2010-10-17T05:17:00.000-07:00

When I wake up, the other side of the bed is cold. My fingers
stretch out, seeking Prim’s warmth but finding only the
rough canvas cover of the mattress. She must have had bad
dreams and climbed in with our mother. Of course, she did.
This is the day of the reaping.
I prop myself up on one elbow. There’s enough light in the
bedroom to see them. My little sister, Prim, curled up on her
side, cocooned in my mother’s body, their cheeks pressed together.
In sleep, my mother looks younger, still worn but not
so beaten-down. Prim’s face is as fresh as a raindrop, as lovely
as the primrose for which she was named. My mother was
very beautiful once, too. Or so they tell me.
Sitting at Prim’s knees, guarding her, is the world’s ugliest
cat. Mashed-in nose, half of one ear missing, eyes the color of
rotting squash. Prim named him Buttercup, insisting that his
muddy yellow coat matched the bright flower. I le hates me.
Or at least distrusts me. Even though it was years ago, I think
he still remembers how I tried to drown him in a bucket when
Prim brought him home. Scrawny kitten, belly swollen with
worms, crawling with fleas. The last thing I needed was
another mouth to feed. But Prim begged so hard, cried even, I
had to let him stay. It turned out okay. My mother got rid of
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the vermin and he’s a born mouser. Even catches the occasional
rat. Sometimes, when I clean a kill, I feed Buttercup the
entrails. He has stopped hissing at me.
Entrails. No hissing. This is the closest we will ever come to
love.
I swing my legs off the bed and slide into my hunting boots.
Supple leather that has molded to my feet. I pull on trousers, a
shirt, tuck my long dark braid up into a cap, and grab my forage
bag. On the table, under a wooden bowl to protect it from
hungry rats and cats alike, sits a perfect little goat cheese
wrapped in basil leaves. Prim’s gift to me on reaping day. I put
the cheese carefully in my pocket as I slip outside.
Our part of District 12, nicknamed the Seam, is usually
crawling with coal miners heading out to the morning shift at
this hour. Men and women with hunched shoulders, swollen
knuckles, many who have long since stopped trying to scrub
the coal dust out of their broken nails, the lines of their sunken
faces. But today the black cinder streets are empty. Shutters
on the squat gray houses are closed. The reaping isn’t until
two. May as well sleep in. If you can.
Our house is almost at the edge of the Seam. I only have to
pass a few gates to reach the scruffy field called the Meadow.
Separating the Meadow from the woods, in fact enclosing all
of District 12, is a high chain-link fence topped with barbedwire
loops. In theory, it’s supposed to be electrified twentyfour
hours a day as a deterrent to the predators that live in the
woods — packs of wild dogs, lone cougars, bears — that used
to threaten our streets. But since we’re lucky to get two or
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three hours of electricity in the evenings, it’s usually safe to
touch. Even so, I always take a moment to listen carefully for
the hum that means the fence is live. Right now, it’s silent as a
stone. Concealed by a clump of bushes, I flatten out on my belly
and slide under a two-foot stretch that’s been loose for
years. There are several other weak spots in the fence, but this
one is so close to home I almost always enter the woods here.
As soon as I’m in the trees, I retrieve a bow and sheath of
arrows from a hollow log. Electrified or not, the fence has
been successful at keeping the flesh-eaters out of District 12.
Inside the woods they roam freely, and there are added concerns
like venomous snakes, rabid animals, and no real paths
to follow. But there’s also food if you know how to find it. My
father knew and he taught me some before he was blown to
bits in a mine explosion. There was nothing even to bury. I
was eleven then. Five years later, I still wake up screaming for
him to run.
Even though trespassing in the woods is illegal and poaching
carries the severest of penalties, more people would risk it
if they had weapons. But most are not bold enough to venture
out with just a knife. My bow is a rarity, crafted by my father
along with a few others that I keep well hidden in the woods,
carefully wrapped in waterproof covers. My father could have
made good money selling them, but if the officials found out
he would have been publicly executed for inciting a rebellion.
Most of the Peacekeepers turn a blind eye to the few of us who
hunt because they’re as hungry for fresh meat as anybody is.
In fact, they’re among our best customers. But the idea that
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someone might be arming the Seam would never have been
allowed.
In the fall, a few brave souls sneak into the woods to harvest
apples. But always in sight of the Meadow. Always close
enough to run back to the safety of District 12 if trouble arises.
“District Twelve. Where you can starve to death in safety,” I
mutter. Then I glance quickly over my shoulder. Even here,
even in the middle of nowhere, you worry someone might
overhear you.
When I was younger, I scared my mother to death, the
things I would blurt out about District 12, about the people
who rule our country, Panem, from the far-off city called the
Capitol. Eventually I understood this would only lead us to
more trouble. So I learned to hold my tongue and to turn my
features into an indifferent mask so that no one could ever
read my thoughts. Do my work quietly in school. Make only
polite small talk in the public market. Discuss little more than
trades in the Hob, which is the black market where I make
most of my money. Even at home, where I am less pleasant, I
avoid discussing tricky topics. Like the reaping, or food shortages,
or the Hunger Games. Prim might begin to repeat my
words and then where would we be?
In the woods waits the only person with whom I can be
myself. Gale. I can feel the muscles in my face relaxing, my
pace quickening as I climb the hills to our place, a rock ledge
overlooking a valley. A thicket of berry bushes protects it from
unwanted eyes. The sight of him waiting there brings on a
smile. Gale says I never smile except in the woods.
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“Hey, Catnip,” says Gale. My real name is Katniss, but when
I first told him, I had barely whispered it. So he thought I’d
said Catnip. Then when this crazy lynx started following me
around the woods looking for handouts, it became his official
nickname for me. I finally had to kill the lynx because he
scared off game. I almost regretted it because he wasn’t bad
company. But I got a decent price for his pelt.
“Look what I shot,” Gale holds up a loaf of bread with an arrow
stuck in it, and I laugh. It’s real bakery bread, not the flat,
dense loaves we make from our grain rations. I take it in my
hands, pull out the arrow, and hold the puncture in the crust
to my nose, inhaling the fragrance that makes my mouth flood
with saliva. Fine bread like this is for special occasions.
“Mm, still warm,” I say. He must have been at the bakery at
the crack of dawn to trade for it. “What did it cost you?”
“Just a squirrel. Think the old man was feeling sentimental
this morning,” says Gale. “Even wished me luck.”
“Well, we all feel a little closer today, don’t we?” I say, not
even bothering to roll my eyes. “Prim left us a cheese.” I pull it
out.
His expression brightens at the treat. “Thank you, Prim.
We’ll have a real feast.” Suddenly he falls into a Capitol accent
as he mimics Effie Trinket, the maniacally upbeat woman who
arrives once a year to read out the names at the leaping. “I almost
forgot! Happy Hunger Games!” He plucks a few blackberries
from the bushes around us. “And may the odds —” He
tosses a berry in a high arc toward me.
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I catch it in my mouth and break the delicate skin with my
teeth. The sweet tartness explodes across my tongue. “— be
ever in your favor!” I finish with equal verve. We have to joke
about it because the alternative is to be scared out of your
wits. Besides, the Capitol accent is so affected, almost anything
sounds funny in it.
I watch as Gale pulls out his knife and slices the bread. He
could be my brother. Straight black hair, olive skin, we even
have the same gray eyes. But we’re not related, at least not
closely. Most of the families who work the mines resemble
one another this way.
That’s why my mother and Prim, with their light hair and
blue eyes, always look out of place. They are. My mother’s
parents were part of the small merchant class that caters to
officials, Peacekeepers, and the occasional Seam customer.
They ran an apothecary shop in the nicer part of District 12.
Since almost no one can afford doctors, apothecaries are our
healers. My father got to know my mother because on his
hunts he would sometimes collect medicinal herbs and sell
them to her shop to be brewed into remedies. She must have
really loved him to leave her home for the Seam. I try to remember
that when all I can see is the woman who sat by,
blank and unreachable, while her children turned to skin and
bones. I try to forgive her for my father’s sake. But to be honest,
I’m not the forgiving type.
Gale spreads the bread slices with the soft goat cheese,
carefully placing a basil leaf on each while I strip the bushes of
their berries. We settle back in a nook in the rocks. From this
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place, we are invisible but have a clear view of the valley,
which is teeming with summer life, greens to gather, roots to
dig, fish iridescent in the sunlight. The day is glorious, with a
blue sky and soft breeze. The food’s wonderful, with the
cheese seeping into the warm bread and the berries bursting
in our mouths. Everything would be perfect if this really was a
holiday, if all the day off meant was roaming the mountains
with Gale, hunting for tonight’s supper. But instead we have to
be standing in the square at two o’clock waiting for the names
to be called out.
“We could do it, you know,” Gale says quietly.
“What?” I ask.
“Leave the district. Run off. Live in the woods. You and I, we
could make it,” says Gale.
I don’t know how to respond. The idea is so preposterous.
“If we didn’t have so many kids,” he adds quickly.
They’re not our kids, of course. But they might as well be.
Gale’s two little brothers and a sister. Prim. And you may as
well throw in our mothers, too, because how would they live
without us? Who would fill those mouths that are always asking
for more? With both of us hunting daily, there are still
nights when game has to be swapped for lard or shoelaces or
wool, still nights when we go to bed with our stomachs growling.
“I never want to have kids,” I say.
“I might. If I didn’t live here,” says Gale.
“But you do,” I say, irritated.
“Forget it,” he snaps back.
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The conversation feels all wrong. Leave? How could I leave
Prim, who is the only person in the world I’m certain I love?
And Gale is devoted to his family. We can’t leave, so why bother
talking about it? And even if we did . . . even if we did . . .
where did this stuff about having kids come from? There’s
never been anything romantic between Gale and me. When we
met, I was a skinny twelve-year-old, and although he was only
two years older, he already looked like a man. It took a long
time for us to even become friends, to stop haggling over
every trade and begin helping each other out.
Besides, if he wants kids, Gale won’t have any trouble finding
a wife. He’s good-looking, he’s strong enough to handle the
work in the mines, and he can hunt. You can tell by the way
the girls whisper about him when he walks by in school that
they want him. It makes me jealous but not for the reason
people would think. Good hunting partners are hard to find.
“What do you want to do?” I ask. We can hunt, fish, or gather.
“Let’s fish at the lake. We can leave our poles and gather in
the woods. Get something nice for tonight,” he says.
Tonight. After the reaping, everyone is supposed to celebrate.
And a lot of people do, out of relief that their children
have been spared for another year. But at least two families
will pull their shutters, lock their doors, and try to figure out
how they will survive the painful weeks to come.
We make out well. The predators ignore us on a day when
easier, tastier prey abounds. By late morning, we have a dozen
fish, a bag of greens and, best of all, a gallon of strawberries. I
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found the patch a few years ago, but Gale had the idea to
string mesh nets around it to keep out the animals.
On the way home, we swing by the Hob, the black market
that operates in an abandoned warehouse that once held coal.
When they came up with a more efficient system that transported
the coal directly from the mines to the trains, the Hob
gradually took over the space. Most businesses are closed by
this time on reaping day, but the black market’s still fairly
busy. We easily trade six of the fish for good bread, the other
two for salt. Greasy Sae, the bony old woman who sells bowls
of hot soup from a large kettle, takes half the greens off our
hands in exchange for a couple of chunks of paraffin. We
might do a tad better elsewhere, but we make an effort to
keep on good terms with Greasy Sae. She’s the only one who
can consistently be counted on to buy wild dog. We don’t hunt
them on purpose, but if you’re attacked and you take out a dog
or two, well, meat is meat. “Once it’s in the soup, I’ll call it
beef,” Greasy Sae says with a wink. No one in the Seam would
turn up their nose at a good leg of wild dog, but the Peacekeepers
who come to the Hob can afford to be a little choosier.
When we finish our business at the market, we go to the
back door of the mayor’s house to sell half the strawberries,
knowing he has a particular fondness for them and can afford
our price. The mayor’s daughter, Madge, opens the door. She’s
in my year at school. Being the mayor’s daughter, you’d expect
her to be a snob, but she’s all right. She just keeps to herself.
Like me. Since neither of us really has a group of friends, we
seem to end up together a lot at school. Eating lunch, sitting
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next to each other at assemblies, partnering for sports activities.
We rarely talk, which suits us both just fine.
Today her drab school outfit has been replaced by an expensive
white dress, and her blonde hair is done up with a
pink ribbon. Reaping clothes.
“Pretty dress,” says Gale.
Madge shoots him a look, trying to see if it’s a genuine
compliment or if he’s just being ironic. It is a pretty dress, but
she would never be wearing it ordinarily. She presses her lips
together and then smiles. “Well, if I end up going to the Capitol,
I want to look nice, don’t I?”
Now it’s Gale’s turn to be confused. Does she mean it? Or is
she messing with him? I’m guessing the second.
“You won’t be going to the Capitol,” says Gale coolly. His
eyes land on a small, circular pin that adorns her dress. Real
gold. Beautifully crafted. It could keep a family in bread for
months. “What can you have? Five entries? I had six when I
was just twelve years old.”
“That’s not her fault,” I say.
“No, it’s no one’s fault. Just the way it is,” says Gale. Madge’s
face has become closed off. She puts the money for the berries
in my hand. “Good luck, Katniss.” “You, too,” I say, and the
door closes.
We walk toward the Seam in silence. I don’t like that Gale
took a dig at Madge, but he’s right, of course. The reaping system
is unfair, with the poor getting the worst of it. You become
eligible for the reaping the day you turn twelve. That
year, your name is entered once. At thirteen, twice. And so on
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and so on until you reach the age of eighteen, the final year of
eligibility, when your name goes into the pool seven times.
That’s true for every citizen in all twelve districts in the entire
country of Panem.
But here’s the catch. Say you are poor and starving as we
were. You can opt to add your name more times in exchange
for tesserae. Each tessera is worth a meager year’s supply of
grain and oil for one person. You may do this for each of your
family members as well. So, at the age of twelve, I had my
name entered four times. Once, because I had to, and three
times for tesserae for grain and oil for myself, Prim, and my
mother. In fact, every year I have needed to do this. And the
entries are cumulative. So now, at the age of sixteen, my name
will be in the reaping twenty times. Gale, who is eighteen and
has been either helping or single-handedly feeding a family of
five for seven years, will have his name in forty-two times.
You can see why someone like Madge, who has never been
at risk of needing a tessera, can set him off. The chance of her
name being drawn is very slim compared to those of us who
live in the Seam. Not impossible, but slim. And even though
the rules were set up by the Capitol, not the districts, certainly
not Madge’s family, it’s hard not to resent those who don’t
have to sign up for tesserae.
Gale knows his anger at Madge is misdirected. On other
days, deep in the woods, I’ve listened to him rant about how
the tesserae are just another tool to cause misery in our district.
A way to plant hatred between the starving workers of
the Seam and those who can generally count on supper and
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thereby ensure we will never trust one another. “It’s to the
Capitol’s advantage to have us divided among ourselves,” he
might say if there were no ears to hear but mine. If it wasn’t
reaping day. If a girl with a gold pin and no tesserae had not
made what I’m sure she thought was a harmless comment.
As we walk, I glance over at Gale’s face, still smoldering underneath
his stony expression. His rages seem pointless to me,
although I never say so. It’s not that I don’t agree with him. I
do. But what good is yelling about the Capitol in the middle of
the woods? It doesn’t change anything. It doesn’t make things
fair. It doesn’t fill our stomachs. In fact, it scares off the nearby
game. I let him yell though. Better he does it in the woods than
in the district.
Gale and I divide our spoils, leaving two fish, a couple of
loaves of good bread, greens, a quart of strawberries, salt, paraffin,
and a bit of money for each.
“See you in the square,” I say.
“Wear something pretty,” he says flatly.
At home, I find my mother and sister are ready to go. My
mother wears a fine dress from her apothecary days. Prim is
in my first reaping outfit, a skirt and ruffled blouse. It’s a bit
big on her, but my mother has made it stay with pins. Even so,
she’s having trouble keeping the blouse tucked in at the back.
A tub of warm water waits for me. I scrub off the dirt and
sweat from the woods and even wash my hair. To my surprise,
my mother has laid out one of her own lovely dresses for me.
A soft blue thing with matching shoes.
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“Are you sure?” I ask. I’m trying to get past rejecting offers
of help from her. For a while, I was so angry, I wouldn’t allow
her to do anything for me. And this is something special. Her
clothes from her past are very precious to her.
“Of course. Let’s put your hair up, too,” she says. I let her
towel-dry it and braid it up on my head. I can hardly recognize
myself in the cracked mirror that leans against the wall.
“You look beautiful,” says Prim in a hushed voice.
“And nothing like myself,” I say. I hug her, because I know
these next few hours will be terrible for her. Her first reaping.
She’s about as safe as you can get, since she’s only entered
once. I wouldn’t let her take out any tesserae. But she’s worried
about me. That the unthinkable might happen.
I protect Prim in every way I can, but I’m powerless against
the reaping. The anguish I always feel when she’s in pain wells
up in my chest and threatens to register on my (ace. I notice
her blouse has pulled out of her skirt in the back again and
force myself to stay calm. “Tuck your tail in, little duck,” I say,
smoothing the blouse back in place.
Prim giggles and gives me a small “Quack.”
“Quack yourself,” I say with a light laugh. The kind only
Prim can draw out of me. “Come on, let’s eat,” I say and plant a
quick kiss on the top of her head.
The fish and greens are already cooking in a stew, but that
will be for supper. We decide to save the strawberries and bakery
bread for this evening’s meal, to make it special we say.
Instead we drink milk from Prim’s goat, Lady, and eat the
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rough bread made from the tessera grain, although no one has
much appetite anyway.
At one o’clock, we head for the square. Attendance is mandatory
unless you are on death’s door. This evening, officials
will come around and check to see if this is the case. If not,
you’ll be imprisoned.
It’s too bad, really, that they hold the reaping in the square
— one of the few places in District 12 that can be pleasant.
The square’s surrounded by shops, and on public market days,
especially if there’s good weather, it has a holiday feel to it.
But today, despite the bright banners hanging on the buildings,
there’s an air of grimness. The camera crews, perched
like buzzards on rooftops, only add to the effect.
People file in silently and sign in. The reaping is a good opportunity
for the Capitol to keep tabs on the population as
well. Twelve- through eighteen-year-olds are herded into
roped areas marked off by ages, the oldest in the front, the
young ones, like Prim, toward the back. Family members line
up around the perimeter, holding tightly to one another’s
hands. But there are others, too, who have no one they love at
stake, or who no longer care, who slip among the crowd, taking
bets on the two kids whose names will be drawn. Odds are
given on their ages, whether they’re Seam or merchant, if they
will break down and weep. Most refuse dealing with the racketeers
but carefully, carefully. These same people tend to be
informers, and who hasn’t broken the law? I could be shot on
a daily basis for hunting, but the appetites of those in charge
protect me. Not everyone can claim the same.
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Anyway, Gale and I agree that if we have to choose between
dying of hunger and a bullet in the head, the bullet would be
much quicker.
The space gets tighter, more claustrophobic as people arrive.
The square’s quite large, but not enough to hold District
12’s population of about eight thousand. Latecomers are directed
to the adjacent streets, where they can watch the event
on screens as it’s televised live by the state.
I find myself standing in a clump of sixteens from the Seam.
We all exchange terse nods then focus our attention on the
temporary stage that is set up before the Justice Building. It
holds three chairs, a podium, and two large glass balls, one for
the boys and one for the girls. I stare at the paper slips in the
girls’ ball. Twenty of them have Katniss Everdeen written on
them in careful handwriting.
Two of the three chairs fill with Madge’s father, Mayor Undersee,
who’s a tall, balding man, and Effie Trinket, District
12’s escort, fresh from the Capitol with her scary white grin,
pinkish hair, and spring green suit. They murmur to each other
and then look with concern at the empty seat.
Just as the town clock strikes two, the mayor steps up to
the podium and begins to read. It’s the same story every year.
He tells of the history of Panem, the country that rose up out
of the ashes of a place that was once called North America. He
lists the disasters, the droughts, the storms, the fires, the encroaching
seas that swallowed up so much of the land, the
brutal war for what little sustenance remained. The result was
Panem, a shining Capitol ringed by thirteen districts, which
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brought peace and prosperity to its citizens. Then came the
Dark Days, the uprising of the districts against the Capitol.
Twelve were defeated, the thirteenth obliterated. The Treaty
of Treason gave us the new laws to guarantee peace and, as
our yearly reminder that the Dark Days must never be repeated,
it gave us the Hunger Games.
The rules of the Hunger Games are simple. In punishment
for the uprising, each of the twelve districts must provide one
girl and one boy, called tributes, to participate. The twentyfour
tributes will be imprisoned in a vast outdoor arena that
could hold anything from a burning desert to a frozen wasteland.
Over a period of several weeks, the competitors must
fight to the death. The last tribute standing wins.
Taking the kids from our districts, forcing them to kill one
another while we watch — this is the Capitol’s way of reminding
us how totally we are at their mercy. How little chance we
would stand of surviving another rebellion.
Whatever words they use, the real message is clear. “Look
how we take your children and sacrifice them and there’s
nothing you can do. If you lift a finger, we will destroy every
last one of you. Just as we did in District Thirteen.”
To make it humiliating as well as torturous, the Capitol requires
us to treat the Hunger Games as a festivity, a sporting
event pitting every district against the others. The last tribute
alive receives a life of ease back home, and their district will
be showered with prizes, largely consisting of food. All year,
the Capitol will show the winning district gifts of grain and oil
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and even delicacies like sugar while the rest of us battle starvation.
“It is both a time for repentance and a time for thanks,” intones
the mayor.
Then he reads the list of past District 12 victors. In seventyfour
years, we have had exactly two. Only one is still alive.
Haymitch Abernathy, a paunchy, middle-aged man, who at
this moment appears hollering something unintelligible, staggers
onto the stage, and falls into the third chair. He’s drunk.
Very. The crowd responds with its token applause, but he’s
confused and tries to give Effie Trinket a big hug, which she
barely manages to fend off.
The mayor looks distressed. Since all of this is being televised,
right now District 12 is the laughingstock of Panem, and
he knows it. He quickly tries to pull the attention back to the
reaping by introducing Effie Trinket.
Bright and bubbly as ever, Effie Trinket trots to the podium
and gives her signature, “Happy Hunger Games! And may the
odds be ever in your favor!” Her pink hair must be a wig because
her curls have shifted slightly off-center since her encounter
with Haymitch. She goes on a bit about what an honor
it is to be here, although everyone knows she’s just aching to
get bumped up to a better district where they have proper victors,
not drunks who molest you in front of the entire nation.
Through the crowd, I spot Gale looking back at me with a
ghost of a smile. As reapings go, this one at least has a slight
entertainment factor. But suddenly I am thinking of Gale and
his forty-two names in that big glass ball and how the odds
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are not in his favor. Not compared to a lot of the boys. And
maybe he’s thinking the same thing about me because his face
darkens and he turns away. “But there are still thousands of
slips,” I wish I could whisper to him.
It’s time for the drawing. Effie Trinket says as she always
does, “Ladies first!” and crosses to the glass ball with the girls’
names. She reaches in, digs her hand deep into the ball, and
pulls out a slip of paper. The crowd draws in a collective
breath and then you can hear a pin drop, and I’m feeling nauseous
and so desperately hoping that it’s not me, that it’s not
me, that it’s not me.
Effie Trinket crosses back to the podium, smoothes the slip
of paper, and reads out the name in a clear voice. And it’s not
me.
It’s Primrose Everdeen.
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One time, when I was in a blind in a tree, waiting motionless
for game to wander by, I dozed off and fell ten feet to the
ground, landing on my back. It was as if the impact had
knocked every wisp of air from my lungs, and I lay there
struggling to inhale, to exhale, to do anything.
That’s how I feel now, trying to remember how to breathe,
unable to speak, totally stunned as the name bounces around
the inside of my skull. Someone is gripping my arm, a boy
from the Seam, and I think maybe I started to fall and he
caught me.
There must have been some mistake. This can’t be happening.
Prim was one slip of paper in thousands! Her chances
of being chosen so remote that I’d not even bothered to worry
about her. Hadn’t I done everything? Taken the tesserae, refused
to let her do the same? One slip. One slip in thousands.
The odds had been entirely in her favor. But it hadn’t mattered.
Somewhere far away, I can hear the crowd murmuring unhappily
as they always do when a twelve-year-old gets chosen
because no one thinks this is fair. And then I see her, the blood
drained from her face, hands clenched in fists at her sides,
walking with stiff, small steps up toward the stage, passing
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me, and I see the back of her blouse has become untucked and
hangs out over her skirt. It’s this detail, the untucked blouse
forming a ducktail, that brings me back to myself.
“Prim!” The strangled cry comes out of my throat, and my
muscles begin to move again. “Prim!” I don’t need to shove
through the crowd. The other kids make way immediately allowing
me a straight path to the stage. I reach her just as she is
about to mount the steps. With one sweep of my arm, I push
her behind me.
“I volunteer!” I gasp. “I volunteer as tribute!”
There’s some confusion on the stage. District 12 hasn’t had
a volunteer in decades and the protocol has become rusty. The
rule is that once a tribute’s name has been pulled from the
ball, another eligible boy, if a boy’s name has been read, or
girl, if a girl’s name has been read, can step forward to take his
or her place. In some districts, in which winning the reaping is
such a great honor, people are eager to risk their lives, the volunteering
is complicated. But in District 12, where the word
tribute is pretty much synonymous with the word corpse, volunteers
are all but extinct.
“Lovely!” says Effie Trinket. “But I believe there’s a small
matter of introducing the reaping winner and then asking for
volunteers, and if one does come forth then we, um . . .” she
trails off, unsure herself.
“What does it matter?” says the mayor. He’s looking at me
with a pained expression on his face. He doesn’t know me really,
but there’s a faint recognition there. I am the girl who
brings the strawberries. The girl his daughter might have spo24
ken of on occasion. The girl who five years ago stood huddled
with her mother and sister, as he presented her, the oldest
child, with a medal of valor. A medal for her father, vaporized
in the mines. Does he remember that? “What does it matter?”
he repeats gruffly. “Let her come forward.”
Prim is screaming hysterically behind me. She’s wrapped
her skinny arms around me like a vice. “No, Katniss! No! You
can’t go!”
“Prim, let go,” I say harshly, because this is upsetting me
and I don’t want to cry. When they televise the replay of the
reapings tonight, everyone will make note of my tears, and I’ll
be marked as an easy target. A weakling. I will give no one
that satisfaction. “Let go!”
I can feel someone pulling her from my back. I turn and see
Gale has lifted Prim off the ground and she’s thrashing in his
arms. “Up you go, Catnip,” he says, in a voice he’s fighting to
keep steady, and then he carries Prim off toward my mother. I
steel myself and climb the steps.
“Well, bravo!” gushes Effie Trinket. “That’s the spirit of the
Games!” She’s pleased to finally have a district with a little action
going on in it. “What’s your name?”
I swallow hard. “Katniss Everdeen,” I say.
“I bet my buttons that was your sister. Don’t want her to
steal all the glory, do we? Come on, everybody! Let’s give a big
round of applause to our newest tribute!” trills Effie Trinket.
To the everlasting credit of the people of District 12, not
one person claps. Not even the ones holding betting slips, the
ones who are usually beyond caring. Possibly because they
25
know me from the Hob, or knew my father, or have encountered
Prim, who no one can help loving. So instead of acknowledging
applause, I stand there unmoving while they
take part in the boldest form of dissent they can manage. Silence.
Which says we do not agree. We do not condone. All of
this is wrong.
Then something unexpected happens. At least, I don’t expect
it because I don’t think of District 12 as a place that cares
about me. But a shift has occurred since I stepped up to take
Prim’s place, and now it seems I have become someone precious.
At first one, then another, then almost every member of
the crowd touches the three middle fingers of their left hand
to their lips and holds it out to me. It is an old and rarely used
gesture of our district, occasionally seen at funerals. It means
thanks, it means admiration, it means good-bye to someone
you love.
Now I am truly in danger of crying, but fortunately Haymitch
chooses this time to come staggering across the stage to
congratulate me. “Look at her. Look at this one!” he hollers,
throwing an arm around my shoulders. He’s surprisingly
strong for such a wreck. “I like her!” His breath reeks of liquor
and it’s been a long time since he’s bathed. “Lots of . . . “ He
can’t think of the word for a while. “Spunk!” he says triumphantly.
“More than you!” he releases me and starts for the
front of the stage. “More than you!” he shouts, pointing directly
into a camera.
Is he addressing the audience or is he so drunk he might actually
be taunting the Capitol? I’ll never know because just as
26
he’s opening his mouth to continue, Haymitch plummets off
the stage and knocks himself unconscious.
He’s disgusting, but I’m grateful. With every camera gleefully
trained on him, I have just enough time to release the small,
choked sound in my throat and compose myself. I put my
hands behind my back and stare into the distance.
I can see the hills I climbed this morning with Gale. For a
moment, I yearn for something . . . the idea of us leaving the
district . . . making our way in the woods . . . but I know I was
right about not running off. Because who else would have volunteered
for Prim?
Haymitch is whisked away on a stretcher, and Effie Trinket
is trying to get the ball rolling again. “What an exciting day!”
she warbles as she attempts to straighten her wig, which has
listed severely to the right. “But more excitement to come! It’s
time to choose our boy tribute!” Clearly hoping to contain her
tenuous hair situation, she plants one hand on her head as she
crosses to the ball that contains the boys’ names and grabs the
first slip she encounters. She zips back to the podium, and I
don’t even have time to wish for Gale’s safety when she’s reading
the name. “Peeta Mellark.”
Peeta Mellark!
Oh, no, I think. Not him. Because I recognize this name, although
I have never spoken directly to its owner. Peeta Mellark.
No, the odds are not in my favor today. I watch him as he
makes his way toward the stage. Medium height, stocky build,
ashy blond hair that falls in waves over
27
his forehead. The shock of the moment is registering on his
face, you can see his struggle to remain emotionless, but his
blue eyes show the alarm I’ve seen so often in prey. Yet he
climbs steadily onto the stage and takes his place.
Effie Trinket asks for volunteers, but no one steps forward.
He has two older brothers, I know, I’ve seen them in the bakery,
but one is probably too old now to volunteer and the
other won’t. This is standard. Family devotion only goes so far
for most people on reaping day. What I did was the radical
thing.
The mayor begins to read the long, dull Treaty of Treason
as he does every year at this point — it’s required — but I’m
not listening to a word.
Why him? I think. Then I try to convince myself it doesn’t
matter. Peeta Mellark and I are not friends. Not even neighbors.
We don’t speak. Our only real interaction happened
years ago. He’s probably forgotten it. But I haven’t and I know
I never will. . . .
It was during the worst time. My father had been killed in
the mine accident three months earlier in the bitterest January
anyone could remember. The numbness of his loss had
passed, and the pain would hit me out of nowhere, doubling
me over, racking my body with sobs. Where are you? I would
cry out in my mind. Where have you gone? Of course, there
was never any answer.
The district had given us a small amount of money as compensation
for his death, enough to cover one month of grieving
at which time my mother would be expected to get a job.
28
Only she didn’t. She didn’t do anything but sit propped up in a
chair or, more often, huddled under the blankets on her bed,
eyes fixed on some point in the distance. Once in a while, she’d
stir, get up as if moved by some urgent purpose, only to then
collapse back into stillness. No amount of pleading from Prim
seemed to affect her.
I was terrified. I suppose now that my mother was locked
in some dark world of sadness, but at the time, all I knew was
that I had lost not only a father, but a mother as well. At eleven
years old, with Prim just seven, I took over as head of the
family. There was no choice. I bought our food at the market
and cooked it as best I could and tried to keep Prim and myself
looking presentable. Because if it had become known that
my mother could no longer care for us, the district would have
taken us away from her and placed us in the community
home. I’d grown up seeing those home kids at school. The
sadness, the marks of angry hands on their faces, the hopelessness
that curled their shoulders forward. I could never let
that happen to Prim. Sweet, tiny Prim who cried when I cried
before she even knew the reason, who brushed and plaited my
mother’s hair before we left for school, who still polished my
father’s shaving mirror each night because he’d hated the
layer of coal dust that settled on everything in the Seam. The
community home would crush her like a bug. So I kept our
predicament a secret.
But the money ran out and we were slowly starving to
death. There’s no other way to put it. I kept telling myself if I
could only hold out until May, just May 8th, I would turn
29
twelve and be able to sign up for the tesserae and get that
precious grain and oil to feed us. Only there were still several
weeks to go. We could well be dead by then.
Starvation’s not an uncommon fate in District 12. Who
hasn’t seen the victims? Older people who can’t work. Children
from a family with too many to feed. Those injured in the
mines. Straggling through the streets. And one day, you come
upon them sitting motionless against a wall or lying in the
Meadow, you hear the wails from a house, and the Peacekeepers
are called in to retrieve the body. Starvation is never the
cause of death officially. It’s always the flu, or exposure, or
pneumonia. But that fools no one.
On the afternoon of my encounter with Peeta Mellark, the
rain was falling in relentless icy sheets. I had been in town,
trying to trade some threadbare old baby clothes of Prim’s in
the public market, but there were no takers. Although I had
been to the Hob on several occasions with my father, I was too
frightened to venture into that rough, gritty place alone. The
rain had soaked through my father’s hunting jacket, leaving
me chilled to the bone. For three days, we’d had nothing but
boiled water with some old dried mint leaves I’d found in the
back of a cupboard. By the time the market closed, I was shaking
so hard I dropped my bundle of baby clothes in a mud
puddle. I didn’t pick it up for fear I would keel over and be unable
to regain my feet. Besides, no one wanted those clothes.
I couldn’t go home. Because at home was my mother with
her dead eyes and my little sister, with her hollow cheeks and
cracked lips. I couldn’t walk into that room with the smoky
30
fire from the damp branches I had scavenged at the edge of
the woods after the coal had run out, my bands empty of any
hope.
I found myself stumbling along a muddy lane behind the
shops that serve the wealthiest townspeople. The merchants
live above their businesses, so I was essentially in their backyards.
I remember the outlines of garden beds not yet planted
for the spring, a goat or two in a pen, one sodden dog tied to a
post, hunched defeated in the muck.
All forms of stealing are forbidden in District 12. Punishable
by death. But it crossed my mind that there might be
something in the trash bins, and those were fair game. Perhaps
a bone at the butcher’s or rotted vegetables at the grocer’s,
something no one but my family was desperate enough to
eat. Unfortunately, the bins had just been emptied.
When I passed the baker’s, the smell of fresh bread was so
overwhelming I felt dizzy. The ovens were in the back, and a
golden glow spilled out the open kitchen door. I stood mesmerized
by the heat and the luscious scent until the rain interfered,
running its icy fingers down my back, forcing me back
to life. I lifted the lid to the baker’s trash bin and found it spotlessly,
heartlessly bare.
Suddenly a voice was screaming at me and I looked up to
see the baker’s wife, telling me to move on and did I want her
to call the Peacekeepers and how sick she was of having those
brats from the Seam pawing through her trash. The words
were ugly and I had no defense. As I carefully replaced the lid
and backed away, I noticed him, a boy with blond hair peering
31
out from behind his mother’s back. I’d seen him at school. He
was in my year, but I didn’t know his name. He stuck with the
town kids, so how would I? His mother went back into the bakery,
grumbling, but he must have been watching me as I
made my way behind the pen that held their pig and leaned
against the far side of an old apple tree. The realization that
I’d have nothing to take home had finally sunk in. My knees
buckled and I slid down the tree trunk to its roots. It was too
much. I was too sick and weak and tired, oh, so tired. Let them
call the Peacekeepers and take us to the community home, I
thought. Or better yet, let me die right here in the rain.
There was a clatter in the bakery and I heard the woman
screaming again and the sound of a blow, and I vaguely wondered
what was going on. Feet sloshed toward me through the
mud and I thought, It’s her. She’s coming to drive me away with
a stick. But it wasn’t her. It was the boy. In his arms, he carried
two large loaves of bread that must have fallen into the fire
because the crusts were scorched black.
His mother was yelling, “Feed it to the pig, you stupid creature!
Why not? No one decent will buy burned bread!”
He began to tear off chunks from the burned parts and toss
them into the trough, and the front bakery bell rung and the
mother disappeared to help a customer.
The boy never even glanced my way, but I was watching
him. Because of the bread, because of the red weal that stood
out on his cheekbone. What had she hit him with?
My parents never hit us. I couldn’t even imagine it. The boy
took one look back to the bakery as if checking that the coast
32
was clear, then, his attention back on the pig, he threw a loaf
of bread in my direction. The second quickly followed, and he
sloshed back to the bakery, closing the kitchen door tightly
behind him.
I stared at the loaves in disbelief. They were fine, perfect
really, except for the burned areas. Did he mean for me to
have them? He must have. Because there they were at my feet.
Before anyone could witness what had happened I shoved the
loaves up under my shirt, wrapped the hunting jacket tightly
about me, and walked swiftly away. The heat of the bread
burned into my skin, but I clutched it tighter, clinging to life.
By the time I reached home, the loaves had cooled somewhat,
but the insides were still warm. When I dropped them
on the table, Prim’s hands reached to tear off a chunk, but I
made her sit, forced my mother to join us at the table, and
poured warm tea. I scraped off the black stuff and sliced the
bread. We ate an entire loaf, slice by slice. It was good hearty
bread, filled with raisins and nuts.
I put my clothes to dry at the fire, crawled into bed, and fell
into a dreamless sleep. It didn’t occur to me until the next
morning that the boy might have burned the bread on purpose.
Might have dropped the loaves into the flames, knowing
it meant being punished, and then delivered them to me. But I
dismissed this. It must have been an accident. Why would he
have done it? He didn’t even know me. Still, just throwing me
the bread was an enormous kindness that would have surely
resulted in a beating if discovered. 1 couldn’t explain his actions.
33
We ate slices of bread for breakfast and headed to school. It
was as if spring had come overnight. Warm sweet air. Fluffy
clouds. At school, I passed the boy in the hall, his cheek had
swelled up and his eye had blackened. He was with his friends
and didn’t acknowledge me in any way. But as I collected Prim
and started for home that afternoon, I found him staring at me
from across the school yard. Our eyes met for only a second,
then he turned his head away. I dropped my gaze, embarrassed,
and that’s when I saw it. The first dandelion of the
year. A bell went off in my head. I thought of the hours spent
in the woods with my father and I knew how we were going to
survive.
To this day, I can never shake the connection between this
boy, Peeta Mellark, and the bread that gave me hope, and the
dandelion that reminded me that I was not doomed. And more
than once, I have turned in the school hallway and caught his
eyes trained on me, only to quickly flit away. I feel like I owe
him something, and I hate owing people. Maybe if I had
thanked him at some point, I’d be feeling less conflicted now. I
thought about it a couple of times, but the opportunity never
seemed to present itself. And now it never will. Because we’re
going to be thrown into an arena to fight to the death. Exactly
how am I supposed to work in a thank-you in there? Somehow
it just won’t seem sincere if I’m trying to slit his throat.
The mayor finishes the dreary Treaty of Treason and motions
for Peeta and me to shake hands. His are as solid and
warm as those loaves of bread. Peeta looks me right in the eye
34
and gives my hand what I think is meant to be a reassuring
squeeze. Maybe it’s just a nervous spasm.
We turn back to face the crowd as the anthem of Panem
plays.
Oh, well, I think. There will be twenty-four of us. Odds are
someone else will kill him before I do.
Of course, the odds have not been very dependable of late.
35
The moment the anthem ends, we are taken into custody. I
don’t mean we’re handcuffed or anything, but a group of
Peacekeepers marches us through the front door of the Justice
Building. Maybe tributes have tried to escape in the past. I’ve
never seen that happen though.
Once inside, I’m conducted to a room and left alone. It’s the
richest place I’ve ever been in, with thick, deep carpets and a
velvet couch and chairs. I know velvet because my mother has
a dress with a collar made of the stuff. When I sit on the couch,
I can’t help running my fingers over the fabric repeatedly. It
helps to calm me as I try to prepare for the next hour. The
time allotted for the tributes to say goodbye to their loved
ones. I cannot afford to get upset, to leave this room with puffy
eyes and a red nose. Crying is not an option. There will be
more cameras at the train station.
My sister and my mother come first. I reach out to Prim
and she climbs on my lap, her arms around my neck, head
on my shoulder, just like she did when she was a toddler.
My mother sits beside me and wraps her arms around us.
For a few minutes, we say nothing. Then I start telling them
all the things they must remember to do, now that I will not be
there to do them for them.
36
Prim is not to take any tesserae. They can get by, if
they’re careful, on selling Prim’s goat milk and cheese and the
small apothecary business my mother now runs for the people
in the Seam. Gale will get her the herbs she doesn’t grow herself,
but she must be very careful to describe them because
he’s not as familiar with them as I am. He’ll also bring them
game — he and I made a pact about this a year or so ago —
and will probably not ask for compensation, but they should
thank him with some kind of trade, like milk or medicine.
I don’t bother suggesting Prim learn to hunt. I tried to teach
her a couple of times and it was disastrous. The woods terrified
her, and whenever I shot something, she’d get teary and
talk about how we might be able to heal it if we got it home
soon enough. But she makes out well with her goat, so I concentrate
on that.
When I am done with instructions about fuel, and trading,
and staying in school, I turn to my mother and grip her arm,
hard. “Listen to me. Are you listening to me?” She nods,
alarmed by my intensity. She must know what’s coming. “You
can’t leave again,” I say.
My mother’s eyes find the floor. “I know. I won’t. I couldn’t
help what—”
“Well, you have to help it this time. You can’t clock out and
leave Prim on her own. There’s no me now to keep you both
alive. It doesn’t matter what happens. Whatever you see on
the screen. You have to promise me you’ll fight through it!” My
voice has risen to a shout. In it is all the anger, all the fear I felt
at her abandonment.
37
She pulls her arm from my grasp, moved to anger herself
now. “I was ill. I could have treated myself if I’d had the medicine
I have now.”
That part about her being ill might be true. I’ve seen her
bring back people suffering from immobilizing sadness since.
Perhaps it is a sickness, but it’s one we can’t afford.
“Then take it. And take care of her!” I say.
“I’ll be all right, Katniss,” says Prim, clasping my face in her
hands. “But you have to take care, too. You’re so fast and
brave. Maybe you can win.”
I can’t win. Prim must know that in her heart. The competition
will be far beyond my abilities. Kids from wealthier districts,
where winning is a huge honor, who’ve been trained
their whole lives for this. Boys who are two to three times my
size. Girls who know twenty different ways to kill you with a
knife. Oh, there’ll be people like me, too. People to weed out
before the real fun begins.
“Maybe,” I say, because I can hardly tell my mother to carry
on if I’ve already given up myself. Besides, it isn’t in my nature
to go down without a fight, even when things seem insurmountable.
“Then we’d be rich as Haymitch.”
“I don’t care if we’re rich. I just want you to come home.
You will try, won’t you? Really, really try?” asks Prim.
“Really, really try. I swear it,” I say. And I know, because of
Prim, I’ll have to.
And then the Peacekeeper is at the door, signaling our time
is up, and we’re all hugging one another so hard it hurts and
all I’m saying is “I love you. I love you both.” And they’re say38
ing it back and then the Peacekeeper orders them out and the
door closes. I bury my head in one of the velvet pillows as if
this can block the whole thing out.
Someone else enters the room, and when I look up, I’m surprised
to see it’s the baker, Peeta Mellark’s father. I can’t believe
he’s come to visit me. After all, I’ll be trying to kill his son
soon. But we do know each other a bit, and he knows Prim
even better. When she sells her goat cheeses at the Hob, she
puts two of them aside for him and he gives her a generous
amount of bread in return. We always wait to trade with him
when his witch of a wife isn’t around because he’s so much
nicer. I feel certain he would never have hit his son the way
she did over the burned bread. But why has he come to see
me?
The baker sits awkwardly on the edge of one of the plush
chairs. He’s a big, broad-shouldered man with burn scars from
years at the ovens. He must have just said goodbye to his son.
He pulls a white paper package from his jacket pocket and
holds it out to me. I open it and find cookies. These are a luxury
we can never afford.
“Thank you,” I say. The baker’s not a very talkative man in
the best of times, and today he has no words at all. “I had
some of your bread this morning. My friend Gale gave you a
squirrel for it.” He nods, as if remembering the squirrel. “Not
your best trade,” I say. He shrugs as if it couldn’t possibly matter.
Then I can’t think of anything else, so we sit in silence until
a Peacemaker summons him. He rises and coughs to clear his
39
throat. “I’ll keep an eye on the little girl. Make sure she’s eating.”
I feel some of the pressure in my chest lighten at his words.
People deal with me, but they are genuinely fond of Prim.
Maybe there will be enough fondness to keep her alive.
My next guest is also unexpected. Madge walks straight to
me. She is not weepy or evasive, instead there’s an urgency
about her tone that surprises me. “They let you wear one
thing from your district in the arena. One thing to remind you
of home. Will you wear this?” She holds out the circular gold
pin that was on her dress earlier. I hadn’t paid much attention
to it before, but now I see it’s a small bird in flight.
“Your pin?” I say. Wearing a token from my district is about
the last thing on my mind.
“Here, I’ll put it on your dress, all right?” Madge doesn’t
wait for an answer, she just leans in and fixes the bird to my
dress. “Promise you’ll wear it into the arena, Katniss?” she
asks. “Promise?”
“Yes,” I say. Cookies. A pin. I’m getting all kinds of gifts today.
Madge gives me one more. A kiss on the cheek. Then she’s
gone and I’m left thinking that maybe Madge really has been
my friend all along.
Finally, Gale is here and maybe there is nothing romantic
between us, but when he opens his arms I don’t hesitate to go
into them. His body is familiar to me — the way it moves, the
smell of wood smoke, even the sound of his heart beating I
know from quiet moments on a hunt — but this is the first
time I really feel it, lean and hard-muscled against my own.
40
“Listen,” he says. “Getting a knife should be pretty easy, but
you’ve got to get your hands on a bow. That’s your best
chance.”
“They don’t always have bows,” I say, thinking of the year
there were only horrible spiked maces that the tributes had to
bludgeon one another to death with.
“Then make one,” says Gale. “Even a weak bow is better
than no bow at all.”
I have tried copying my father’s bows with poor results. It’s
not that easy. Even he had to scrap his own work sometimes.
“I don’t even know if there’ll be wood,” I say. Another year,
they tossed everybody into a landscape of nothing but boulders
and sand and scruffy bushes. I particularly hated that year.
Many contestants were bitten by venomous snakes or went
insane from thirst.
“There’s almost always some wood,” Gale says. “Since that
year half of them died of cold. Not much entertainment in
that.”
It’s true. We spent one Hunger Games watching the players
freeze to death at night. You could hardly see them because
they were just huddled in balls and had no wood for fires or
torches or anything. It was considered very anti-climactic in
the Capitol, all those quiet, bloodless deaths. Since then,
there’s usually been wood to make fires.
“Yes, there’s usually some,” I say.
“Katniss, it’s just hunting. You’re the best hunter I know,”
says Gale.
“It’s not just hunting. They’re armed. They think,” I say.
41
“So do you. And you’ve had more practice. Real practice,”
he says. “You know how to kill.”
“Not people,” I say.
“How different can it be, really?” says Gale grimly.
The awful thing is that if I can forget they’re people, it will
be no different at all.
The Peacekeepers are back too soon and Gale asks for more
time, but they’re taking him away and I start to panic. “Don’t
let them starve!” I cry out, clinging to his hand.
“I won’t! You know I won’t! Katniss, remember I —” he
says, and they yank us apart and slam the door and I’ll never
know what it was he wanted me to remember.
It’s a short ride from the Justice Building to the train station.
I’ve never been in a car before. Rarely even ridden in wagons.
In the Seam, we travel on foot.
I’ve been right not to cry. The station is swarming with reporters
with their insectlike cameras trained directly on my
face. But I’ve had a lot of practice at wiping my face clean of
emotions and I do this now. I catch a glimpse of myself on the
television screen on the wall that’s airing my arrival live and
feel gratified that I appear almost bored.
Peeta Mellark, on the other hand, has obviously been crying
and interestingly enough does not seem to be trying to cover
it up. I immediately wonder if this will be his strategy in the
Games. To appear weak and frightened, to reassure the other
tributes that he is no competition at all, and then come out
fighting. This worked very well for a girl, Johanna Mason, from
District 7 a few years back. She seemed like such a sniveling,
42
cowardly fool that no one bothered about her until there were
only a handful of contestants left. It turned out she could kill
viciously. Pretty clever, the way she played it. But this seems
an odd strategy for Peeta Mellark because he’s a baker’s son.
All those years of having enough to eat and hauling bread
trays around have made him broad-shouldered and strong. It
will take an awful lot of weeping to convince anyone to overlook
him.
We have to stand for a few minutes in the doorway of the
train while the cameras gobble up our images, then we’re allowed
inside and the doors close mercifully behind us. The
train begins to move at once.
The speed initially takes my breath away. Of course, I’ve
never been on a train, as travel between the districts is forbidden
except for officially sanctioned duties. For us, that’s
mainly transporting coal. But this is no ordinary coal train. It’s
one of the high-speed Capitol models that average 250 miles
per hour. Our journey to the Capitol will take less than a day.
In school, they tell us the Capitol was built in a place once
called the Rockies. District 12 was in a region known is Appalachia.
Even hundreds of years ago, they mined coal here.
Which is why our miners have to dig so deep.
Somehow it all comes back to coal at school. Besides basic
reading and math most of our instruction is coal-related. Except
for the weekly lecture on the history of Panem. It’s mostly
a lot of blather about what we owe the Capitol. I know there
must be more than they’re telling us, an actual account of
what happened during the rebellion. But I don’t spend much
43
time thinking about it. Whatever the truth is, I don’t see how it
will help me get food on the table.
The tribute train is fancier than even the room in the Justice
Building. We are each given our own chambers that have
a bedroom, a dressing area, and a private bathroom with hot
and cold running water. We don’t have hot water at home, unless
we boil it.
There are drawers filled with fine clothes, and Effie Trinket
tells me to do anything I want, wear anything I want, everything
is at my disposal. Just be ready for supper in an hour. I
peel off my mother’s blue dress and take a hot shower. I’ve
never had a shower before. It’s like being in a summer rain,
only warmer. I dress in a dark green shirt and pants.
At the last minute, I remember Madge’s little gold pin. For
the first time, I get a good look at it. It’s as if someone fashioned
a small golden bird and then attached a ring around
it. The bird is connected to the ring only by its wing tips. I
suddenly recognize it. A mockingjay.
They’re funny birds and something of a slap in the face to
the Capitol. During the rebellion, the Capitol bred a series of
genetically altered animals as weapons. The common term for
them was muttations, or sometimes mutts for short. One was a
special bird called a jabberjay that had the ability to memorize
and repeat whole human conversations. They were homing
birds, exclusively male, that were released into regions where
the Capitol’s enemies were known to be hiding. After the birds
gathered words, they’d fly back to centers to be recorded. It
took people awhile to realize what was going on in the dis44
tricts, how private conversations were being transmitted.
Then, of course, the rebels fed the Capitol endless lies, and the
joke was on it. So the centers were shut down and the birds
were abandoned to die off in the wild.
Only they didn’t die off. Instead, the jabberjays mated with
female mockingbirds creating a whole new species that could
replicate both bird whistles and human melodies. They had
lost the ability to enunciate words but could still mimic a
range of human vocal sounds, from a child’s high-pitched
warble to a man’s deep tones. And they could re-create songs.
Not just a few notes, but whole songs with multiple verses, if
you had the patience to sing them and if they liked your voice.
My father was particularly fond of mockingjays. When we
went hunting, he would whistle or sing complicated songs to
them and, after a polite pause, they’d always sing back. Not
everyone is treated with such respect. But whenever my father
sang, all the birds in the area would fall silent and listen.
His voice was that beautiful, high and clear and so filled with
life it made you want to laugh and cry at the same time. I could
never bring myself to continue the practice after he was gone.
Still, there’s something comforting about the little bird. It’s
like having a piece of my father with me, protecting me. I fasten
the pin onto my shirt, and with the dark green fabric as a
background, I can almost imagine the mockingjay flying
through the trees.
Effie Trinket comes to collect me for supper. I follow her
through the narrow, rocking corridor into a dining room with
polished paneled walls. There’s a table where all the dishes
45
are highly breakable. Peeta Mellark sits waiting for us, the
chair next to him empty.
“Where’s Haymitch?” asks Effie Trinket brightly.
“Last time I saw him, he said he was going to take a nap,”
says Peeta.
“Well, it’s been an exhausting day,” says Effie Trinket. I
think she’s relieved by Haymitch’s absence, and who can
blame her?
The supper comes in courses. A thick carrot soup, green
salad, lamb chops and mashed potatoes, cheese and fruit, a
chocolate cake. Throughout the meal, Effie Trinket keeps reminding
us to save space because there’s more to come. But
I’m stuffing myself because I’ve never had food like this, so
good and so much, and because probably the best thing I can
do between now and the Games is put on a few pounds.
“At least, you two have decent manners,” says Effie as we’re
finishing the main course. “The pair last year ate everything
with their hands like a couple of savages. It completely upset
my digestion.”
The pair last year were two kids from the Seam who’d never,
not one day of their lives, had enough to eat. And when
they did have food, table manners were surely the last thing
on their minds. Peeta’s a baker’s son. My mother taught Prim
and I to eat properly, so yes, I can handle a fork and knife. But
I hate Effie Trinket’s comment so much I make a point of eating
the rest of my meal with my fingers. Then I wipe my hands
on the tablecloth. This makes her purse her lips tightly together.
46
Now that the meal’s over, I’m fighting to keep the food
down. I can see Peeta’s looking a little green, too. Neither of
our stomachs is used to such rich fare. But if I can hold down
Greasy Sae’s concoction of mice meat, pig entrails, and tree
bark — a winter specialty — I’m determined to hang on to
this.
We go to another compartment to watch the recap of the
reapings across Panem. They try to stagger them throughout
the day so a person could conceivably watch the whole thing
live, but only people in the Capitol could really do that, since
none of them have to attend reapings themselves.
One by one, we see the other reapings, the names called,
(the volunteers stepping forward or, more often, not. We examine
the faces of the kids who will be our competition. A few
stand out in my mind. A monstrous boy who lunges forward
to volunteer from District 2. A fox-faced girl with sleek red
hair from District 5. A boy with a crippled foot from District
10. And most hauntingly, a twelve-year-old girl from District
11. She has dark brown skin and eyes, but other than that,
she’s very like Prim in size and demeanor. Only when she
mounts the stage and they ask for volunteers, all you can hear
is the wind whistling through the decrepit buildings around
her. There’s no one willing to take her place.
Last of all, they show District 12. Prim being called, me
running forward to volunteer. You can’t miss the desperation
in my voice as I shove Prim behind me, as if I’m afraid no one
will hear and they’ll take Prim away. But, of course, they do
hear. I see Gale pulling her off me and watch myself mount the
47
stage. The commentators are not sure what to say about the
crowd’s refusal to applaud. The silent salute. One says that
District 12 has always been a bit backward but that local customs
can be charming. As if on cue, Haymitch falls off the
stage, and they groan comically. Peeta’s name is drawn, and he
quietly takes his place. We shake hands. They cut to the anthem
again, and the pro-gram ends.
Effie Trinket is disgruntled about the state her wig was in.
“Your mentor has a lot to learn about presentation. A lot about
televised behavior.”
Peeta unexpectedly laughs. “He was drunk,” says Peeta.
“He’s drunk every year.”
“Every day,” I add. I can’t help smirking a little. Effie Trinket
makes it sound like Haymitch just has somewhat rough manners
that could be corrected with a few tips from her.
“Yes,” hisses Effie Trinket. “How odd you two find it amusing.
You know your mentor is your lifeline to the world in
these Games. The one who advises you, lines up your sponsors,
and dictates the presentation of any gifts. Haymitch can
well be the difference between your life and your death!”
Just then, Haymitch staggers into the compartment. “I miss
supper?” he says in a slurred voice. Then he vomits all over
the expensive carpet and falls in the mess.
“So laugh away!” says Effie Trinket. She hops in her pointy
shoes around the pool of vomit and flees the room.
48
For a few moments, Peeta and I take in the scene of our
mentor trying to rise out of the slippery vile stuff from his
stomach. The reek of vomit and raw spirits almost brings my
dinner up. We exchange a glance. Obviously Haymitch isn’t
much, but Effie Trinket is right about one thing, once we’re in
the arena he’s all we’ve got. As if by some unspoken agreement,
Peeta and I each take one of Haymitch’s arms and help
him to his feet.
“I tripped?” Haymitch asks. “Smells bad.” He wipes his hand
on his nose, smearing his face with vomit.
“Let’s get you back to your room,” says Peeta. “Clean you up
a bit.”
We half-lead half-carry Haymitch back to his compartment.
Since we can’t exactly set him down on the embroidered bedspread,
we haul him into the bathtub and turn the shower on
him. He hardly notices.
“It’s okay,” Peeta says to me. “I’ll take it from here.”
I can’t help feeling a little grateful since the last thing I want
to do is strip down Haymitch, wash the vomit out of his chest
hair, and tuck him into bed. Possibly Peeta is trying to make a
good impression on him, to be his favorite once the Games be49
gin. But judging by the state he’s in, Haymitch will have no
memory of this tomorrow.
“All right,” I say. “I can send one of the Capitol people to
help you.” There’s any number on the train. Cooking lor us.
Waiting on us. Guarding us. Taking care of us is their job.
“No. I don’t want them,” says Peeta.
I nod and head to my own room. I understand how Peeta
feels. I can’t stand the sight of the Capitol people myself. But
making them deal with Haymitch might be a small form of revenge.
So I’m pondering the reason why he insists on taking
care of Haymitch and all of a sudden I think, It’s because he’s
being kind. Just as he was kind to give me the bread.
The idea pulls me up short. A kind Peeta Mellark is far more
dangerous to me than an unkind one. Kind people have a way
of working their way inside me and rooting there. And I can’t
let Peeta do this. Not where we’re going. So I decide, from this
moment on, to have as little as possible to do with the baker’s
son.
When I get back to my room, the train is pausing at a platform
to refuel. I quickly open the window, toss the cookies
Peeta’s father gave me out of the train, and slam the glass
shut. No more. No more of either of them.
Unfortunately, the packet of cookies hits the ground and
bursts open in a patch of dandelions by the track. I only see
the image for a moment, because the train is off again, but it’s
enough. Enough to remind me of that other dandelion in the
school yard years ago . . .
50
I had just turned away from Peeta Mellark’s bruised face
when I saw the dandelion and I knew hope wasn’t lost. I
plucked it carefully and hurried home. I grabbed a bucket and
Prim’s hand and headed to the Meadow and yes, it was dotted
with the golden-headed weeds. After we’d harvested those,
we scrounged along inside the fence for probably a mile until
we’d filled the bucket with the dandelion greens, stems, and
flowers. That night, we gorged ourselves on dandelion salad
and the rest of the bakery bread.
“What else?” Prim asked me. “What other food can we
find?”
“All kinds of things,” I promised her. “I just have to remember
them.”
My mother had a book she’d brought with her from the
apothecary shop. The pages were made of old parchment and
covered in ink drawings of plants. Neat handwritten blocks
told their names, where to gather them, when they came in
bloom, their medical uses. But my father added other entries
to the book. Plants for eating, not healing. Dandelions, pokeweed,
wild onions, pines. Prim and I spent the rest of the night
poring over those pages.
The next day, we were off school. For a while I hung around
the edges of the Meadow, but finally I worked up the courage
to go under the fence. It was the first time I’d been there
alone, without my father’s weapons to protect me. But I retrieved
the small bow and arrows he’d made me from a hollow
tree. I probably didn’t go more than twenty yards into the
woods that day. Most of the time, I perched up in the branches
51
of an old oak, hoping for game to come by. After several hours,
I had the good luck to kill a rabbit.
I’d shot a few rabbits before, with my father’s guidance. But
this I’d done on my own.
We hadn’t had meat in months. The sight of the rabbit
seemed to stir something in my mother. She roused herself,
skinned the carcass, and made a stew with the meat and some
more greens Prim had gathered. Then she acted confused and
went back to bed, but when the stew was done, we made her
eat a bowl.
The woods became our savior, and each day I went a bit
farther into its arms. It was slow-going at first, but I was determined
to feed us. I stole eggs from nests, caught fish in nets,
sometimes managed to shoot a squirrel or rabbit for stew, and
gathered the various plants that sprung up beneath my feet.
Plants are tricky. Many are edible, but one false mouthful and
you’re dead. I checked and double-checked the plants I harvested
with my father’s pictures. I kept us alive.
Any sign of danger, a distant howl, the inexplicable break of
a branch, sent me flying back to the fence at first. Then I began
to risk climbing trees to escape the wild dogs that quickly got
bored and moved on. Bears and cats lived deeper in, perhaps
disliking the sooty reek of our district.
On May 8th, I went to the Justice Building, signed up for my
tesserae, and pulled home my first batch of grain and oil in
Prim’s toy wagon. On the eighth of every month, I was entitled
to do the same. I couldn’t stop hunting and gathering, of
course. The grain was not enough to live on, and there were
52
other things to buy, soap and milk and thread. What we didn’t
absolutely have to eat, I began to trade at the Hob. It was
frightening to enter that place without my father at my side,
but people had respected him, and they accepted me. Game
was game after all, no matter who’d shot it. I also sold at the
back doors of the wealthier clients in town, trying to remember
what my father had told me and learning a few new tricks
as well. The butcher would buy my rabbits but not squirrels.
The baker enjoyed squirrel but would only trade for one if his
wife wasn’t around. The Head Peacekeeper loved wild turkey.
The mayor had a passion for strawberries.
In late summer, I was washing up in a pond when I noticed
the plants growing around me. Tall with leaves like arrowheads.
Blossoms with three white petals. I knelt down in the
water, my fingers digging into the soft mud, and I pulled up
handfuls of the roots. Small, bluish tubers that don’t look like
much but boiled or baked are as good as any potato. “Katniss,”
I said aloud. It’s the plant I was named for. And I heard my father’s
voice joking, “As long as you can find yourself, you’ll
never starve.” I spent hours stirring up the pond bed with my
toes and a stick, gathering the tubers that floated to the top.
That night, we feasted on fish and katniss roots until we were
all, for the first time in months, full.
Slowly, my mother returned to us. She began to clean and
cook and preserve some of the food I brought in for winter.
People traded us or paid money for her medical remedies. One
day, I heard her singing.
53
Prim was thrilled to have her back, but I kept watching,
waiting for her to disappear on us again. I didn’t trust her. And
some small gnarled place inside me hated her for her weakness,
for her neglect, for the months she had put us through.
Prim forgave her, but I had taken a step back from my mother,
put up a wall to protect myself from needing her, and nothing
was ever the same between us again.
Now I was going to die without that ever being set right. I
thought of how I had yelled at her today in the Justice Building.
I had told her I loved her, too, though. So maybe it would
all balance out.
For a while I stand staring out the train window, wishing I
could open it again, but unsure of what would happen at such
high speed. In the distance, I see the lights of another district.
7? 10? I don’t know. I think about the people in their houses,
settling in for bed. I imagine my home, with its shutters drawn
tight. What are they doing now, my mother and Prim? Were
they able to eat supper? The fish stew and the strawberries?
Or did it lay untouched on their plates? Did they watch the recap
of the day’s events on the battered old TV that sits on the
table against the wall? Surely, there were more tears. Is my
mother holding up, being strong for Prim? Or has she already
started to slip away, leaving the weight of the world on my sister’s
fragile shoulders?
Prim will undoubtedly sleep with my mother tonight. The
thought of that scruffy old Buttercup posting himself on the
bed to watch over Prim comforts me. If she cries, he will nose
54
his way into her arms and curl up there until she calms down
and falls asleep. I’m so glad I didn’t drown him.
Imagining my home makes me ache with loneliness. This
day has been endless. Could Gale and I have been eating
blackberries only this morning? It seems like a lifetime ago.
Like a long dream that deteriorated into a nightmare. Maybe,
if I go to sleep, I will wake up back in District 12, where I belong.
Probably the drawers hold any number of nightgowns, but I
just strip off my shirt and pants and climb into bed in my underwear.
The sheets are made of soft, silky fabric. A thick fluffy
comforter gives immediate warmth.
If I’m going to cry, now is the time to do it. By morning, I’ll
be able to wash the damage done by the tears from my face.
But no tears come. I’m too tired or too numb to cry. The only
thing I feel is a desire to be somewhere else. So I let the train
rock me into oblivion.
Gray light is leaking through the curtains when the rapping
rouses me. I hear Effie Trinket’s voice, calling me to rise. “Up,
up, up! It’s going to be a big, big, big day!” I try and imagine,
for a moment, what it must be like inside that woman’s head.
What thoughts fill her waking hours? What dreams come to
her at night? I have no idea.
I put the green outfit back on since it’s not really dirty, just
slightly crumpled from spending the night on the floor. My
fingers trace the circle around the little gold mockingjay and I
think of the woods, and of my father, and of my mother and
Prim waking up, having to get on with things.
55
I slept in the elaborate braided hair my mother did for the
reaping and it doesn’t look too bad, so I just leave it up. It
doesn’t matter. We can’t be far from the Capitol now. And
once we reach the city, my stylist will dictate my look for the
opening ceremonies tonight anyway. I just hope I get one who
doesn’t think nudity is the last word in fashion.
As I enter the dining car, Effie Trinket brushes by me with a
cup of black coffee. She’s muttering obscenities under her
breath. Haymitch, his face puffy and red from the previous
day’s indulgences, is chuckling. Peeta holds a roll and looks
somewhat embarrassed.
“Sit down! Sit down!” says Haymitch, waving me over. The
moment I slide into my chair I’m served an enormous platter
of food. Eggs, ham, piles of fried potatoes. A tureen of fruit sits
in ice to keep it chilled. The basket of rolls they set before me
would keep my family going for a week. There’s an elegant
glass of orange juice. At least, I think it’s orange juice. I’ve only
even tasted an orange once, at New Year’s when my father
bought one as a special treat. A cup of coffee. My mother
adores coffee, which we could almost never afford, but it only
tastes bitter and thin to me. A rich brown cup of something
I’ve never seen.
“They call it hot chocolate,” says Peeta. “It’s good.”
I take a sip of the hot, sweet, creamy liquid and a shudder
runs through me. Even though the rest of the meal beckons, I
ignore it until I’ve drained my cup. Then I stuff down every
mouthful I can hold, which is a substantial amount, being careful
to not overdo it on the richest stuff. One time, my mother
56
told me that I always eat like I’ll never see food again. And I
said, “I won’t unless I bring it home.” That shut her up.
When my stomach feels like it’s about to split open, I lean
back and take in my breakfast companions. Peeta is still eating,
breaking off bits of roll and dipping them in hot chocolate.
Haymitch hasn’t paid much attention to his platter, but he’s
knocking back a glass of red juice that he keeps thinning with
a clear liquid from a bottle. Judging by the fumes, it’s some
kind of spirit. I don’t know Haymitch, but I’ve seen him often
enough in the Hob, tossing handfuls of money on the counter
of the woman who sells white liquor. He’ll be incoherent by
the time we reach the Capitol.
I realize I detest Haymitch. No wonder the District 12 tributes
never stand a chance. It isn’t just that we’ve been underfed
and lack training. Some of our tributes have still been
strong enough to make a go of it. But we rarely get sponsors
and he’s a big part of the reason why. The rich people who
back tributes — either because they’re betting on them or
simply for the bragging rights of picking a winner — expect
someone classier than Haymitch to deal with.
“So, you’re supposed to give us advice,” I say to Haymitch.
“Here’s some advice. Stay alive,” says Haymitch, and then
bursts out laughing. I exchange a look with Peeta before I remember
I’m having nothing more to do with him. I’m surprised
to see the hardness in his eyes. He generally seems so
mild.
“That’s very funny,” says Peeta. Suddenly he lashes out at
the glass in Haymitch’s hand. It shatters on the floor, sending
57
the bloodred liquid running toward the back of the train. “Only
not to us.”
Haymitch considers this a moment, then punches Peeta in
the jaw, knocking him from his chair. When he turns back to
reach for the spirits, I drive my knife into the table between
his hand and the bottle, barely missing his fingers. I brace myself
to deflect his hit, but it doesn’t come. Instead he sits back
and squints at us.
“Well, what’s this?” says Haymitch. “Did I actually get a pair
of fighters this year?”
Peeta rises from the floor and scoops up a handful of ice
from under the fruit tureen. He starts to raise it to the red
mark on his jaw.
“No,” says Haymitch, stopping him. “Let the bruise show.
The audience will think you’ve mixed it up with another tribute
before you’ve even made it to the arena.”
“That’s against the rules,” says Peeta.
“Only if they catch you. That bruise will say you fought, you
weren’t caught, even better,” says Haymitch. He turns to me.
“Can you hit anything with that knife besides a table?”
The bow and arrow is my weapon. But I’ve spent a fair
amount of time throwing knives as well. Sometimes, if I’ve
wounded an animal with an arrow, it’s better to get a knife into
it, too, before I approach it. I realize that if I want Haymitch’s
attention, this is my moment to make an impression. I
yank the knife out of the table, get a grip on the blade, and
then throw it into the wall across the room. I was actually just
58
hoping to get a good solid stick, but it lodges in the seam between
two panels, making me look a lot better than I am.
“Stand over here. Both of you,” says Haymitch, nodding to
the middle of the room. We obey and he circles us, prodding
us like animals at times, checking our muscles, examining our
faces. “Well, you’re not entirely hopeless. Seem fit. And once
the stylists get hold of you, you’ll be attractive enough.”
Peeta and I don’t question this. The Hunger Games aren’t a
beauty contest, but the best-looking tributes always seem to
pull more sponsors.
“All right, I’ll make a deal with you. You don’t interfere with
my drinking, and I’ll stay sober enough to help you,” says
Haymitch. “But you have to do exactly what I say.”
It’s not much of a deal but still a giant step forward from
ten minutes ago when we had no guide at all.
“Fine,” says Peeta.
“So help us,” I say. “When we get to the arena, what’s the
best strategy at the Cornucopia for someone —”
“One thing at a time. In a few minutes, we’ll be pulling into
the station. You’ll be put in the hands of your stylists. You’re
not going to like what they do to you. But no matter what it is,
don’t resist,” says Haymitch.
“But —” I begin.
“No buts. Don’t resist,” says Haymitch. He takes the bottle
of spirits from the table and leaves the car. As the door swings
shut behind him, the car goes dark. There are still a few lights
inside, but outside it’s as if night has fallen again. I realize we
must be in the tunnel that runs up through the mountains into
59
the Capitol. The mountains form a natural barrier between the
Capitol and the eastern districts. It is almost impossible to enter
from the east except through the tunnels. This geographical
advantage was a major factor in the districts losing the war
that led to my being a tribute today. Since the rebels had to
scale the mountains, they were easy targets for the Capitol’s
air forces.
Peeta Mellark and I stand in silence as the train speeds
along. The tunnel goes on and on and I think of the tons of
rock separating me from the sky, and my chest tightens. I hate
being encased in stone this way. It reminds me of the mines
and my father, trapped, unable to reach sunlight, buried forever
in the darkness.
The train finally begins to slow and suddenly bright light
floods the compartment. We can’t help it. Both Peeta and I run
to the window to see what we’ve only seen on television, the
Capitol, the ruling city of Panem. The cameras haven’t lied
about its grandeur. If anything, they have not quite captured
the magnificence of the glistening buildings in a rainbow of
hues that tower into the air, the shiny cars that roll down the
wide paved streets, the oddly dressed people with bizarre hair
and painted faces who have never missed a meal. All the colors
seem artificial, the pinks too deep, the greens too bright,
the yellows painful to the eyes, like the flat round disks of
hard candy we can never afford to buy at the tiny sweet shop
in District 12.
The people begin to point at us eagerly as they recognize a
tribute train rolling into the city. I step away from the win60
dow, sickened by their excitement, knowing they can’t wait to
watch us die. But Peeta holds his ground, actually waving and
smiling at the gawking crowd. He only stops when the train
pulls into the station, blocking us from their view.
He sees me staring at him and shrugs. “Who knows?” he
says. “One of them may be rich.”
I have misjudged him. I think of his actions since the reaping
began. The friendly squeeze of my hand. His father showing
up with the cookies and promising to feed Prim . . . did
Peeta put him up to that? His tears at the station. Volunteering
to wash Haymitch but then challenging him this morning
when apparently the nice-guy approach had failed. And now
the waving at the window, already trying to win the crowd.
All of the pieces are still fitting together, but I sense he has
a plan forming. He hasn’t accepted his death. He is already
fighting hard to stay alive. Which also means that kind Peeta
Mellark, the boy who gave me the bread, is fighting hard to kill
me.
61
R-i-i-i-p! I grit my teeth as Venia, a woman with aqua hair
and gold tattoos above her eyebrows, yanks a strip of Fabric
from my leg tearing out the hair beneath it. “Sorry!” she pipes
in her silly Capitol accent. “You’re just so hairy!”
Why do these people speak in such a high pitch? Why do
their jaws barely open when they talk? Why do the ends of
their sentences go up as if they’re asking a question? Odd vowels,
clipped words, and always a hiss on the letter s . . . no
wonder it’s impossible not to mimic them.
Venia makes what’s supposed to be a sympathetic face.
“Good news, though. This is the last one. Ready?” I get a grip
on the edges of the table I’m seated on and nod. The final
swathe of my leg hair is uprooted in a painful jerk.
I’ve been in the Remake Center for more than three hours
and I still haven’t met my stylist. Apparently he has no interest
in seeing me until Venia and the other members of my prep
team have addressed some obvious problems. This has included
scrubbing down my body with a gritty loam that has
removed not only dirt but at least three layers of skin, turning
my nails into uniform shapes, and primarily, ridding my body
of hair. My legs, arms, torso, underarms, and parts of my eyebrows
have been stripped of the Muff, leaving me like a
62
plucked bird, ready for roasting. I don’t like it. My skin feels
sore and tingling and intensely vulnerable. But I have kept my
side of the bargain with Haymitch, and no objection has
crossed my lips.
“You’re doing very well,” says some guy named Flavius. He
gives his orange corkscrew locks a shake and applies a fresh
coat of purple lipstick to his mouth. “If there’s one thing we
can’t stand, it’s a whiner. Grease her down!”
Venia and Octavia, a plump woman whose entire body has
been dyed a pale shade of pea green, rub me down with a lotion
that first stings but then soothes my raw skin. Then they
pull me from the table, removing the thin robe I’ve been allowed
to wear off and on. I stand there, completely naked, as
the three circle me, wielding tweezers to remove any last bits
of hair. I know I should be embarrassed, but they’re so unlike
people that I’m no more self-conscious than if a trio of oddly
colored birds were pecking around my feet.
The three step back and admire their work. “Excellent! You
almost look like a human being now!” says Flavius, and they
all laugh.
I force my lips up into a smile to show how grateful I am.
“Thank you,” I say sweetly. “We don’t have much cause to look
nice in District Twelve.”
This wins them over completely. “Of course, you don’t, you
poor darling!” says Octavia clasping her hands together in distress
for me.
“But don’t worry,” says Venia. “By the time Cinna is through
with you, you’re going to be absolutely gorgeous!”
63
“We promise! You know, now that we’ve gotten rid of all
the hair and filth, you’re not horrible at all!” says Flavius encouragingly.
“Let’s call Cinna!”
They dart out of the room. It’s hard to hate my prep team.
They’re such total idiots. And yet, in an odd way, I know
they’re sincerely trying to help me.
I look at the cold white walls and floor and resist the impulse
to retrieve my robe. But this Cinna, my stylist, will surely
make me remove it at once. Instead my hands go to my
hairdo, the one area of my body my prep team had been told
to leave alone. My fingers stroke the silky braids my mother
so carefully arranged. My mother. I left her blue dress and
shoes on the floor of my train car, never thinking about retrieving
them, of trying to hold on to a piece of her, of home.
Now I wish I had.
The door opens and a young man who must be Cinna enters.
I’m taken aback by how normal he looks. Most of the stylists
they interview on television are so dyed, stenciled, and
surgically altered they’re grotesque. But Cinna’s closecropped
hair appears to be its natural shade of brown. He’s in
a simple black shirt and pants. The only concession to selfalteration
seems to be metallic gold eyeliner that has been applied
with a light hand. It brings out the flecks of gold in his
green eyes. And, despite my disgust with the Capitol and their
hideous fashions, I can’t help thinking how attractive it looks.
“Hello, Katniss. I’m Cinna, your stylist,” he says in a quiet
voice somewhat lacking in the Capitol’s affectations.
“Hello,” I venture cautiously.
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“Just give me a moment, all right?” he asks. He walks
around my naked body, not touching me, but taking in every
inch of it with his eyes. I resist the impulse to cross my arms
over my chest. “Who did your hair?”
“My mother,” I say.
“It’s beautiful. Classic really. And in almost perfect balance
with your profile. She has very clever fingers,” he says.
I had expected someone flamboyant, someone older trying
desperately to look young, someone who viewed me as a piece
of meat to be prepared for a platter. Cinna has met none of
these expectations.
“You’re new, aren’t you? I don’t think I’ve seen you before,”
I say. Most of the stylists are familiar, constants in the everchanging
pool of tributes. Some have been around my whole
life.
“Yes, this is my first year in the Games,” says Cinna.
“So they gave you District Twelve,” I say. Newcomers generally
end up with us, the least desirable district.
“I asked for District Twelve,” he says without further explanation.
“Why don’t you put on your robe and we’ll have a
chat.”
Pulling on my robe, I follow him through a door into a sitting
room. Two red couches face off over a low table. Three
walls are blank, the fourth is entirely glass, providing a window
to the city. I can see by the light that it must be around
noon, although the sunny sky has turned overcast. Cinna invites
me to sit on one of the couches and takes his place across
from me. He presses a button on the side of the table. The top
65
splits and from below rises a second tabletop that holds our
lunch. Chicken and chunks of oranges cooked in a creamy
sauce laid on a bed of pearly white grain, tiny green peas and
onions, rolls shaped like flowers, and for dessert, a pudding
the color of honey.
I try to imagine assembling this meal myself back home.
Chickens are too expensive, but I could make do with a wild
turkey. I’d need to shoot a second turkey to trade for an
orange. Goat’s milk would have to substitute for cream. We
can grow peas in the garden. I’d have to get wild onions from
the woods. I don’t recognize the grain, our own tessera ration
cooks down to an unattractive brown mush. Fancy rolls would
mean another trade with the baker, perhaps for two or three
squirrels. As for the pudding, I can’t even guess what’s in it.
Days of hunting and gathering for this one meal and even then
it would be a poor substitution for the Capitol version.
What must it be like, I wonder, to live in a world where
food appears at the press of a button? How would I spend the
hours I now commit to combing the woods for sustenance if it
were so easy to come by? What do they do all day, these
people in the Capitol, besides decorating their bodies and
waiting around for a new shipment of tributes to roll in and
die for their entertainment?
I look up and find Cinna’s eyes trained on mine. “How despicable
we must seem to you,” he says.
Has he seen this in my face or somehow read my thoughts?
He’s right, though. The whole rotten lot of them is despicable.
66
“No matter,” says Cinna. “So, Katniss, about your costume
for the opening ceremonies. My partner, Portia, is the stylist
for your fellow tribute, Peeta. And our current thought is to
dress you in complementary costumes,” says Cinna. “As you
know, it’s customary to reflect the flavor of the district.”
For the opening ceremonies, you’re supposed to wear
something that suggests your district’s principal industry. District
11, agriculture. District 4, fishing. District 3, factories.
This means that coming from District 12, Peeta and I will be in
some kind of coal miner’s getup. Since the baggy miner’s
jumpsuits are not particularly becoming, our tributes usually
end up in skimpy outfits and hats with headlamps. One year,
our tributes were stark naked and covered in black powder to
represent coal dust. It’s always dreadful and does nothing to
win favor with the crowd. I prepare myself for the worst.
“So, I’ll be in a coal miner outfit?” I ask, hoping it won’t be
indecent.
“Not exactly. You see, Portia and I think that coal miner
thing’s very overdone. No one will remember you in that. And
we both see it as our job to make the District Twelve tributes
unforgettable,” says Cinna.
I’ll be naked for sure, I think.
“So rather than focus on the coal mining itself, we’re going
to focus on the coal,” says Cinna. Naked and covered in black
dust, I think. “And what do we do with coal? We burn it,” says
Cinna.
“You’re not afraid of fire, are you, Katniss?” He sees my expression
and grins.
67
A few hours later, I am dressed in what will either be the
most sensational or the deadliest costume in the opening ceremonies.
I’m in a simple black unitard that covers me from
ankle to neck. Shiny leather boots lace up to my knees. But it’s
the fluttering cape made of streams of orange, yellow, and red
and the matching headpiece that define this costume. Cinna
plans to light them on fire just before our chariot rolls into the
streets.
“It’s not real flame, of course, just a little synthetic fire Portia
and I came up with. You’ll be perfectly safe,” he says. But
I’m not convinced I won’t be perfectly barbecued by the time
we reach the city’s center.
My face is relatively clear of makeup, just a bit of highlighting
here and there. My hair has been brushed out and then
braided down my back in my usual style. “I want the audience
to recognize you when you’re in the arena,” says Cinna dreamily.
“Katniss, the girl who was on fire.”
It crosses my mind that Cinna’s calm and normal demeanor
masks a complete madman.
Despite this morning’s revelation about Peeta’s character,
I’m actually relieved when he shows up, dressed in an identical
costume. He should know about fire, being a baker’s son
and all. His stylist, Portia, and her team accompany him in,
and everyone is absolutely giddy with excitement over what a
splash we’ll make. Except Cinna. He just seems a bit weary as
he accepts congratulations.
We’re whisked down to the bottom level of the Remake
Center, which is essentially a gigantic stable. The opening ce68
remonies are about to start. Pairs of tributes are being loaded
into chariots pulled by teams of four horses. Ours are coal
black. The animals are so well trained, no one even needs to
guide their reins. Cinna and Portia direct us into the chariot
and carefully arrange our body positions, the drape of our
capes, before moving off to consult with each other.
“What do you think?” I whisper to Peeta. “About the fire?”
“I’ll rip off your cape if you’ll rip off mine,” he says through
gritted teeth.
“Deal,” I say. Maybe, if we can get them off soon enough,
we’ll avoid the worst burns. It’s bad though. They’ll throw us
into the arena no matter what condition we’re in. “I know we
promised Haymitch we’d do exactly what they said, but I don’t
think he considered this angle.”
“Where is Haymitch, anyway? Isn’t he supposed to protect
us from this sort of thing?” says Peeta.
“With all that alcohol in him, it’s probably not advisable to
have him around an open flame,” I say.
And suddenly we’re both laughing. I guess we’re both so
nervous about the Games and more pressingly, petrified of being
turned into human torches, we’re not acting sensibly.
The opening music begins. It’s easy to hear, blasted around
the Capitol. Massive doors slide open revealing the crowdlined
streets. The ride lasts about twenty minutes and ends up
at the City Circle, where they will welcome us, play the anthem,
and escort us into the Training Center, which will be our
home/prison until the Games begin.
69
The tributes from District 1 ride out in a chariot pulled by
snow-white horses. They look so beautiful, spray-painted silver,
in tasteful tunics glittering with jewels. District 1 makes
luxury items for the Capitol. You can hear the roar of the
crowd. They are always favorites.
District 2 gets into position to follow them. In no time at all,
we are approaching the door and I can see that between the
overcast sky and evening hour the light is turning gray. The
tributes from District 11 are just rolling out when Cinna appears
with a lighted torch. “Here we go then,” he says, and before
we can react he sets our capes on fire. I gasp, waiting for
the heat, but there is only a faint tickling sensation. Cinna
climbs up before us and ignites our headdresses. He lets out a
sign of relief. “It works.” Then he gently tucks a hand under
my chin. “Remember, heads high. Smiles. They’re going to love
you!”
Cinna jumps off the chariot and has one last idea. He shouts
something up at us, but the music drowns him out. He shouts
again and gestures.
“What’s he saying?” I ask Peeta. For the first time, I look at
him and realize that ablaze with the fake flames, he is dazzling.
And I must be, too.
“I think he said for us to hold hands,” says Peeta. He grabs
my right hand in his left, and we look to Cinna for confirmation.
He nods and gives a thumbs-up, and that’s the last thing I
see before we enter the city.
The crowd’s initial alarm at our appearance quickly
changes to cheers and shouts of “District Twelve!” Every head
70
is turned our way, pulling the focus from the three chariots
ahead of us. At first, I’m frozen, but then I catch sight of us on
a large television screen and am floored by how breathtaking
we look. In the deepening twilight, the firelight illuminates
our faces. We seem to be leaving a trail of fire off the flowing
capes. Cinna was right about the minimal makeup, we both
look more attractive but utterly recognizable.
Remember, heads high. Smiles. They’re going to love you! I
hear Cinna’s voice in my head. I lift my chin a bit higher, put
on my most winning smile, and wave with my free hand. I’m
glad now I have Peeta to clutch for balance, he is so steady,
solid as a rock. As I gain confidence, I actually blow a few
kisses to the crowd. The people of the Capitol are going nuts,
showering us with flowers, shouting our names, our first
names, which they have bothered to find on the program.
The pounding music, the cheers, the admiration work their
way into my blood, and I can’t suppress my excitement. Cinna
has given me a great advantage. No one will forget me. Not my
look, not my name. Katniss. The girl who was on fire.
For the first time, I feel a flicker of hope rising up in me.
Surely, there must be one sponsor willing to take me on! And
with a little extra help, some food, the right weapon, why
should I count myself out of the Games?
Someone throws me a red rose. I catch it, give it a delicate
sniff, and blow a kiss back in the general direction of the giver.
A hundred hands reach up to catch my kiss, as if it were a real
and tangible thing.
71
“Katniss! Katniss!” I can hear my name being called from all
sides. Everyone wants my kisses.
It’s not until we enter the City Circle that I realize I must
have completely stopped the circulation in Peeta’s hand.
That’s how tightly I’ve been holding it. I look down at our
linked fingers as I loosen my grasp, but he regains his grip on
me. “No, don’t let go of me,” he says. The firelight flickers off
his blue eyes. “Please. I might fall out of this thing.”
“Okay,” I say. So I keep holding on, but I can’t help feeling
strange about the way Cinna has linked us together. It’s not
really fair to present us as a team and then lock us into the
arena to kill each other.
The twelve chariots fill the loop of the City Circle. On the
buildings that surround the Circle, every window is packed
with the most prestigious citizens of the Capitol. Our horses
pull our chariot right up to President Snow’s mansion, and we
come to a halt. The music ends with a flourish.
The president, a small, thin man with paper-white hair,
gives the official welcome from a balcony above us. It is traditional
to cut away to the faces of the tributes during the
speech. But I can see on the screen that we are getting way
more than our share of airtime. The darker it becomes, the
more difficult it is to take your eyes off our flickering. When
the national anthem plays, they do make an effort to do a
quick cut around to each pair of tributes, but the camera holds
on the District 12 chariot as it parades around the circle one
final time and disappears into the Training Center.
72
The doors have only just shut behind us when we’re engulfed
by the prep teams, who are nearly unintelligible as they
babble out praise. As I glance around, I notice a lot of the other
tributes are shooting us dirty looks, which confirms what I’ve
suspected, we’ve literally outshone them all. Then Cinna and
Portia are there, helping us down from the chariot, carefully
removing our flaming capes and headdresses. Portia extinguishes
them with some kind of spray from a canister.
I realize I’m still glued to Peeta and force my stiff fingers to
open. We both massage our hands.
“Thanks for keeping hold of me. I was getting a little shaky
there,” says Peeta.
“It didn’t show,” I tell him. “I’m sure no one noticed.”
“I’m sure they didn’t notice anything but you. You should
wear flames more often,” he says. “They suit you.” And then he
gives me a smile that seems so genuinely sweet with just the
right touch of shyness that unexpected warmth rushes
through me.
A warning bell goes off in my head. Don’t be so stupid. Peeta
is planning how to kill you, I remind myself. He is luring you in
to make you easy prey. The more likable he is, the more deadly
he is.
But because two can play at this game, I stand on tiptoe and
kiss his cheek. Right on his bruise.
73
The Training Center has a tower designed exclusively for
the tributes and their teams. This will be our home until the
actual Games begin. Each district has an entire floor. You
simply step onto an elevator and press the number of your
district. Easy enough to remember.
I’ve ridden the elevator a couple of times in the Justice
Building back in District 12. Once to receive the medal for my
father’s death and then yesterday to say my final goodbyes to
my friends and family. But that’s a dark and creaky thing that
moves like a snail and smells of sour milk. The walls of this
elevator are made of crystal so that you can watch the people
on the ground floor shrink to ants as you shoot up into the air.
It’s exhilarating and I’m tempted to ask Effie Trinket if we can
ride it again, but somehow that seems childish.
Apparently, Effie Trinket’s duties did not conclude at the
station. She and Haymitch will be overseeing us right into the
arena. In a way, that’s a plus because at least she can be
counted on to corral us around to places on time whereas we
haven’t seen Haymitch since he agreed to help us on the train.
Probably passed out somewhere. Effie Trinket, on the other
hand, seems to be flying high. We’re the first team she’s ever
chaperoned that made a splash at the opening ceremonies.
74
She’s complimentary about not just our costumes but how we
conducted ourselves. And, to hear her tell it, Effie knows everyone
who’s anyone in the Capitol and has been talking us up
all day, trying to win us sponsors.
“I’ve been very mysterious, though,” she says, her eyes
squint half shut. “Because, of course, Haymitch hasn’t bothered
to tell me your strategies. But I’ve done my best with
what I had to work with. How Katniss sacrificed herself for
her sister. How you’ve both successfully struggled to overcome
the barbarism of your district.”
Barbarism? That’s ironic coming from a woman helping to
prepare us for slaughter. And what’s she basing our success
on? Our table manners?
“Everyone has their reservations, naturally. You being from
the coal district. But I said, and this was very clever of me, I
said, ‘Well, if you put enough pressure on coal it turns to
pearls!’“ Effie beams at us so brilliantly that we have no choice
but to respond enthusiastically to her cleverness even though
it’s wrong.
Coal doesn’t turn to pearls. They grow in shellfish. Possibly
she meant coal turns to diamonds, but that’s untrue, too. I’ve
heard they have some sort of machine in District 1 that can
turn graphite into diamonds. But we don’t mine graphite in
District 12. That was part of District 13’s job until they were
destroyed.
I wonder if the people she’s been plugging us to all day either
know or care.
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“Unfortunately, I can’t seal the sponsor deals for you. Only
Haymitch can do that,” says Effie grimly. “But don’t worry, I’ll
get him to the table at gunpoint if necessary.”
Although lacking in many departments, Effie Trinket has a
certain determination I have to admire.
My quarters are larger than our entire house back home.
They are plush, like the train car, but also have so many automatic
gadgets that I’m sure I won’t have time to press all the
buttons. The shower alone has a panel with more than a hundred
options you can choose regulating water temperature,
pressure, soaps, shampoos, scents, oils, and massaging
sponges. When you step out on a mat, heaters come on that
blow-dry your body. Instead of struggling with the knots in
my wet hair, I merely place my hand on a box that sends a
current through my scalp, untangling, parting, and drying my
hair almost instantly. It floats down around my shoulders in a
glossy curtain.
I program the closet for an outfit to my taste. The windows
zoom in and out on parts of the city at my command. You need
only whisper a type of food from a gigantic menu into a
mouthpiece and it appears, hot and steamy, before you in less
than a minute. I walk around the room eating goose liver and
puffy bread until there’s a knock on the door. Effie’s calling me
to dinner.
Good. I’m starving.
Peeta, Cinna, and Portia are standing out on a balcony that
overlooks the Capitol when we enter the dining room. I’m glad
76
to see the stylists, particularly after I hear that Haymitch will
be joining us. A meal presided over by just
Effie and Haymitch is bound to be a disaster. Besides, dinner
isn’t really about food, it’s about planning out our strategies,
and Cinna and Portia have already proven how valuable
they are.
A silent young man dressed in a white tunic offers us all
stemmed glasses of wine. I think about turning it down, but
I’ve never had wine, except the homemade stuff my mother
uses for coughs, and when will I get a chance to try it again? I
take a sip of the tart, dry liquid and secretly think it could be
improved by a few spoonfuls of honey.
Haymitch shows up just as dinner is being served. It looks
as if he’s had his own stylist because he’s clean and groomed
and about as sober as I’ve ever seen him. He doesn’t refuse the
offer of wine, but when he starts in on his soup, I realize it’s
the first time I’ve ever seen him eat. Maybe he really will pull
himself together long enough to help us.
Cinna and Portia seem to have a civilizing effect on Haymitch
and Effie. At least they’re addressing each other decently.
And they both have nothing but praise for our stylists’
opening act. While they make small talk, I concentrate on the
meal. Mushroom soup, bitter greens with tomatoes the size of
peas, rare roast beef sliced as thin as paper, noodles in a green
sauce, cheese that melts on your tongue served with sweet
blue grapes. The servers, all young people dressed in white
tunics like the one who gave us wine, move wordlessly to and
from the table, keeping the platters and glasses full.
77
About halfway through my glass of wine, my head starts
feeling foggy, so I change to water instead. I don’t like the feeling
and hope it wears off soon. How Haymitch can stand walking
around like this full-time is a mystery.
I try to focus on the talk, which has turned to our interview
costumes, when a girl sets a gorgeous-looking cake on the table
and deftly lights it. It blazes up and then the flames flicker
around the edges awhile until it finally goes out. I have a moment
of doubt. “What makes it burn? Is it alcohol?” I say, looking
up at the girl. “That’s the last thing I wa — oh! I know
you!”
I can’t place a name or time to the girl’s face. But I’m certain
of it. The dark red hair, the striking features, the porcelain
white skin. But even as I utter the words, I feel my insides contracting
with anxiety and guilt at the sight of her, and while I
can’t pull it up, I know some bad memory is associated with
her. The expression of terror that crosses her face only adds
to my confusion and unease. She shakes her head in denial
quickly and hurries away from the table.
When I look back, the four adults are watching me like
hawks.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Katniss. How could you possibly know
an Avox?” snaps Effie. “The very thought.”
“What’s an Avox?” I ask stupidly.
“Someone who committed a crime. They cut her tongue so
she can’t speak,” says Haymitch. “She’s probably a traitor of
some sort. Not likely you’d know her.”
78
“And even if you did, you’re not to speak to one of them unless
it’s to give an order,” says Effie. “Of course, you don’t really
know her.”
But I do know her. And now that Haymitch has mentioned
the word traitor I remember from where. The disapproval is
so high I could never admit it. “No, I guess not, I just —” I
stammer, and the wine is not helping.
Peeta snaps his fingers. “Delly Cartwright. That’s who it is. I
kept thinking she looked familiar as well. Then I realized she’s
a dead ringer for Delly.”
Delly Cartwright is a pasty-faced, lumpy girl with yellowish
hair who looks about as much like our server as a beetle does
a butterfly. She may also be the friendliest person on the planet
— she smiles constantly at everybody in school, even me. I
have never seen the girl with the red hair smile. But I jump on
Peeta’s suggestion gratefully. “Of course, that’s who I was
thinking of. It must be the hair,” I say.
“Something about the eyes, too,” says Peeta.
The energy at the table relaxes. “Oh, well. If that’s all it is,”
says Cinna. “And yes, the cake has spirits, but all the alcohol
has burned off. I ordered it specially in honor of your fiery debut.”
We eat the cake and move into a sitting room to watch the
replay of the opening ceremonies that’s being broadcast. A
few of the other couples make a nice impression, but none of
them can hold a candle to us. Even our own party lets out an
“Ahh!” as they show us coming out of the Remake Center.
“Whose idea was the hand holding?” asks Haymitch.
79
“Cinna’s,” says Portia.
“Just the perfect touch of rebellion,” says Haymitch. “Very
nice.”
Rebellion? I have to think about that one a moment. But
when I remember the other couples, standing stiffly apart,
never touching or acknowledging each other, as if their fellow
tribute did not exist, as if the Games had already begun, I
know what Haymitch means. Presenting ourselves not as adversaries
but as friends has distinguished us as much as the
fiery costumes.
“Tomorrow morning is the first training session. Meet me
for breakfast and I’ll tell you exactly how I want you to play
it,” says Haymitch to Peeta and I. “Now go get some sleep
while the grown-ups talk.”
Peeta and I walk together down the corridor to our rooms.
When we get to my door, he leans against the frame, not
blocking my entrance exactly but insisting I pay attention to
him. “So, Delly Cartwright. Imagine finding her lookalike
here.”
He’s asking for an explanation, and I’m tempted to give him
one. We both know he covered for me. So here I am in his debt
again. If I tell him the truth about the girl, somehow that might
even things up. How can it hurt really? Even if he repeated the
story, it couldn’t do me much harm. It was just something I
witnessed. And he lied as much as I did about Delly
Cartwright.
I realize I do want to talk to someone about the girl. Someone
who might be able to help me figure out her story.
80
Gale would be my first choice, but it’s unlikely I’ll ever see
Gale again. I try to think if telling Peeta could give him any
possible advantage over me, but I don’t see how. Maybe sharing
a confidence will actually make him believe I see him as a
friend.
Besides, the idea of the girl with her maimed tongue frightens
me. She has reminded me why I’m here. Not to model
flashy costumes and eat delicacies. But to die a bloody death
while the crowds urge on my killer.
To tell or not to tell? My brain still feels slow from the wine.
I stare down the empty corridor as if the decision lies there.
Peeta picks up on my hesitation. “Have you been on the
roof yet?” I shake my head. “Cinna showed me. You can practically
see the whole city. The wind’s a bit loud, though.”
I translate this into “No one will overhear us talking” in my
head. You do have the sense that we might be under surveillance
here. “Can we just go up?”
“Sure, come on,” says Peeta. I follow him to a flight of stairs
that lead to the roof. There’s a small dome-shaped room with
a door to the outside. As we step into the cool, windy evening
air, I catch my breath at the view. The Capitol twinkles like a
vast field of fireflies. Electricity in District 12 comes and goes,
usually we only have it a few hours a day. Often the evenings
are spent in candlelight. The only time you can count on it is
when they’re airing the Games or some important government
message on television that it’s mandatory to watch. But
here there would be no shortage. Ever.
81
Peeta and I walk to a railing at the edge of the roof. I look
straight down the side of the building to the street, which is
buzzing with people. You can hear their cars, an occasional
shout, and a strange metallic tinkling. In District 12, we’d all
be thinking about bed right now.
“I asked Cinna why they let us up here. Weren’t they worried
that some of the tributes might decide to jump right over
the side?” says Peeta.
“What’d he say?” I ask.
“You can’t,” says Peeta. He holds out his hand into seemingly
empty space. There’s a sharp zap and he jerks it back.
“Some kind of electric field throws you back on the roof.”
“Always worried about our safety,” I say. Even though Cinna
has shown Peeta the roof, I wonder if we’re supposed to be
up here now, so late and alone. I’ve never seen tributes on the
Training Center roof before. But that doesn’t mean we’re not
being taped. “Do you think they’re watching us now?”
“Maybe,” he admits. “Come see the garden.”
On the other side of the dome, they’ve built a garden with
flower beds and potted trees. From the branches hang hundreds
of wind chimes, which account for the tinkling I heard.
Here in the garden, on this windy night, it’s enough to drown
out two people who are trying not to be heard. Peeta looks at
me expectantly.
I pretend to examine a blossom. “We were hunting in the
woods one day. Hidden, waiting for game,” I whisper.
“You and your father?” he whispers back.
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“No, my friend Gale. Suddenly all the birds stopped singing
at once. Except one. As if it were giving a warning call. And
then we saw her. I’m sure it was the same girl. A boy was with
her. Their clothes were tattered. They had dark circles under
their eyes from no sleep. They were running as if their lives
depended on it,” I say.
For a moment I’m silent, as I remember how the sight of
this strange pair, clearly not from District 12, fleeing through
the woods immobilized us. Later, we wondered if we could
have helped them escape. Perhaps we might have. Concealed
them. If we’d moved quickly. Gale and I were taken by surprise,
yes, but we’re both hunters. We know how animals look
at bay. We knew the pair was in trouble as soon as we saw
them. But we only watched.
“The hovercraft appeared out of nowhere,” I continue to
Peeta. “I mean, one moment the sky was empty and the next it
was there. It didn’t make a sound, but they saw it. A net
dropped down on the girl and carried her up, fast, so fast like
the elevator. They shot some sort of spear through the boy. It
was attached to a cable and they hauled him up as well. But
I’m certain he was dead. We heard the girl scream once. The
boy’s name, I think. Then it was gone, the hovercraft. Vanished
into thin air. And the birds began to sing again, as if nothing
had happened.”
“Did they see you?” Peeta asked.
“I don’t know. We were under a shelf of rock,” I reply.
But I do know. There was a moment, after the birdcall, but
before the hovercraft, where the girl had seen us. She’d locked
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eyes with me and called out for help. But neither Gale or I had
responded.
“You’re shivering,” says Peeta.
The wind and the story have blown all the warmth from my
body. The girl’s scream. Had it been her last?
Peeta takes off his jacket and wraps it around my shoulders.
I start to take a step back, but then I let him, deciding for
a moment to accept both his jacket and his kindness. A friend
would do that, right?
“They were from here?” he asks, and he secures a button at
my neck.
I nod. They’d had that Capitol look about them. The boy and
the girl.
“Where do you suppose they were going?” he asks.
“I don’t know that,” I say. District 12 is pretty much the end
of the line. Beyond us, there’s only wilderness. If you don’t
count the ruins of District 13 that still smolder from the toxic
bombs. They show it on television occasionally, just to remind
us. “Or why they would leave here.” Haymitch had called the
Avoxes traitors. Against what? It could only be the Capitol. But
they had everything here. No cause to rebel.
“I’d leave here,” Peeta blurts out. Then he looks around
nervously. It was loud enough to hear above the chimes. He
laughs. “I’d go home now if they let me. But you have to admit,
the food’s prime.”
He’s covered again. If that’s all you’d heard it would just
sound like the words of a scared tribute, not someone contemplating
the unquestionable goodness of the Capitol.
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“It’s getting chilly. We better go in,” he says. Inside the
dome, it’s warm and bright. His tone is conversational. “Your
friend Gale. He’s the one who took your sister away at the
reaping?”
“Yes. Do you know him?” I ask.
“Not really. I hear the girls talk about him a lot. I thought he
was your cousin or something. You favor each other,” he says.
“No, we’re not related,” I say.
Peeta nods, unreadable. “Did he come to say good-bye to
you?”
“Yes,” I say, observing him carefully. “So did your father. He
brought me cookies.”
Peeta raises his eyebrows as if this is news. But after
watching him lie so smoothly, I don’t give this much weight.
“Really? Well, he likes you and your sister. I think he wishes
he had a daughter instead of a houseful of boys.”
The idea that I might ever have been discussed, around the
dinner table, at the bakery fire, just in passing in Peeta’s house
gives me a start. It must have been when the mother was out
of the room.
“He knew your mother when they were kids,” says Peeta.
Another surprise. But probably true. “Oh, yes. She grew up
in town,” I say. It seems impolite to say she never mentioned
the baker except to compliment his bread.
We’re at my door. I give back his jacket. “See you in the
morning then.”
“See you,” he says, and walks off down the hall.
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When I open my door, the redheaded girl is collecting my
unitard and boots from where I left them on the floor before
my shower. I want to apologize for possibly getting her in
trouble earlier. But I remember I’m not supposed to speak to
her unless I’m giving her an order.
“Oh, sorry,” I say. “I was supposed to get those back to Cinna.
I’m sorry. Can you take them to him?”
She avoids my eyes, gives a small nod, and heads out the
door.
I’d set out to tell her I was sorry about dinner. But I know
that my apology runs much deeper. That I’m ashamed I never
tried to help her in the woods. That I let the Capitol kill the
boy and mutilate her without lifting a finger.
Just like I was watching the Games.
I kick off my shoes and climb under the covers in my
clothes. The shivering hasn’t stopped. Perhaps the girl doesn’t
even remember me. But I know she does. You don’t forget the
face of the person who was your last hope. I pull the covers up
over my head as if this will protect me from the redheaded girl
who can’t speak. But I can feel her eyes staring at me, piercing
through walls and doors and bedding.
I wonder if she’ll enjoy watching me die.
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My slumbers are filled with disturbing dreams. The face of
the redheaded girl intertwines with gory images from earlier
Hunger Games, with my mother withdrawn and unreachable,
with Prim emaciated and terrified. I bolt up screaming for my
father to run as the mine explodes into a million deadly bits of
light.
Dawn is breaking through the windows. The Capitol has a
misty, haunted air. My head aches and I must have bitten into
the side of my cheek in the night. My tongue probes the
ragged flesh and I taste blood.
Slowly, I drag myself out of bed and into the shower. I arbitrarily
punch buttons on the control board and end up hopping
from foot to foot as alternating jets of icy cold and steaming
hot water assault me. Then I’m deluged in lemony foam
that I have to scrape off with a heavy bristled brush. Oh, well.
At least my blood is flowing.
When I’m dried and moisturized with lotion, I find an outfit
has been left for me at the front of the closet. Tight black
pants, a long-sleeved burgundy tunic, and leather shoes. I put
my hair in the single braid down my back. This is the first time
since the morning of the reaping that I resemble myself. No
87
fancy hair and clothes, no flaming capes. Just me. Looking like
I could be headed for the woods. It calms me.
Haymitch didn’t give us an exact time to meet for break-last
and no one has contacted me this morning, but I’m hungry so I
head down to the dining room, hoping there will be food. I’m
not disappointed. While the table is empty, a long board off to
the side has been laid with at least twenty dishes. A young
man, an Avox, stands at attention by the spread. When I ask if
I can serve myself, he nods assent. I load a plate with eggs,
sausages, batter cakes covered in thick orange preserves, slices
of pale purple melon. As I gorge myself, I watch the sun rise
over the Capitol. I have a second plate of hot grain smothered
in beef stew. Finally, I fill a plate with rolls and sit at the table,
breaking oil bits and dipping them into hot chocolate, the way
Peeta did on the train.
My mind wanders to my mother and Prim. They must be
up. My mother getting their breakfast of mush. Prim milking
her goat before school. Just two mornings ago, I was home.
Can that be right? Yes, just two. And now how empty the
house feels, even from a distance. What did they say last night
about my fiery debut at the Games? Did it give them hope, or
simply add to their terror when they saw the reality of twenty-
four tributes circled together, knowing only one could live?
Haymitch and Peeta come in, bid me good morning, fill
their plates. It makes me irritated that Peeta is wearing exactly
the same outfit I am. I need to say something to Cinna. This
twins act is going to blow up in out faces once the Games begin.
Surely, they must know this. Then I remember Haymitch
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telling me to do exactly what the stylists tell me to do. If it was
anyone but Cinna, I might be tempted to ignore him. But after
last night’s triumph, I don’t have a lot of room to criticize his
choices.
I’m nervous about the training. There will be three days in
which all the tributes practice together. On the last afternoon,
we’ll each get a chance to perform in private before the Gamemakers.
The thought of meeting the other tributes face-toface
makes me queasy. I turn the roll I have just taken from
the basket over and over in my hands, but my appetite is gone.
When Haymitch has finished several platters of stew, he
pushes back his plate with a sigh. He takes a flask from his
pocket and takes a long pull on it and leans his elbows on the
table. “So, let’s get down to business. Training. First off, if you
like, I’ll coach you separately. Decide now.”
“Why would you coach us separately?” I ask.
“Say if you had a secret skill you might not want the other
to know about,” says Haymitch.
I exchange a look with Peeta. “I don’t have any secret
skills,” he says. “And I already know what yours is, right? I
mean, I’ve eaten enough of your squirrels.”
I never thought about Peeta eating the squirrels I shot.
Somehow I always pictured the baker quietly going off and
frying them up for himself. Not out of greed. But because town
families usually eat expensive butcher meat. Beef and chicken
and horse.
“You can coach us together,” I tell Haymitch. Peeta nods.
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“All right, so give me some idea of what you can do,” says
Haymitch.
“I can’t do anything,” says Peeta. “Unless you count baking
bread.”
“Sorry, I don’t. Katniss. I already know you’re handy with a
knife,” says Haymitch.
“Not really. But I can hunt,” I say. “With a bow and arrow.”
“And you’re good?” asks Haymitch.
I have to think about it. I’ve been putting food on the table
for four years. That’s no small task. I’m not as good as my father
was, but he’d had more practice. I’ve better aim than
Gale, but I’ve had more practice. He’s a genius with traps and
snares. “I’m all right,” I say.
“She’s excellent,” says Peeta. “My father buys her squirrels.
He always comments on how the arrows never pierce the
body. She hits every one in the eye. It’s the same with the rabbits
she sells the butcher. She can even bring down deer.”
This assessment of my skills from Peeta takes me totally by
surprise. First, that he ever noticed. Second, that he’s talking
me up. “What are you doing?” I ask him suspiciously.
“What are you doing? If he’s going to help you, he has to
know what you’re capable of. Don’t underrate yourself,” says
Peeta.
I don’t know why, but this rubs me the wrong way. “What
about you? I’ve seen you in the market. You can lift hundredpound
bags of flour,” I snap at him. “Tell him that. That’s not
nothing.”
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“Yes, and I’m sure the arena will be full of bags of flour for
me to chuck at people. It’s not like being able to use a weapon.
You know it isn’t,” he shoots back.
“He can wrestle,” I tell Haymitch. “He came in second in our
school competition last year, only after his brother.”
“What use is that? How many times have you seen someone
wrestle someone to death?” says Peeta in disgust.
“There’s always hand-to-hand combat. All you need is to
come up with a knife, and you’ll at least stand a chance. If I get
jumped, I’m dead!” I can hear my voice rising in anger.
“But you won’t! You’ll be living up in some tree eating raw
squirrels and picking off people with arrows. You know what
my mother said to me when she came to say good-bye, as if to
cheer me up, she says maybe District Twelve will finally have
a winner. Then I realized, she didn’t mean me, she meant
you!” bursts out Peeta.
“Oh, she meant you,” I say with a wave of dismissal.
“She said, ‘She’s a survivor, that one.’ She is,” says Peeta.
That pulls me up short. Did his mother really say that about
me? Did she rate me over her son? I see the pain in Peeta’s
eyes and know he isn’t lying.
Suddenly I’m behind the bakery and I can feel the chill of
the rain running down my back, the hollowness in my belly. I
sound eleven years old when I speak. “But only because
someone helped me.”
Peeta’s eyes flicker down to the roll in my hands, and I
know he remembers that day, too. But he just shrugs. “People
91
will help you in the arena. They’ll be tripping over each other
to sponsor you.”
“No more than you,” I say.
Peeta rolls his eyes at Haymitch. “She has no idea. The effect
she can have.” He runs his fingernail along the wood grain
in the table, refusing to look at me.
What on earth does he mean? People help me? When we
were dying of starvation, no one helped me! No one except
Peeta. Once I had something to barter with, things changed.
I’m a tough trader. Or am I? What effect do I have? That I’m
weak and needy? Is he suggesting that I got good deals because
people pitied me? I try to think if this is true. Perhaps
some of the merchants were a little generous in their trades,
but I always attributed that to their long-standing relationship
with my father. Besides, my game is first-class. No one pitied
me!
I glower at the roll sure he meant to insult me.
After about a minute of this, Haymitch says, “Well, then.
Well, well, well. Katniss, there’s no guarantee they’ll be bows
and arrows in the arena, but during your private session with
the Gamemakers, show them what you can do. Until then, stay
clear of archery. Are you any good at trapping?”
“I know a few basic snares,” I mutter.
“That may be significant in terms of food,” says Haymitch.
“And Peeta, she’s right, never underestimate strength in the
arena. Very often, physical power tilts the advantage to a
player. In the Training Center, they will have weights, but
don’t reveal how much you can lift in front of the other tri92
butes. The plan’s the same for both of you. You go to group
training. Spend the time trying to learn something you don’t
know. Throw a spear. Swing a mace. Learn to tie a decent
knot. Save showing what you’re best at until your private sessions.
Are we clear?” says Haymitch. Peeta and I nod.
“One last thing. In public, I want you by each other’s side
every minute,” says Haymitch. We both start to object, but
Haymitch slams his hand on the table. “Every minute! It’s not
open for discussion! You agreed to do as I said! You will be together,
you will appear amiable to each other. Now get out.
Meet Effie at the elevator at ten for training.”
I bite my lip and stalk back to my room, making sure Peeta
can hear the door slam. I sit on the bed, hating Haymitch, hating
Peeta, hating myself for mentioning that day long ago in
the rain.
It’s such a joke! Peeta and I going along pretending to be
friends! Talking up each other’s strengths, insisting the other
take credit for their abilities. Because, in fact, at some point,
we’re going to have to knock it off and accept we’re bitter adversaries.
Which I’d be prepared to do right now if it wasn’t
for Haymitch’s stupid instruction that we stick together in
training. It’s my own fault, I guess, for telling him he didn’t
have to coach us separately. But that didn’t mean I wanted to
do everything with Peeta. Who, by the way, clearly doesn’t
want to be partnering up with me, either.
I hear Peeta’s voice in my head. She has no idea. The effect
she can have. Obviously meant to demean me. Right? but a tiny
part of me wonders if this was a compliment. That he meant I
93
was appealing in some way. It’s weird, how much he’s noticed
me. Like the attention he’s paid to my hunting. And apparently,
I have not been as oblivious to him as I imagined, either.
The flour. The wrestling. I have kept track of the boy with the
bread.
It’s almost ten. I clean my teeth and smooth back my hair
again. Anger temporarily blocked out my nervousness about
meeting the other tributes, but now I can feel my anxiety rising
again. By the time I meet Effie and Peeta at the elevator, I
catch myself biting my nails. I stop at once.
The actual training rooms are below ground level of our
building. With these elevators, the ride is less than a minute.
The doors open into an enormous gymnasium filled with various
weapons and obstacle courses. Although it’s not yet ten,
we’re the last ones to arrive. The other tributes are gathered
in a tense circle. They each have a cloth square with their district
number on it pinned to their shirts. While someone pins
the number 12 on my back, I do a quick assessment. Peeta and
I are the only two dressed alike.
As soon as we join the circle, the head trainer, a tall, athletic
woman named Atala steps up and begins to explain the training
schedule. Experts in each skill will remain at their stations.
We will be free to travel from area to area as we choose, per
our mentor’s instructions. Some of the stations teach survival
skills, others fighting techniques. We are forbidden to engage
in any combative exercise with another tribute. There are assistants
on hand if we want to practice with a partner.
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When Atala begins to read down the list of the skill stations,
my eyes can’t help flitting around to the other tributes.
It’s the first time we’ve been assembled, on level ground, in
simple clothes. My heart sinks. Almost all of the boys and at
least half of the girls are bigger than I am, even though many
of the tributes have never been fed properly. You can see it in
their bones, their skin, the hollow look in their eyes. I may be
smaller naturally, but overall my family’s resourcefulness has
given me an edge in that area. I stand straight, and while I’m
thin, I’m strong. The meat and plants from the woods combined
with the exertion it took to get them have given me a
healthier body than most of those I see around me.
The exceptions are the kids from the wealthier districts, the
volunteers, the ones who have been fed and trained throughout
their lives for this moment. The tributes from 1, 2, and 4
traditionally have this look about them. It’s technically against
the rules to train tributes before they reach the Capitol but it
happens every year. In District 12, we call them the Career
Tributes, or just the Careers. And like as not, the winner will
be one of them.
The slight advantage I held coming into the Training Center,
my fiery entrance last night, seems to vanish in the presence
of my competition. The other tributes were jealous of us,
but not because we were amazing, because our stylists were.
Now I see nothing but contempt in the glances of the Career
Tributes. Each must have fifty to a hundred pounds on me.
They project arrogance and brutality. When Atala releases us,
95
they head straight for the deadliest-looking weapons in the
gym and handle them with ease.
I’m thinking that it’s lucky I’m a fast runner when Peeta
nudges my arm and I jump. He is still beside me, per Haymitch’s
instructions. His expression is sober. “Where would
you like to start?”
I look around at the Career Tributes who are showing off,
clearly trying to intimidate the field. Then at the others, the
underfed, the incompetent, shakily having their first lessons
with a knife or an ax.
“Suppose we tie some knots,” I say.
“Right you are,” says Peeta. We cross to an empty station
where the trainer seems pleased to have students. You get the
feeling that the knot-tying class is not the Hunger games hot
spot. When he realizes I know something about snares, he
shows us a simple, excellent trap that will leave a human
competitor dangling by a leg from a tree. We concentrate on
this one skill for an hour until both of us have mastered it.
Then we move on to camouflage. Peeta genuinely seems to enjoy
this station, swirling a combination of mud and clay and
berry juices around on his pale skin, weaving disguises from
vines and leaves. The trainer who runs the camouflage station
is full of enthusiasm at his work.
“I do the cakes,” he admits to me.
“The cakes?” I ask. I’ve been preoccupied with watching the
boy from District 2 send a spear through a dummy’s heart
from fifteen yards. “What cakes?”
“At home. The iced ones, for the bakery,” he says.
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He means the ones they display in the windows. Fancy
cakes with flowers and pretty things painted in frosting.
They’re for birthdays and New Year’s Day. When we’re in the
square, Prim always drags me over to admire them, although
we’d never be able to afford one. There’s little enough beauty
in District 12, though, so I can hardly deny her this.
I look more critically at the design on Peeta’s arm. The alternating
pattern of light and dark suggests sunlight falling
through the leaves in the woods. I wonder how he knows this,
since I doubt he’s ever been beyond the fence. Has he been
able to pick this up from just that scraggly old apple tree in his
backyard? Somehow the whole thing — his skill, those inaccessible
cakes, the praise of the camouflage expert — annoys
me.
“It’s lovely. If only you could frost someone to death,” I say.
“Don’t be so superior. You can never tell what you’ll find in
the arena. Say it’s actually a gigantic cake —” begins Peeta.
“Say we move on,” I break in.
So the next three days pass with Peeta and I going quietly
from station to station. We do pick up some valuable skills,
from starting fires, to knife throwing, to making shelter. Despite
Haymitch’s order to appear mediocre, Peeta excels in
hand-to-hand combat, and I sweep the edible plants test without
blinking an eye. We steer clear of archery and weightlifting
though, wanting to save those for our private sessions.
The Gamemakers appeared early on the first day. Twenty
or so men and women dressed in deep purple robes. They sit
in the elevated stands that surround the gymnasium, some97
times wandering about to watch us, jotting down notes, other
times eating at the endless banquet that has been set for them,
ignoring the lot of us. But they do seem to be keeping their eye
on the District 12 tributes. Several times I’ve looked up to find
one fixated on me. They consult with the trainers during our
meals as well. We see them all gathered together when we
come back.
Breakfast and dinner are served on our floor, but at lunch
the twenty-four of us eat in a dining room off the gymnasium.
Food is arranged on carts around the room and you serve
yourself. The Career Tributes tend to gather rowdily around
one table, as if to prove their superiority, that they have no
fear of one another and consider the rest of us beneath notice.
Most of the other tributes sit alone, like lost sheep. No one
says a word to us. Peeta and I eat together, and since Haymitch
keeps dogging us about it, try to keep up a friendly conversation
during the meals.
It’s not easy to find a topic. Talking of home is painful. Talking
of the present unbearable. One day, Peeta empties our
breadbasket and points out how they have been careful to include
types from the districts along with the refined bread of
the Capitol. The fish-shaped loaf tinted green with seaweed
from District 4. The crescent moon roll dotted with seeds from
District 11. Somehow, although it’s made from the same stuff,
it looks a lot more appetizing than the ugly drop biscuits that
are the standard fare at home.
“And there you have it,” says Peeta, scooping the breads
back in the basket.
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“You certainly know a lot,” I say.
“Only about bread,” he says. “Okay, now laugh as if I’ve said
something funny.”
We both give a somewhat convincing laugh and ignore the
stares from around the room.
“All right, I’ll keep smiling pleasantly and you talk,” says
Peeta. It’s wearing us both out, Haymitch’s direction to be
friendly. Because ever since I slammed my door, there’s been
a chill in the air between us. But we have our orders.
“Did I ever tell you about the time I was chased by a bear?”
I ask.
“No, but it sounds fascinating,” says Peeta.
I try and animate my face as I recall the event, a true story,
in which I’d foolishly challenged a black bear over the rights
to a beehive. Peeta laughs and asks questions right on cue.
He’s much better at this than I am.
On the second day, while we’re taking a shot at spear
throwing, he whispers to me. “I think we have a shadow.”
I throw my spear, which I’m not too bad at actually, if I
don’t have to throw too far, and see the little girl from District
11 standing back a bit, watching us. She’s the twelve-year-old,
the one who reminded me so of Prim in stature. Up close she
looks about ten. She has bright, dark, eyes and satiny brown
skin and stands tilted up on her toes with her arms slightly extended
to her sides, as if ready to take wing at the slightest
sound. It’s impossible not to think of a bird.
I pick up another spear while Peeta throws. “I think her
name’s Rue,” he says softly.
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I bite my lip. Rue is a small yellow flower that grows in the
Meadow. Rue. Primrose. Neither of them could tip the scale at
seventy pounds soaking wet.
“What can we do about it?” I ask him, more harshly than I
intended.
“Nothing to do,” he says back. “Just making conversation.”
Now that I know she’s there, it’s hard to ignore the child.
She slips up and joins us at different stations. Like me, she’s
clever with plants, climbs swiftly, and has good aim. She can
hit the target every time with a slingshot. But what is a slingshot
against a 220-pound male with a sword?
Back on the District 12 floor, Haymitch and Effie grill us
throughout breakfast and dinner about every moment of the
day. What we did, who watched us, how the other tributes size
up. Cinna and Portia aren’t around, so there’s no one to add
any sanity to the meals. Not that Haymitch and Effie are fighting
anymore. Instead they seem to be of one mind, determined
to whip us into shape. Full of endless directions about what
we should do and not do in training. Peeta is more patient, but
I become fed up and surly.
When we finally escape to bed on the second night, Peeta
mumbles, “Someone ought to get Haymitch a drink.”
I make a sound that is somewhere between a snort and a
laugh. Then catch myself. It’s messing with my mind too much,
trying to keep straight when we’re supposedly friends and
when we’re not. At least when we get into the arena, I’ll know
where we stand. “Don’t. Don’t let’s pretend when there’s no
one around.”
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“All right, Katniss,” he says tiredly. After that, we only talk
in front of people.
On the third day of training, they start to call us out of lunch
for our private sessions with the Gamemakers. District by district,
first the boy, then the girl tribute. As usual, District 12 is
slated to go last. We linger in the dining room, unsure where
else to go. No one comes back once they have left. As the room
empties, the pressure to appear friendly lightens. By the time
they call Rue, we are left alone. We sit in silence until they
summon Peeta. He rises.
“Remember what Haymitch said about being sure to throw
the weights.” The words come out of my mouth without permission.
“Thanks. I will,” he says. “You . . . shoot straight.”
I nod. I don’t know why I said anything at all. Although if
I’m going to lose, I’d rather Peeta win than the others. Better
for our district, for my mother and Prim.
After about fifteen minutes, they call my name. I smooth my
hair, set my shoulders back, and walk into the gymnasium. Instantly,
I know I’m in trouble. They’ve been here too long, the
Gamemakers. Sat through twenty-three other demonstrations.
Had too much to wine, most of them. Want more than anything
to go home.
There’s nothing I can do but continue with the plan. I walk
to the archery station. Oh, the weapons! I’ve been itching to
get my hands on them for days! Bows made of wood and plastic
and metal and materials I can’t even name. Arrows with
feathers cut in flawless uniform lines. I choose a bow, string it,
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and sling the matching quiver of arrows over my shoulder.
There’s a shooting range, but it’s much too limited. Standard
bull’s-eyes and human silhouettes. I walk to the center of the
gymnasium and pick my first target. The dummy used for
knife practice. Even as I pull back on the bow I know something
is wrong. The string’s tighter than the one I use at home.
The arrow’s more rigid. I miss the dummy by a couple of inches
and lose what little attention I had been commanding. For a
moment, I’m humiliated, then I head back to the bull’s-eye. I
shoot again and again until I get the feel of these new weapons.
Back in the center of the gymnasium, I take my initial position
and skewer the dummy right through the heart. Then I
sever the rope that holds the sandbag for boxing, and the bag
splits open as it slams to the ground. Without pausing, I
shoulder-roll forward, come up on one knee, and send an arrow
into one of the hanging lights high above the gymnasium
floor. A shower of sparks bursts from the fixture.
It’s excellent shooting. I turn to the Gamemakers. A few are
nodding approval, but the majority of them are fixated on a
roast pig that has just arrived at their banquet table.
Suddenly I am furious, that with my life on the line, they
don’t even have the decency to pay attention to me. That I’m
being upstaged by a dead pig. My heart starts to pound, I can
feel my face burning. Without thinking, I pull an arrow from
my quiver and send it straight at the Gamemakers’ table. I
hear shouts of alarm as people stumble back. The arrow
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skewers the apple in the pig’s mouth and pins it to the wall
behind it. Everyone stares at me in disbelief.
“Thank you for your consideration,” I say. Then I give a
slight bow and walk straight toward the exit without being
dismissed.
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As I stride toward the elevator, I fling my bow to one side
and my quiver to the other. I brush past the gaping Avoxes
who guard the elevators and hit the number twelve button
with my fist. The doors slide together and I zip upward. I actually
make it back to my floor before the tears start running
down my cheeks. I can hear the others calling me from the sitting
room, but I fly down the hall into my room, bolt the door,
and fling myself onto my bed. Then I really begin to sob.
Now I’ve done it! Now I’ve ruined everything! If I’d stood
even a ghost of chance, it vanished when I sent that arrow flying
at the Gamemakers. What will they do to me now? Arrest
me? Execute me? Cut my tongue and turn me into an Avox so I
can wait on the future tributes of Panem? What was I thinking,
shooting at the Gamemakers? Of course, I wasn’t, I was shooting
at that apple because I was so angry at being ignored. I
wasn’t trying to kill one of them. If I were, they’d be dead!
Oh, what does it matter? It’s not like I was going to win the
Games anyway. Who cares what they do to me? What really
scares me is what they might do to my mother and Prim, how
my family might suffer now because of my impulsiveness. Will
they take their few belongings, or send my mother to prison
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and Prim to the community home, or kill them? They wouldn’t
kill them, would they? Why not? What do they care?
I should have stayed and apologized. Or laughed, like it was
a big joke. Then maybe I would have found some leniency. But
instead I stalked out of the place in the most disrespectful
manner possible.
Haymitch and Effie are knocking on my door. I shout for
them to go away and eventually they do. It takes at least an
hour for me to cry myself out. Then I just lay curled up on the
bed, stroking the silken sheets, watching the sun set over the
artificial candy Capitol.
At first, I expect guards to come for me. But as time passes,
it seems less likely. I calm down. They still need a girl tribute
from District 12, don’t they? If the Gamemakers want to punish
me, they can do it publicly. Wait until I’m in the arena and
sic starving wild animals on me. You can bet they’ll make sure
I don’t have a bow and arrow to defend myself.
Before that though, they’ll give me a score so low, no one in
their right mind would sponsor me. That’s what will happen
tonight. Since the training isn’t open to viewers, the Gamemakers
announce a score for each player. It gives the audience
a starting place for the betting that will continue throughout
the Games. The number, which is between one and twelve,
one being irredeemably bad and twelve being unattainably
high, signifies the promise of the tribute. The mark is not a
guarantee of which person will win. It’s only an indication of
the potential a tribute showed in training. Often, because of
the variables in the actual arena, high-scoring tributes go
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down almost immediately. And a few years ago, the boy who
won the Games only received a three. Still, the scores can help
or hurt an individual tribute in terms of sponsorship. I had
been hoping my shooting skills might get me a six or a seven,
even if I’m not particularly powerful. Now I’m sure I’ll have
the lowest score of the twenty-four. If no one sponsors me, my
odds of staying alive decrease to almost zero.
When Effie taps on the door to call me to dinner, I decide I
may as well go. The scores will be televised tonight. It’s not
like I can hide what happened forever. I go to the bathroom
and wash my face, but it’s still red and splotchy.
Everyone’s waiting at the table, even Cinna and Portia. I
wish the stylists hadn’t shown up because for some reason, I
don’t like the idea of disappointing them. It’s as if I’ve thrown
away all the good work they did on the opening ceremonies
without a thought. I avoid looking at anyone as I take tiny
spoonfuls of fish soup. The saltiness reminds me of my tears.
The adults begin some chitchat about the weather forecast,
and I let my eyes meet Peeta’s. He raises his eyebrows. A question.
What happened? I just give my head a small shake. Then,
as they’re serving the main course, I hear Haymitch say,
“Okay, enough small talk, just how bad were you today?”
Peeta jumps in. “I don’t know that it mattered. By the time I
showed up, no one even bothered to look at me. They were
singing some kind of drinking song, I think. So, I threw around
some heavy objects until they told me I could go.”
That makes me feel a bit better. It’s not like Peeta attacked
the Gamemakers, but at least he was provoked, too.
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“And you, sweetheart?” says Haymitch.
Somehow Haymitch calling me sweetheart ticks me off
enough that I’m at least able to speak. “I shot an arrow at the
Gamemakers.”
Everyone stops eating. “You what?” The horror in Effie’s
voice confirms my worse suspicions.
“I shot an arrow at them. Not exactly at them. In their direction.
It’s like Peeta said, I was shooting and they were ignoring
me and I just . . . I just lost my head, so I shot an apple out of
their stupid roast pig’s mouth!” I say defiantly.
“And what did they say?” says Cinna carefully.
“Nothing. Or I don’t know. I walked out after that,” I say.
“Without being dismissed?” gasps Effie.
“I dismissed myself,” I said. I remember how I promised
Prim that I really would try to win and I feel like a ton of coal
has dropped on me.
“Well, that’s that,” says Haymitch. Then he butters a roll.
“Do you think they’ll arrest me?” I ask. “Doubt it. Be a pain
to replace you at this stage,” says Haymitch.
“What about my family?” I say. “Will they punish them?”
“Don’t think so. Wouldn’t make much sense. See they’d
have to reveal what happened in the Training Center for it to
have any worthwhile effect on the population. People would
need to know what you did. But they can’t since it’s secret, so
it’d be a waste of effort,” says Haymitch. “More likely they’ll
make your life hell in the arena.”
“Well, they’ve already promised to do that to us any way,”
says Peeta.
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“Very true,” says Haymitch. And I realize the impossible has
happened. They have actually cheered me up. Haymitch picks
up a pork chop with his fingers, which makes Effie frown, and
dunks it in his wine. He rips off a hunk of meat and starts to
chuckle. “What were their faces like?”
I can feel the edges of my mouth tilting up. “Shocked. Terrified.
Uh, ridiculous, some of them.” An image pops into my
mind. “One man tripped backward into a bowl of punch.”
Haymitch guffaws and we all start laughing except Effie, although
even she is suppressing a smile. “Well, it serves them
right. It’s their job to pay attention to you. And just because
you come from District Twelve is no excuse to ignore you.”
Then her eyes dart around as if she’s said something totally
outrageous. “I’m sorry, but that’s what I think,” she says to no
one in particular.
“I’ll get a very bad score,” I say.
“Scores only matter if they’re very good, no one pays much
attention to the bad or mediocre ones. For all they know, you
could be hiding your talents to get a low score on purpose.
People use that strategy,” said Portia.
“I hope that’s how people interpret the four I’ll probably
get,” says Peeta. “If that. Really, is anything less impressive
than watching a person pick up a heavy ball and throw it a
couple of yards. One almost landed on my foot.”
I grin at him and realize that I’m starving. I cut off a piece of
pork, dunk it in mashed potatoes, and start eating. It’s okay.
My family is safe. And if they are safe, no real harm has been
done.
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After dinner, we go to sitting room to watch the scores announced
on television. First they show a photo of the tribute,
then flash their score below it. The Career Tributes naturally
get in the eight-to-ten range. Most of the other players average
a five. Surprisingly, little Rue comes up with a seven. I
don’t know what she showed the judges, but she’s so tiny it
must have been impressive.
District 12 comes up last, as usual. Peeta pulls an eight so at
least a couple of the Gamemakers must have been watching
him. I dig my fingernails into my palms as my face comes up,
expecting the worst. Then they’re flashing the number eleven
on the screen.
Eleven!
Effie Trinket lets out a squeal, and everybody is slapping
me on the back and cheering and congratulating me. But it
doesn’t seem real.
“There must be a mistake. How . . . how could that happen?”
I ask Haymitch.
“Guess they liked your temper,” he says. “They’ve got a
show to put on. They need some players with some heat.”
“Katniss, the girl who was on fire,” says Cinna and gives me
a hug. “Oh, wait until you see your interview dress.” “More
flames?” I ask. “Of a sort,” he says mischievously.
Peeta and I congratulate each other, another awkward
moment. We’ve both done well, but what does that mean for
the other? I escape to my room as quickly as possible and burrow
down under the covers. The stress of the day, particularly
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the crying, has worn me out. I drift off, reprieved, relieved,
and with the number eleven still flashing behind my eyelids.
At dawn, I lie in bed for a while, watching the sun come up
on a beautiful morning. It’s Sunday. A day off at home. I wonder
if Gale is in the woods yet. Usually we devote all of Sunday
to stocking up for the week. Rising early, hunting and gathering,
then trading at the Hob. I think of Gale without me. Both
of us can hunt alone, but we’re better as a pair. Particularly if
we’re trying for bigger game. But also in the littler things, having
a partner lightened the load, could even make the arduous
task of filling my family’s table enjoyable.
I had been struggling along on my own for about six
months when I first ran into Gale in the woods. It was a Sunday
in October, the air cool and pungent with dying things. I’d
spent the morning competing with the squirrels for nuts and
the slightly warmer afternoon wading in shallow ponds harvesting
katniss. The only meat I’d shot was a squirrel that had
practically run over my toes in its quest for acorns, but the animals
would still be afoot when the snow buried my other
food sources. Having strayed farther afield than usual, I was
hurrying back home, lugging my burlap sacks when I came
across a dead rabbit. It was hanging by its neck in a thin wire a
foot above my head. About fifteen yards away was another. I
recognized the twitch-up snares because my father had used
them. When the prey is caught, it’s yanked into the air out of
the reach of other hungry animals. I’d been trying to use
snares all summer with no success, so I couldn’t help dropping
my sacks to examine this one. My fingers were just on the wire
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above one of the rabbits when a voice rang out. “That’s dangerous.”
I jumped back several feet as Gale materialized from behind
a tree. He must have been watching me the whole time.
He was only fourteen, but he cleared six feet and was as good
as an adult to me. I’d seen him around the Seam and at school.
And one other time. He’d lost his father in the same blast that
killed mine. In January, I’d stood by while he received his
medal of valor in the Justice Building, another oldest child
with no father. I remembered his two little brothers clutching
his mother, a woman whose swollen belly announced she was
just days away from giving birth.
“What’s your name?” he said, coming over and disengaging
the rabbit from the snare. He had another three hanging from
his belt.
“Katniss,” I said, barely audible.
“Well, Catnip, stealing’s punishable by death, or hadn’t you
heard?” he said.
“Katniss,” I said louder. “And I wasn’t stealing it. I just
wanted to look at your snare. Mine never catch anything.”
He scowled at me, not convinced. “So where’d you get the
squirrel?”
“I shot it.” I pulled my bow off my shoulder. I was still using
the small version my father had made me, but I’d been practicing
with the full-size one when I could. I was hoping that by
spring I might be able to bring down some bigger game.
Gale’s eyes fastened on the bow. “Can I see that?” I handed
it over. “Just remember, stealing’s punishable by death.”
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That was the first time I ever saw him smile. It transformed
him from someone menacing to someone you wished you
knew. But it took several months before I returned that smile.
We talked hunting then. I told him I might be able to get
him a bow if he had something to trade. Not food. I wanted
knowledge. I wanted to set my own snares that caught a belt
of fat rabbits in one day. He agreed something might be
worked out. As the seasons went by, we grudgingly began to
share our knowledge, our weapons, our secret places that
were thick with wild plums or turkeys. He taught me snares
and fishing. I showed him what plants to eat and eventually
gave him one of our precious bows. And then one day, without
either of us saying it, we became a team. Dividing the work
and the spoils. Making sure that both our families had food.
Gale gave me a sense of security I’d lacked since my father’s
death. His companionship replaced the long solitary hours in
the woods. I became a much better hunter when I didn’t have
to look over my shoulder constantly, when someone was
watching my back. But he turned into so much more than a
hunting partner. He became my confidante, someone with
whom I could share thoughts I could never voice inside the
fence. In exchange, he trusted me with his. Being out in the
woods with Gale . . . sometimes I was actually happy.
I call him my friend, but in the last year it’s seemed too casual
a word for what Gale is to me. A pang of longing shoots
through my chest. If only he was with me now! But, of course,
I don’t want that. I don’t want him in the arena where he’d be
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dead in a few days. I just . . . I just miss him. And I hate being
so alone. Does he miss me? He must.
I think of the eleven flashing under my name last night. I
know exactly what he’d say to me. “Well, there’s some room
for improvement there.” And then he’d give me a smile and I’d
return it without hesitating now.
I can’t help comparing what I have with Gale to what I’m
pretending to have with Peeta. How I never question Gale’s
motives while I do nothing but doubt the latter’s. It’s not a fair
comparison really. Gale and I were thrown together by a mutual
need to survive. Peeta and I know the other’s survival
means our own death. How do you sidestep that?
Effie’s knocking at the door, reminding me there’s another
“big, big, big day!” ahead. Tomorrow night will be our televised
interviews. I guess the whole team will have their hands
full readying us for that.
I get up and take a quick shower, being a bit more careful
about the buttons I hit, and head down to the dining room.
Peeta, Effie, and Haymitch are huddled around the table talking
in hushed voices. That seems odd, but hunger wins out
over curiosity and I load up my plate with breakfast before I
join them.
The stew’s made with tender chunks of lamb and dried
plums today. Perfect on the bed of wild rice. I’ve shoveled
about halfway through the mound when I realize no one’s
talking. I take a big gulp of orange juice and wipe my mouth.
“So, what’s going on? You’re coaching us on interviews today,
right?”
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“That’s right,” says Haymitch.
“You don’t have to wait until I’m done. I can listen and cat
at the same time,” I say.
“Well, there’s been a change of plans. About our current
approach,” says Haymitch.
“What’s that?” I ask. I’m not sure what our current approach
is. Trying to appear mediocre in front of the other tributes
is the last bit of strategy I remember.
Haymitch shrugs. “Peeta has asked to be coached separately.”
114
Betrayal. That’s the first thing I feel, which is ludicrous. For
there to be betrayal, there would have had to been trust first.
Between Peeta and me. And trust has not been part of the
agreement. We’re tributes. But the boy who risked a beating
to give me bread, the one who steadied me in the chariot, who
covered for me with the redheaded Avox girl, who insisted
Haymitch know my hunting skills . . . was there some part of
me that couldn’t help trusting him?
On the other hand, I’m relieved that we can stop the pretense
of being friends. Obviously, whatever thin connection
we’d foolishly formed has been severed. And high time, too.
The Games begin in two days, and trust will only be a weakness.
Whatever triggered Peeta’s decision — and I suspect it
had to do with my outperforming him in training — I should
be nothing but grateful for it. Maybe he’s finally accepted the
fact that the sooner we openly acknowledge that we are enemies,
the better.
“Good,” I say. “So what’s the schedule?”
“You’ll each have four hours with Effie for presentation and
four with me for content,” says Haymitch. “You start with Effie,
Katniss.”
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I can’t imagine what Effie will have to teach me that could
take four hours, but she’s got me working down to the last
minute. We go to my rooms and she puts me in a full-length
gown and high-heeled shoes, not the ones I’ll he wearing for
the actual interview, and instructs me on walking. The shoes
are the worst part. I’ve never worn high heels and can’t get
used to essentially wobbling around on the balls of my feet.
But Effie runs around in them full-time, and I’m determined
that if she can do it, so can I. The dress poses another problem.
It keeps tangling around my shoes so, of course, I hitch it up,
and then Effie swoops down on me like a hawk, smacking my
hands and yelling, “Not above the ankle!” When I finally conquer
walking, there’s still sitting, posture — apparently I have
a tendency to duck my head — eye contact, hand gestures, and
smiling. Smiling is mostly about smiling more. Effie makes me
say a hundred banal phrases starting with a smile, while smiling,
or ending with a smile. By lunch, the muscles in my cheeks
are twitching from overuse.
“Well, that’s the best I can do,” Effie says with a sigh. “Just
remember, Katniss, you want the audience to like you.”
“And you don’t think they will?” I ask.
“Not if you glare at them the entire time. Why don’t you
save that for the arena? Instead, think of yourself among
friends,” says Effie.
“They’re betting on how long I’ll live!” I burst out. “They’re
not my friends!”
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“Well, try and pretend!” snaps Effie. Then she composes
herself and beams at me. “See, like this. I’m smiling at you
even though you’re aggravating me.”
“Yes, it feels very convincing,” I say. “I’m going to eat.” 1
kick off my heels and stomp down to the dining room, hiking
my skirt up to my thighs.
Peeta and Haymitch seem in pretty good moods, so I’m
thinking the content session should be an improvement over
the morning. I couldn’t be more wrong. After lunch, Haymitch
takes me into the sitting room, directs me to the couch, and
then just frowns at me for a while.
“What?” I finally ask.
“I’m trying to figure out what to do with you,” he says.
“How we’re going to present you. Are you going to be charming?
Aloof? Fierce? So far, you’re shining like a star. You volunteered
to save your sister. Cinna made you look unforgettable.
You’ve got the top training score. People are intrigued, but no
one knows who you are. The impression you make tomorrow
will decide exactly what I can get you in terms of sponsors,”
says Haymitch.
Having watched the tribute interviews all my life, I know
there’s truth to what he’s saying. If you appeal to the crowd,
either by being humorous or brutal or eccentric, you gain favor.
“What’s Peeta’s approach? Or am I not allowed to ask?” I
say.
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“Likable. He has a sort of self-deprecating humor naturally,”
says Haymitch. “Whereas when you open your mouth, you
come across more as sullen and hostile.”
“I do not!” I say.
“Please. I don’t know where you pulled that cheery, wavy
girl on the chariot from, but I haven’t seen her before or
since,” says Haymitch.
“And you’ve given me so many reasons to be cheery,” I
counter.
“But you don’t have to please me. I’m not going to sponsor
you. So pretend I’m the audience,” says Haymitch. “Delight
me.”
“Fine!” I snarl. Haymitch takes the role of the interviewer
and I try to answer his questions in a winning fashion. But I
can’t. I’m too angry with Haymitch for what he said and that I
even have to answer the questions. All I can think is how unjust
the whole thing is, the Hunger Games. Why am I hopping
around like some trained dog trying to please people I hate?
The longer the interview goes on, the more my fury seems to
rise to the surface, until I’m literally spitting out answers at
him.
“All right, enough,” he says. “We’ve got to find another angle.
Not only are you hostile, I don’t know anything about you.
I’ve asked you fifty questions and still have no sense of your
life, your family, what you care about. They want to know
about you, Katniss.”
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“But I don’t want them to! They’re already taking my future!
They can’t have the things that mattered to me in the
past!” I say.
“Then lie! Make something up!” says Haymitch.
“I’m not good at lying,” I say.
“Well, you better learn fast. You’ve got about as much
charm as a dead slug,” says Haymitch.
Ouch. That hurts. Even Haymitch must know he’s been too
harsh because his voice softens. “Here’s an idea. Try acting
humble.”
“Humble,” I echo.
“That you can’t believe a little girl from District Twelve has
done this well. The whole thing’s been more than you ever
could have dreamed of. Talk about Cinna’s clothes. How nice
the people are. How the city amazes you. If you won’t talk
about yourself, at least compliment the audience. Just keep
turning it back around, all right. Gush.”
The next hours are agonizing. At once, it’s clear I cannot
gush. We try me playing cocky, but I just don’t have the arrogance.
Apparently, I’m too “vulnerable” for ferocity. I’m not witty.
Funny. Sexy. Or mysterious.
By the end of the session, I am no one at all. Haymitch
started drinking somewhere around witty, and a nasty edge
has crept into his voice. “I give up, sweetheart. Just answer the
questions and try not to let the audience see how openly you
despise them.”
I have dinner that night in my room, ordering an outrageous
number of delicacies, eating myself sick, and then tak119
ing out my anger at Haymitch, at the Hunger Games, at every
living being in the Capitol by smashing dishes around my
room. When the girl with the red hair comes in to turn down
my bed, her eyes widen at the mess. “Just leave it!” I yell at
her. “Just leave it alone!”
I hate her, too, with her knowing reproachful eyes that call
me a coward, a monster, a puppet of the Capitol, both now and
then. For her, justice must finally be happening. At least my
death will help pay for the life of the boy in the woods.
But instead of fleeing the room, the girl closes the door behind
her and goes to the bathroom. She comes back with a
damp cloth and wipes my face gently then cleans the blood
from a broken plate off my hands. Why is she doing this? Why
am I letting her?
“I should have tried to save you,” I whisper.
She shakes her head. Does this mean we were right to stand
by? That she has forgiven me?
“No, it was wrong,” I say.
She taps her lips with her fingers then points to my chest. I
think she means that I would just have ended up an Avox, too.
Probably would have. An Avox or dead.
I spend the next hour helping the redheaded girl clean the
room. When all the garbage has been dropped down a disposal
and the food cleaned away, she turns down my bed. I crawl
in between the sheets like a five-year-old and let her tuck me
in. Then she goes. I want her to stay until I fall asleep. To be
there when I wake up. I want the protection of this girl, even
though she never had mine.
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In the morning, it’s not the girl but my prep team who are
hanging over me. My lessons with Effie and Haymitch are
over. This day belongs to Cinna. He’s my last hope. Maybe he
can make me look so wonderful, no one will care what comes
out of my mouth.
The team works on me until late afternoon, turning my skin
to glowing satin, stenciling patterns on my arms, painting
flame designs on my twenty perfect nails. Then Venia goes to
work on my hair, weaving strands of red into a pattern that
begins at my left ear, wraps around my head, and then falls in
one braid down my right shoulder. They erase my face with a
layer of pale makeup and draw my features back out. Huge
dark eyes, full red lips, lashes that throw off bits of light when
I blink. Finally, they cover my entire body in a powder that
makes me shimmer in gold dust.
Then Cinna enters with what I assume is my dress, but I
can’t really see it because it’s covered. “Close your eyes,” he
orders.
I can feel the silken inside as they slip it down over my
naked body, then the weight. It must be forty pounds. I clutch
Octavia’s hand as I blindly step into my shoes, glad to find
they are at least two inches lower than the pair Effie had me
practice in. There’s some adjusting and fidgeting. Then silence.
“Can I open my eyes?” I ask.
“Yes,” says Cinna. “Open them.”
The creature standing before me in the full-length mirror
has come from another world. Where skin shimmers and eyes
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flash and apparently they make their clothes from jewels. Because
my dress, oh, my dress is entirely covered in reflective
precious gems, red and yellow and white with bits of blue that
accent the tips of the flame design. The slightest movement
gives the impression I am engulfed in tongues of fire.
I am not pretty. I am not beautiful. I am as radiant as the
sun.
For a while, we all just stare at me. “Oh, Cinna,” I finally
whisper. “Thank you.”
“Twirl for me,” he says. I hold out my arms and spin in a
circle. The prep team screams in admiration.
Cinna dismisses the team and has me move around in the
dress and shoes, which are infinitely more manageable than
Effie’s. The dress hangs in such a way that I don’t have to lift
the skirt when I walk, leaving me with one less thing to worry
about.
“So, all ready for the interview then?” asks Cinna. I can see
by his expression that he’s been talking to Haymitch. That he
knows how dreadful I am.
“I’m awful. Haymitch called me a dead slug. No matter what
we tried, I couldn’t do it. I just can’t be one of those people he
wants me to be,” I say.
Cinna thinks about this a moment. “Why don’t you just be
yourself?”
“Myself? That’s no good, either. Haymitch says I’m sullen
and hostile,” I say.
“Well, you are . . . around Haymitch,” says Cinna with a grin.
“I don’t find you so. The prep team adores you. You even won
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over the Gamemakers. And as for the citizens of the Capitol,
well, they can’t stop talking about you. No one can help but
admire your spirit.”
My spirit. This is a new thought. I’m not sure exactly what it
means, but it suggests I’m a fighter. In a sort of brave way. It’s
not as if I’m never friendly. Okay, maybe I don’t go around loving
everybody I meet, maybe my smiles are hard to come by,
but I do care for some people.
Cinna takes my icy hands in his warm ones. “Suppose, when
you answer the questions, you think you’re addressing a
friend back home. Who would your best friend be?” asks Cinna.
“Gale,” I say instantly. “Only it doesn’t make sense, Cinna. I
would never be telling Gale those things about me. He already
knows them.”
“What about me? Could you think of me as a friend?” asks
Cinna.
Of all the people I’ve met since I left home, Cinna is by far
my favorite. I liked him right off and he hasn’t disappointed
me yet. “I think so, but —”
“I’ll be sitting on the main platform with the other stylists.
You’ll be able to look right at me. When you’re asked a question,
find me, and answer it as honestly as possible,” says Cinna.
“Even if what I think is horrible?” I ask. Because it might be,
really.
“Especially if what you think is horrible,” says Cinna. “You’ll
try it?”
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I nod. It’s a plan. Or at least a straw to grasp at.
Too soon it’s time to go. The interviews take place on a
stage constructed in front of the Training Center. Once I leave
my room, it will be only minutes until I’m in front of the
crowd, the cameras, all of Panem.
As Cinna turns the doorknob, I stop his hand. “Cinna . . .” I’m
completely overcome with stage fright.
“Remember, they already love you,” he says gently. “Just be
yourself.”
We meet up with the rest of the District 12 crowd at the
elevator. Portia and her gang have been hard at work. Peeta
looks striking in a black suit with flame accents. While we look
well together, it’s a relief not to be dressed identically. Haymitch
and Effie are all fancied up for the occasion. I avoid
Haymitch, but accept Effie’s compliments. Effie can be tiresome
and clueless, but she’s not destructive like Haymitch.
When the elevator opens, the other tributes are being lined
up to take the stage. All twenty-four of us sit in a big arc
throughout the interviews. I’ll be last, or second to last since
the girl tribute precedes the boy from each district. How I
wish I could be first and get the whole thing out of the way!
Now I’ll have to listen to how witty, funny, humble, fierce, and
charming everybody else is before I go up. Plus, the audience
will start to get bored, just as the Gamemakers did. And I can’t
exactly shoot an arrow into the crowd to get their attention.
Right before we parade onto the stage, Haymitch comes up
behind Peeta and me and growls, “Remember, you’re still a
happy pair. So act like it.”
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What? I thought we abandoned that when Peeta asked for
separate coaching. But I guess that was a private, not a public
thing. Anyway, there’s not much chance for interaction now,
as we walk single-file to our seats and take our places.
Just stepping on the stage makes my breathing rapid and
shallow. I can feel my pulse pounding in my temples. It’s a relief
to get to my chair, because between the heels and my legs
shaking, I’m afraid I’ll trip. Although evening is falling, the City
Circle is brighter than a summer’s day. An elevated seating
unit has been set up for prestigious guests, with the stylists
commanding the front row. The cameras will turn to them
when the crowd is reacting to their handiwork. A large balcony
off a building to the right has been reserved for the Gamemakers.
Television crews have claimed most of the other balconies.
But the City Circle and the avenues that feed into it are
completely packed with people. Standing room only. At homes
and community halls around the country, every television set
is turned on. Every citizen of Panem is tuned in. There will be
no blackouts tonight.
Caesar Flickerman, the man who has hosted the interviews
for more than forty years, bounces onto the stage. It’s a little
scary because his appearance has been virtually unchanged
during all that time. Same face under a coating of pure white
makeup. Same hairstyle that he dyes a different color for each
Hunger Games. Same ceremonial suit, midnight blue dotted
with a thousand tiny electric bulbs that twinkle like stars.
They do surgery in the Capitol, to make people appear younger
and thinner. In District 12, looking old is something of an
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achievement since so many people die early. You see an elderly
person you want to congratulate them on their longevity,
ask the secret of survival. A plump person is envied because
they aren’t scraping by like the majority of us. But here it is
different. Wrinkles aren’t desirable. A round belly isn’t a sign
of success.
This year, Caesar’s hair is powder blue and his eyelids and
lips are coated in the same hue. He looks freakish but less
frightening than he did last year when his color was crimson
and he seemed to be bleeding. Caesar tells a few jokes to
warm up the audience but then gets down to business.
The girl tribute from District 1, looking provocative in a
see-through gold gown, steps up the center of the stage to join
Caesar for her interview. You can tell her mentor didn’t have
any trouble coming up with an angle for her. With that flowing
blonde hair, emerald green eyes, her body tall and lush . . .
she’s sexy all the way.
Each interview only lasts three minutes. Then a buzzer
goes off and the next tribute is up. I’ll say this for Caesar, he
really does his best to make the tributes shine. He’s friendly,
tries to set the nervous ones at ease, laughs at lame jokes, and
can turn a weak response into a memorable one by the way he
reacts.
I sit like a lady, the way Effie showed me, as the districts
slip by. 2, 3, 4. Everyone seems to be playing up some angle.
The monstrous boy from District 2 is a ruthless killing machine.
The fox-faced girl from District 5 sly and elusive. I spotted
Cinna as soon as he took his place, but even his presence
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cannot relax me. 8, 9, 10. The crippled boy from 10 is very
quiet. My palms are sweating like crazy, but the jeweled dress
isn’t absorbent and they skid right of if I try to dry them. 11.
Rue, who is dressed in a gossamer gown complete with
wings, flutters her way to Caesar. A hush falls over the crowd
at the sight of this magical wisp of a tribute. Caesar’s very
sweet with her, complimenting her seven in training, an excellent
score for one so small. When he asks her what her greatest
strength in the arena will be, she doesn’t hesitate. “I’m
very hard to catch,” she says in a tremulous voice. “And if they
can’t catch me, they can’t kill me. So don’t count me out.”
“I wouldn’t in a million years,” says Caesar encouragingly.
The boy tribute from District 11, Thresh, has the same dark
skin as Rue, but the resemblance stops there. He’s one of the
giants, probably six and a half feet tall and built like an ox, but
I noticed he rejected the invitations from the Career Tributes
to join their crowd. Instead he’s been very solitary, speaking
to no one, showing little interest in training. Even so, he
scored a ten and it’s not hard to imagine he impressed the
Gamemakers. He ignores Caesar’s attempts at banter and answers
with a yes or no or just remains silent.
If only I was his size, I could get away with sullen and hostile
and it would be just fine! I bet half the sponsors are at
least considering him. If I had any money, I’d bet on him myself.
And then they’re calling Katniss Everdeen, and I feel myself,
as if in a dream, standing and making my way center stage. I
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shake Caesar’s outstretched hand, and he has the good grace
not to immediately wipe his off on his suit.
“So, Katniss, the Capitol must be quite a change from District
Twelve. What’s impressed you most since you arrived
here?” asks Caesar.
What? What did he say? It’s as if the words make no sense.
My mouth has gone as dry as sawdust. I desperately find
Cinna in the crowd and lock eyes with him. I imagine the
words coming from his lips. “What’s impressed you most since
you arrived here?” I rack my brain for something that made
me happy here. Be honest, I think. Be honest.
“The lamb stew,” I get out.
Caesar laughs, and vaguely I realize some of the audience
has joined in.
“The one with the dried plums?” asks Caesar. I nod. “Oh, I
eat it by the bucketful.” He turns sideways to the audience in
horror, hand on his stomach. “It doesn’t show, does it?” They
shout reassurances to him and applaud. This is what I mean
about Caesar. He tries to help you out.
“Now, Katniss,” he says confidentially, “When you came out
in the opening ceremonies, my heart actually stopped. What
did you think of that costume?”
Cinna raises one eyebrow at me. Be honest. “You mean after
I got over my fear of being burned alive?” I ask.
Big laugh. A real one from the audience.
“Yes. Start then,” says Caesar.
Cinna, my friend, I should tell him anyway. “I thought Cinna
was brilliant and it was the most gorgeous costume I’d ever
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seen and I couldn’t believe I was wearing it. I can’t believe I’m
wearing this, either.” I lift up my skirt to spread it out. “I mean,
look at it!”
As the audience oohs and ahs, I see Cinna make the tiniest
circular motion with his finger. But I know what he’s saying.
Twirl for me.
I spin in a circle once and the reaction is immediate.
“Oh, do that again!” says Caesar, and so I lift up my arms
and spin around and around letting the skirt fly out, letting
the dress engulf me in flames. The audience breaks into
cheers. When I stop, I clutch Caesar’s arm.
“Don’t stop!” he says.
“I have to, I’m dizzy!” I’m also giggling, which I think I’ve
done maybe never in my lifetime. But the nerves and the
spinning have gotten to me.
Caesar wraps a protective arm around me. “Don’t worry,
I’ve got you. Can’t have you following in your mentor’s footsteps.”
Everyone’s hooting as the cameras find Haymitch, who is
by now famous for his head dive at the reaping, and he waves
them away good-naturedly and points back to me.
“It’s all right,” Caesar reassures the crowd. “She’s safe with
me. So, how about that training score. E-le-ven. Give us a hint
what happened in there.”
I glance at the Gamemakers on the balcony and bite my lip.
“Um . . . all I can say, is I think it was a first.”
The cameras are right on the Gamemakers, who are chuckling
and nodding.
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“You’re killing us,” says Caesar as if in actual pain. “Details.
Details.”
I address the balcony. “I’m not supposed to talk about it,
right?”
The Gamemaker who fell in the punch bowl shouts out,
“She’s not!”
“Thank you,” I say. “Sorry. My lips are sealed.”
“Let’s go back then, to the moment they called your sister’s
name at the reaping,” says Caesar. His mood is quieter now.
“And you volunteered. Can you tell us about her?”
No. No, not all of you. But maybe Cinna. I don’t think I’m
imagining the sadness on his face. “Her name’s Prim. She’s just
twelve. And I love her more than anything.”
You could hear a pin drop in the City Circle now.
“What did she say to you? After the reaping?” Caesar asks.
Be honest. Be honest. I swallow hard. “She asked me to try
really hard to win.” The audience is frozen, hanging on my
every word.
“And what did you say?” prompts Caesar gently.
But instead of warmth, I feel an icy rigidity take over my
body. My muscles tense as they do before a kill. When I speak,
my voice seems to have dropped an octave. “I swore I would.”
“I bet you did,” says Caesar, giving me a squeeze. The buzzer
goes off. “Sorry we’re out of time. Best of luck, Katniss
Everdeen, tribute from District Twelve.”
The applause continues long after I’m seated. I look to Cinna
for reassurance. He gives me a subtle thumbs-up.
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I’m still in a daze for the first part of Peeta’s interview. He
has the audience from the get-go, though; I can hear them
laughing, shouting out. He plays up the baker’s son thing,
comparing the tributes to the breads from their districts. Then
has a funny anecdote about the perils of the Capitol showers.
“Tell me, do I still smell like roses?” he asks Caesar, and then
there’s a whole run where they take turns sniffing each other
that brings down the house. I’m coming back into focus when
Caesar asks him if he has a girlfriend back home.
Peeta hesitates, then gives an unconvincing shake of his
head.
“Handsome lad like you. There must be some special girl.
Come on, what’s her name?” says Caesar.
Peeta sighs. “Well, there is this one girl. I’ve had a crush on
her ever since I can remember. But I’m pretty sure she didn’t
know I was alive until the reaping.”
Sounds of sympathy from the crowd. Unrequited love they
can relate to.
“She have another fellow?” asks Caesar.
“I don’t know, but a lot of boys like her,” says Peeta.
“So, here’s what you do. You win, you go home. She can’t
turn you down then, eh?” says Caesar encouragingly.
“I don’t think it’s going to work out. Winning . . . won’t help
in my case,” says Peeta.
“Why ever not?” says Caesar, mystified.
Peeta blushes beet red and stammers out. “Because . . . because
. . . she came here with me.”
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PART II
"THE GAMES"
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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
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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?”
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“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.”
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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.
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“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.
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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
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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 designteam’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
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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.”
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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
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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
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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,
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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 un144
dergarments, 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?”
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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
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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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Sixty seconds. That’s how long we’re required to stand on
our metal circles before the sound of a gong releases us. Step
off before the minute is up, and land mines blow your legs off.
Sixty seconds to take in the ring of tributes all equidistant
from the Cornucopia, a giant golden horn shaped like a cone
with a curved tail, the mouth of which is at least twenty feet
high, spilling over with the things that will give us life here in
the arena. Food, containers of water, weapons, medicine, garments,
fire starters. Strewn around the Cornucopia are other
supplies, their value decreasing the farther they are from the
horn. For instance, only a few steps from my feet lays a threefoot
square of plastic. Certainly it could be of some use in a
downpour. But there in the mouth, I can see a tent pack that
would protect from almost any sort of weather. If I had the
guts to go in and fight for it against the other twenty-three tributes.
Which I have been instructed not to do.
We’re on a flat, open stretch of ground. A plain of hardpacked
dirt. Behind the tributes across from me, I can see
nothing, indicating either a steep downward slope or even
cliff. To my right lies a lake. To my left and back, spars piney
woods. This is where Haymitch would want me to go. Immediately.
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I hear his instructions in my head. “Just clear out, put as
much distance as you can between yourselves and the others,
and find a source of water.”
But it’s tempting, so tempting, when I see the bounty waiting
there before me. And I know that if I don’t get it, someone
else will. That the Career Tributes who survive the bloodbath
will divide up most of these life-sustaining spoils. Something
catches my eye. There, resting on a mound of blanket rolls, is a
silver sheath of arrows and a bow, already strung, just waiting
to be engaged. That’s mine, I think. It’s meant for me.
I’m fast. I can sprint faster than any of the girls in our
school although a couple can beat me in distance races. But
this forty-yard length, this is what I am built for. I know I can
get it, I know I can reach it first, but then the question is how
quickly can I get out of there? By the time I’ve scrambled up
the packs and grabbed the weapons, others will have reached
the horn, and one or two I might be able to pick off, but say
there’s a dozen, at that close range, they could take me down
with the spears and the clubs. Or their own powerful fists.
Still, I won’t be the only target. I’m betting many of the other
tributes would pass up a smaller girl, even one who scored
an eleven in training, to take out their more fierce adversaries.
Haymitch has never seen me run. Maybe if he had he’d tell
me to go for it. Get the weapon. Since that’s the very weapon
that might be my salvation. And I only see one bow in that
whole pile. I know the minute must be almost up and will have
to decide what my strategy will be and I find myself positioning
my feet to run, not away into the stir rounding forests but
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toward the pile, toward the bow. When suddenly I notice Peeta,
he’s about five tributes to my right, quite a fair distance,
still I can tell he’s looking at me and I think he might be shaking
his head. But the sun’s in my eyes, and while I’m puzzling
over it the gong rings out.
And I’ve missed it! I’ve missed my chance! Because those
extra couple of seconds I’ve lost by not being ready are
enough to change my mind about going in. My feet shuffle for
a moment, confused at the direction my brain wants to take
and then I lunge forward, scoop up the sheet of plastic and a
loaf of bread. The pickings are so small and I’m so angry with
Peeta for distracting me that I sprint in twenty yards to retrieve
a bright orange backpack that could hold anything because
I can’t stand leaving with virtually nothing.
A boy, I think from District 9, reaches the pack at the same
time I do and for a brief time we grapple for it and then he
coughs, splattering my face with blood. I stagger back, repulsed
by the warm, sticky spray. Then the boy slips to the
ground. That’s when I see the knife in his back. Already other
tributes have reached the Cornucopia and are spreading out
to attack. Yes, the girl from District 2, ten yards away, running
toward me, one hand clutching a half-dozen knives. I’ve seen
her throw in training. She never misses. And I’m her next target.
All the general fear I’ve been feeling condenses into at immediate
fear of this girl, this predator who might kill me in
seconds. Adrenaline shoots through me and I sling the pack
over one shoulder and run full-speed for the woods. I can hear
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the blade whistling toward me and reflexively hike the pack
up to protect my head. The blade lodges in the pack. Both
straps on my shoulders now, I make for the trees. Somehow I
know the girl will not pursue me. That she’ll be drawn back into
the Cornucopia before all the good stuff is gone. A grin
crosses my face. Thanks for the knife, I think.
At the edge of the woods I turn for one instant to survey the
field. About a dozen or so tributes are hacking away at one
another at the horn. Several lie dead already on the ground.
Those who have taken flight are disappearing into the trees or
into the void opposite me. I continue running until the woods
have hidden me from the other tributes then slow into a
steady jog that I think I can maintain for a while. For the next
few hours, I alternate between jogging and walking, putting as
much distance as I can between myself and my competitors. I
lost my bread during the struggle with the boy from District 9
but managed to stuff my plastic in my sleeve so as I walk I fold
it neatly and tuck it into a pocket. I also free the knife — it’s a
fine one with a long sharp blade, serrated near the handle,
which will make it handy for sawing through things — and
slide it into my belt. I don’t dare stop to examine the contents
of the pack yet. I just keep moving, pausing only to check for
pursuers.
I can go a long time. I know that from my days in the
woods. But I will need water. That was Haymitch’s second instruction,
and since I sort of botched the first, I keep a sharp
eye out for any sign of it. No luck.
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The woods begin to evolve, and the pines are intermixed
with a variety of trees, some I recognize, some completely foreign
to me. At one point, I hear a noise and pull my knife,
thinking I may have to defend myself, but I’ve only startled a
rabbit. “Good to see you,” I whisper. If there’s one rabbit, there
could be hundreds just waiting to be snared.
The ground slopes down. I don’t particularly like this. Valleys
make me feel trapped. I want to be high, like in the hills
around District 12, where I can see my enemies approaching.
But I have no choice but to keep going.
Funny though, I don’t feel too bad. The days of gorging myself
have paid off. I’ve got staying power even though I’m
short on sleep. Being in the woods is rejuvenating. I’m glad for
the solitude, even though it’s an illusion, because I’m probably
on-screen right now. Not consistently but off and on. There
are so many deaths to show the first day that a tribute trekking
through the woods isn’t much to look at. But they’ll show
me enough to let people know I’m alive, uninjured and on the
move. One of the heaviest days of betting is the opening, when
the initial casualties come in. But that can’t compare to what
happens as the field shrinks to a handful of players.
It’s late afternoon when I begin to hear the cannons. Each
shot represents a dead tribute. The fighting must have finally
stopped at the Cornucopia. They never collect the bloodbath
bodies until the killers have dispersed. On the opening day,
they don’t even fire the cannons until the initial fighting’s over
because it’s too hard to keep track of the fatalities. I allow myself
to pause, panting, as I count the shots. One . . . two . . .
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three . . . on and on until they reach eleven. Eleven dead in all.
Thirteen left to play. My fingernails scrape at the dried blood
the boy from District 9 coughed into my face. He’s gone, certainly.
I wonder about Peeta. Has he lasted through the day?
I’ll know in a few hours. When they project the dead’s images
into the sky for the rest of us to see.
All of a sudden, I’m overwhelmed by the thought that Peeta
may be already lost, bled white, collected, and in the process
of being transported back to the Capitol to be cleaned up, redressed,
and shipped in a simple wooden box back to District
12. No longer here. Heading home. I try hard to remember if I
saw him once the action started. But the last image I can conjure
up is Peeta shaking his head as the gong rang out.
Maybe it’s better, if he’s gone already. He had no confidence
he could win. And I will not end up with the unpleasant task of
killing him. Maybe it’s better if he’s out of this for good.
I slump down next to my pack, exhausted. I need to go
through it anyway before night falls. See what I have to work
with. As I unhook the straps, I can feel it’s sturdily made although
a rather unfortunate color. This orange will practically
glow in the dark. I make a mental note to camouflage it first
thing tomorrow.
I flip open the flap. What I want most, right at this moment,
is water. Haymitch’s directive to immediately find water was
not arbitrary. I won’t last long without it. For a few days, I’ll be
able to function with unpleasant symptoms of dehydration,
but after that I'll deteriorate into helplessness and be dead in
a week, tops. I carefully lay out the provisions. One thin black
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sleeping bag that reflects body heal. A pack of crackers. A pack
of dried beef strips. A bottle of iodine. A box of wooden
matches. A small coil of wire. A pair of sunglasses. And a halfgallon
plastic bottle with a cap for carrying water that's bone
dry.
No water. How hard would it have been for them to fill up
the bottle? I become aware of the dryness in my throat and
mouth, the cracks in my lips. I've been moving all day long. It's
been hot and I've sweat a lot. I do this at home, but there are
always streams to drink from, or snow to melt if it should
come to it.
As I refill my pack I have an awful thought. The lake. The one
I saw while I was waiting for the gong to sound. What if that's
the only water source in the arena? That way they'll guarantee
drawing us in to fight. The lake is a full day's journey from
where I sit now, a much harder journey with nothing to drink.
And then, even if I reach it, it's sure to be heavily guarded by
some of the Career Tributes. I'm about to panic when I remember
the rabbit I startled earlier today. It has to drink, too.
I just have to find out where.
Twilight is closing in and I am ill at ease. The trees are too
thin to offer much concealment. The layer of pine needles that
muffles my footsteps also makes tracking animals harder
when I need their trails to find water. And I'm still heading
downhill, deeper and deeper into a valley that seems endless.
I’m hungry, too, but I don’t dare break into my precious
store of crackers and beef yet. Instead, I take my knife and go
to work on a pine tree, cutting away the outer bark and scrap154
ing off a large handful of the softer inner bark. I slowly chew
the stuff as I walk along. After a week of the finest food in the
world, it’s a little hard to choke down. But I’ve eaten plenty of
pine in my life. I’ll adjust quickly.
In another hour, it’s clear I’ve got to find a place to camp.
Night creatures are coming out. I can hear the occasional hoot
or howl, my first clue that I’ll be competing with natural predators
for the rabbits. As to whether I’ll be viewed as a source
of food, it’s too soon to tell. There could be any number of animals
stalking me at this moment.
But right now, I decide to make my fellow tributes a priority.
I’m sure many will continue hunting through the night.
Those who fought it out at the Cornucopia will have food, an
abundance of water from the lake, torches or flashlights, and
weapons they’re itching to use. I can only hope I’ve traveled
far and fast enough to be out of range.
Before settling down, I take my wire and set two twitch-up
snares in the brush. I know it’s risky to be setting traps, but
food will go so fast out here. And I can’t set snares on the run.
Still, I walk another five minutes before making camp.
I pick my tree carefully. A willow, not terribly tall but set in
a clump of other willows, offering concealment in those long,
flowing tresses. I climb up, sticking to the stronger branches
close to the trunk, and find a sturdy fork for my bed. It takes
some doing, but I arrange the sleeping bag in a relatively comfortable
manner. I place my backpack in the foot of the bag,
then slide in after it. As a precaution, I remove my belt, loop it
all the way around the branch and my sleeping bag, and refas155
ten it at my waist. Now if I roll over in my sleep, I won’t go
crashing to the ground. I’m small enough to tuck the top of the
bag over my head, but I put on my hood as well. As night falls,
the air is cooling quickly. Despite the risk I took in getting the
backpack, I know now it was the right choice. This sleeping
bag, radiating back and preserving my body heat, will be invaluable.
I’m sure there are several other tributes whose biggest
concern right now is how to stay warm whereas I may actually
be able to get a few hours of sleep. If only I wasn’t so thirsty
. . .
Night has just come when I hear the anthem that proceeds
the death recap. Through the branches I can see the seal of the
Capitol, which appears to be floating in the sky. I’m actually
viewing another screen, an enormous one that’s transported
by of one of their disappearing hovercraft. The anthem fades
out and the sky goes dark for a moment. At home, we would
be watching full coverage of each and every killing, but that’s
thought to give an unfair advantage to the living tributes. For
instance, if I got my hands on the bow and shot someone, my
secret would be revealed to all. No, here in the arena, all we
see are the same photographs they showed when they televised
our training scores. Simple head shots. But now instead
of scores they post only district numbers. I take a deep breath
as the face of the eleven dead tributes begin and tick them off
one by one on my fingers.
The first to appear is the girl from District 3. That means
that the Career Tributes from 1 and 2 have all survived. No
surprise there. Then the boy from 4. I didn’t expect that one,
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usually all the Careers make it through the first day. The boy
from District 5 . . . I guess the fox-faced girl made it. Both tributes
from 6 and 7. The boy from 8. Both from 9. Yes, there’s
the boy who I fought for the backpack. I’ve run through my
fingers, only one more dead tribute to go. Is it Peeta? No,
there’s the girl from District 10. That’s it. The Capitol seal is
back with a final musical flourish. Then darkness and the
sounds of the forest resume.
I’m relieved Peeta’s alive. I tell myself again that if I get
killed, his winning will benefit my mother and Prim the most.
This is what I tell myself to explain the conflicting emotions
that arise when I think of Peeta. The gratitude that he gave me
an edge by professing his love for me in the interview. The anger
at his superiority on the roof. The dread that we may come
face-to-face at any moment in this arena.
Eleven dead, but none from District 12. I try to work out
who is left. Five Career Tributes. Foxface. Thresh and Rue. Rue
. . . so she made it through the first day after all. I can’t help
feeling glad. That makes ten of us. The other three I’ll figure
out tomorrow. Now when it is dark, and I have traveled far,
and I am nestled high in this tree, now I must try and rest.
I haven’t really slept in two days, and then there’s been the
long day’s journey into the arena. Slowly, I allow my muscles
to relax. My eyes to close. The last thing I think is it’s lucky I
don’t snore. . . .
Snap! The sound of a breaking branch wakes me. How long
have I been asleep? Four hours? Five? The tip of my nose is icy
cold. Snap! Snap! What’s going on? This is not the sound of a
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branch under someone’s foot, but the sharp crack of one coming
from a tree. Snap! Snap! I judge it to be several hundred
yards to my right. Slowly, noiselessly, I turn myself in that direction.
For a few minutes, there’s nothing but blackness and
some scuffling. Then I see a spark and a small fire begins to
bloom. A pair of hands warms over flames, but I can’t make
out more than that.
I have to bite my lip not to scream every foul name I know
at the fire starter. What are they thinking? A fire I’ll just at
nightfall would have been one thing. Those who battled at the
Cornucopia, with their superior strength and surplus of supplies,
they couldn’t possibly have been near enough to spot
the flames then. But now, when they’ve probably been combing
the woods for hours looking for victims. You might as
well be waving a flag and shouting, “Come and get me!”
And here I am a stone’s throw from the biggest idiot in
the Games. Strapped in a tree. Not daring to flee since my
general location has just been broadcast to any killer who
cares. I mean, I know it’s cold out here and not everybody
has a sleeping bag. But then you grit your teeth and stick it
out until dawn!
I lay smoldering in my bag for the next couple of hours really
thinking that if I can get out of this tree, I won’t have the
least problem taking out my new neighbor. My instinct has
been to flee, not fight. But obviously this person’s a hazard.
Stupid people are dangerous. And this one probably doesn’t
have much in the way of weapons while I’ve got this excellent
knife.
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The sky is still dark, but I can feel the first signs of dawn
approaching. I’m beginning to think we — meaning the person
whose death I’m now devising and me — we might actually
have gone unnoticed. Then I hear it. Several pairs of feet
breaking into a run. The fire starter must have dozed off.
They’re on her before she can escape. I know it’s a girl now, I
can tell by the pleading, the agonized scream that follows.
Then there’s laughter and congratulations from several voices.
Someone cries out, “Twelve down and eleven to go!” which
gets a round of appreciative hoots.
So they’re fighting in a pack. I’m not really surprised. Often
alliances are formed in the early stages of the Games. The
strong band together to hunt down the weak then, when the
tension becomes too great, begin to turn on one another. I
don’t have to wonder too hard who has made this alliance. It’ll
be the remaining Career Tributes from Districts 1, 2, and 4.
Two boys and three girls. The ones who lunched together.
For a moment, I hear them checking the girl for supplies. I
can tell by their comments they’ve found nothing good. I wonder
if the victim is Rue but quickly dismiss the thought. She’s
much too bright to be building a fire like that.
“Better clear out so they can get the body before it starts
stinking.” I’m almost certain that’s the brutish boy from District
2. There are murmurs of assent and then, to my horror, I
hear the pack heading toward me. They do not know I’m here.
How could they? And I’m well concealed in the clump of trees.
At least while the sun stays down. Then my black sleeping bag
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will turn from camouflage to trouble. If they just keep moving,
they will pass me and be gone in a minute.
But the Careers stop in the clearing about ten yards from
my tree. They have flashlights, torches. I can see an arm here,
a boot there, through the breaks in the branches. I turn to
stone, not even daring to breathe. Have they spotted me? No,
not yet. I can tell from their words their minds are elsewhere.
“Shouldn’t we have heard a cannon by now?”
“I’d say yes. Nothing to prevent them from going in immediately.”
“Unless she isn’t dead.”
“She’s dead. I stuck her myself.”
“Then where’s the cannon?”
“Someone should go back. Make sure the job’s done.”
“Yeah, we don’t want to have to track her down twice.”
“I said she’s dead!”
An argument breaks out until one tribute silences the others.
“We’re wasting time! I’ll go finish her and let’s move on!”
I almost fall out of the tree. The voice belongs to Peeta.
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Thank goodness, I had the foresight to belt myself in. I’ve
rolled sideways off the fork and I’m facing the ground, held in
place by the belt, one hand, and my feet straddling the pack
inside my sleeping bag, braced against the trunk. There must
have been some rustling when I tipped sideways, but the Careers
have been too caught up in their own argument to catch
it.
“Go on, then, Lover Boy,” says the boy from District 2. “See
for yourself.”
I just get a glimpse of Peeta, lit by a torch, heading back to
the girl by the fire. His face is swollen with bruises, there’s a
bloody bandage on one arm, and from the sound of his gait
he’s limping somewhat. I remember him shaking him his head,
telling me not to go into the fight for the supplies, when all
along, all along he’d planned to throw himself into the thick of
things. Just the opposite of what Haymitch had mid him to do.
Okay, I can stomach that. Seeing all those supplies was
tempting. But this . . . this other thing. This teaming up with
the Career wolf pack to hunt down the rest of us. No one from
District 12 would think of doing such a thing! Career tributes
are overly vicious, arrogant, better fed, but only because
they’re the Capitol’s lapdogs.
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Universally, solidly hated by all but those from their own
districts. I can imagine the things they’re saying about him
back home now. And Peeta had the gall to talk to me about
disgrace?
Obviously, the noble boy on the rooftop was playing just
one more game with me. But this will be his last. I will eagerly
watch the night skies for signs of his death, if I don’t kill him
first myself.
The Career tributes are silent until he gets out of ear shot,
then use hushed voices.
“Why don’t we just kill him now and get it over with?”
“Let him tag along. What’s the harm? And he’s handy with
that knife.”
Is he? That’s news. What a lot of interesting things I’m
learning about my friend Peeta today.
“Besides, he’s our best chance of finding her.”
It takes me a moment to register that the “her” they’re referring
to is me.
“Why? You think she bought into that sappy romance
stuff?”
“She might have. Seemed pretty simpleminded to me. Every
time I think about her spinning around in that dress, I want to
puke.”
“Wish we knew how she got that eleven.”
“Bet you Lover Boy knows.”
The sound of Peeta returning silences them.
“Was she dead?” asks the boy from District 2.
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“No. But she is now,” says Peeta. Just then, the cannon fires.
“Ready to move on?”
The Career pack sets off at a run just as dawn begins to
break, and birdsong fills the air. I remain in my awkward position,
muscles trembling with exertion for a while longer, then
hoist myself back onto my branch. I need to get down, to get
going, but for a moment I lie there, digesting what I’ve heard.
Not only is Peeta with the Careers, he’s helping them find me.
The simpleminded girl who has to be taken seriously because
of her eleven. Because she can use a bow and arrow. Which
Peeta knows better than anyone.
But he hasn’t told them yet. Is he saving that information
because he knows it’s all that keeps him alive? Is he still pretending
to love me for the audience? What is going on in his
head?
Suddenly, the birds fall silent. Then one gives a highpitched
warning call. A single note. Just like the one Gale and I
heard when the redheaded Avox girl was caught. High above
the dying campfire a hovercraft materializes. A set of huge
metal teeth drops down. Slowly, gently, the dead tribute girl is
lifted into the hovercraft. Then it vanishes. The birds resume
their song.
“Move,” I whisper to myself. I wriggle out of my sleeping
bag, roll it up, and place it in the pack. I take a deep breath.
While I’ve been concealed by darkness and the sleeping bag
and the willow branches, it has probably been difficult for the
cameras to get a good shot of me. I know they must be track163
ing me now though. The minute I hit the ground, I’m guaranteed
a close-up.
The audience will have been beside themselves, knowing I
was in the tree, that I overheard the Careers talking, that I discovered
Peeta was with them. Until I work out exactly how I
want to play that, I’d better at least act on top of things. Not
perplexed. Certainly not confused or frightened.
No, I need to look one step ahead of the game.
So as I slide out of the foliage and into the dawn light, I
pause a second, giving the cameras time to lock on me. Then I
cock my head slightly to the side and give a knowing smile.
There! Let them figure out what that means!
I’m about to take off when I think of my snares. Maybe it’s
imprudent to check them with the others so close. But have to.
Too many years of hunting, I guess. And the lure of possible
meat. I’m rewarded with one fine rabbit. In no time, I’ve
cleaned and gutted the animal, leaving the head, feet, tail, skin,
and innards, under a pile of leaves. I’m wishing for a fire —
eating raw rabbit can give you rabbit fever, a lesson I learned
the hard way — when I think of the dead tribute. I hurry back
to her camp. Sure enough, the coals of her dying fire are still
hot. I cut up the rabbit, fashion a spit out of branches, and set
it over the coals.
I’m glad for the cameras now. I want sponsors to see I can
hunt, that I’m a good bet because I won’t be lured into traps as
easily as the others will by hunger. While the rabbit cooks, I
grind up part of a charred branch and set about camouflaging
my orange pack. The black tones it down, but I feel a layer of
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mud would definitely help. Of course, to have mud, I’d need
water . . .
I pull on my gear, grab my spit, kick some dirt over the
coals, and take off in the opposite direction the Careers went. I
eat half the rabbit as I go, then wrap up the leftovers in my
plastic for later. The meat stops the grumbling in my stomach
but does little to quench my thirst. Water is my top priority
now.
As I hike along, I feel certain I’m still holding the screen in
the Capitol, so I’m careful to continue to hide my emotions.
But what a good time Claudius Templesmith must be having
with his guest commentators, dissecting Peeta’s behavior, my
reaction. What to make of it all? Has Peeta revealed his true
colors? How does this affect the betting odds? Will we lose
sponsors? Do we even have sponsors? Yes, I feel certain we
do, or at least did.
Certainly Peeta has thrown a wrench into our star-crossed
lover dynamic. Or has he? Maybe, since he hasn’t spoken much
about me, we can still get some mileage out of it. Maybe
people will think it’s something we plotted together if I seem
like it amuses me now.
The sun rises in the sky and even through the canopy it
seems overly bright. I coat my lips in some grease from the
rabbit and try to keep from panting, but it’s no use. It’s only
been a day and I’m dehydrating fast. I try and think of everything
I know about finding water. It runs downhill, so, in fact,
continuing down into this valley isn’t a bad thing. If I could
just locate a game trail or spot a particularly green patch of
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vegetation, these might help me along, but nothing seems to
change. There’s just the slight gradual slope, the birds, the
sameness to the trees.
As the day wears on, I know I’m headed for trouble. What
little urine I’ve been able to pass is a dark brown, my head is
aching, and there’s a dry patch on my tongue that refuses to
moisten. The sun hurts my eyes so I dig out my sunglasses, but
when I put them on they do something funny to my vision, so I
just stuff them back in my pack.
It’s late afternoon when I think I’ve found help. I spot a
cluster of berry bushes and hurry to strip the fruit, to suck the
sweet juices from the skins. But just as I’m holding them to my
lips, I get a hard look at them. What I thought were blueberries
have a slightly different shape, and when I break one open
the insides are bloodred. I don’t recognize these berries, perhaps
they are edible, but I’m guessing this is some evil trick on
the part of the Gamemakers. Even the plant instructor in the
Training Center made a point of telling us to avoid berries unless
you were 100 percent sure they weren’t toxic. Something
I already knew, but I’m so thirsty it takes her reminder to give
me the strength to fling them away.
Fatigue is beginning to settle on me, but it’s not the usual
tiredness that follows a long hike. I have to stop and rest frequently,
although I know the only cure for what ails me requires
continued searching. I try a new tactic — climbing a
tree as high as I dare in my shaky state — to look for any signs
of water. But as far as I can see in any direction, there’s the
same unrelenting stretch of forest.
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Determined to go on until nightfall, I walk until I’m stumbling
over my own feet.
Exhausted, I haul myself up into a tree and belt myself in.
I’ve no appetite, but I suck on a rabbit bone just to give my
mouth something to do. Night falls, the anthem plays, and high
in the sky I see the picture of the girl, who was apparently
from District 8. The one Peeta went back to finish off.
My fear of the Career pack is minor compared to my burning
thirst. Besides, they were heading away from me and by
now they, too, will have to rest. With the scarcity of water,
they may even have had to return to the lake for refills.
Maybe, that is the only course for me as well.
Morning brings distress. My heads throbs with every beat
of my heart. Simple movements send stabs of pain through my
joints. I fall, rather than jump from the tree. It takes several
minutes for me to assemble my gear. Somewhere inside me, I
know this is wrong. I should be acting with more caution,
moving with more urgency. But my mind seems foggy and
forming a plan is hard. I lean back against the trunk of my
tree, one finger gingerly stroking the sandpaper surface of my
tongue, as I assess my options. How can I get water?
Return to the lake. No good. I’d never make it.
Hope for rain. There’s not a cloud in the sky.
Keep looking. Yes, this is my only chance. But then, another
thought hits me, and the surge of anger that follows brings me
to me senses.
Haymitch! He could send me water! Press a button and
have it delivered to me in a silver parachute in minutes. I
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know I must have sponsors, at least one or two who could afford
a pint of liquid for me. Yes, it’s pricey, but these people,
they’re made of money. And they’ll be betting on me as well.
Perhaps Haymitch doesn’t realize how deep my need is.
I say in a voice as loud as I dare. “Water.” I wait, hopefully,
for a parachute to descend from the sky. But nothing is forthcoming.
Something is wrong. Am I deluded about having sponsors?
Or has Peeta’s behavior made them all hang back? No, I don’t
believe it. There’s someone out there who wants to buy me
water only Haymitch is refusing to let it go through. As my
mentor, he gets to control the flow of gifts from the sponsors. I
know he hates me. He’s made that clear enough. But enough to
let me die? From this? He can’t do that, can he? If a mentor mistreats
his tributes, he’ll be held accountable by the viewers,
by the people back in District 12. Even Haymitch wouldn’t risk
that, would he? Say what you will about my fellow traders in
the Hob, but I don’t think they’d welcome him back there if he
let me die this way. And then where would he get his liquor?
So . . . what? Is he trying to make me suffer for defying him? Is
he directing all the sponsors toward Peeta? Is he just too
drunk to even notice what’s going on at the moment? Somehow
I don’t believe that and I don’t believe he’s trying to kill
me off by neglect, either. He has, in fact, in his own unpleasant
way, genuinely been trying to prepare me for this. Then what
is going on?
I bury my face in my hands. There’s no danger of tears now,
I couldn’t produce one to save my life. What is Haymitch
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doing? Despite my anger, hatred, and suspicions, a small voice
in the back of my head whispers an answer.
Maybe he’s sending you a message, it says. A message. Saying
what? Then I know. There’s only one good reason Haymitch
could be withholding water from me. Because he knows
I’ve almost found it.
I grit my teeth and pull myself to my feet. My backpack
seems to have tripled in weight. I find a broken branch that
will do for a walking stick and I start off. The sun’s beating
down, even more searing than the first two days. I feel like an
old piece of leather, drying and cracking in the heat. every
step is an effort, but I refuse to stop. I refuse to sit down. If I
sit, there’s a good chance I won’t be able to get up again, that I
won’t even remember my task.
What easy prey I am! Any tribute, even tiny Rue, could take
me right now, merely shove me over and kill me with my own
knife, and I’d have little strength to resist. But if anyone is in
my part of the woods, they ignore me. The truth is, I feel a million
miles from another living soul.
Not alone though. No, they’ve surely got a camera tracking
me now. I think back to the years of watching tributes starve,
freeze, bleed, and dehydrate to death. Unless there’s a really
good fight going on somewhere, I’m being featured.
My thoughts turn to Prim. It’s likely she won’t be watching
me live, but they’ll show updates at the school during lunch.
For her sake, I try to look as least desperate as I can.
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But by afternoon, I know the end is coming. My legs are
shaking and my heart too quick. I keep forgetting, exactly
what I’m doing. I’ve stumbled repeatedly and managed to regain
my feet, but when the stick slides out from under me, I finally
tumble to the ground unable to get up. I let my eyes
close.
I have misjudged Haymitch. He has no intention of helping
me at all.
This is all right, I think. This is not so bad here. The air is less
hot, signifying evening’s approach. There’s a slight, sweet
scent that reminds me of lilies. My fingers stroke the smooth
ground, sliding easily across the top. This is an okay place to
die, I think.
My fingertips make small swirling patterns in the cool,
slippery earth. I love mud, I think. How many times I’ve
tracked game with the help of its soft, readable surface. Good
for bee stings, too. Mud. Mud. Mud! My eyes fly open and I dig
my fingers into the earth. It is mud! My nose lifts in the air.
And those are lilies! Pond lilies!
I crawl now, through the mud, dragging myself toward the
scent. Five yards from where I fell, I crawl through a tangle of
plants into a pond. Floating on the top, yellow flowers in
bloom, are my beautiful lilies.
It’s all I can do not to plunge my face into the water and
gulp down as much as I can hold. But I have jus enough sense
left to abstain. With trembling hands, I get out my flask and fill
it with water. I add what I remember to be the right number of
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drops of iodine for purifying it. The half an hour of waiting is
agony, but I do it. At least,
I think it’s a half an hour, but it’s certainly as long as I can
stand.
Slowly, easy now, I tell myself. I take one swallow and make
myself wait. Then another. Over the next couple of hours, I
drink the entire half gallon. Then a second. I prepare another
before I retire to a tree where I continue sipping, eating rabbit,
and even indulge in one of my precious crackers. By the
time the anthem plays, I feel remarkably better. There are no
faces tonight, no tributes died today. Tomorrow I’ll stay here,
resting, camouflaging my backpack with mud, catching some
of those little fish I saw as I sipped, digging up the roots of the
pond lilies to make a nice meal. I snuggle down in my sleeping
bag, hanging on to my water bottle for dear life, which, of
course, it is.
A few hours later, the stampede of feet shakes me from
slumber. I look around in bewilderment. It’s not yet dawn, but
my stinging eyes can see it.
It would be hard to miss the wall of fire descending on me.
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My first impulse is to scramble from the tree, but I’m belted
in. Somehow my fumbling fingers release the buckle and I fall
to the ground in a heap, still snarled in my sleeping bag.
There’s no time for any kind of packing. Fortunately, my
backpack and water bottle are already in the bag. I shove in
the belt, hoist the bag over my shoulder, and flee.
The world has transformed to flame and smoke. Burning
branches crack from trees and fall in showers of sparks at my
feet. All I can do is follow the others, the rabbits and deer and I
even spot a wild dog pack shooting through the woods. I trust
their sense of direction because their instincts are sharper
than mine. But they are much faster, flying through the underbrush
so gracefully as my boots catch on roots and fallen
tree limbs, that there’s no way I can keep apace with them.
The heat is horrible, but worse than the heat is the smoke,
which threatens to suffocate me at any moment. I pull the top
of my shirt up over my nose, grateful to find it soaked in
sweat, and it offers a thin veil of protection. And I run, choking,
my bag banging against my back, my face cut with
branches that materialize from the gray haze without warning,
because I know I am supposed to run.
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This was no tribute’s campfire gone out of control, no accidental
occurrence. The flames that bear down on me have an
unnatural height, a uniformity that marks them as humanmade,
machine-made, Gamemaker-made. Things have been
too quiet today. No deaths, perhaps no fights at all. The audience
in the Capitol will be getting bored, claiming that these
Games are verging on dullness. This is the one thing the
Games must not do.
It’s not hard to follow the Gamemakers’ motivation. There
is the Career pack and then there are the rest of us, probably
spread far and thin across the arena. This fire is designed to
flush us out, to drive us together. It may not be the most original
device I’ve seen, but it’s very, very effective.
I hurdle over a burning log. Not high enough. The tail end of
my jacket catches on fire and I have to stop to rip it from my
body and stamp out the flames. But I don’t dare leave the
jacket, scorched and smoldering as it is, I take the risk of shoving
it in my sleeping bag, hoping the lack of air will quell what
I haven’t extinguished. This is all I have, what I carry on my
back, and it’s little enough to survive with.
In a matter of minutes, my throat and nose are burning. The
coughing begins soon after and my lungs begin to feel as if
they are actually being cooked. Discomfort turns to distress
until each breath sends a searing pain through my chest. I
manage to take cover under a stone outcropping just as the
vomiting begins, and I lose my meager supper and whatever
water has remained in my stomach. Crouching on my hands
and knees, I retch until there’s nothing left to come up.
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I know I need to keep moving, but I’m trembling and lightheaded
now, gasping for air. I allow myself about a spoonful of
water to rinse my mouth and spit then take a few swallows
from my bottle. You get one minute, I tell myself. One minute to
rest. I take the time to reorder my supplies, wad up the sleeping
bag, and messily stuff everything into the backpack. My
minute’s up. I know it’s time to move on, but the smoke has
clouded my thoughts. The swift-footed animals that were my
compass have left me behind. I know I haven’t been in this
part of the woods before, there were no sizable rocks like the
one I’m sheltering against on my earlier travels. Where are the
Gamemakers driving me? Back to the lake? To a whole new
terrain filled with new dangers? I had just found a few hours
of peace at the pond when this attack began. Would there be
any way I could travel parallel to the fire and work my way
back there, to a source of water at least? The wall of fire must
have an end and it won’t burn indefinitely. Not because the
Gamemakers couldn’t keep it fueled but because, again, that
would invite accusations of boredom from the audience. If I
could get back behind the fire line, I could avoid meeting up
with the Careers. I’ve just decided to try and loop back
around, although it will require miles of travel away from the
inferno and then a very circuitous route back, when the first
fireball blasts into the rock about two feet from my head. I
spring out from under my ledge, energized by renewed fear.
The game has taken a twist. The fire was just to get us moving,
now the audience will get to see some real fun. When I
hear the next hiss, I flatten on the ground, not taking time to
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look. The fireball hits a tree off to my left, engulfing it in
flames. To remain still is death. I’m barely on my feet before
the third ball hits the ground where I was lying, sending a pillar
of fire up behind me. Time loses meaning now as I frantically
try to dodge the attacks. I can’t see where they’re being
launched from, but it’s not a hovercraft. The angles are not extreme
enough. Probably this whole segment of the woods has
been armed with precision launchers that are concealed in
trees or rocks. Somewhere, in a cool and spotless room, a Gamemaker
sits at a set of controls, fingers on the triggers that
could end my life in a second. All that is needed is a direct hit.
Whatever vague plan I had conceived regarding returning
to my pond is wiped from my mind as I zigzag and dive and
leap to avoid the fireballs. Each one is only the size of an apple,
but packs tremendous power on contact. Every sense I
have goes into overdrive as the need to survive takes over.
There’s no time to judge if a move is the correct one. When
there’s a hiss, I act or die.
Something keeps me moving forward, though. A lifetime of
watching the Hunger Games lets me know that certain areas
of the arena are rigged for certain attacks. And that if I can just
get away from this section, I might be able to move out of
reach of the launchers. I might also then fall straight into a pit
of vipers, but I can’t worry about that now.
How long I scramble along dodging the fireballs I can’t say,
but the attacks finally begin to abate. Which is good, because
I’m retching again. This time it’s an acidic substance that
scalds my throat and makes its way into my nose as well. I’m
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forced to stop as my body convulses, trying desperately to rid
itself of the poisons I’ve been sucking in during the attack. I
wait for the next hiss, the next signal to bolt. It doesn’t come.
The force of the retching has squeezed tears out of my stinging
eyes. My clothes are drenched in sweat. Somehow,
through the smoke and vomit, I pick up the scent of singed
hair. My hand fumbles to my braid and finds a fireball has
seared off at least six inches of it. Strands of blackened hair
crumble in my fingers. I stare at them, fascinated by the transformation,
when the hissing registers.
My muscles react, only not fast enough this time. The fireball
crashes into the ground at my side, but not before it skids
across my right calf. Seeing my pants leg on fire sends me over
the edge. I twist and scuttle backward on my hands and feet,
shrieking, trying to remove myself from the horror. When I finally
regain enough sense, I roll the leg back and forth on the
ground, which stifles the worst of it. But then, without thinking,
I rip away the remaining fabric with my bare hands.
I sit on the ground, a few yards from the blaze set off by the
fireball. My calf is screaming, my hands covered in red welts.
I’m shaking too hard to move. If the Gamemakers want to
finish me off, now is the time.
I hear Cinna’s voice, carrying images of rich fabric and
sparkling gems. “Katniss, the girl who was on fire.” What a
good laugh the Gamemakers must be having over that one.
Perhaps, Cinna’s beautiful costumes have even brought on this
particular torture for me. I know he couldn’t have foreseen
this, must be hurting for me because, in fact, I believe he cares
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about me. But all in all, maybe showing up stark naked in that
chariot would have been safer for me.
The attack is now over. The Gamemakers don’t want me
dead. Not yet anyway. Everyone knows they could destroy us
all within seconds of the opening gong. The real sport of the
Hunger Games is watching the tributes kill one another. Every
so often, they do kill a tribute just to remind the players they
can. But mostly, they manipulate us into confronting one
another face-to-face. Which means, if I am no longer being
fired at, there is at least one other tribute close at hand.
I would drag myself into a tree and take cover now if I
could, but the smoke is still thick enough to kill me. I make
myself stand and begin to limp away from the wall of flames
that lights up the sky. It does not seem to be pursuing me any
longer, except with its stinking black clouds.
Another light, daylight, begins to softly emerge. Swirls of
smoke catch the sunbeams. My visibility is poor. I can see
maybe fifteen yards in any direction. A tribute could easily be
concealed from me here. I should draw my knife as a precaution,
but I doubt my ability to hold it for long. The pain in my
hands can in no way compete with that in my calf. I hate
burns, have always hated them, even a small one gotten from
pulling a pan of bread from the oven. It is the worst kind of
pain to me, but I have never experienced anything like this.
I’m so weary I don’t even notice I’m in the pool until I’m
ankle-deep. It’s spring-fed, bubbling up out of a crevice in
some rocks, and blissfully cool. I plunge my hands into the
shallow water and feel instant relief. Isn’t that what my moth177
er always says?

Jamiezz