Disclaimer: I do not own The Hunger Games! I wish I did though.
"Delight me."
A dare, no, an invitation, rather.
Those two simple words hold a plethora of meaning, so I choose the best sense of them, although pleasantry was never my forte.
"All right," I snap, my arms firm across my chest as we both make ourselves, well, a little too comfortable on the couch.
Haymitch assumes the role of Caesear Flickerman and I try to beguile him my colorful responses, to no avail. To be quite honest, I can't be clever or witty or charming really – in fact, ask anyone in District 12. Perhaps Gale or Prim would think differently, but every one else would say that my pleasantry is a physical impossibility, a paradox.
To Effie's greatest chagrin, all of the Capitol's etiquette and nuances are lost on me. I've always been more concerned with taking care of the basics, like food and water, not iridescent lilac liquid eyeliner and essence reductions. All of these sentiments become increasingly more apparent as our mock-interview proceeds.
"Okay, cut! Not only are you belligerent and hostile," Haymitch points out, his usual relaxed manner gone and his smile a mere ghost on his face as he paces back and forth across the oriental rug. He's more bewildered than amused. "But you don't really let on much, sweetheart."
"Why should I?" I retort, jumping up. "The Games are pointless. I'm sick of the Capitol and their supposed glory." Dear Lord, I sound like Gale.
"Then lie!" he offers, throwing up his hands in exasperation. "Make something up!"
"Why should I?"I fire back.
"Well, you better learn, sweetheart, because you're about as charming as a dead slug." Strike one.
I cross my arms, leaning against a wall as he paces some more. I want to punch him in the face, but I hold myself back.
"Okay, look, how's this: try coming off a bit more humble."
"Humble?" I echo.
"Yes, sweetheart," says Haymitch, his voice dripping with trademark sarcasm. "I know that word's not even in your vocabulary." Strike two.
"Humble is not even in my vocabulary?" I repeat, my voice even. "I know you did not just say that to me, Haymitch."
"And if I did?" he challenges, knocking back more alcohol, his eyes meeting mine.
I glare at him trying to form an appropriate response, but I find none. I hold the insults inside, waiting for the anger to pass. "Whatever," I say through gritted teeth. "All right," I concede.
But nothing's all right. The interview session recommences, and the prospect of gaining sponsors looks even dimmer. We run through a litany of personas like Haymitch runs through whiskey. We try the "cocky" approach. The "ferocious" approach is next; then we try "witty." We even try "funny," and then "mysterious." Haymitch started doing shots somewhere around "witty."
"You know what, sweetheart?" says Haymitch. "For the first time in my life—"
I purse my lips. Yeah, right.
"—I give up. No, I'm serious. Try not to be so…"
"What?" I say, at my wit's end. Unconsciously, my hands curl into fists. I'm no longer leaning against the wall, and Haymitch is no longer pacing. In turn, I began to pace to keep myself from trying to kill Haymitch—because he'd most likely kill me first, I'm loathe to say—and he now sits, no, lounges, rather, on the couch.
"Belligerent."
Strike three.
I've had it with Haymitch, I really have. I'm about to rip his head off when he asks, not but not least, deadpan and quite serious, "Have you tried the sexy approach?"
Excuse me?
"Excuse me?" I verbalize, careful not to stutter, taken aback.
"Y'know," says Haymitch. "The sexy approach. Just try to act…"
"Sexy?"
"Exactly."
I try not to let his words phase me. I really do. Perhaps he's drunk. In fact, most of the time he is indeed drunk. But it's too much. I mean, this is Haymitch Abernathy we're talking about.
Not sweet, endearing, seraphic Peeta Mellark, the flaxen-haired angel with enough competitive edge to woo the ladies. Not the dark and dark-haired Gale, who is approaching manhood, yes, physically and mentally, but is not quite, in fact, a man.
This is Haymitch.
Who's been drinking, I argue, but in my own mind I counter that he always does. So his tolerance level for alcohol must, at this point, be rather high. It's been a while.
Longer than you've even been alive, the voice in the back of my head warns, but some for reason, I don't really care.
"Sexy?" I echo again.
"Yes, sexy. That's… something I'm sure you're familiar with."
If I wasn't blushing initially, then I'm blushing now.
"Uh… hold on. Let me…"
But that second nature, that animal instinct that spurs me on during a hunt, kicks in and suddenly, without warning, our legs are a mess of alternating greys and I wrench his face towards mine by the very roots of his hair.
His face is centimeters away from mine: I can smell the wine on his breath, no, I can taste it, rather, and everything about our intimate proximity seems wrong and right and utterly dangerous. I am the Girl on Fire, and I hold an explosive fuse…
The ornate, golden handle of the door turns and I spring backwards with an agility and at a velocity that can only be learned from years of hunting in District 12. With Gale, I am reminded, but the overwhelming guilt that I should feel is absolutely non-existent. In fact, the only guilt that I feel is that I had not initiated things sooner.
Precision and accuracy aside (and without Cinna's assistance), I've never been particularly graceful. My elbow almost upends an esoterically artful lamp, whose neck was etched with various designs and wrapped in rigid and sharp bronze that resembles ivy.
My heart pounds as the door opens. One second too late… One second too late…
In marches Effie Trinket, all smiles and tiny teacups—in her hair. Her smile turns briefly to a visage of utter horror as the lamp sways precariously on its axis before I still it.
Effie beams at me. "Ooh, Katniss, good call! That's a Claudius Bridgeberg original." She then clasps her hands together. "It would have been a tragedy if it was damaged! I would not have been able to get there quickly enough in my new kettle-creepers."
For the first time since Effie entered, Haymitch and I exchange a look, half in relief and half in confusion. We both look down at Effie's shoes, and Haymitch coughs.
They are, well, interesting.
Enveloping her feet are two large, floral teapots on a chunky platform sole perfect for all sorts of Capitol curb-stomping. I give her a winning smile.
"Good call, then."
She returns the smile, but suddenly, it's a replaced by an expression of suspicion. My heartbeat speeds up a bit, a sinking feeling creeping in. She looks askance at Haymitch and me, and pauses before asking, "Is anything going on between you two?"
What gave it away? Our guilty little looks or the fact that Haymitch, ironically always dressed to the nine, looked a bit, well, roughed up? As in, his usually coiffed hair was in sixteen different directions and his tie was askew, among other things? That he looked hot and bothered?
There's an awkward silence before we both open our mouths to explain, but she simply dismisses our excuses with a wave.
"I knew it," she says with a sniff, eyes shut tight, hand pressed dramatically against her temple in distress.
My heart sinks. Effie, I swear!
"You guys don't like my shoes."