Author's Note:
I guess I'm back to apologizing with every update, because timeliness continues to be a challenge. I had honestly hoped to have this done last week, but I scrapped all but a couple paragraphs of my first draft and started over because it felt clumsy with the rest of the story. So, sorry for the long delay. And for a less fun chapter – but again, important things are happening that cannot be left out. So think of it as "substantial filler"
Also…. Thank you again to everyone who continues to recommend me, and especially to those who review. Hit the 300 mark – although I lost track of who got there first this time!
I am a wreck. All night. All morning. Up, down, left and center, a bona-fide mess. For the few intermittent minutes that I do manage to doze off while I toss and turn in bed, I get my wish and find it deeply unsatisfying. Our last seconds together replay in a lucid dream, all in perfect detail, except that when he leans into me instead of whispering into my ear, his lips kiss mine. Gentle at first, then more passionate as we twist into each other…and this is when I wake up, legs tangled in the bedsheets, hands white-knuckled fists in a pillow, and realize that what had felt so vividly lifelike only seconds ago is a poor substitute for the real thing. And in reality, there wasn't even a kiss, just closeness, a light touch. Then, while I lie there and wonder if I'll ever sleep again, I curl my arms tightly around my waist and wish they were his arms. If he could see me now, I think, wondering if he is as worked up as I am. Is he wide awake right now, struggling to catch his breath, wondering what I taste like? Eventually I drift halfway to sleep again, only to reawaken at the same place, dizzy with want.
I get out of bed when I see light outside my window because I know I won't be able to rest anyway. The prospect of going to school in a few hours is exciting and terrifying at the same time. I so desperately want to see him again, but I haven't the slightest clue as to what to do when it happens. Do I deliberately seek him out? Or do I wait for him to come to me instead? What do I say to him? Do I make any mention of what happened between us last night, or do I let it go as if it were nothing out of the ordinary? What happened, anyway? Nothing in the literal sense, but there was so much more than that….
After it takes me three tries to button my shirt properly I decide firmly that the only option is to go to him directly and ask what he had specifically meant when he whispered to me before he left. What was his intention? Because it is important to me – and only fair – that I know where I stand. I walk out of my room and down the hall like I've swallowed a lit match, but by the time I get to the bottom of the stairs it burns itself out. That would be nothing short of disastrous, cornering him and demanding an answer. How could I ever think that was a good idea? If there was a single thing that would inspire him to take flight, that would be it. Then, as I walk through the parlor on the way to the kitchen, I realize that I've been in such a tizzy that I completely forgot to check on my mother, which is always the first thing I do when I get up. Clearly I am not in any shape to be taking any kind of action. Best to let this run its course, follow his lead, wait for him to give me some direction. And attempt to function like a normal person in the meantime.
I top the stairs again and wrack my brain to remember why I am here (Oh, right, Mom!) while I hope that I've crossed his mind at least once this morning. I doubt that I've had the same effect on him that he has had on me, but… well, one can dream.
….
The only thing that gets me through my last day of school is, strangely enough, the one thing I have been trying so hard to ignore. While I sit at a table and fill out my paperwork, next to a row of a dozen other Seam-born classmates, I think of Rory and remind myself that I am doing this for him. If it weren't for my family, I would seriously consider taking my chances at making a living exclusively by hunting. Today, as it is all beginning to actually happen, I can no longer ignore the dread that turns my stomach and presses against my chest like an invisible, immovable weight. I may have escaped my last Reaping Day, but the odds still aren't exactly in my favor; for those of us from the Seam, survival is a crapshoot even after we're too old for the Hunger Games. I learned that lesson at a young age, and painfully. No one looks forward to working the mines – the conditions are miserable, the hours are long, the work is hard – but for some of us it represents a specific and terrifying kind of hell. But I will never admit that gnawing fear aloud, never let that weakness show. That fear makes me angry, though, and that's the thing that keeps me going.
I remind myself that I am signing my life away for the good of two brothers and a sister that I love ferociously. The things I'm giving up aren't as important as what they need. This isn't about me.
It makes me think of Madge, what I'm giving up with her, how strange it feels that it matters to me. She hadn't withdrawn from me last night, hadn't pushed me away. For a second, it had seemed that she might actually look at me the way I look at her. And truthfully, the way I look at her isn't the same as it used to be. In the moment, when she was so willingly close to me, it had seemed that something might be possible. But in the cold light of day, when I passed by the cafeteria for the last time to catch sight of her, I cannot deny that those chances were nothing more than imaginary. She is beyond my reach, and I'll fall by the wayside. Nothing has changed, except that now I actually miss her. I regret having sought her out last night. This would have been easier without having been so close to… whatever it was that I narrowly avoided.
As I flip my papers over and slide them across the table to the secretary sitting on the other side of it, I remind myself that I'll still get one day a week in the woods. That the pittance of a salary I'll earn is still more than I get for going to school. That Madge had told me that she admires the fight in me, and if they can change the rules for the Hunger Games, then perhaps there is more to be done in the mines than backbreaking labor….
The secretary checks my application – a middle-aged town woman who will never have to step foot in the mine – and tells me that it will me a few minutes before I'm taken to speak with one of the mine managers. She is distant, unapologetic, indifferent; I am not her son, after all. It makes me angry that the world we live in has made her this way – unconcerned with the fates of all of us sitting in front of her, and the next group waiting behind us in the other room, and the next after that, simply because she is so grateful that it isn't her family in this position. I think of Madge again and her fire on the day of the bloodbath . It makes me feel like they are winning. She looks at me with nothing more than a faint air of superiority as she gets up from her chair, but I just smile sweetly at her, because all I can think is I'm going to make all your lives a living hell.
….
I don't see Gale at school, and part of me is relieved that I get a little more time to collect myself while the other part is crushed that I have to wait. I'm not surprised; it is the last day of school for everyone in their final year, and for everyone from the Seam that means that they go to the mine on Monday, so I expect that he is busy with industry recruiters. It always seemed such a sad joke to me, the way they try to make it appear as if there is really an application and selection process when it's actually little more than a roll-call of everyone old enough to work the mine with nowhere else to go. This time, it's heartbreaking and infuriating because someone dear to me is jumping through those hoops to earn a living in a place everyone avoids if they have any other choice. My father has been able to make miniscule changes in the conditions there over the years, but not much, and the only way he could convince the Capitol to allow it was to point out that killing your employees faster than you can replace them is inefficient. This is what I'm fighting for, I tell myself. It would be different if he were choosing to work there, and if weren't so dangerous. But Gale doesn't get to choose with the way things work here in Twelve, and the Capitol doesn't care if anyone is safe.
When I get home, I am glad to find that the reporters are still gone for the day; I feel sorry for whomever they are terrorizing right now, but I appreciate the break and it puts Rose in a much better mood. She is washing the windows with enthusiasm in the parlor, and it reminds me that I am still in her debt.
"I suppose I should be doing that," I say, "since I still owe you." Leaving someone stranded with a bunch of Capitol idiots isn't something you don't repay.
"I like the windows," she says sunnily, "but your knees are younger than mine. You can get the kitchen floor next time it needs done."
I groan inwardly, but I suppose it's more than fair for what she does for us. "Okay," I agree.
"Your mother is up and about again," she says. "It's been a relatively good year for her so far, hasn't it? She said to send you up when you got here."
Mention of my mother brings a twinge of apprehension strong enough to banish all the anxiety I've been feeling over Gale, at least for now. She doesn't usually ask to see me alone as soon as I come home - is she finally feeling well enough to want to talk to me again? My father had told me that I ought to speak with her, but it has been hard to find the courage. Only days ago she had lapsed into hysterical tears again after admitting that her sister had taken her place in the Games. As much as I want to know her place in all of this, it gets harder and harder to watch her break down. After I nudge her bedroom door quietly open, I see that my mother is awake and alert again just like Rose promised. She is dressed, brushing her hair with her back to me. Her eyes find me in her mirror and she smiles a little.
"Hello, Magpie," she says with what passes for cheer for her. Somehow it irks me less when she is the one using my embarrassing nickname. Maybe it's because I'm so glad that she's in a state where she can remember it. She twists in her chair and waves me into the room, patting the edge of the bed next to her for me to sit. Once I am closer to her, it is easier to tell that despite her improvement, she is still weak, still worn. This grasp on clarity is yet a tenuous thing.
"Still feeling better?" I ask carefully.
She moves her head in something like a noncommittal nod. "I feel better now that I have a chance to talk to you. I should have done this before, but…." She trails off sadly for a few seconds, and I dare not push her. "I guess you have a lot of things to ask me, and best to do it while our guests are away." She says guests the same way she would say rats or spiders if they were in our house. But there is more there than disgust this time; there is a hardened resolve under the weakness. There is fight in her.
….
When we join Prim and her mother to watch the Hunger Games after school, I wonder if Madge will appear there again. If I'm really, really honest about it, it's more like hope she will. Then I wonder if it's a good idea hoping for something like that. But still, something in her won't quite let me let it go. As we sit and watch a thankfully uneventful afternoon broadcast, I wait for her to knock on the door, give Prim a basket of food to share with everyone, hug Posy, flash me that shy smile. I thought I had convinced myself that had written it all off today. Wishful thinking.
Madge never comes. So instead I watch Katniss throw herself at a dying Town kid that she barely knows and actually mean it. I don't think Katniss really knows that she means it, but she does, at least a little. Yet bit by bit I find it less and less bothersome, even the meaning it, because I'm beginning to wonder if I ever really looked at her the way she is looking at Peeta. I'm beginning to pick apart the differences between loving someone and being in love with someone. It's getting easier now that she has a damn good shot at coming out of this alive, and I can see the difference between losing her and losing her.
I appreciate the fact that Katniss edits the story about how she bought Lady for Prim, because the real version wouldn't do me any favors if it were aired on national television. Rory, who is still making a concerted effort not to speak to me, jokes to Prim that she is now the proud owner of a celebrity goat. It makes her laugh, which makes Rory's day. I remind myself that I need to make amends with my brother, and note that I ought to plan to talk to him after he's had a chance to see Prim because she tends to improve his mood significantly. When the scene returns to the remaining Career Tributes, I distract Posy by telling her that her ponytail is a mess (only a slight exaggeration of the truth), then brag about what a good job I did of retying it after piling it into something like a bird's nest on top of her head. She is rightfully skeptical based on the way it feels, and takes off for the bathroom to look in the mirror for herself while I watch the television to make sure that the Careers aren't quite ready to break their alliance and hack each other to pieces. By the time she stomps back out to tell me that I'm never allowed to touch her hair again and demand that my (amused) mother fix it, the camera moves on to the District Eleven boy in the wheat field, who has mostly kept to himself and is therefore less risky for her to watch.
The only problem with a boring day in the arena is that it is boring. Most of Panem is pretty much okay with that, I'd wager, because it means they get to go a day without watching their children die, but the Games aren't for Panem – they're for the Capitol. Too long a break in the action means that the Gamemakers will feel the need to put on a show. I almost miss it when they make the announcement. Vick and Posy start bickering over the wishbone from tonight's supper (a roasted grouse) when one accuses the other of cheating to break off the larger piece. I can't tell which party is at fault because the bone somehow ends up in three pieces, and I can't exactly tell my four-year-old sister that it doesn't matter because wishes don't come true anyway, so I'm trying to at least get them to stop yelling when Claudius Templesmith invites the remaining Tributes to a Feast tomorrow morning.
Those of us paying attention freeze at the words, because we all put the pieces together instantly. The medicine. She won't not go, not with the way she looks at him. This is it, the difference between losing her and losing her. I look at Prim just in time to see the color drain from her face. Prim, the sister she promised to fight for. If she dies for him, I'll never forgive her.