Author's Note
This was originally planned as two chapters, but I couldn't seem to break it up in a satisfactory way. So, it's a long one this time around. Please let me know what you think. Gale had a lot to say :) Madge will have to wait till next time...
(Additional update... fixed typos. So sorry about those. If you happen to find any that I've missed, please send me a note).
For three days we get silence from the Capitol. Training sessions are always top-secret. To keep the betting fair, they say. How rich.
The announcements about training scores always turned my stomach because while the Capitol says they are meant to indicate who is likely to become a victor, I can't help but think of them as morbid wagers on which children will die first and which will linger on in hell and die last. For the first time, I'm eager to hear the reports about the tributes, because for the first time we will bring both of ours home.
I wonder how Katniss is doing – and Peeta Mellark, too. I imagine that her years of hunting in the forest with Gale have given her a head start, but Peeta has no such advantage. I knew him, albeit not well; he was often working in the bakery when I shopped there and like his father he was always polite and would say hello (instead of ignore me, or even worse, just stare like most other people). He looks like he ought to be strong from all the heavy lifting he had to do for his family's business, but beyond that…. Peeta just seems too nice to survive the Hunger Games. I like and respect Katniss, but though no one could ever say she was mean, they certainly could never accuse her of being too nice.
Still, my father had said that Haymitch Abernathy "has a plan" but that he had declined to share it. Apparently the fewer people that knew about it, the better able he'd be to pull it off. I'm not sure I believe this is the reason – I don't think Haymitch is an idiot, but I don't think he's exactly reliable, either. It's entirely possible that the reason he wouldn't share his plan is that he doesn't have one.
At school, everyone is all abuzz about the Girl and Boy on Fire. "How did they do that?" "I've never seen anything like it!" "I almost didn't realize they were from Twelve." For once, I am actually grateful that no one is interested in talking to me about it because the excitement of knowing what the costumes were all about is still raw. The District Twelve stylists, Cinna and Portia, were very carefully selected for their positions, and it had taken a few years of maneuvering to get them appointed. And it was clear to see at the Opening Ceremony that they are brilliant.
I pass my time in class by pretending to work diligently while I sit and think of things to chat about with the carrion feeders that share my home at the moment. I have learned to see the Capitol media team with new eyes. They are no longer annoying, presumptuous guests – they are annoying, presumptuous guests in possession of lots of interesting information. For example, it wasn't long before
I was informed of the exact location of every camera in and around the justice building. Nothing that my father and the people with whom he is working hadn't already learned, but I was amazed at how little it took to get them to tell me, considering that it's not supposed to be public information. Even Dad isn't supposed to know. With a little patience and flattery, I ought to be able to get them to spill all kinds of things.
On the evening of the third day, the report comes out. The results won't be televised till tomorrow, another mandatory viewing event, but high ranking Capitol officials are entitled to see the scores before they are made public. Apparently as a thank-you for providing the fodder for the slaughterhouse that is the Arena, District Mayors are included in this group.
I hurry home from school so I can check on my mother again before I head to the Justice Building to find Dad. She's been doing a little better than usual the past couple of days, and it makes me wonder if she knows about what's going on behind the scenes. Part of me wants to ask her, because the Games are the reason she is so fragile. But I don't, because I fear that bringing up the subject so soon after a Reaping might cause her to backslide. Instead, I make pointless small talk about school, about the rabbit that is still wreaking havoc on the garden, about what a nice day it is outside and if she's feeling up to it maybe we can go for a walk later? When she nods in response and I see the effort that goes into the weak smile she gives me, I realize just how much I miss her.
As I pass Rose in the kitchen on my way out, I tell her I'll be back in time for supper, and that I'll try to convince Dad to do the same.
She looks at me with a raised eyebrow, and it occurs to me that I probably should have just snuck out without telling her. She knows I never deliberately seek out my father while he is still at work.
"Uh – huh," she says with a slow smile as she goes back to slicing a potato. "So, what's his name?"
She thinks I'm lying! I laugh a little. She also knows that I don't have any friends with whom to socialize after school. At least she's not trying to wrench out of me why I'm so intent on seeing my father. "I'm not going to see a boy, Rosie. I wish I was. Really, I do."
"Hmm." She pauses with her knife again, and scrunches her face in thought. "Is it… Hazelle Hawthorne's son? What's his name again?"
I try not to look horrified, but there's not much I can do about the blush creeping across my cheeks. She knows his mother? She knows about my infatuation? Oh this can only end badly…. "Gale," I supply before I realize I've been baited. Damn. "He's Katniss' friend," I add, because I feel like I need a legitimate excuse to know his name. "What makes you say that?"
"You never let me answer the door on Saturdays," she says matter-of-factly as she starts on another potato.
Hell's bells, it's that obvious? "He hates me, Rose," I say, because that's pretty much all there is to be said on the matter. She just laughs quietly and shakes her head as I scoot out the door. I guess she thinks I'm being dramatic. I wish I was. I wish it were an exaggeration. I think about how I had smiled at him in the square a few days ago, and how I got a blank stare in return. He doesn't have to love me. I gave up on that. I just wish he'd smile back.
When I walk into my father's office his secretary is surprised to see me. I make up some kind of excuse about trying to convince him to make it home in time for dinner because Mom is feeling better today, which isn't a complete lie, and she lets me in to see him.
When he looks up at me, he's a little surprised, too. "Hey, Magpie."
Some nicknames last a day, some stick for months or years; this one looks like it'll be etched on my tombstone. "Hi, Dad. Mom's feeling better, so I wanted to see if you can make it home for supper."
He smiles a little. "I'll see what I can do, but that's not what you're here for, is it?" He produces a sheet of paper and holds it out for me. When I take it, the smile broadens.
I read a list of names and numbers, and when I get to the bottom, my jaw hits the floor.
….
"That… is a very large fish." I stare at the enormous carp that Rory holds up proudly in front of him. For a split second when he'd walked through the door, I was afraid that he'd ventured into the forest without me, but from the looks of the fish and judging by the short amount of time that he'd been gone I'm sure this is not the case. Which is good. Because then I'd have to strangle him.
"How did you catch it?" I ask the question mostly to tread water for a minute; I'm pretty sure I have the scenario figured out.
"Well, they were reviewing the district industries in history class again," (he says this as if it is the most boring thing he's ever been forced to endure) "and they showed us a video of a District Four tribute making a fishhook in the Games one year, and I thought 'Well I can do that,' so I tried it after school today, and it took me a few tries but I caught dinner!" He holds the fish a little higher and beams a little brighter.
It is clear that he thinks this was very clever and (worse) helpful of him. "Where?" I ask to give myself a moment to plan a diplomatic course of action. I'm already pretty sure I know where he caught it.
"In the creek on the other side of the mine."
"Ah." I am bothered by this in more ways than I can count. Not the least of which is the fact that it will probably poison us if we eat it. It's probably the only thing that can survive in that creek. Carp are right up there with cockroaches – despite any horrible disaster that we might cause, those two species will make it through. The chemical runoff that stream carries away from the mine – well, frankly I'm surprised the damn fish isn't glowing at the moment. But then, it's still light out yet.
More than that, though, is the notion that he feels the need to contribute – that he is conscious of how we struggle, and thinks he ought to help more. And I feel that Rory is still too young for that. Those of us who live in the Seam have to grow up too fast as it is, and God knows I did faster than most. I break my back to make sure he won't have to do the same. To make sure he won't have to become me someday. And now it looks like I'm failing.
I glance up at my mother, who looks almost frightened. I assume for the same reasons. I look back at my smiling, eager brother and find that I'm at a loss as to what to do. We shouldn't (or can't, more likely) eat the fish, and even if we could it would only encourage him, which is exactly what I do not want to do. But I don't want to make him feel embarrassed, stupid, or worst of all, not good enough. He's more than good enough. He's more than worth the childhood that was taken from me, a thousand times over. All three of them are.
Rory slaps the carp on the kitchen table – the kitchen fucking table – and Vick and Posy clamber over to inspect it curiously. I'm losing ground quickly; I like to think I'm usually pretty sharp, but sometimes some things hit a nerve just so…. It feels like I'm stuck in quicksand, drowning and disoriented, unable to fight my way free.
I am rescued quite suddenly by an urgent pounding at our door. Welcoming the chance to put the impending conversation on hold, I move first to answer it.
The quicksand feeling persists, even doubles over on itself, because Madge Undersee is on the other side of it. Talk about hitting a nerve. She is still in her school uniform, but the shirt is untucked, her shoes are muddy, her hair is a mess (again), and she looks like she is about to suffer a heart attack. As she chokes for air, both of her hands fly up and grip my arms. Reflexively, I catch her as her knees give and then wonder distantly why I didn't just let her hit the floor. Because my mother is watching. Yes. That's why. And this is a nightmare… I'll wake up any second….
"Gale," she gasps as I stagger backward a step, "Gale – they gave her an eleven – she can do it – she's an eleven…"
I gape at her for a moment while she slowly loosens her grip and regains her feet because I'm stuck on the way she says my name.
My mother snaps me out of it. "Gale! Let her sit down!" she says as if she cannot comprehend that one of her own offspring could be so rude. I look at her, then Rory and Vick who are also staring in shock, and finally at Posy who dutifully puts all her weight into pulling a rickety chair out from the table.
As I pull my arms carefully away to let Madge stand on her own, I want to think I'm reluctant because I do not want the action to be interpreted as an invitation to stay. If I'm honest, I'd have to say it's also because I might not be ready to let go. However, I'm of the mindset that honesty is sometimes grossly overrated. So I'm definitely ready.
"There," I say, pointing to Posy's chair. "Sit down a minute."
"Oh, thank you!" she says, breathless and smiling as if I'd just offered her a million dollars. She must have run here all the way from town. The fuzzy sense of distraction fades a bit as she steps away from me. Wait – why did she run all the way here?
"Eleven? What?"
She plops into the chair, takes another deep breath, smiles brightly. "Katniss. They gave her an eleven."
I feel an uncomfortable combination of joy and dread that leaves me dumbfounded. All the kids stare at her slack-jawed. My mother, who had taken it upon herself to pour Madge a cup of water, fumbles the cup and spills it on the counter.
"For training?" Mom asks.
"Yes." Her bright blue eyes come back to mine. "She can win."
Mom refills her cup. "You saw the scores?"
"Yes," she says. "It's set and official." She thanks my mother for the water before taking a gulp from the cup, and to her credit she doesn't even pull a face at the taste of well water. I find this irrationally irritating, because I really want a reason to hate her right now. Why is this so difficult?
"How do you know where I live?" I ask, because it's the only reasonable thing I have to be annoyed about.
Rory rolls his eyes and answers for her because she's still in the middle of a mouthful of water. "Gale. Everybody's address is in the public directory. She can look it up at the Justice Building." He's right, the little brat, and she nods to confirm this. I feel like I'm two steps behind everyone else. But at least it solves my fish problem – I'm going to fell a lot less awful about telling him we can't eat his catch.
"I thought you'd want to know right away, you know, before they announce it tomorrow. Katniss doesn't even know yet…" She shrugs a little, looks down at her cup as if this is suddenly embarrassing. "I wanted to tell you first, because – do you think I should tell Prim and Mrs. Everdeen? Nothing from the Games is ever good news, but this is as close as it gets… Katniss just always said her mother was so easily upset…."
Even I have to admit this is rather thoughtful of her; my initial knee-jerk reaction was that she ought to have told them first, but given Mrs. Everdeen's history, I don't know if it would make things better or worse. It might be wiser to let things run their course, let them hear the announcement tomorrow. So far, Katniss' mother has fared better than I anticipated. Not well, but better. An eleven score has only been awarded, what, five or six times in the history of the Hunger Games? It may be the closest thing to good news we can hope for, but it's hardly a free ticket home.
"I'll tell them," I say.
"Okay." She sets her empty cup on the edge of the table, and is in the middle of thanking my mother again when she notices Rory's carp, which regards her with lidless indifference. A mean little part of me is weirdly elated because now certainly she'll be disgusted, she'll turn up her nose and prove me right. Hating her will get less complicated.
"That's a really big fish," she says. No disgust, no disdain. Maybe just a little amazement. Dammit.
"Yes, and I'm sorry my son put it on the table where we eat," my mother says threateningly. Rory immediately moves the fish to the sink.
"It's okay," Madge says. "I just can't believe it took me that long to notice it."
"I caught it for supper," Rory explains proudly. Here we go again.
"Wow. Good job," she says, pouring fuel on the fire. "It looks like it could've pulled you in instead of you pulling it out!"
My brother eats this up like a bowl of ice cream. I know this for a fact because Katniss and I scraped enough together a couple years ago to buy him one for his birthday, and he had the exact same look on his face. It pisses me off.
"We can't eat it, Rory," I say flatly before I can stop myself, "not if it came out of the runoff stream." I regret it the moment I see his face. He is no less than utterly crestfallen. I don't need to turn to my mother to know what look she's giving me right now. She doesn't need to bother, though; I'm perfectly aware that I'm a wretched human being. I've gone and done exactly what I had been trying to avoid. And I don't know how to fix it now.
Because I forget myself, somehow with something, every time Madge is there. It's maddening.
Then, suddenly, as if it's the easiest thing in the world, Madge shrugs lightly and says, "Even better. Cut him up for bait. Just think what all you could catch with that. Supper for a week."
I nod in confirmation, Rory smiles again, and I am forgiven. Just like that. Easiest thing in the world. Fixed. Unbelievable.
As Madge rises and excuses herself to leave, it finally occurs to me that I've been so distressed by everything else I've hardly processed what she came here to tell us – Katniss is an eleven. Eleven. Not a number awarded lightly. A number that gets sponsors. A number that means she has a damn good shot at coming home. A number that means I might see her again after all. Hope becomes a little more real.
I dash to the door just as she steps outside. Startled, she turns and stares at me wide-eyed, and I look down and somewhere to her left because I find that I still can't say the words to her face.
"Thank you."
She smiles (I think), and says "You're welcome," and hesitates a moment as if one of us ought to say something else before she walks away. Neither of us do it though, and she leaves to go home.
I realize that I can't be angry at her, as much as I want to and as hard as I try. As awful as I've been to her, she still runs all the way to the Seam to tell me my friend has a chance to win the Games. Cockroaches, carp, and Madge Fucking Undersee. I shut the door and lean back against it, cover my eyes with one hand and try to collect myself before I face the well-deserved earful that's surely coming from my mother. Honesty may be occasionally overrated, but it's usually a hell of a lot less complicated. Give it up, Hawthorne. You don't hate her.