Chapter Eighteen
I can't quite get all the paint out; after a shower so long that the hot water starts running out, multicolored spots are still flecked all over my hands, and gathered under my nails. Not that I was planning to lie about it, when Haymitch inevitably asks, though I'm increasingly nervous about facing the question. I am the first in the dining room, but Katniss follows shortly afterward. She smiles. "How'd it go?" she starts. "You-." But then Haymitch comes in, humming tunelessly, and her voice dies away as she listens to him with amazement.
Portia, Cinna and Effie all arrive and the soup is served. I'm still frowning at it when Haymitch asks how the private sessions went.
Katniss and I look at each other. She shrugs. "You first," she says. "It must have been really special. I had to wait forty minutes to go in."
I open my mouth, but no words come to me. I look at Haymitch, then switch hastily back to Katniss. "Well, I - I did the camouflage thing, like you suggested, Katniss. Not exactly camouflage; I mean, I used the dyes."
"To do what?" asks Portia cautiously.
Katniss looks at me quizzically. "You painted something, didn't you? A picture."
"Did you see it?" I ask, astonished.
"No. But they'd made a real point of covering it up."
"Well, that would be standard," says Effie. "They can't let one tribute know what another did. What did you paint, Peeta? Was it a picture of Katniss?"
Katniss snorts. "Why would he paint a picture of me?"
"To show he's going to do everything he can to defend you. That's what everyone in the Capitol's expecting anyway. Didn't he volunteer to go in with you?"
Katniss rolls her eyes and I smile and address only her, when I say, "Actually I painted a picture of Rue. How she looked - how she must have looked - after Katniss had covered her in flowers."
Katniss' lips part in surprise. Around the rest of the table, the hush is palpable.
"And what exactly were you trying to accomplish?" asks Haymitch, between his teeth. All his good mood of the last couple of days has evaporated.
What was I trying to accomplish? "I'm not sure," I reply softly. "I just wanted to hold them accountable, if only for a moment. For killing that little girl."
The astonished ferocity on Katniss' face is counterbalanced by the look of disappointed horror on Effie's. "This is dreadful," she says. "That sort of thinking … it's forbidden, Peeta. Absolutely. You'll only bring more trouble on yourself and Katniss."
"I have to agree with Effie on this one," says Haymitch.
I turn to him - but just shrug. More trouble? Aren't we the top of the Gamemakers' kill list already?
Katniss speaks out abruptly. "I guess this is a bad time to mention I hung a dummy and painted Seneca Crane's name on it."
Now it's my turn to gape. When I look at her, there is still this fire in her eyes. She is right. And I was right. And Haymitch is wrong. Our lives are not as important as our message, now. I think it has taken Katniss a long time to get to this point - which is funny, because she was the one who inspired the idea in me.
"You - hung - Seneca - Crane?" says Cinna.
"Yes, I was showing off my new knot-tying skills and he somehow ended up at the end of the noose.
"Oh, Katniss, how do you even know about that?" asks Effie in a low voice.
"Is it a secret? President Snow didn't act like it was. In fact, he seemed eager for me to know."
Effie leaves the table abruptly, covering her face. "Now I've upset Effie. I should have lied and said I shot some arrows." She looks at me with the ghost of an amused smile.
"You'd have thought we planned it," I say, returning it.
"Didn't you?" asks Portia, wanly.
"No," says Katniss. "Neither of us even knew what we were going to do before we went in."
"And Haymitch?" I add, looking at her for confirmation. She nods. "We decided we don't want any other allies in the arena."
"Good," he shoots back. "Then I won't be responsible for you killing off any of my friends with your stupidity."
"That's just what we were thinking," Katniss tells him.
For the first time, she and I are allied against these four dedicated people who have done nothing but try to help us stay alive, to protect us from the very wave of trouble we began with our actions in the arena. But I can't even pretend to regret it.
Effie rejoins us after dinner to watch the training recap. She's clearly been crying. Haymitch maintains a dark and surly expression. But Portia and Cinna are, as always, more reasonable. Cinna gives Katniss an encouraging squeeze as we walk toward the sitting room, and Portia throws me a small smile. I hope some part of her can be proud of me for using my last painting as a statement against the Capitol.
The Careers, minus Mags, all receive high scores - 8-10s, the standard Career range. Everyone else falls between 3 and 7.
"Have they ever given a zero?" asks Katniss, as we all wait in a kind of resigned anticipation for my score.
"No, but there's a first time for everything," replies Cinna.
And in fact, I'm given a 12 - the highest score possible and the first one I've ever actually seen. Katniss gasps loudly and I turn red. Then Katniss, also, receives a 12.
"Why did they do that?" she asks.
"So that the others will have no choice but to target you," says Haymitch, staring at the screen and not at us. "Go to bed. I can't stand to look at either one of you."
We don't protest. I get up and hold out a hand to Katniss, and she takes it without hesitation. We walk down the hall to the bedrooms; hers is the first one, and I stop, let go of her hand, and turn to say goodnight, but she abruptly throws her arms around me and rests her head on my chest. After a second's hesitation, I let myself return the embrace, and I bow my head so that it is entangled in her fragrant hair.
She looks up. "I'm sorry if I made things worse," she says.
"No worse than I did. Why did you do it, anyway?"
"I don't know. To show them that I'm more than just a piece in their Games?"
I laugh at that, remembering our argument from last year - how unreasonably angry we both were at each other over my declaration of independence from the games. The past year has shown me both how right and wrong I've been about that. They don't own me in the real sense - my thoughts and desires, my knowledge of right and wrong: these belong to me. But my life and death are certainly theirs. But that Katniss knows this now, too - knows it and acknowledges it? This is a huge thing. It means that, at the very least, I've passed some part of me - one of the better ones - to her. She can carry me forward with her, wherever she goes. "Me, too," I tell her. "And I'm not saying that I'm not going to try. To get you home, I mean. But - if I'm perfectly honest about it …." I bite my lip on the thing I can't bring myself to say.
"If you're perfectly honest about it, you think President Snow has probably given them direct orders to make sure we die in the arena, anyway."
"It's crossed my mind. But - even if that happens, everyone will know we've gone out fighting, right?"
"Everyone will know," she answers, softly. She continues to look up at me, and me down at her, for a couple of quiet minutes. I try to picture that imaginary world of uprisings. That fantasy world of a future without Snow, without the Capitol, without the Games. All I can picture is the wreckage of District 13, and how easily the Capitol can destroy things. Perhaps they don't want to - it would be hard to justify destroying the suppliers of all your worldly goods. But I'm not sure logic is in control of Panem, right now. There's an unreasoning spitefulness to the Quell - like Snow's a toddler taking away the Victors' toys just because he's been put out by some criticism. Logically, at this point, why not convene some committee to overturn the Games? Especially if it were to become as repugnant to its Capitol audience as it is to the districts …
Katniss sighs over my thoughts. "So, what should we do with our last few days?"
"I just want to spend every possible minute of the rest of my life with you," I say - honestly expecting to see the guilt and discomfort return to her face, but so beyond caring about censoring myself, right now. In the arena or out of it.
But she only gives me a thoughtful look. "Come on, then," she says, pulling me into her room.
As she closes the door behind us, I do wonder if this is a good idea. The changes between us are quiet, almost imperceptible - but they are there. Even since the last time we shared a bed together. I've moved past that gauzy phase - that hopeless, puppy-dog devotion to her. I've seen her flaws, her inconsistencies, up close. I've faced my own - my inability to completely overcome my jealousies, my sporadic adolescent desires. Yet, somehow, my connection to her has deepened - my affection for her, and, yes, my physical need. I have become accustomed to the specific geography of our relationship, I remind myself. And this challenges the fences - the lines that I have drawn.
But she trusts me, and that is more important than anything.
In the morning, I wake up first, jolted awake not by nightmares, but by the sun, which is rising at the wrong angle. Then I remember that I'm in Katniss' room. We're sleeping in our underwear - she is curled up against me, head on my arm. I've got a mouthful of her hair. Same as always.
I separate myself from her a little, so she won't bump up against the one part of my body that woke before I did. The movement causes her to stir and she blinks peacefully at the sun.
"No nightmares," I say.
"No nightmares. You?"
"None. I'd forgotten what a real night's sleep feels like."
"I'm not looking forward to today," she says. "What on earth am I going to do for four hours with Haymitch? It doesn't even matter to me how the interview goes."
"Well, we're not working separately this year, so we can meet with him together and I won't let him bully you."
"After last night - I can't even imagine what kind of mood he's in."
The red-headed Avox girl comes in after giving a short knock on the door. She doesn't seem surprised to see me in there, and she just hands Katniss a note addressed to the both of us.
"Given your recent tour, Haymitch and I agree that you can handle yourselves adequately in public. Today's sessions have been cancelled. Effie."
"Really?" I say, something like happiness flooding my chest. I take the note and read it, but it's no joke. "Do you know what this means? We'll have the whole day to ourselves."
"It's too bad we can't go somewhere."
"Who says we can't?" I grin. "Get dressed, then think of all the things you might possibly want to eat."
Within an hour, we're on the roof, with blankets and food. On the rooftop of the training center there is a garden of sorts - potted plants and trees with wind chimes hanging from their branches. The chimes are an interesting added feature. When you're within the garden, and there's a good wind, it feels like the chimes might be loud enough to block your voice from whatever potential listening devices are up here. It's strange that the Capitol doesn't know about them; or, if it does, that it allows them to remain. Maybe it's to lure the tributes who come up to the roof into a false sense of security. But I like to imagine that the mentors have, over the years, added the chimes to build a secure place where they can speak freely.
After we eat, we look out over the city, going to all four sides of the roof, trying to get our bearings and figure out exactly which direction 12 is. Then I do a new sketch of Katniss in my notebook. Katniss pulls vines off the trees and practices her knots. I start throwing an apple against the force field that surrounds the training center roof, then Katniss joins me and we take turns catching the apple as it is bounced back to us. A couple of kids enjoying the illusion of a normal childhood
Whenever we feel hungry, we eat. Whenever we feel like talking - whatever we feel like talking about - we talk. This is what it is like to be finally free - free of hunger and poverty, free of strategies and expectations, free of the burden of life under the Capitol's sway. I approach my upcoming death with calm acceptance. And for that I am awarded these hours of pure bliss.
She picks some bright yellow flowers and lays her head down on my lap as she knots them together. I gently loose the band in her hair and unravel her braid, letting her long strands of hair slide through my fingers. Then, I work through all of my sexual frustration by remaking her hair into braids, over and over again. I tell her I'm practicing knots of my own. But after a while, I stop and look down at her. A couple of teenagers enjoying the illusion of a normal adolescence.
"What?" she asks me.
"I wish I could freeze this moment, right here, right now, and live in it forever."
"OK," she says.
I smile. "Then - you'll allow it?"
"I'll allow it."
She finishes her rope of flowers and ties it together to make a crown, which she gives me and orders me to put on.
"Don't you need half of it?" I tease her.
"Not this time," she says, sleepily.
I think about this as she drifts off to sleep and I continue weaving her hair. I need to think of some way of getting her back to thinking of herself as a winner. Indirectly, this wonderful day might be sabotaging my plans. I probably should have maintained a firm but friendly distance. But - but - what does it matter? In the arena, death should be easy for me to find. It will be everywhere. This thing - this day - is something so rare I am probably even now just imagining it.
When the sun starts to set, I rouse her, knowing that she'll probably want to see it.
"Thanks," she says, stretching and rising. We go over to the western side of the roof and lean against the railing to watch the sky burn gold and orange and pink behind the tall buildings and the mountain ranges.
"Do you think we should go down for dinner?"
"Has anyone summoned us?"
"No - I haven't seen or heard anyone. They must realize we're up here."
"Maybe they're just letting us have this whole day," she says.
"I'm glad. I'm tired of making everyone around me so miserable. Everybody crying. Or Haymitch…"
As night falls, we note the appearance of the few stars that are strong enough to struggle through the Capitol's brightly-lit sky. In the quiet that hushes between us, I think of a million words to say to her. Now that I have the confidence and opportunity, circumstances have robbed me of the motive. In as gentle a way as I can manage it, once we're in the arena, I'm going to have to push her away from me, toward life. That's going to be hard enough to manage without leaving her the scorching words on the tip of my tongue. Anyway, it would only be saying out loud what she knows already - and no doubt it would be awkward. But I find myself wishing - half-dreading, also - to know what has changed with her: the way she feels about me. Because it's becoming clear that the terrain has shifted again and how she feels now is clearly not the same as it was on the train on the way home last year. It's not the same as it was on the Victory Tour; not even the same as it was the day that Gale was whipped. It would be better, I think, to die knowing exactly what I am to her. Yet - to speak of it, to give it substance - would disrupt the current plan. We are friends. We are allies. She must live, so I must die. This is unchangeable, so I must be unyielding.
That night, we go straight back down to her room, and still see no one. The sitting room even looks dark. Maybe Haymitch took the opportunity of a free day to visit with his friends, scare up some booze. I politely turn away while she strips down again to her underwear. And I strip down to mine. Then I hesitate.
"I'm going to remove my le - my prosthetic leg tonight."
"OK."
"I just wanted to warn you - I don't think you've seen me without it? But it's more comfortable to sleep without it."
She nods from her position on the bed and watches me while I do it. I expect to feel a little embarrassed, but - and this is one of those benefits of our peculiarly intimate-but-platonic friendship - I am completely comfortable.
She reaches over and touches my bare knee, just above the abrupt end of the leg. I'm sure she just means it as a gesture that she's not put off by the mutilation of my body, but the tingle that goes up my flesh from the contact-point of her fingers gets lost in the region between my legs. I take her hand abruptly and remove it. I stare at her knuckles. A man and a woman caught within the illusion of normal adulthood.
"Katniss, you know you can trust me, right?"
"Yes," she breathes.
"But, I'm only human, so - maybe, that's a ... line."
She blushes and abruptly takes back her hand. "Sorry."
"There's nothing to be sorry about. It's nobody's fault. It's just the - way that it is." I give her a smile and hold her eyes until she smiles back. I don't want to be kicked out of her room, even if it's for my own good.
Our forced separation by her preps in the morning is something of a relief. I head to my own room to shower and relieve some of the accumulated tension. Then I have to face my own prep team. Since they waxed me before, there's not much to do except for file down my nails, apply some light makeup to my face and curl my hair.
At lunch, Katniss and I meet up again and sit next to each other at the table, while Haymitch watches us unhappily from the other side and Cinna and Portia both eat quietly. Katniss' hair has been set in several braids that are pinned up to the back of her head in an elaborate knot. I stare at it, wondering how her preps did it. Her makeup isn't severe, but it is distinctive, making her look older.
After lunch we're separated again and I go back to my room with Portia, this time.
"Effie gave me this for you," she says, holding out a box.
Inside is a gold locket, imprinted with the Mockingjay symbol that has become so fashionable here since last year's games. Katniss has told me how it has also become a symbol for the rebels in the districts. So, this is a double-edged token. Perfect. I pop it open and look at the two pictures that Effie has inserted in it. Both pictures of Katniss are a little too heavily-made-up for my liking. I hand it back to Portia, who crinkles her eyes.
"Can you do me a favor? Would you be able to get two different pictures for me?"
She takes the locket with a puzzled expression. "Maybe. What pictures?"
"I don't know if you can pull them off of any tapes from last year, but I'd like pictures of her mom and sister." I pause. Hesitate. And then make up my mind. "Also, of her cousin - Gale."
"I'll try," she says. I wish - I wish I could talk to her more freely. Last year, there was not this constraint between us, because the things I had to hide were only from Katniss.
She pulls a suit out of a garment bag and I look at it in consternation, as I realize it's not just a suit, but a tuxedo, complete with a stiff white shirt, a multi-colored vest - all pale blues and greens and shiny, like the inside of an abalone shell - pearl cufflinks and, worst of all, white gloves. I feel rather ridiculous wearing it. I look slightly ridiculous in it. I would never criticize Portia's choices - there's always a point to them - but I don't get this.
At least, not until I see Katniss, when we all meet up at the elevator. She's dressed in one of the wedding gowns that I saw on TV the night of the Quarter Quell announcement. It's the one I liked the most, with the dramatic sleeves flowing right to the floor, the heavy silk skirt opening over fluffy organza ruffles. Ropes of pearls are around her throat, in the veil on her head, even at the hems of the dress. Of course - that explains my outfit. I always match Katniss and in this case, we are going into the interview as the Capitol bride and groom we will never be.
I stare at her in shock and she looks at me unhappily. Oh, she's beautiful, yes. But this is a horrible reminder that our relationship is a Capitol fiction. An illusion.
The interview stage is set up in front of the President's mansion, which is at the top of the city circle a few hundred feet away from the training center. There's a curtain set up between the two buildings so we are separated from the gathering crowd as we walk to the stage. Once we arrive, and Haymitch leaves us to our own devices, the other tributes turn to stare at us.
Finnick says, "I can't believe Cinna put you in that thing."
"He didn't have any choice," snaps Katniss. "President Snow made him."
Oh. So, that's what's going on.
Cashmere, going for sex appeal with a gold mini-skirt and crop top, tosses her hair. "Well, you look ridiculous!" she says, and grabs her brother's hand to take their places at the head of the procession.
But most of the other tributes are sympathetic, and give her encouraging pats on the back before lining up in order - Johanna actually comes over and tells Katniss, "Make him pay for it, OK?"
The twenty-four of us walk to the stage and find our seats, which are lined up at the back of the stage behind the chairs that are set up for Caesar and the interviewee. I'm still thinking about how exactly I'm going to frame my argument for Katniss when the interviews start - the most incredible interviews Panem has ever seen or Caesar Flickerman ever lived through.
First, it's Cashmere, weeping very real-looking tears as she sympathizes with the Capitol crowd and how much they are going to miss her and her brother - who are apparently regulars at every party. Then Gloss - praising the audience for the kindness he and his sister have always received from them. The District 2 careers - in typical fashion - provide the usual chest-beating commitment to winning the games. Hopeless. But - there's Beetee, challenging the legality of the Quell in relationship to the terms of the Hunger Games. There's Finnick, causing a mass outbreak of the vapors by reciting a poem dedicated to his one true love in the Capitol. Even Johanna, whose somewhat abrasive voice softens as she asks straight-up if anything can be done to cancel the Quell, pointing out that its creators probably didn't realize how much affection would grow up between the victors and the Capitol. Seeder and Chaff tag-team, with their remarks, a speech in which they question whether or not Snow has the power to stop the Games.
The net result is an audience in near-riot mood. They are loud - they are talking back to the victors - some angrily denouncing them, but most shouting out their agreement. When Katniss steps out of the backstage darkness and into the spotlight - so that the crowd can see exactly how she is dressed - there's a strange sound from the audience, a collective sort of animal groan, laced with individual cries for the games to be cancelled. It is the craziest thing that has ever happened on the television sets of Panem. I think - how this must be backfiring for Snow, how the district rebels must be taking heart by the reactions of the crowd who have never said such things out loud.
Most of Katniss' stage time is taken up by the screaming crowd, who won't obey Caesar's attempts to silence them. Finally, though, there's a lull. And Caesar says, in a strained voice, "So, Katniss - this is obviously a very emotional night for everyone. Is there anything you'd like to say?"
"Only that I'm so sorry you won't get to be at my wedding," she says in a soft, trembling voice.
Good job, girl, I think to myself in a voice that sounds like Haymitch's. She, too, is playing up what the crowd is being denied by the mere existence of the Quarter Quell. "But I'm glad you at least get to see me in my dress. Isn't it just … the most beautiful thing?"
Without waiting for a response, she begins to twirl, as she did last year. Then something truly insane starts happening. At first I think it is the illusory flame of last year's jewel-encrusted dress. But amid the flicker of faint flames, a real smoke begins to rise up. The pearls from the gown clatter to the stage, and then the white layers of her gown start burning away - revealing another gown beneath it. Katniss keeps twirling and I grip the edge of my seat, trying to swallow my alarm and remember that Cinna can be trusted.
Then it's over - the flames are gone. And Katniss is left standing in a dress the exact twin of her wedding gown - except that it's coal black and the silk has been replaced by tiny down feathers. She lifts her long sleeves up and stares at her arms in wonder, and that's when it becomes obvious. In profile, she is a bird, now. A mockingjay.