The Hunger Games Part 1: The Tributes
Chapter 8
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
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, highscoring
tributes go 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.
“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.
“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.
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
the crying, has worn me out. I drift off, reprieved, relieved, and with the number
eleven still flash ing 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 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.”
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
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.
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?”
“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.”
Chapter 8
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
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, highscoring
tributes go 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.
“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.
“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.
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
the crying, has worn me out. I drift off, reprieved, relieved, and with the number
eleven still flash ing 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 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.”
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
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.
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?”
“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.”
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