Author's Note
Another looooong time between updates. I had originally hoped to write a new chapter every few days or so, but I have too many irons in the fire, as they say. Seeing as how I do not get paid for this particular iron, it's a slightly lower priority than some of the others. So, for those of you who care (thank you, by the way - you are keeping me motivated!) I'm going to aim for a chapter a week, give or take.
The day of the opening ceremony is a nice one, sunny, clear, and warm. It feels like a sin. Like wearing yellow to someone's funeral. Like dancing on a grave.
I would normally love a day like today, but there's too much going on to appreciate it. Besides, I don't quite feel like I'm allowed to, anyway. Yesterday's motivation has waned a bit as I have had time to choose a course of action – the resolve is still there, but now it is tempered with caution. I'd initially thought to corner my father in his office, spill out all my suspicions plainly, and demand a share of the responsibility. It had become clear, after giving the idea time to steep, that no responsible parent would respond agreeably. Dad would probably lock me in my room for the remainder of my life. That's what I would do if it were my well-meaning but self-endangering child. After careful consideration, I decided that the most likely thing to get me what I want would be to do a little covert work on my own and then corner him and hope he doesn't realize that locking me in my room is still an option. At the very least, this way I could accomplish something small before I'm imprisoned. Thank goodness he wasn't home yet when I got here yesterday, still fired up over my argument with Gale.
That fire has waned, too. Now there's just regret and heartache in its place. The last thing he needed was more pain, and it was clear that my words – meant for comfort but harsh in the heat of the moment – had cut deeply. No wonder he hates me. I do.
I check on my mother, and for once I am actually thankful that she is mostly incoherent so she doesn't ask about my puffy, red eyes. It's still too soon for another dose of morphling, and she doesn't appear to need it yet, but I eye the vial on the nightstand longingly. I awakened this morning with a splitting headache from crying myself to sleep. I don't know why I did; it's not as if Gale Hawthorne hating me is some shocking new development. Maybe it's because I've finally given him a good reason to. At least Rose isn't in today. She'd never let it slide, and I don't quite know how she does it but she always gets me to spill my guts.
I still have a couple hours before the Ceremony viewing in the square, so I check my nerves and head to my father's office. He is, of course, at the justice building preparing for the viewing and meeting with more Capitol media teams. Which means his office is unoccupied at the moment.
….
The Opening Ceremony and Presentation of tributes is mandatory viewing, which means everyone has to gather in the town square to watch on the public screens. I find it interesting that the damn things are never operational unless it's this time of year. They don't work when they could be broadcasting weather reports or district news or even something as useless as the current price of silver. But the capitol makes sure they turn on for the Games.
I stand with my family on the fringe of the crowd, because I'm torn about whether or not I want to watch this. I've never really wanted to, but this year…. I can't decide which is worse: seeing Katniss paraded through a crowd of Capitol gawkers like a goat up for auction, or missing a chance to see her while she's still alive and unharmed. It's nauseating. So I opt to handle it the way I prefer to handle all of my decisions I'd rather avoid. Wait until the last possible second, and then go with my gut. It's served me pretty well so far. Mostly.
Posy and Vick start to whine because they can't see anything, and my first instinct is to snap at them that they shouldn't complain about that, but then I remind myself that they are both still young enough to not quite grasp what's going on. So I take Vick and hoist him onto my shoulders and Mom balances Posy on a hip. A new round of whining begins because Posy does not think it's fair that Vick now has a better view than she does, and though I can't actually see his face I am absolutely certain that he's sticking his tongue out at her. Mom and I turn face to face to scold each other's luggage, which makes them both pout. Still annoying, but quieter. Rory is embarrassed by all of us. Just to needle him (on the off chance that Prim Everdeen is looking) I reach over and ruffle his hair with one hand. Horrified, he scowls back at me and punches me in the arm. I make a show of staggering sideways and grabbing my bicep to advertise that it was a pretty sorry excuse for a punch, and I realize that it won't be long before I can't carry Vick like this anymore. He's getting heavy. It gets the desired result though; Rory is livid. Which is better than anxious over the Games. This year has been difficult for him. You might know, the year someone he knows personally gets drafted is the year before his name goes into the Reaping Ball for the first time. If I can keep him distracted, I can keep him a little farther away from fear and despair.
….
All important Capitol documents are housed in the Justice Building, where the most locks, cameras, and loyal pairs of eyes can keep them safe. Even when Dad brings some home to work on, they still have to go right back, and there are others that he can only deal with there. So it stands to reason that the things that interest me at the moment would be kept as far from there as possible.
Something makes me hesitate as I lay my hand on the doorknob – the Capitol may be arrogant, decadent, and perverse, but they're not stupid. Surely they watch very closely the things that go on in all of their officials' offices, whether at home, in government buildings, or elsewhere. I think of the many closed-door meetings my father has had with Haymitch Abernathy over time, and not a single one in my memory was ever conducted in his office. And a blind man could see that anything that Haymitch Abernathy has to say would be something of which the Capitol would disapprove. Especially because even though I'm certain that his drunken antics are not an act, I suspect there's more going on there than he lets on. No, none in his office. Always in the den.
The den is just off the parlor, and true to its name it is tiny and dim. It contains exactly two armchairs, a bookshelf, and a writing desk. The armchairs are ugly but comfortable, the bookshelf is full save the middle shelf devoted to several decanted liquors (for Haymitch's benefit, I assume), and the drawers of the desk are full of junk. I examine the bookshelf for a moment, thinking it might be an ideal hiding place, but I've read nearly every book in the house and by now I ought to have stumbled across something by mere coincidence. I've been through the drawers of the desk, too, but never carefully. I pull out each drawer and sift through its contents minutely, searching for some indication that I don't have an overactive imagination exacerbated by a lack of a social life.
Nothing. Useless junk. I honestly wonder why any of it is even in there. Dried-up pens. A small box of fossilized candy. Grocery lists older than I am. A knotted ball of old shoelaces? Really? I sit back on my heels and push the bottom drawer back into place. Just before I close it, something about the angle of my line of sight seems off. I open the drawer again, reach a hand down to the bottom of it. It's not as deep as it looks from the outside. Close, but not quite. You've got to be kidding….
….
The mayor reads an announcement over the loudspeaker, and I don't pay much attention after he indicates that the Ceremony will begin any moment. Someone comes running toward the crowd from the other side of the square. It's a girl, a town girl with blonde hair. As she gets closer, I see she is around my age, wearing a plain but flattering brown dress. I look a moment longer, because the dress is very flattering. Her hair is escaping from a loose ponytail. And just a split second before she pushes her way into the throng of people, her eyes find mine before I can look away. Shit.
I'd done a really good job today of keeping thoughts of her at bay. The fresh air last night did wonders to clear my head. And there she is, perfect lips curved into a faint smile and sky -colored eyes still sparked with fire. She absolutely refuses to go away. To leave me in peace.
She disappears into the crowd. As the Anthem begins to play, my eyes continue to follow her golden head through the mass of people even though I try to keep them from doing it. She moves toward the front of the crowd so she can see better. How does she make brown look radiant?
A Capitol reporter dominates the screens and announces that the Parade is starting. I wince at her face – the silver vine-like tattoo that twists from her left eye over her forehead and cheekbone is distracting enough to make her blue hair and violet lipstick look tame – but I'm glad for the distraction. The camera sweeps away from her (thank goodness) to focus on a wide boulevard lined by rows of excited spectators and towering, colorful buildings. A far cry from our dingy, dilapidated Twelve. A chariot emerges from a dark gate, and the glorified funeral procession begins. I'm nauseated all over again.
Pair after pair of tributes scroll by, and comments ripple through the crowd as the obnoxious reporter recites trivial, impersonal details about each of them. Their name, their age, their district, what they think of the beautiful capitol and its hospitality. Never that they are someone's child, brother, sister. Friend. They'll save that for later, when they air the interviews with family members after the Ceremony. Which reminds me. I'll need to get out of here as soon as physically possible once we are allowed to go. Whether they intend to or not, someone is bound to mention my connection to Katniss to one of those Capitol snakes slithering around with a microphone.
The tributes from Twelve are always the very last to be presented, and I hold my breath while I wait for them to come on screen. With the exception of Districts One and Two which are Capitol favorites, this year's costumes have been worse than usual (I reserve special pity for the District Nine kids, who are dressed as cows); I just hope that they don't send Katniss out naked and covered in coal dust. Or Peeta Mellark, for that matter. I don't need to see that. Their one saving grace may be that being last means most everyone will have stopped paying attention. I pretty much tuned out when it became apparent that the dress on the girl from District One, skimpy as it was, was not actually going to fall off.
It turns out that, for the first time since the Hunger Games began, everyone pays attention when District Twelve rolls out. The crowd falls silent. Utterly pin-drop silent. Katniss is… breathtaking. Truly. Thousands of people collectively forget to breathe. Being last has played into their hands, because the sun is lower in the sky and the twilight only accents their stylists' work. Flowing capes of living flame trail behind both of them as they ride down the street, hand in hand and waving at the crowd. Hushed whispers begin, because never has there ever been such a spectacle at the Games. This is closer to the Katniss I know. I know her well enough to appreciate that the smiling and waving is the worst part for her, and yet she does it anyway because her life depends on it. I believe a little more that she has a chance; for Katniss this is the brave thing, and if she can do this, she can fight through the Arena. I feel a swell of pride that my friend has stolen the show in such a spectacular fashion.
The thought that Katniss has a chance inadvertently draws my eyes back to where Madge is standing, and as if on cue she looks over her shoulder and finds me. I want to look away, but I can't. I just watch as she smiles at me, as the breeze blows her hair back from her face like wisps of sunlight, as she shines a little brighter than before. Then she does something so simple and extraordinary that it rattles my bones. She turns back to the screen with Katniss all on fire, touches three fingers of her right hand to her lips, and extends her hand in a District Twelve salute. She stays like that, frozen, determined, and the person next to her does the same. Then another, and another, until finally the entire crowd – every last one – stands at attention, arms up, proud and full of hope. The feeling is catching.