The Hunger Games Part 2: The Games
Chapter 10
For a moment, the cameras hold on Peeta’s downcast eyes as what he says
sinks in. Then I can see my face, mouth half open in a mix of surprise and protest,
magnified on every screen as I realize, Me! He means me! I press my lips together
and stare at the floor, hoping this will conceal the emotions starting to boil up
inside of me.
“Oh, that is a piece of bad luck,” says Caesar, and there’s a real edge of pain
in his voice. The crowd is murmuring in agreement, a few have even given
agonized cries.
“It’s not good,” agrees Peeta.
“Well, I don’t think any of us can blame you. It’d be hard not to fall for that
young lady,” says Caesar. “She didn’t know?”
Peeta shakes his head. “Not until now.”
I allow my eyes to flicker up to the screen long enough to see that the blush on
my cheeks is unmistakable.
“Wouldn’t you love to pull her back out here and get a response?” Caesar asks
the audience. The crowd screams assent. “Sadly, rules are rules, and Katniss
Everdeen’s time has been spent. Well, best of luck to you, Peeta Mellark, and I
think I speak for all of Panem when I say our hearts go with yours.”
The roar of the crowd is deafening. Peeta has absolutely wiped the rest of us
off the map with his declaration of love for me. When the audience finally settles
down, he chokes out a quiet “Thank you” and returns to his seat. We stand for the
anthem. I have to raise my head out of the required respect and cannot avoid
seeing that every screen is now dominated by a shot of Peeta and me, separated
by a few feet that in the viewers’ heads can never be breached. Poor tragic us.
But I know better.
After the anthem, the tributes file back into the Training Center lobby and onto
the elevators. I make sure to veer into a car that does not contain Peeta. The
crowd slows our entourages of stylists and mentors and chaperones, so we have
only each other for company. No one speaks. My elevator stops to deposit four
tributes before I am alone and then find the doors opening on the twelfth floor.
Peeta has only just stepped from his car when I slam my palms into his chest. He
loses his balance and crashes into an ugly urn filled with fake flowers. The urn tips
and shatters into hundreds of tiny pieces. Peeta lands in the shards, and blood
immediately flows from his hands.
“What was that for?” he says, aghast.
“You had no right! No right to go saying those things about me!” I shout at him.
Now the elevators open and the whole crew is there, Effie, Haymitch, Cinna,
and Portia.
“What’s going on?” says Effie, a note of hysteria in her voice. “Did you fall?”
“After she shoved me,” says Peeta as Effie and Cinna help him up.
Haymitch turns on me. “Shoved him?”
“This was your idea, wasn’t it? Turning me into some kind of fool in front of the
entire country?” I answer.
“It was my idea,” says Peeta, wincing as he pulls spikes of pottery from his
palms. “Haymitch just helped me with it.”
“Yes, Haymitch is very helpful. To you!” I say.
“You are a fool,” Haymitch says in disgust. “Do you think he hurt you? That boy
just gave you something you could never achieve on your own.”
“He made me look weak!” I say.
“He made you look desirable! And let’s face it, you can use all the help you can
get in that department. You were about as romantic as dirt until he said he wanted
you. Now they all do. You’re all they’re talking about. The star-crossed lovers from
District Twelve!” says Haymitch.
“But we’re not star-crossed lovers!” I say.
Haymitch grabs my shoulders and pins me against the wall. “Who cares? It’s all
a big show. It’s all how you’re perceived. The most I could say about you after
your interview was that you were nice enough, although that in itself was a small
miracle. Now I can say you’re a heartbreaker. Oh, oh, oh, how the boys back home
fall longingly at your feet. Which do you think will get you more sponsors?”
The smell of wine on his breath makes me sick. I shove his hands off my
shoulders and step away, trying to clear my head.
Cinna comes over and puts his arm around me. “He’s right, Katniss.”
I don’t know what to think. “I should have been told, so I didn’t look so stupid.”
“No, your reaction was perfect. If you’d known, it wouldn’t have read as real,”
says Portia.
“She’s just worried about her boyfriend,” says Peeta gruffly, tossing away a
bloody piece of the urn.
My cheeks burn again at the thought of Gale. “I don’t have a boyfriend.”
“Whatever,” says Peeta. “But I bet he’s smart enough to know a bluff when he
sees it. Besides you didn’t say you loved me. So what does it matter?”
The words are sinking in. My anger fading. I’m torn now between thinking I’ve
been used and thinking I’ve been given an edge. Haymitch is right. I survived my
interview, but what was I really? A silly girl spinning in a sparkling, dress. Giggling.
The only moment of any substance I hail was when I talked about Prim. Compare
that with Thresh, his silent, deadly power, and I’m forgettable. Silly and sparkly
and forgettable. No, not entirely forgettable, I have my eleven in training.
But now Peeta has made me an object of love. Not just his. To hear him tell it I
have many admirers. And if the audience really thinks we’re in love . . . I
remember how strongly they responded to his confession. Star-crossed lovers.
Haymitch is right, they eat that stuff up in the Capitol. Suddenly I’m worried that I
didn’t react properly.
“After he said he loved me, did you think I could be in love with him, too?” I
ask.
“I did,” says Portia. “The way you avoided looking at the cameras, the blush.”
They others chime in, agreeing.
“You’re golden, sweetheart. You’re going to have sponsors lined up around the
block,” says Haymitch.
I’m embarrassed about my reaction. I force myself to acknowledge Peeta. “I’m
sorry I shoved you.”
“Doesn’t matter,” he shrugs. “Although it’s technically illegal.”
“Are your hands okay?” I ask. “They’ll be all right,” he says.
In the silence that follows, delicious smells of our dinner waft in from the dining
room. “Come on, let’s eat,” says Haymitch. We all follow him to the table and take
our places. But then Peeta is bleeding too heavily, and Portia leads him off for
medical treatment. We start the cream and rose-petal soup without them. By the
time we’ve finished, they’re back. Peeta’s hands are wrapped in bandages. I can’t
help feeling guilty. Tomorrow we will be in the arena. He has done me a favor and
I have answered with an injury. Will I never stop owing him?
After dinner, we watch the replay in the sitting room. I seem frilly and shallow,
twirling and giggling in my dress, although the others assure me I am charming.
Peeta actually is charming and then utterly winning as the boy in love. And there I
am, blushing and confused, made beautiful by Cinna’s hands, desirable by Peeta’s
confession, tragic by circumstance, and by all accounts, unforgettable.
When the anthem finishes and the screen goes dark, a hush falls on the room.
Tomorrow at dawn, we will be roused and prepared for the arena. The actual
Games don’t start until ten because so many of the Capitol residents rise late. But
Peeta and I must make an early start. There is no telling how far we will travel to
the arena that has been prepared for this year’s Games.
I know Haymitch and Effie will not be going with us. As soon as they leave here,
they’ll be at the Games Headquarters, hopefully madly signing up our sponsors,
working out a strategy on how and when to deliver the gifts to us. Cinna and Portia
will travel with us to the very spot from which we will be launched into the arena.
Still final good-byes must be said here.
Effie takes both of us by the hand and, with actual tears in her eyes, wishes us
well. Thanks us for being the best tributes it has ever been her privilege to
sponsor. And then, because it’s Effie and she’s apparently required by law to say
something awful, she adds “I wouldn’t be at all surprised if I finally get promoted
to a decent district next year!”
Then she kisses us each on the cheek and hurries out, overcome with either
the emotional parting or the possible improvement of her fortunes.
Haymitch crosses his arms and looks us both over.
“Any final words of advice?” asks Peeta.
“When the gong sounds, get the hell out of there. You’re neither of you up to
the blood bath at the Cornucopia. Just clear out, put as much distance as you can
between yourselves and the others, and find a source of water,” he says. “Got it?”
“And after that?” I ask.
“Stay alive,” says Haymitch. It’s the same advice he gave us on the train, but
he’s not drunk and laughing this time. And we only nod. What else is there to say?
When I head to my room, Peeta lingers to talk to Portia. I’m glad. Whatever
strange words of parting we exchange can wait until tomorrow. My covers are
drawn back, but there is no sign of the redheaded Avox girl. I wish I knew her
name. I should have asked it. She could write it down maybe. Or act it out. But
perhaps that would only result in punishment for her.
I take a shower and scrub the gold paint, the makeup, the scent of beauty from
my body. All that remains of the design-team’s efforts are the flames on my nails. I
decide to keep them as reminder of who I am to the audience. Katniss, the girl
who was on fire. Perhaps it will give me something to hold on to in the days to
come.
I pull on a thick, fleecy nightgown and climb into bed. It takes me about five
seconds to realize I’ll never fall asleep. And I need sleep desperately because in
the arena every moment I give in to fatigue will be an invitation to death.
It’s no good. One hour, two, three pass, and my eyelids refuse to get heavy. I
can’t stop trying to imagine exactly what terrain I’ll be thrown into. Desert?
Swamp? A frigid wasteland? Above all I am hoping for trees, which may afford me
some means of concealment and food and shelter, Often there are trees because
barren landscapes are dull and the Games resolve too quickly without them. But
what will the climate be like? What traps have the Gamemakers hid den to liven up
the slower moments? And then there are my fellow tributes . . .
The more anxious I am to find sleep, the more it eludes me. Finally, I am too
restless to even stay in bed. I pace the floor, heart beating too fast, breathing too
short. My room feels like a prison cell. If I don’t get air soon, I’m going to start to
throw things again. I run down the hall to the door to the roof. It’s not only
unlocked but ajar. Perhaps someone forgot to close it, but it doesn’t matter. The
energy field enclosing the roof prevents any desperate form of escape. And I’m not
looking to escape, only to fill my lungs with air. I want to see the sky and the moon
on the last night that no one will be hunting me.
The roof is not lit at night, but as soon as my bare feel reach its tiled surface I
see his silhouette, black against the lights that shine endlessly in the Capitol.
There’s quite a commotion going on down in the streets, music and singing and
car horns, none of which I could hear through the thick glass window panels in my
room. I could slip away now, without him noticing me; he wouldn’t hear me over
the din, But the night air’s so sweet, I can’t bear returning to that stuffy cage of a
room. And what difference does it make? Whether we speak or not?
My feet move soundlessly across the tiles. I’m only yard behind him when I say,
“You should be getting some sleep.”
He starts but doesn’t turn. I can see him give his head a slight shake. “I didn’t
want to miss the party. It’s for us, after all.”
I come up beside him and lean over the edge of the rail. The wide streets are
full of dancing people. I squint to make out their tiny figures in more detail. “Are
they in costumes?”
“Who could tell?” Peeta answers. “With all the crazy clothes they wear here.
Couldn’t sleep, either?”
“Couldn’t turn my mind off,” I say.
“Thinking about your family?” he asks.
“No,” I admit a bit guiltily. “All I can do is wonder about tomorrow. Which is
pointless, of course.” In the light from below, I can see his face now, the awkward
way he holds his bandaged hands. “I really am sorry about your hands.”
“It doesn’t matter, Katniss,” he says. “I’ve never been a contender in these
Games anyway.”
“That’s no way to be thinking,” I say.
“Why not? It’s true. My best hope is to not disgrace myself and . . .” He
hesitates.
“And what?” I say.
“I don’t know how to say it exactly. Only . . . I want to die as myself. Does that
make any sense?” he asks. I shake my head. How could he die as anyone but
himself? “I don’t want them to change me in there. Turn me into some kind of
monster that I’m not.”
I bite my lip feeling inferior. While I’ve been ruminating on the availability of
trees, Peeta has been struggling with how to maintain his identity. His purity of
self. “Do you mean you won’t kill anyone?” I ask.
“No, when the time comes, I’m sure I’ll kill just like everybody else. I can’t go
down without a fight. Only I keep wishing I could think of a way to . . . to show the
Capitol they don’t own me. That I’m more than just a piece in their Games,” says
Peeta.
“But you’re not,” I say. “None of us are. That’s how the Games work.”
“Okay, but within that framework, there’s still you, there’s still me,” he insists.
“Don’t you see?”
“A little. Only . . . no offense, but who cares, Peeta?” I say.
“I do. I mean, what else am I allowed to care about at this point?” he asks
angrily. He’s locked those blue eyes on mine now, demanding an answer.
I take a step back. “Care about what Haymitch said. About staying alive.”
Peeta smiles at me, sad and mocking. “Okay. Thanks for the tip, sweetheart.”
It’s like a slap in the face. His use of Haymitch’s patronizing endearment.
“Look, if you want to spend the last hours of your life planning some noble death in
the arena, that’s your choice. I want to spend mine in District Twelve.”
“Wouldn’t surprise me if you do,” says Peeta. “Give my mother my best when
you make it back, will you?”
“Count on it,” I say. Then I turn and leave the roof. I spend the rest of the night
slipping in and out of a doze, imagining the cutting remarks I will make to Peeta
Mellark in the morning. Peeta Mellark. We will see how high and mighty he is when
he's faced with life and death. He'll probably turn into one of those raging beast
tributes, the kind who tries to eat someone's heart after they've killed them. There
was a guy like that a few years ago from District 6 called Titus. He went
completely savage and the Gamemakers had to have him stunned with electric
guns to collect the bodies of the players he'd killed before he ate them. There are
no rules in the arena, but cannibalism doesn't play well with the Capitol audience,
so they tried to head it off. There was some speculation that the avalanche that
finally took Titus out was specifically engineered to ensure the victor was not a
lunatic.
I don't see Peeta in the morning. Cinna comes to me before dawn, gives me a
simple shift to wear, and guides me to the roof. My final dressing and preparations
will be alone in the catacombs under the arena itself. A hovercraft appears out of
thin air, just like the one did in the woods the day I saw the redheaded Avox girl
captured, and a ladder drops down. I place my hands and feet on the lower rungs
and instantly it's as if I'm frozen. Some sort of current glues me to the ladder while
I'm lifted safely inside.
I expect the ladder to release me then, but I'm still stuck when a woman in a white
coat approaches me carrying a syringe. "This is just your tracker, Katniss. The
stiller you are, the more efficiently I can place it," she says.
Still? I'm a statue. But that doesn't prevent me from feeling the sharp stab of pain
as the needle inserts the metal tracking device deep under the skin on the inside
of my forearm. Now the Gamemakers will always be able to trace my whereabouts
in the arena. Wouldn’t want to lose a tribute.
As soon as the tracker’s in place, the ladder releases me. The woman
disappears and Cinna is retrieved from the roof, An Avox boy comes in and directs
us to a room where breakfast has been laid out. Despite the tension in my
stomach, I eat as much as I can, although none of the delectable food makes any
impression on me. I’m so nervous, I could be eating coal dust. The one thing that
distracts me at all is the view from the windows as we sail over the city and then
to the wilderness beyond. This is what birds see. Only they’re free and safe. The
very opposite of me.
The ride lasts about half an hour before the windows black out, suggesting that
we’re nearing the arena. The hovercraft lands and Cinna and I go back to the
ladder, only this time it leads down into a tube underground, into the catacombs
that lie beneath the arena. We follow instructions to my destination, a chamber for
my preparation. In the Capitol, they call it the Launch Room. In the districts, it’s
referred to as the Stockyard. The place animals go before slaughter.
Everything is brand-new, I will be the first and only tribute to use this Launch
Room. The arenas are historic sites, preserved after the Games. Popular
destinations for Capitol residents to visit, to vacation. Go for a month, rewatch the
Games, tour the catacombs, visit the sites where the deaths took place. You can
even take part in reenactments. They say the food is excellent.
I struggle to keep my breakfast down as I shower and clean my teeth. Cinna
does my hair in my simple trademark braid down my back. Then the clothes
arrive, the same for every tribute. Cinna has had no say in my outfit, does not
even know what will be in the package, but he helps me dress in the
undergarments, simple tawny pants, light green blouse, sturdy brown belt, and
thin, hooded black jacket that falls to my thighs. “The material in the jacket’s
designed to reflect body heat. Expect some cool nights,” he says.
The boots, worn over skintight socks, are better than I could have hoped for.
Soft leather not unlike my ones at home. These have a narrow flexible rubber sole
with treads though. Good for running.
I think I’m finished when Cinna pulls the gold mockingjay pin from his pocket. I
had completely forgotten about it.
“Where did you get that?” I ask.
“Off the green outfit you wore on the train,” he says. I remember now taking it
off my mother’s dress, pinning it to the shirt. “It’s your district token, right?” I nod
and he fastens it on my shirt. “It barely cleared the review board. Some thought
the pin could be used as a weapon, giving you an unfair advantage. But eventually,
they let it through,” says Cinna. “They eliminated a ring from that District One girl,
though. If you twisted the gemstone, a spike popped out. Poisoned one. She
claimed she had no knowledge the ring transformed and there was no way to
prove she did. But she lost her token. There, you’re all set. Move around. Make
sure everything feels comfortable.”
I walk, run in a circle, swing my arms about. “Yes, it’s fine. Fits perfectly.”
“Then there’s nothing to do but wait for the call,” says Cinna. “Unless you think
you could eat any more?”
I turn down food but accept a glass of water that I take tiny sips of as we wait
on a couch. I don’t want to chew on my nails or lips, so I find myself gnawing on
the inside of my cheek. It still hasn’t fully healed from a few days ago. Soon the
taste of blood fills my mouth.
Nervousness seeps into terror as I anticipate what is to come. I could be dead,
flat-out dead, in an hour. Not even. My fingers obsessively trace the hard little
lump on my forearm where the woman injected the tracking device. I press on it,
even though it hurts, I press on it so hard a small bruise begins to form.
“Do you want to talk, Katniss?” Cinna asks.
I shake my head but after a moment hold out my hand to him. Cinna encloses
it in both of his. And this is how we sit until a pleasant female voice announces it’s
time to prepare for launch.
Still clenching one of Cinna’s hands, I walk over and stand on the circular metal
plate. “Remember what Haymitch said. Run, find water. The rest will follow,” he
says. I nod. “And remember this. I’m not allowed to bet, but if I could, my money
would be on you.”
“Truly?” I whisper.
“Truly,” says Cinna. He leans down and kisses me on the forehead. “Good luck,
girl on fire.” And then a glass cylinder is lowering around me, breaking our
handhold, cutting him off from me. He taps his fingers under his chin. Head high.
I lift my chin and stand as straight as I can. The cylinder begins to rise. For
maybe fifteen seconds, I’m in darkness and then I can feel the metal plate pushing
me out of the cylinder, into the open air. For a moment, my eyes are dazzled by
the bright sunlight and I’m conscious only of a strong wind with the hopeful smell
of pine trees.
Then I hear the legendary announcer, Claudius Templesmith, as his voice
booms all around me.
“Ladies and gentlemen, let the Seventy-fourth Hunger Games begin!”
Chapter 10
For a moment, the cameras hold on Peeta’s downcast eyes as what he says
sinks in. Then I can see my face, mouth half open in a mix of surprise and protest,
magnified on every screen as I realize, Me! He means me! I press my lips together
and stare at the floor, hoping this will conceal the emotions starting to boil up
inside of me.
“Oh, that is a piece of bad luck,” says Caesar, and there’s a real edge of pain
in his voice. The crowd is murmuring in agreement, a few have even given
agonized cries.
“It’s not good,” agrees Peeta.
“Well, I don’t think any of us can blame you. It’d be hard not to fall for that
young lady,” says Caesar. “She didn’t know?”
Peeta shakes his head. “Not until now.”
I allow my eyes to flicker up to the screen long enough to see that the blush on
my cheeks is unmistakable.
“Wouldn’t you love to pull her back out here and get a response?” Caesar asks
the audience. The crowd screams assent. “Sadly, rules are rules, and Katniss
Everdeen’s time has been spent. Well, best of luck to you, Peeta Mellark, and I
think I speak for all of Panem when I say our hearts go with yours.”
The roar of the crowd is deafening. Peeta has absolutely wiped the rest of us
off the map with his declaration of love for me. When the audience finally settles
down, he chokes out a quiet “Thank you” and returns to his seat. We stand for the
anthem. I have to raise my head out of the required respect and cannot avoid
seeing that every screen is now dominated by a shot of Peeta and me, separated
by a few feet that in the viewers’ heads can never be breached. Poor tragic us.
But I know better.
After the anthem, the tributes file back into the Training Center lobby and onto
the elevators. I make sure to veer into a car that does not contain Peeta. The
crowd slows our entourages of stylists and mentors and chaperones, so we have
only each other for company. No one speaks. My elevator stops to deposit four
tributes before I am alone and then find the doors opening on the twelfth floor.
Peeta has only just stepped from his car when I slam my palms into his chest. He
loses his balance and crashes into an ugly urn filled with fake flowers. The urn tips
and shatters into hundreds of tiny pieces. Peeta lands in the shards, and blood
immediately flows from his hands.
“What was that for?” he says, aghast.
“You had no right! No right to go saying those things about me!” I shout at him.
Now the elevators open and the whole crew is there, Effie, Haymitch, Cinna,
and Portia.
“What’s going on?” says Effie, a note of hysteria in her voice. “Did you fall?”
“After she shoved me,” says Peeta as Effie and Cinna help him up.
Haymitch turns on me. “Shoved him?”
“This was your idea, wasn’t it? Turning me into some kind of fool in front of the
entire country?” I answer.
“It was my idea,” says Peeta, wincing as he pulls spikes of pottery from his
palms. “Haymitch just helped me with it.”
“Yes, Haymitch is very helpful. To you!” I say.
“You are a fool,” Haymitch says in disgust. “Do you think he hurt you? That boy
just gave you something you could never achieve on your own.”
“He made me look weak!” I say.
“He made you look desirable! And let’s face it, you can use all the help you can
get in that department. You were about as romantic as dirt until he said he wanted
you. Now they all do. You’re all they’re talking about. The star-crossed lovers from
District Twelve!” says Haymitch.
“But we’re not star-crossed lovers!” I say.
Haymitch grabs my shoulders and pins me against the wall. “Who cares? It’s all
a big show. It’s all how you’re perceived. The most I could say about you after
your interview was that you were nice enough, although that in itself was a small
miracle. Now I can say you’re a heartbreaker. Oh, oh, oh, how the boys back home
fall longingly at your feet. Which do you think will get you more sponsors?”
The smell of wine on his breath makes me sick. I shove his hands off my
shoulders and step away, trying to clear my head.
Cinna comes over and puts his arm around me. “He’s right, Katniss.”
I don’t know what to think. “I should have been told, so I didn’t look so stupid.”
“No, your reaction was perfect. If you’d known, it wouldn’t have read as real,”
says Portia.
“She’s just worried about her boyfriend,” says Peeta gruffly, tossing away a
bloody piece of the urn.
My cheeks burn again at the thought of Gale. “I don’t have a boyfriend.”
“Whatever,” says Peeta. “But I bet he’s smart enough to know a bluff when he
sees it. Besides you didn’t say you loved me. So what does it matter?”
The words are sinking in. My anger fading. I’m torn now between thinking I’ve
been used and thinking I’ve been given an edge. Haymitch is right. I survived my
interview, but what was I really? A silly girl spinning in a sparkling, dress. Giggling.
The only moment of any substance I hail was when I talked about Prim. Compare
that with Thresh, his silent, deadly power, and I’m forgettable. Silly and sparkly
and forgettable. No, not entirely forgettable, I have my eleven in training.
But now Peeta has made me an object of love. Not just his. To hear him tell it I
have many admirers. And if the audience really thinks we’re in love . . . I
remember how strongly they responded to his confession. Star-crossed lovers.
Haymitch is right, they eat that stuff up in the Capitol. Suddenly I’m worried that I
didn’t react properly.
“After he said he loved me, did you think I could be in love with him, too?” I
ask.
“I did,” says Portia. “The way you avoided looking at the cameras, the blush.”
They others chime in, agreeing.
“You’re golden, sweetheart. You’re going to have sponsors lined up around the
block,” says Haymitch.
I’m embarrassed about my reaction. I force myself to acknowledge Peeta. “I’m
sorry I shoved you.”
“Doesn’t matter,” he shrugs. “Although it’s technically illegal.”
“Are your hands okay?” I ask. “They’ll be all right,” he says.
In the silence that follows, delicious smells of our dinner waft in from the dining
room. “Come on, let’s eat,” says Haymitch. We all follow him to the table and take
our places. But then Peeta is bleeding too heavily, and Portia leads him off for
medical treatment. We start the cream and rose-petal soup without them. By the
time we’ve finished, they’re back. Peeta’s hands are wrapped in bandages. I can’t
help feeling guilty. Tomorrow we will be in the arena. He has done me a favor and
I have answered with an injury. Will I never stop owing him?
After dinner, we watch the replay in the sitting room. I seem frilly and shallow,
twirling and giggling in my dress, although the others assure me I am charming.
Peeta actually is charming and then utterly winning as the boy in love. And there I
am, blushing and confused, made beautiful by Cinna’s hands, desirable by Peeta’s
confession, tragic by circumstance, and by all accounts, unforgettable.
When the anthem finishes and the screen goes dark, a hush falls on the room.
Tomorrow at dawn, we will be roused and prepared for the arena. The actual
Games don’t start until ten because so many of the Capitol residents rise late. But
Peeta and I must make an early start. There is no telling how far we will travel to
the arena that has been prepared for this year’s Games.
I know Haymitch and Effie will not be going with us. As soon as they leave here,
they’ll be at the Games Headquarters, hopefully madly signing up our sponsors,
working out a strategy on how and when to deliver the gifts to us. Cinna and Portia
will travel with us to the very spot from which we will be launched into the arena.
Still final good-byes must be said here.
Effie takes both of us by the hand and, with actual tears in her eyes, wishes us
well. Thanks us for being the best tributes it has ever been her privilege to
sponsor. And then, because it’s Effie and she’s apparently required by law to say
something awful, she adds “I wouldn’t be at all surprised if I finally get promoted
to a decent district next year!”
Then she kisses us each on the cheek and hurries out, overcome with either
the emotional parting or the possible improvement of her fortunes.
Haymitch crosses his arms and looks us both over.
“Any final words of advice?” asks Peeta.
“When the gong sounds, get the hell out of there. You’re neither of you up to
the blood bath at the Cornucopia. Just clear out, put as much distance as you can
between yourselves and the others, and find a source of water,” he says. “Got it?”
“And after that?” I ask.
“Stay alive,” says Haymitch. It’s the same advice he gave us on the train, but
he’s not drunk and laughing this time. And we only nod. What else is there to say?
When I head to my room, Peeta lingers to talk to Portia. I’m glad. Whatever
strange words of parting we exchange can wait until tomorrow. My covers are
drawn back, but there is no sign of the redheaded Avox girl. I wish I knew her
name. I should have asked it. She could write it down maybe. Or act it out. But
perhaps that would only result in punishment for her.
I take a shower and scrub the gold paint, the makeup, the scent of beauty from
my body. All that remains of the design-team’s efforts are the flames on my nails. I
decide to keep them as reminder of who I am to the audience. Katniss, the girl
who was on fire. Perhaps it will give me something to hold on to in the days to
come.
I pull on a thick, fleecy nightgown and climb into bed. It takes me about five
seconds to realize I’ll never fall asleep. And I need sleep desperately because in
the arena every moment I give in to fatigue will be an invitation to death.
It’s no good. One hour, two, three pass, and my eyelids refuse to get heavy. I
can’t stop trying to imagine exactly what terrain I’ll be thrown into. Desert?
Swamp? A frigid wasteland? Above all I am hoping for trees, which may afford me
some means of concealment and food and shelter, Often there are trees because
barren landscapes are dull and the Games resolve too quickly without them. But
what will the climate be like? What traps have the Gamemakers hid den to liven up
the slower moments? And then there are my fellow tributes . . .
The more anxious I am to find sleep, the more it eludes me. Finally, I am too
restless to even stay in bed. I pace the floor, heart beating too fast, breathing too
short. My room feels like a prison cell. If I don’t get air soon, I’m going to start to
throw things again. I run down the hall to the door to the roof. It’s not only
unlocked but ajar. Perhaps someone forgot to close it, but it doesn’t matter. The
energy field enclosing the roof prevents any desperate form of escape. And I’m not
looking to escape, only to fill my lungs with air. I want to see the sky and the moon
on the last night that no one will be hunting me.
The roof is not lit at night, but as soon as my bare feel reach its tiled surface I
see his silhouette, black against the lights that shine endlessly in the Capitol.
There’s quite a commotion going on down in the streets, music and singing and
car horns, none of which I could hear through the thick glass window panels in my
room. I could slip away now, without him noticing me; he wouldn’t hear me over
the din, But the night air’s so sweet, I can’t bear returning to that stuffy cage of a
room. And what difference does it make? Whether we speak or not?
My feet move soundlessly across the tiles. I’m only yard behind him when I say,
“You should be getting some sleep.”
He starts but doesn’t turn. I can see him give his head a slight shake. “I didn’t
want to miss the party. It’s for us, after all.”
I come up beside him and lean over the edge of the rail. The wide streets are
full of dancing people. I squint to make out their tiny figures in more detail. “Are
they in costumes?”
“Who could tell?” Peeta answers. “With all the crazy clothes they wear here.
Couldn’t sleep, either?”
“Couldn’t turn my mind off,” I say.
“Thinking about your family?” he asks.
“No,” I admit a bit guiltily. “All I can do is wonder about tomorrow. Which is
pointless, of course.” In the light from below, I can see his face now, the awkward
way he holds his bandaged hands. “I really am sorry about your hands.”
“It doesn’t matter, Katniss,” he says. “I’ve never been a contender in these
Games anyway.”
“That’s no way to be thinking,” I say.
“Why not? It’s true. My best hope is to not disgrace myself and . . .” He
hesitates.
“And what?” I say.
“I don’t know how to say it exactly. Only . . . I want to die as myself. Does that
make any sense?” he asks. I shake my head. How could he die as anyone but
himself? “I don’t want them to change me in there. Turn me into some kind of
monster that I’m not.”
I bite my lip feeling inferior. While I’ve been ruminating on the availability of
trees, Peeta has been struggling with how to maintain his identity. His purity of
self. “Do you mean you won’t kill anyone?” I ask.
“No, when the time comes, I’m sure I’ll kill just like everybody else. I can’t go
down without a fight. Only I keep wishing I could think of a way to . . . to show the
Capitol they don’t own me. That I’m more than just a piece in their Games,” says
Peeta.
“But you’re not,” I say. “None of us are. That’s how the Games work.”
“Okay, but within that framework, there’s still you, there’s still me,” he insists.
“Don’t you see?”
“A little. Only . . . no offense, but who cares, Peeta?” I say.
“I do. I mean, what else am I allowed to care about at this point?” he asks
angrily. He’s locked those blue eyes on mine now, demanding an answer.
I take a step back. “Care about what Haymitch said. About staying alive.”
Peeta smiles at me, sad and mocking. “Okay. Thanks for the tip, sweetheart.”
It’s like a slap in the face. His use of Haymitch’s patronizing endearment.
“Look, if you want to spend the last hours of your life planning some noble death in
the arena, that’s your choice. I want to spend mine in District Twelve.”
“Wouldn’t surprise me if you do,” says Peeta. “Give my mother my best when
you make it back, will you?”
“Count on it,” I say. Then I turn and leave the roof. I spend the rest of the night
slipping in and out of a doze, imagining the cutting remarks I will make to Peeta
Mellark in the morning. Peeta Mellark. We will see how high and mighty he is when
he's faced with life and death. He'll probably turn into one of those raging beast
tributes, the kind who tries to eat someone's heart after they've killed them. There
was a guy like that a few years ago from District 6 called Titus. He went
completely savage and the Gamemakers had to have him stunned with electric
guns to collect the bodies of the players he'd killed before he ate them. There are
no rules in the arena, but cannibalism doesn't play well with the Capitol audience,
so they tried to head it off. There was some speculation that the avalanche that
finally took Titus out was specifically engineered to ensure the victor was not a
lunatic.
I don't see Peeta in the morning. Cinna comes to me before dawn, gives me a
simple shift to wear, and guides me to the roof. My final dressing and preparations
will be alone in the catacombs under the arena itself. A hovercraft appears out of
thin air, just like the one did in the woods the day I saw the redheaded Avox girl
captured, and a ladder drops down. I place my hands and feet on the lower rungs
and instantly it's as if I'm frozen. Some sort of current glues me to the ladder while
I'm lifted safely inside.
I expect the ladder to release me then, but I'm still stuck when a woman in a white
coat approaches me carrying a syringe. "This is just your tracker, Katniss. The
stiller you are, the more efficiently I can place it," she says.
Still? I'm a statue. But that doesn't prevent me from feeling the sharp stab of pain
as the needle inserts the metal tracking device deep under the skin on the inside
of my forearm. Now the Gamemakers will always be able to trace my whereabouts
in the arena. Wouldn’t want to lose a tribute.
As soon as the tracker’s in place, the ladder releases me. The woman
disappears and Cinna is retrieved from the roof, An Avox boy comes in and directs
us to a room where breakfast has been laid out. Despite the tension in my
stomach, I eat as much as I can, although none of the delectable food makes any
impression on me. I’m so nervous, I could be eating coal dust. The one thing that
distracts me at all is the view from the windows as we sail over the city and then
to the wilderness beyond. This is what birds see. Only they’re free and safe. The
very opposite of me.
The ride lasts about half an hour before the windows black out, suggesting that
we’re nearing the arena. The hovercraft lands and Cinna and I go back to the
ladder, only this time it leads down into a tube underground, into the catacombs
that lie beneath the arena. We follow instructions to my destination, a chamber for
my preparation. In the Capitol, they call it the Launch Room. In the districts, it’s
referred to as the Stockyard. The place animals go before slaughter.
Everything is brand-new, I will be the first and only tribute to use this Launch
Room. The arenas are historic sites, preserved after the Games. Popular
destinations for Capitol residents to visit, to vacation. Go for a month, rewatch the
Games, tour the catacombs, visit the sites where the deaths took place. You can
even take part in reenactments. They say the food is excellent.
I struggle to keep my breakfast down as I shower and clean my teeth. Cinna
does my hair in my simple trademark braid down my back. Then the clothes
arrive, the same for every tribute. Cinna has had no say in my outfit, does not
even know what will be in the package, but he helps me dress in the
undergarments, simple tawny pants, light green blouse, sturdy brown belt, and
thin, hooded black jacket that falls to my thighs. “The material in the jacket’s
designed to reflect body heat. Expect some cool nights,” he says.
The boots, worn over skintight socks, are better than I could have hoped for.
Soft leather not unlike my ones at home. These have a narrow flexible rubber sole
with treads though. Good for running.
I think I’m finished when Cinna pulls the gold mockingjay pin from his pocket. I
had completely forgotten about it.
“Where did you get that?” I ask.
“Off the green outfit you wore on the train,” he says. I remember now taking it
off my mother’s dress, pinning it to the shirt. “It’s your district token, right?” I nod
and he fastens it on my shirt. “It barely cleared the review board. Some thought
the pin could be used as a weapon, giving you an unfair advantage. But eventually,
they let it through,” says Cinna. “They eliminated a ring from that District One girl,
though. If you twisted the gemstone, a spike popped out. Poisoned one. She
claimed she had no knowledge the ring transformed and there was no way to
prove she did. But she lost her token. There, you’re all set. Move around. Make
sure everything feels comfortable.”
I walk, run in a circle, swing my arms about. “Yes, it’s fine. Fits perfectly.”
“Then there’s nothing to do but wait for the call,” says Cinna. “Unless you think
you could eat any more?”
I turn down food but accept a glass of water that I take tiny sips of as we wait
on a couch. I don’t want to chew on my nails or lips, so I find myself gnawing on
the inside of my cheek. It still hasn’t fully healed from a few days ago. Soon the
taste of blood fills my mouth.
Nervousness seeps into terror as I anticipate what is to come. I could be dead,
flat-out dead, in an hour. Not even. My fingers obsessively trace the hard little
lump on my forearm where the woman injected the tracking device. I press on it,
even though it hurts, I press on it so hard a small bruise begins to form.
“Do you want to talk, Katniss?” Cinna asks.
I shake my head but after a moment hold out my hand to him. Cinna encloses
it in both of his. And this is how we sit until a pleasant female voice announces it’s
time to prepare for launch.
Still clenching one of Cinna’s hands, I walk over and stand on the circular metal
plate. “Remember what Haymitch said. Run, find water. The rest will follow,” he
says. I nod. “And remember this. I’m not allowed to bet, but if I could, my money
would be on you.”
“Truly?” I whisper.
“Truly,” says Cinna. He leans down and kisses me on the forehead. “Good luck,
girl on fire.” And then a glass cylinder is lowering around me, breaking our
handhold, cutting him off from me. He taps his fingers under his chin. Head high.
I lift my chin and stand as straight as I can. The cylinder begins to rise. For
maybe fifteen seconds, I’m in darkness and then I can feel the metal plate pushing
me out of the cylinder, into the open air. For a moment, my eyes are dazzled by
the bright sunlight and I’m conscious only of a strong wind with the hopeful smell
of pine trees.
Then I hear the legendary announcer, Claudius Templesmith, as his voice
booms all around me.
“Ladies and gentlemen, let the Seventy-fourth Hunger Games begin!”
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