The Hunger Games Part 1: The Tribute
Chapter 4
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
Peeta is trying to make a good impression on him, to be his favorite once the
Games begin. 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 . . .
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
dan delion 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
didn’t go more than twenty yards into the woods that day. Most of the time, I
perched up in the branches 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 doublechecked
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 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 rem edies. One day, I heard her singing.
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 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 rap ping 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.
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 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 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 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 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 window, 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.
Chapter 4
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
Peeta is trying to make a good impression on him, to be his favorite once the
Games begin. 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 . . .
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
dan delion 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
didn’t go more than twenty yards into the woods that day. Most of the time, I
perched up in the branches 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 doublechecked
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 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 rem edies. One day, I heard her singing.
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 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 rap ping 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.
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 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 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 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 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 window, 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.
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