Author's Note
Disclaimer Again: There is a piece of dialogue in this chapter that is lifted directly from The Hunger Games, and therefore does not belong to me. You all know this; I'm just minding my Ps and Qs.
Request Again: Please review. This is another chapter that I think I still need to tweak. Finding stuff in my mailbox makes my day! Thank you for reading, and even more for your feedback.
Apology Again: Fixed embarassing typos. Again. Also, I fear I may be losing my audience because I am pacing the "romance" part of this story rather slowly (there has been some frustration with Gale expressed in some of the messages I've received; truthfully, he frustrates me, too, which is why he's one of my favorites). Stay with me, I beg of you! We're getting there - I just want it to be 1) believable and 2) worth it in the end ;)
I am on eggshells all day at school because I'm not home to keep track of my mother. I try to be glad that she's doing so well, but it's also putting her at some risk. She spends more time out of bed now, which means there is more opportunity for interaction with the Capitol media team staying with us. And we can't exactly explain to them that it's the Hunger Games that do this to her, which is the one thing they all want to talk about. When I'm home I usually try to keep them engaged myself, or keep my mother away from them, but I can't be there all day. Rose runs interference pretty well, but she's not in today, and my father is of course at work preparing for the Interview show tonight. Mom is alone to fend for herself, and I fear that even a brief encounter with a reporter might set her back to Reaping Day or worse. At least there is one small comfort to be had from the fact that no one remembers fallen tributes: no one from the Capitol realizes that her sister died in the last Quarter Quell. If those twisted bottom-feeders knew that – well, I'm sure I'd have come home to Marianne Donner-Undersee prone in bed next to four empty vials of morphling days ago.
I decide I can't take it about an hour after lunchtime, so I feign illness halfway through math class. I turns out that threatening to vomit will get you out of just about anything. I am sent home immediately. When I get there, I find the tall green man and the reporter with orange hair (I've privately named them Lima Bean and Tangerine) in the parlor, but not my mother. I offer a polite hello as I pass them to head up the stairs, and luckily they are too absorbed in poring over a printed manuscript to pay me much attention. From the snippet of conversation I overhear, it seems that they are busy dissecting last night's friends-and-family interviews into clips for propos to be aired throughout the Games.
My mother isn't in bed, and she isn't in the bathroom, but she isn't hanging from the rafters either. So far, so good. I go to my room so I can see out my window, which overlooks the garden below; this is where I find her, sitting calmly on the small bench set amidst several patches of ox-eye daisies. Relieved, I allow myself a moment to change clothes and repair my ponytail.
She notices me when I walk out the back door and waves with a small smile. "You're home early."
"I wasn't feeling very well," I answer. I'd rather let her do a little unnecessary maternal fretting than make an excuse that school was let out early, because the only reason school is ever let out early is for the Games. I flop onto the bench next to her and let her pet my hair soothingly while I fake a sniffle.
"I'm sorry, sweetie," she says.
"I'm glad you're doing better," I say, and I mean it. "Maybe we can go for a walk again tonight?" I want to keep her active; the less time she has to dwell on nightmares the better, and I know from experience that if she spends too much time idle too soon after starting to improve she'll fall back to where she started.
"Not if you're not feeling well. You should rest."
"I'll be okay, Mom," I say. "I'll rest this afternoon and I'll be fine by dinnertime. It'll do me some good to get back up and move around a little."
She sighs to acknowledge that she has lost this battle. Frail fingers tuck a lock of hair behind my ear as she says, "I always said you favored your aunt. Nothing but fight in you, even for the smallest things." I hold my breath while I wait for her to break down; this is exactly what I did not want to happen. But her hand just moves to my forehead and rests there for a few seconds. "Like a cold. You don't feel warm. If you are later, though, you're going straight to bed after you eat."
"Fair enough," I breathe, amazed that we have escaped this conversation unscathed. She seldom mentions her sister aloud, and never without pain. I hug her quickly and rise to leave; I don't want to bring more damaging memories to the surface with my presence. It breaks my heart that I might be half the problem.
Inside I start a kettle of stew (my favorite thing to cook because it requires minimal effort and only dirties one pot) to simmer until suppertime, and boil some water for tea to share. The vultures and I have some things to discuss before we go to the Square. Like the fact that surely a talented team such as theirs must have dug up some details about this year's arena ahead of time, because I am dying to know. I beg sweetly and nudge a plate of cookies toward them when I see them exchange a loaded glance, and after that it's not long before I'm sworn to secrecy and get a detailed recap of what Tangerine (whom I address as Claudia to her face) proudly weaseled out of a junior gamemaker before departing for District Twelve. She revels in the chance to tell what she learned, because her superiors left her miserably disappointed – they had refused at the last moment to publish her story for fear of punishment from Snow. As I sip my tea innocently, I wonder what kind of weaseling she did.
She describes a lake, a wheat field, wooded hills with a stream. I scooch up to the very edge of my seat and ask if she'd heard about any of the traps that had been set there, but when she pouts that she had not been able to get any of that information, I'm pretty sure she's being truthful. I abandon that tack and act confused about the landscape, drawing a pathetically inaccurate diagram in midair with one finger until Lima Bean (Marcus) grabs a pen and draws one for me himself. By the time we have to leave to go to the Viewing, I have a detailed, labeled, almost-to-scale map of this year's arena. Elated, I tell them I will watch the Games with it so I can keep track of what's going on, and that I'm so lucky to have them staying with us because otherwise I'd be lost. And so would Haymitch.
When I finally head to the Square, it's all I can do not to turn cartwheels all the way there. Mentors aren't given any more information about the arena than average viewers, which means only what is shown on camera during the Games, often making it difficult to discern the overall layout of the area. My father's colleagues have tried to acquire this information from the Senior gamemaker they had on the inside, but he (with all the others) is carefully monitored by the Capitol during the weeks the Hunger Games are planned, and exchange of information has been difficult or impossible. Apparently, junior gamemakers were subjected to far less scrutiny. Also a useful thing to know.
I find a place to stand near the front of the crowd where I can see everything. Dad sees me from his podium and waves, bringing on a new wave of excitement. I want so badly to rush up there and tell him what I've found out, but I just smile and wave back. Not with so many people watching. In time. He directs a few people where to go, taps his microphone to make sure it is turned on, makes a quick announcement to settle the crowd before the Anthem begins.
I have always liked to think I'm not a materialistic person. Though I am far more fortunate than my peers, I have never felt any particular special attachment to the things that I have. I'd trade any or all of them – the nice clothes, my piano, even hot water in the shower - in less than a heartbeat if need be; none of them take the places of the mother that I miss or the father for whom I worry or the friends that I wish I had.
That said, I am utterly consumed by bone-breaking, soul-devouring envy at the sight of Katniss Everdeen's interview dress. If someone had offered it to me in exchange for taking my father to Peacekeeper Cray… I still wouldn't have done it, but it would have given me pause. Most interview attire is over-the-top; less theatrical than the costumes for the Opening Ceremony, but outrageous in a more formal, elegant, expensive way. The work of art she wears onstage probably costs the sum-total of the entire Seam's wages for a year. Every inch of the impeccably tailored gown is comprised of sparkling jewels, arranged meticulously by color to evoke the pattern of dancing flames. When she moves toward Caesar Flickerman a hush falls over the audience – on screen and in the square – because the fire seems to roar to life.
Thank goodness, I suppose, because my friend needs all the help she can get and if Cinna's show-stopping work distracts potential sponsors from the fact that interviewing is not her strong suit then so be it. Katniss has many admirable, likable qualities – she is loyal, intelligent, honest to a fault. Tough as nails. Kind-hearted in a gruff sort of way. But charming she is not.
Her stylist saves her; when she starts to lose the audience, the host prompts her to twirl and show off Cinna's handiwork. The jeweled flames leap to life again, and she is beautiful beyond words.
I wonder what Gale thinks of her. I know where he is standing – in the same place he always does – but I make a point not to look. Probably a lot of things I wish he'd think about me.
Caesar Flickerman works his way through the male tributes and it's all pretty standard fare. Largely indistinguishable from all the other years. I spare a glance for Prim Everdeen and her mother, who are assaulted again by the heartless reporters with whom I've been obligated to share my home. Mrs. Everdeen looks as always like she is barely hanging on by a very thin thread, but Prim takes the spotlight and answers all their questions with gushing, teary-eyed enthusiasm. Just like in the Justice Building, the day they took her Katniss away from her. I find it sickening that they do this to her, that they've learned to love the fact that she refuses to mourn her sister yet, that they make her bear the burden of their presence because her mother cannot. In my mind's eye, I punch each one of them in the face as hard as I can when they file in the door tonight and tell them in no uncertain terms that they are all soulless bastards. But as much as I'd love it, I can't do that. I need them to like me and to remain unsuspecting. So I make a mental note to sweep the kitchen floor and empty the dustpan in their stew at dinner.
The show grabs my attention again when Peeta Mellark begins to speak. It quickly becomes apparent that he is in his element; he wins over the audience with ease as he chats with his host.
"Handsome lad like you," Flickerman says. "There must be some special girl. Come on, what's her name?"
"Well," says Peeta, "there is this one girl, I've had a crush on her ever since I can remember. But I'm pretty sure she didn't know I was alive until the Reaping."
Oh, please don't let it be me, I think as I shrink a bit into the crowd. I think of the times he'd been nice to me at his family's bakery when no one else was. How awful would I feel then?
"She have another fellow?" Flickerman asks sympathetically. I think of Gale again, and how Katniss had always said their relationship was never romantic – and how the media team would love to think it was.
"I don't know, but a lot of boys like her."
I feel my shoulders slump in relief. That settles it. Definitely not me.
"So here's what you do: you win, you go home. She can't turn you down then, eh?"
Peeta smiles in an adorably awkward way, and then singlehandedly turns the Hunger Games on its ear. "I don't think it's going to work out. Winning… won't help in my case."
I cover my open mouth with one hand to try to hide my shock because I pick up on it even before Caesar Flickerman does. "Why ever not?" he asks with surprise.
"Because… because… she came here with me."
….
When the camera pans to Katniss' face, she is flabbergasted in weirdly composed way. I guess she has to be, since her life depends on these events. They focus on Peeta Mellark again, and I snort disdainfully. Whatever. It's not like she just announced that she has a crush on him.
I'm unaccustomed to seeing Katniss made up so extravagantly, and though she was stunning during her interview I know her well enough to tell that she wasn't comfortable, she wasn't herself. The sponsors with the money are the ones from the Capitol, not from here. Best to appeal to them first. I'd never seen her look so beautiful, and this vibrant picture of strength and resilience was a step closer to the Katniss that I love, but she still wasn't as captivating as the girl with the bow and hiking boots and stubborn force of will. She may have a good chance at coming home from the Games, but I can't help but fear that that girl is slipping away.
Katniss is still twirling away at the back of my mind as I herd my siblings away from the crowd and toward my mother. They will be letting us go in a minute or two, and I don't want to get stuck without an escape route. Posy goes on and on about Katniss' dress and how she wants one someday except hers will have purple jewels on it, too, because that's her favorite color (today). Mom laughs at her, but I can tell she's caught between finding her daughter's latest obsession funny and heartbreaking. Posy will be lucky if she gets a plain cotton dress dyed purple in her lifetime. We can't even afford to look at jewels in a shop window.
An announcement is made to send us home, and I fight the urge to run. As badly as I want to get away, I do not want to do anything to draw attention to myself. I am intimately familiar with predator-prey behavior, but I don't particularly like being on this side of it. A glance over my shoulder confirms that the Capitol media team is busy with the baker's family; apparently even adorable Primrose Everdeen can't compete with the drama of a no-longer-secret condemned-to-death crush. Good. Poor kid deserves a break.
We're about a block from the square and making good time when I hear my name behind me. I recognize the voice instantly, though it's calmer, less breathless than before. Than what I'd replayed (somewhat guiltily) in my head the last two days.
Madge Undersee trots up behind us, and I'm surprised to see that her face is dead serious. "Gale," she says, "I need to talk to you."
I waver for a moment; I'm not in the mood to waste time, but the urgency in her tone pulls me in. Maybe she has more information? I stop and tell my mother that I'll catch up to her and the kids in a minute.
I look back at Madge expectantly, keeping one eye on the end of the road that opens into the square. She wilts a little under my gaze, so I do my best to adopt a less hostile stance. Perhaps it will make her more willing to tell me what she knows.
"Listen," she says, as she steps a little closer and lowers her voice so passers-by will be less likely to overhear. "These… Capitol people," (she spits the words with venom, which I decide earns her a few points) "they're going to eat this up, about what Peeta said. And he just did her a huge favor-"
"If I know Katniss, he probably just royally pissed her off," I say, a little more snappishly than I intended. I don't feel like listening to how this is good news.
"I don't-" she begins, but she closes her blue eyes for half a second and pauses as if thinking very hard about what I'd just said. "Actually, you're probably right. But that's neither here nor there."
"What do you want?" I ask, looking over her shoulder again for any sign of reporters. There are none, but I catch sight of Bristel in the crowd. Which is almost worse. Especially considering that when he sees me, he deliberately chooses not to walk over and interrupt. Instead, he folds his arms over his chest and leans against the corner of an old building with an evil grin on his face.
Her eyes close again and her lips purse, as if she is gathering all her patience. She follows my eyes behind her, and says, "I promise, I'm not here to embarrass you in front of your friends."
Suddenly, for reasons I can't explain, I feel awful. But I'm not ready to apologize. "I don't want to get caught by that media team." There. An explanation is as close as I'm willing to get.
"Ugh, try living with them," she says as she runs a hand through her hair, a gesture that would look rather alluring if not for the fact that it looks like it's taking all her self-control not to rip it out of her head. "Look, they're the problem. Peeta just made District Twelve the tributes to sponsor. They'll get a hold of you eventually, and when they do, they'll never believe you're just Katniss' friend."
"Why not?" I ask, shocked and not sure what else to say. Had Katniss said something to her?
For some reason, Madge finds this question difficult. She colors and squirms a little before finally breaking eye contact. "They just won't. I know you are, but believe me, they won't. So when they talk to you, tell them you're related, you're her cousin or something to explain why you're so close. Because she needs this" she jerks a thumb back toward the zoo in the square, "to survive." When her eyes come back to mine, they are wide and pleading and ….
"Okay. I can do that." Whatever will help get Katniss home.
She smiles brightly, which causes my stomach to flip in a way that is only partly uncomfortable. "Good. Okay. I'll tell you if I find out anything else. Now go, get out of here."
The moment Madge turns to walk away, Bristel abandons his post on the corner across the street and comes my way. Great. I start walking, and wave him on to catch up- I know it's too late to escape him, but I don't want to hang around any longer than I already have.
"So, you get into it with Undersee again?" He elbows me in the ribs. "Or you get into it with Undersee?"
I scowl at him. "Screw you."
"Defensive, are we?"
"No. To both questions. And you're a pig."
"Takes one to know one."
"At least I'm quieter about it. And what do you mean again?"
"C'mon. It's all over that you two were at each other's throats last week in the lunchroom at school. I was wondering why you were such a mess."
When it rains, it pours. "'At each other's throats' is an exaggeration." How is this happening to me? Why am I friends with him? "And there's no getting into anything with her. An argument is a far cry from a tryst."
He laughs at me like he knows something I don't, and I'm thankful that decides to drop it. Because I'm not entirely sure I believe myself.