After our heated conversation, I'm careful to relay everything to my wife in one way or another. Of course, it's a little strange having to come up with excuses to walk away from town every time, but we manage. Our exchanges are still brief and chilly, but at least she's talking to me. The monotony of living in such controlled conditions wears on both of us. To be constantly walking on eggshells, worried about saying the wrong thing, it's almost a relief to collapse into bed where I don't have to agonize over what I should or shouldn't be saying. Even words seem to cost something these days.
"Seventy-thirty," my says one evening. The weather's started to warm up some, much to the relief of everyone in Twelve. If there's anything worse than the way people are feeling right now, it's feeling this way in the dead of winter. "Mandatory programming starts now."
The television begins to beep and the seal appears.
My oldest son, who's just dropped by (he and his brother both moved to their own houses this winter), raises an eyebrow. "Again? Feels like we've had one every night since the last Games ended."
"Yeah, well, they can't have anything that important to say, right? More of the same propaganda." The truth is, most of the Capitol broadcasts have been trying to subdue the districts. They've begun showing old, graphic Dark Days footage and shots from the past seventy plus years of Games. I think it's safe to say that while the resistance was stamped out here in Twelve, it must still be growing in the other districts. We wouldn't know because that's the other thing the Capitol makes sure we don't have; any communication to the other districts is highly regulated to prevent almost any outside connections.
"Hello, I'm Caesar Flickerman," the program begins. I brace myself for another show of Capitol power.
"I see him more than I see my own family," my son shakes his head. "Seriously, how do Capitol people have time for this? What do they do all day?"
Tonight's show's taking place in front of a standing crowd outside the Training Center in the Capitol. A shiver runs down my spine as I recall seeing shots of the building on television during the Games. When I was convinced Peeta was going to die.
"As you all know," Caesar is saying. "Our very favorite couple, victors of the Seventy-fourth Hunger Games, are nearing their wedding day. And because we just never could stay out of their affairs, the citizens of the Capitol have taken it upon themselves to dress the bride, along with some help from a very special guest."
Katniss's stylist from the Games is introduced and Cinna launches into an explanation of wedding dresses, fabrics, and designs. I can't help thinking about the amount of time he had to design the dozens of wedding dresses that went through various stages of voting. While Twelve was starving, freezing, and being abused by the Peacekeepers, these Capitol people were voting and betting on a wedding dress.
"And it's all come down to these six," Caesar says dramatically. "So, of course, before the final one could be decided, we sent Cinna out to District Twelve."
"I had Katniss try on all the finalists," Cinna promises. "And believe me, she looks ravishing in every one. You can't go wrong."
"Are you ready to see Katniss Everdeen in her wedding dresses?" Caesar booms, lifting his hands up to rile the audience. He's met with thunderous applause.
"I think the Capitol's more invested in the wedding than Peeta and Katniss are," I mutter without thinking. My stomach jolts and I realize that was a very dangerous thing to say. But hopefully the roar of the TV audience is loud enough to cover my careless slip-up.
"Well, at least he has a bride," my son mutters. I guess my comment wasn't entirely unnoticed. Peeta's brothers didn't take the news of the engagement well. They have no idea about the camera act versus the complicated relationship our victors harbor. "He's only seventeen," my son grouses. "I understand the Games were hellish, but come on. Wealthy, a huge house, and a girl?"
The slideshow of Katniss in the dresses begins to play, with the audience screaming, cheering, and sometimes even booing alongside. Cinna was right about one thing. Katniss looks stunning, draped on fancy furniture and sets. The dramatic lighting highlights her dark makeup. Each of the dresses are so different in style, tone, and even in color. I had no idea there were that many versions of the color white. The girl on the screen doesn't even look anything like the Katniss Everdeen I know. Her body is curvier somehow, like the Capitol tried to make her look sexier, and though black eyeliner accentuates her eyes, they don't have the same stormy, obsessed look that they've held since she's come home.
I try to imagine a Twelve-style wedding, not the blowout the Capitol is planning. We don't have the money, time, or the resources to throw that big of a bash, but we still manage a pretty memorable ceremony. I think of the rented white dresses that have been passed around so many times, seen so many happy unions. The clean shaven groom whose smile is the most radiant thing about him. Usually merchants can afford to scrape up a meal, but sometimes, we just skip right to the toasting. For us, it's the people, not the fancy food and decor, that make an atmosphere.
I can still remember my toasting as if it were yesterday. The firelit living room. Back when the only thing that mattered was us. My wife and I toasted and shared our first bit of bread on that smoky, simple night. Did I wonder then what my life would be like in the future? Because I doubt that anything I spun comes close to what it is now.
"Even if I did manage to find a bride," my son continues. "It's not like she'd get any of this special crap. I mean, look at this! She's got a dozen dresses and a whole city of rich folks to choose one for her!"
"Maybe it's better that way," I tell him, still lost in the memories of my toasting. "Sometimes bigger isn't better."
"Cinna wasn't lying!" Caesar exclaims when the slideshow runs out. "Have you ever seen a more beautiful bride!" He laughs. "Don't worry, Peeta Mellark, no one's going to steal her. But I think we can all agree that Katniss's wedding dress, whichever that one may be, is going to top the charts for most gorgeous gown! A big round of applause to Cinna!"
"Well, she's a wonderful girl and deserves a wonderful dress," Cinna says in a very down-to-earth tone. He doesn't strike me as having the same flamboyant personality that most Capitol folks do.
"Remember, interested parties must cast their final vote by noon tomorrow," Caesar reminds everyone. "Let's get Katniss Everdeen to her wedding in style!"
"Style?" my wife says scornfully. "That girl looks like the Capitol ate a sheet, then threw it up with some pearls and lace."
"It wasn't that bad," I reply. "Cinna did a nice job with the designs." I reach forward to shut the television off, but Caesar Flickerman's still speaking.
"... just when you thought the night couldn't get more exciting!" he exclaims. "Stay tuned for our other big event of the evening. That's right, this year will be the seventy-fifth anniversary of the Hunger Games, and that means it's time for our third Quarter Quell!"
My stomach turns over and I suck in my breath. I'd forgotten about the card reading.
"Huh?" my son asks. He's still too young to have experienced the last Quell and doesn't know how they work. "What is this, like a reaping or something?"
"They'll read the card," my wife says in a strained voice.
"The card?"
The anthem plays, announcing the appearance of President Snow. A knot solidifies in my stomach at the sight of him. Ever since Peeta told me we were being watched, I'd wondered many times if the President himself was listening to an exchange. Watching as I baked. Are his eyes among those peering at me from the corners? Those thoughts don't leave me with a very good taste in my mouth.
Trailing the President is a little boy who looks much too young to be wearing such a mature, stiff-necked suit. In his hands, he presents a wooden box that looks deceptively simple for something hiding such horrors.
If the Hunger Games are entertainment, then Quarter Quells are the spectacles of the decade. They only happen once every twenty-five years, which is much too often for us living in the Districts. They make the Hunger Games look like recreation. There's always a barbaric twist, designed to make the districts miserable in every way possible.
"Panem wasn't always this peaceful, this fluid," President Snow begins in an unvarying tone. "The Dark Days, from which the Hunger Games were born, brought terrible tragedy on this country. The rebels decided they no longer needed a Capitol, no longer needed a heart to their body, a brain for their heads. They came in with their violent, primitive ways and believed that the answer to peace was with warfare. This, of course, proved false. All the rebels brought was death to their children and terror to their country. Justice prevailed, however, and that's why we are standing here to today. But, there had to be a punishment, a consequence. So, we created the Hunger Games. And when the laws were laid out, we decided that every twenty-five years there would be a glorified version of the Games designed to make fresh the memory of those killed in the rebellion."
The speech drones on and on. It's the same speech we've heard a thousand times, but I can tell that the President's speech writers selected a few choice phrases. Phrases to remind districts on the verge of rebelling what happened the last time they questioned the government.
"On the twenty-fifth anniversary, as a reminder to the rebels that their children were dying because of their choice to initiate violence, every district was made to hold an election and vote on the tributes who would represent it."
I push away the repulsive thoughts of this Quarter Quell. How would it have felt to be voted to go to the Games? I can't even imagine the polls. Standing in line, putting in a poor childs name. Or worse, knowing your neighbors were weighing the odds, possibly nominating you to die. It's that kind of thing that rips a district, friendships, even families to shreds.
"On the fiftieth anniversary," President Snow continues, "as a reminder that two rebels died for each Capitol citizen, every district was required to send twice as many tributes."
Maysilee Donner. That's the first name that comes to mind. She was also a merchant's kid, in my year at school. The thought of her makes my heart twist painfully. Our parents were pretty good friends, so Maysilee and her twin sister were over at my place often. She was among the few girls I could actually talk to. The thought of her sweet, yet tenacious disposition and the way we used to spend long house anxiously discussing our youthful anxieties forms a lump in my throat. Her death reminds me just how awful the Quell is.
"And now," the President says. The boy holding the box steps forward, presenting it carefully to Snow. Rows and rows of envelopes stand, death written inside every yellowing one. The President runs his fingers along them, then selects one marked with a seventy-five. A strange trembling begins in my hands. "On the seventy-fifth anniversary," he begins, "as a reminder to the rebels that even the strongest among them cannot overcome the power of the Capitol, the male and female tributes will be reaped from their existing pool of victors."