwardly by the couch. "You don't have to read it if you don't want to," he begins, "I don't want to seem too full of myself. They're really not that great."

"No," I say, "I want to. I'm sorry." I quickly sit down next to him and grab the binder.

I flip through the pages and begin reading. His poetry is diverse. Some with long and flowing lines, some fragmented. He writes about pain, fear, loss, strength, and beauty. I'm transfixed by his writing. The way he sees the world is so much richer and more delicate than he ever lets on to. Before I can stop myself, I say, "I think you might be the most beautiful person I've ever met."

I feel my cheeks flush once more as I try to think of something to back-track, but Finnick simply says, "Thank you." After a short silence, he asks, "How is your dancing going? Are you enjoying it?"

Grateful for the change of subject, I say, "Yeah. It was hard at first, but I find it really therapeutic. I feel more whole when I'm dancing. It's as if my body comes together to compensate for the gaps in my mind."

"Well, I look forward to seeing you dance. I'm so glad you've found something that helps you." The way Finnick looks at me is so warm that I know he's being genuine.

"Me too," I say. I look out the window and realize I've been in his house for much longer than I had planned. Not wanting to overstay my welcome, I get up to leave. "I'll let you rest now. Is there anything you need before I go?"

Finnick gets up as well. "No, I'm good now. Thanks again, Annie."