Sleep never comes that night. I replay my conversation with Haymitch over and over in my head, but by the time the sun rises, I'm no closer to clarity.
At breakfast, my head throbs from lack of sleep, and my sullen mood is obvious to everyone. No one comments on it, though and for that, I'm grateful.
"When you're down there training today, keep your skills to yourself. Don't show them anything they can use against you." Haymitch's voice breaks the silence. His gaze lands on me. "That means no shooting with a bow." Then he turns to Peeta, frowning slightly. "And you… what can you do?"
It hits me then that Haymitch knows nothing about Peeta. How he knew about my archery, I'm not sure. Maybe my black market dealings aren't as discreet as I thought.
"Nothing," Peeta mumbles. The quiet defeat in his voice unsettles me. Before I even realize what I'm doing, I speak.
"Peeta's strong," I say, a little too quickly. "He throws hundred-pound sacks of flour over his head like they weigh nothing. And he wrestles."
The room goes quiet. Haymitch raises his eyebrows in that smug way of his that makes me want to throw something. My gaze drifts to Peeta. He's staring at me, his brows drawn together, like he's trying to figure me out. Trying to understand what I'm doing, why I'm defending him.
Haymitch breaks the tension. "Then you stay away from anything that shows off your strength. Stick together."
I swirl my spoon in the hot chocolate, avoiding Peeta's gaze. The liquid suddenly becomes the most interesting thing I've ever seen. I don't know why I spoke up about Peeta's abilities like that. He's supposed to be my ally, but I don't understand why he would lie about what he can do. Haymitch wants me to trust him, but how can I when he knows what I'm capable of but refuses to share his strengths? Maybe he thinks hiding them will help us. Or maybe he doesn't trust me either. I guess he has no reason to.
The elevator ride to the training facility is long and painfully quiet. By the time we pass floor seven, I can't take it anymore.
"Why would you hide your abilities?" I ask, harsher than I intended. Peeta looks at me, eyes full with confusion.
"Katniss, I don't have anything that's useful in the Games."
My scowl deepens. I open my mouth to argue, but Peeta isn't done.
"Yeah, I can bake bread for hours on end, but how is that going to help us? You can shoot and never miss. Right through the eye every time. If we win, it's not going to be because of me."
His voice isn't sad or defeated, it's steady and factual. He doesn't look away once. I don't miss his use of the word us. Peeta is better at this than me. He's already accepted the rules of the Quarter Quell.
I drop my gaze, staring at the floor. We pass level three before I speak again.
"It's not always through the eye," I mutter.
Peeta snorts. "It's always through the eye."
I don't argue this time.
The elevator doors slide open, and we're the last ones to arrive. Again. How every other district has an escort more punctual than Effie is beyond me. She makes us arrive twenty minutes early to everything.
Peeta and I stand at the back of the group, silently absorbing the instructor's words. There's nothing I don't already know, but I listen anyway. I don't want to die of starvation, hypothermia, or infection. I don't want to die at all. The thought hits me like a brick. Of course I don't want to die, but only now do I realize just how much. I don't want to be decapitated by Mason from District Two, who's swinging a sword at a dummy like he's slicing through butter. I don't want to be gutted by Opal from One, whose knife work is so precise it makes me shiver.
"Trying to kill the competition with your glare?" Peeta's voice breaks my trance.
I shoot him a deadpan look, but he just snickers. How he can be this relaxed is beyond me.
"Knot-tying station?" I suggest, already walking in that direction. Peeta follows.
"Sure."
We spend the morning learning different knots and traps. Gale tried to teach me a few more complicated snares once, but I never had the patience. I still don't, but Peeta seems genuinely interested. He's the same at the fire-making station and the plant identification station. I don't know whether that annoys me or makes me oddly satisfied.
At lunch, I force him to swap out his bread and potatoes for greens and chicken, just like the Careers. He looks mildly amused but eats it all the same. We stick together, just like Haymitch told us. I avoid the archery station, even though my fingers itch to test the new bows. One in particular gleams mockingly from across the room. Peeta avoids showing his strength, playing the part well. During the mandatory hand-to-hand combat hour, he even goes so far as to pretend to be terrible. I know he's faking. I've seen him wrestle at school, he could've thrown the instructor to the ground without breaking a sweat.
As we head toward the elevator, I lean closer. "Why did you do that?" I whisper.
"What?"
"Pretend to be bad back there."
Peeta gives me an odd look. "How do you know that wasn't my best?" He raises a perfectly sculpted eyebrow.
I scoff. "I've seen you wrestle at school. You had him if you wanted to."
Peeta shrugs as he presses the button for the penthouse. A small, knowing smile tugs at his lips.
"Can't hurt to throw off the competition, right?"
Peeta is smart. I know that's a good thing considering our situation, but I can't help feeling uneasy about it. It unsettles me to know he isn't clueless — that every move he makes is probably calculated, each action quietly evaluated. It's so different from me, with my reckless decisions and dead-fish personality.
I lie in bed, body sore and heavy with exhaustion. My eyes trace the ceiling. There's a projection of trees swaying softly in the wind, and for a moment, it feels like home. My chest tightens. Prim. My mother. Gale. Lady, Prim's goat. Even that stupid cat Buttercup I'd happily make into soup if given half the chance. I miss them all. My heart aches so fiercely it feels like a physical wound. I'd scream for mercy if I thought anyone would hear. If I thought there was anyone — or anything — that could give me just one more moment with my family. One more day at home. I'd take the hunger, the cold, the fear. All of it. Just for that.
A soft knock pulls me back. Peeta's voice follows, quiet and uncertain.
"Katniss?"
I answer without thinking. The door creaks open, and I swipe at my tears, but not fast enough. His eyes catch mine, and I know he sees. Fury rises in me; not at him, but at myself. I've let him glimpse something I never meant to show.
He stands just inside the door, close enough that I can make out each faint freckle scattered across his skin. Yet far enough that the space between us feels insurmountable. Time stretches. In this fragile moment, we're caught in a silent understanding neither of us dares to break.
The concern in his eyes is unbearable. I turn away.
"What do you want, Peeta?" My voice comes out sharper than I intend. I wince.
He doesn't ask if I'm okay. Maybe he knows better. I'm not sure if I'd cry again or throw something at him.
"Effie sent me to get you for dinner. Haymitch wants to talk to us too."
"Okay."
I don't say anything else. After a few seconds, he leaves. The door clicks softly shut behind him.
I press my fist to my mouth and scream silently into the dark. One last indulgence. One last desperate grasp at what I've lost before I shove it all down deep enough that it can never surface again.
Only one thought remains. The promise I made to Prim. That's the only thing that matters now.
Peeta keeps sending me concerned glances throughout dinner, which only irritates me more. I avoid his gaze, stabbing my food while he answers Haymitch's questions about training. When Peeta mentions the hand-to-hand combat and how he held back, Haymitch nods approvingly. My hands curl into fists under the table, knuckles white, but I keep my mouth shut.
The rest of the training days pass in the same pattern: blend in, avoid attention, learn survival skills. Do nothing remarkable. By the time the score evaluations arrive, my nerves are frayed. Each tribute goes in alone, showing their skills while the Gamemakers watch. Peeta and I – and every district team– will get a combined score, which somehow feels even more nerve-wracking.
The waiting room empties one by one until it's just the two of us. The silence is heavy, broken only by the distant sound of someone's name being called. Peeta shifts beside me.
"Shoot straight," he says softly, a half-smile on his face.
I nod. "Good luck." The words feel empty.
The training room is colder than I remember. Or maybe it's just me. The Gamemakers are gathered above, sipping drinks and chatting among themselves. None of them look at me as I enter. I clear my throat.
"Katniss Everdeen. District Twelve."
A few glance down, bored. One with a villainous-looking swirl of a beard waves lazily. "Go ahead."
I cross the floor and pick up the bow. It feels wrong in my hands — too light, too smooth. I draw back the string, testing the tension, and take aim. My first arrow flies wide, missing the target completely. My heart lurches. I've not missed a target in years. Laughter drifts down from above, sharp and mocking. My face burns. I draw another arrow, steady my breath, and fire again. Bullseye. But when I glance up, no one's watching. Of course they're not. I'm a nobody from an outlying district with no real chance of winning. I was sent here just to die and not even my death is worthy of attention. The roasted pig in the Gamemaker's lounge is more noteworthy than the girl about to die in their arena.
The rage hits me like a spark to dry tinder. Before I can think, I nock another arrow and let it fly. The apple explodes, the arrow embedding deep in the wall behind it. The room falls silent. Every head turns toward me, mouths hanging open.
I force my shaking hands to my sides. "Thank you for your consideration." I drop into a mocking bow and stride out before the panic can take hold.
Only when I'm back in the elevator do I fully realize what I've done. My legs feel like lead, my heart hammering so hard I can barely breathe. As soon as the doors open, I storm past Haymitch and Effie, ignoring their questions. I go straight to my room and crumble onto the bed, clutching the sheets as the panic sets in.
Not only did I screw up my own score, I've ruined Peeta's chances too. And somehow, that thought is even worse.
By the time we gather to watch the scores, my stomach is a tangled knot of dread. I can't meet Peeta's eyes. He's avoiding mine as well. The Capitol anthem blares, signaling the start of the broadcast.
"What did you do?" Haymitch's voice is low, suspicious. He knows. Of course, he knows. I glance at him, then down at my hands.
"I… I shot the apple out of their pig's mouth." My voice is barely a whisper. The room falls silent. Slowly, I risk a glance at Peeta.
"I'm sorry." The words tumble out, fast and desperate. "I didn't think. I messed up. I messed everything up for you."
The last thing I expect is for Haymitch to burst into uncontrollable laughter. Peeta's lips quirk into an amused smile, and I stare at them both as if they've lost their minds.
"I guess that explains their frightened stares during my evaluation," Peeta says, and Haymitch doubles over, laughing even harder.
I manage a weak smile, though my heart is still racing. Haymitch wipes his eyes, shaking his head. "Well, sweetheart, they'll definitely remember you now."
That makes me feel a little better. At least I won't be forgotten, even if they give me a zero. Peeta's score might still be decent. Maybe, combined, we'll end up somewhere in the middle.
The TV flickers to life, and there's Caesar Flickerman, all smiles and in full lavender glory. The scores roll out, district by district. One gets a combined nineteen: nine for the boy, ten for Opal. Two is even better: both tens, a perfect twenty. My palms grow sweatier with each number. Four gets a fourteen, Five through Seven get elevens, Eight gets a nine. District Nine's fifteen isn't terrible but isn't great either. Eleven scores seventeen, and the pit in my stomach deepens. Older tributes. Stronger ones. I really doomed myself with that wish.
Then Caesar turns to District Twelve. My breath catches.
Please let Peeta have scored well. Please don't let us be last.
Cheers erupt from the screen, and I look up – only to have the wind knocked out of me. My jaw drops. There, in bold numbers, is our score.
Twenty-one. The highest of all the districts.
I got an eleven. Peeta, a ten.
I stare at the screen, frozen. Peeta lets out a low whistle, and Haymitch claps his hands together, grinning. I turn to Peeta, eyes wide.
"You got a ten." The words barely make it past my lips.
Peeta shrugs, trying for nonchalance, but I catch the pleased glint in his eyes. "Guess they liked my performance."
I can only sit there, stunned, as the scores flash one final time. Twenty-one. Somehow, despite everything, we're the ones to beat.