Chapter Text
“I think we’ve found our replacement.”
I feel the air escape from my lungs the moment I hear the words Drusilla Sickle utters. Her voice sounded shrill and unpleasant, like a fingernail scraping across a blackboard.
Replacement… Who could it be? I see the tip of one of her fingernails lifting my boyfriend’s chin.
She’s talking about Haymitch, isn’t she? She wants to take him as a replacement. I lose my balance at the news that hits me. I struggle even harder to break free. The peacekeepers hold me back, preventing me from reaching them.
“Don’t take him—it wasn’t his fault!” It was my fault! I’m the one who should be punished!” I plead, struggling to break free from the Peacekeepers and run to where my boyfriend is. I look for some reaction from that heartless woman.
“Someone shoot that girl, please,” says Drusilla. A Peacekeeper standing nearby aims his rifle at me, while Drusilla snorts in exasperation. “Not here! There’s already too much blood to clean up. Can’t we find a more discreet spot?”
Should I be surprised by her reaction? After all, she’s from the capital. A woman from the capital who, long ago, let bitterness take hold of her. If she was ever a decent person to begin with. Not that people from the capital are decent.
As the soldier approaches me, I see a man in purple overalls step forward and grab him by the arm.
“Wait. If possible, Drusilla, I’d like to use the girl for a tearful farewell. The audience loves that sort of thing, as you always remind us; it’s a challenge to get them to pay attention to all 12 of us.”
A tearful farewell? Who does this guy think he is? Does he think I—or even Haymitch—would let them use our tears for entertainment? They’ve taken advantage of us enough already. If it’s up to me, they won’t get any farewell at all.
“All right, Plutarch. Never mind. Get these people to their feet. Get up! Get up, you district pigs!”
I’m led away little by little, while I watch Haymitch being pulled to his feet, still facing Drusilla.
“Behave yourself, or I’ll shoot you myself,” I hear her say to him, in the same calm voice as before.
“Haymitch!” I shout my boyfriend’s name.
I notice his gaze turn toward me, but before he can respond, Drusilla cups his face between her long fingers.
“And she can keep watching,” she says, without even addressing me. Then I see her hesitate for a second, perhaps reflecting—not that I believe she actually thinks. “I’ve changed my mind.”
Plutarch, still standing and looking at her, asks what exactly she’s changed her mind about.
“What were the tributes’ names? Keep it brief.”
“Wyatt Callow is the only tribute still alive. Maysilee Donner, the blonde. Louella McCoy, the one with the braids.” He states this matter-of-factly.
Drusilla scans the terrified audience. On stage, the surviving tributes, the peacekeepers carrying Woodbine Chance’s lifeless body and moving him away from his weeping mother—and then her gaze settles on… me?
“The youngest one, Loula; put her in that rebel’s place. You’re right, Plutarch, we need to capture the audience’s attention, and nothing is more effectively tragic than bringing together two star-crossed lovers during the quarterly massacre.”
“Replace Louella?” I whisper, as I turn to the girl cowering like a frightened dog. Then reality hits me. I’m going to take Louella’s place, and Haymitch will take Woodbine Chance’s. I’m going to the Games, and he’s going with me for my sake. My eyes, frozen, follow Plutarch as he nods to a crew member.
“Please keep a camera focused on the two of us when you announce us, Cassia,” he tells Drusilla. “You know, we have footage of the Peacekeepers controlling the crowd.” That could serve as an opportunity to use the 'No Peacekeepers, no peace” argument.
“I don’t have time, Plutarch! I barely have time to maintain the bare minimum of the status quo! Take Loula off and put this other girl in her place. Put the first boy on screen, too. That way, I’ll call all three of them.” She sighs. “Perfect! I’ll call all three of them.”
“It’ll take another minute.”
“Then, without delay.” She points at Haymitch. “What’s your name”
“Haymitch Abernathy.”
“Haymitch Abernarry.”
“Abernathy.”
She ignores his correction and turns to me.
“And your name?”
“Lenore Dove Baird.” The very sound of my name seems strangely out of place.
“Too long,” she says, irritated. “Lenore Baird, Wyatt Callow, and Haymitch… Aber… Nathy.”
“You’re quite the professional,” says Plutarch. “You’d better get back to your post. I’ll put the boy in his place. Brier, take the girl.”
Brier grabs my arm firmly, acting as a peacemaker, and, at that very moment, leads me back to the main arena. He almost pushes me toward the area where there are still girls, though far fewer than before, since many have been forced to leave the space. As I turn my head, I notice Plutarch leaning in to whisper in Haymitch’s ear; I frown at the sight.
“Thirty to go,” someone announces over the loudspeakers.
"Twenty-nine, twenty-eight, twenty-seven..."
“Shut up!” Drusilla shouts at the audience, while a makeup artist dusts powder onto her sweat-drenched face. “Shut up, or we’ll kill every single one of you!”
I swallow hard and look around; there’s a commotion in the square.
As if to underscore this, a Peacekeeper standing next to her fires a burst of shots into the air, and a hovercraft tears through the sky right above the square.
Or, at least, it was tearing through...
Silence falls abruptly, and my heart races; the roar is so intense it feels like it’s blocking my ears.
A sudden urge to run to Haymitch takes hold of me, so we can flee together—different from Woodbine, but similar enough. Soon, however, the image of his brain matter oozing from his skull as I help my mother tend to his body comes to mind.
"...ten, nine, eight..."
I see Louella being carried away from the square, along with many others covered in blood or overcome by panic.
Everyone on stage has returned to the positions they held before the shot was fired: the Peacekeepers and Drusilla, who hastily tears the note Plutarch handed her into two pieces and places it in the pile inside the glass globe.
Holding the hem of my dress tightly to keep me from moving, I notice the few girls remaining in that area, who are keeping a cautious distance from me.
“...three, two, one, and we’re live.”
Drusilla pretends to shuffle names she has already memorized.
“First, the ladies,” says Drusilla, repeating her usual line, and pulls out a single strip of paper. “And the lucky winner is… Lenore Dove Baird!”
And there’s my name. I take a deep breath as I see Drusilla staring intently at me. They said there’s no room for error. I walk toward the stage, step by step, and quickly climb up onto it.
“And in second place this year—also the ladies! Joining Lenore is…” Drusilla pretends to pull the strips of paper out of the globe, and another piece of paper falls out. “Maysilee Donner!”
Maysilee repeats her usual gesture: she adjusts her dress and walks onto the stage with her nose in the air.
“And the first gentleman to accompany the ladies is… Wyatt Callow!”
From the stage, I see a familiar and unsettling scene: Wyatt obediently makes his way to his seat, just as before. This repetition fills me with a bitter sense of déjà vu.
Before Drusilla’s performance, my gaze turns to Haymitch, who is standing next to my cousin Burdock Everdeen. Budie’s face is stiff as he seems to support my boyfriend, who appears deeply distant. He will be chosen this year—not on his own merits, but because of me.
“And the second boy chosen will be Haymitch Abernathy.” My gaze remains fixed on him; he doesn’t seem to have realized that Drusilla just called his name. Or maybe he heard it perfectly well but isn’t showing any reaction. “Haymitch?”
She repeats the announcement, and I don’t look back to confirm whether she’s looking at Haymitch.
He steps onto the stage and stands next to Wyatt. Each of us stands at one end: Maysilee and Wyatt are between us. I look up and see a screen zooming in on each of their faces. Maysilee looks serious, Wyatt is impassive, and Haymitch is completely bewildered. For a moment, it all comes crashing down on me like an avalanche, and I feel like crying. As I look at Haymitch and his face, I just want to let the tears flow.
“Ladies and gentlemen, let’s welcome the tributes from District 12 to the 50th edition of the Hunger Games!” Drusilla points at us. “And may the odds ALWAYS be in your favor!”
She begins to clap, and through the loudspeakers, I hear a huge roar from the audience, even though I can’t see anyone applauding. No one from the Seams District, no one from the city, not even the bettors are doing so. The square is silent.
My gaze meets Haymitch’s, and despair begins to set in. For a moment, everything around us disappears, and it’s just the two of us. I notice he’s reaching for the flint lighter, and I simply nod in agreement, understanding the message.
Fireworks shatter the moment. A shower of confetti covers me, the stage, the entire square. I lose sight of Haymitch amid the little pieces of colored paper. Drusilla throws her arms wide in jubilation.
"Happy Second Quaternary Massacre, everyone!”
“And cut,” says the voice over the loudspeaker.
The broadcast switches to the District 11 reaping. The recorded applause fades out, and Drusilla lets out a grunt and leans dramatically against the podium.
The Capitol TV crew lets out a loud cheer as Plutarch appears at the side of the stage, shouting:
“Brilliant! Bravo, everyone! That was simply perfect.”
Drusilla regains her composure and rips the daffodil hat off by the strap holding it under her chin.
“I have no idea how I managed to pull that off.” She pulls a pack of cigarettes from her boot and lights one, exhaling smoke through her nose as if it were a chimney. “Well, it’s a great story to tell at dinner parties!”
I feel sick. A dinner-party story? That’s what we are to her, after all. Not just that, but scum. The smell of cigarette smoke bothers me deeply, and I bet his breath is unbearable. I shift slightly to the side to get a better view of the square and the stage.
One of the assistants appears with a tray of glasses filled with a pale yellow liquid. Without meaning to, he offers one to Haymitch—“Champagne?”—before realizing his mistake.
“Oops! Not for the kids!”
Drusilla takes a glass and notices the people from District 12 standing there, silent and miserable, as the last bits of confetti fall.
“Well, what are you staring at? Filthy animals. Go home! All of you!” She turns to a Peacekeeper. “Get these people out of here before the smell gets stuck in my hair.” She sniffs a strand of hair and grimaces. "Too late."
The Peacekeeper gives a signal, and the soldiers begin pushing the crowd back. As I watch Burdock resisting, most of the people make their way down the side streets, relieved to have escaped the ordeal of the harvest and to be able to return home and hug their children. I try to spot my uncles in the commotion and find them right away. Clerk Carmine and Tam Amber are still in the square, standing still, staring at me. They show no outward reaction, but I know what’s going through their minds.
As I look around, I notice that most of the people still in the square are the parents of this year’s tributes.
Mr. Donner rushes to the stage holding a wad of cash, in an attempt to buy Maysilee’s freedom. This effort seems futile to me—didn’t he notice the commotion behind the cameras? If he’d intended to act, he could have taken advantage of my selection as Louella’s replacement to try to save Maysilee.
I hear Maysilee screaming at her father to stop, while voices from her family—including Wyatt’s—rise in an argument.
My eyes are drawn to the shouts of a familiar voice—Sid, Haymitch’s little brother.
“Haymitch! Haymitch!”
Next to Sid, I spot Willamae Abernathy. She probably hates me now, since I brought bad luck to her firstborn. And further back, coming toward me, are my aunt and uncle: Clerk Carmine and Tam Amber.
They raised me as if I were their own daughter, got me out of countless scrapes, and they know they won’t be able to save me this time. Clerk Carmine stops in front of me—even shorter because of the stage—and I drop to my knees, hugging him tightly. It was over in a matter of seconds. I see Tam Amber rummaging through her pockets for something, pulling out a gold brooch. She places it in my hand immediately.
“No way!” Drusilla shouts, and a peacekeeper yanks me from my uncle’s arms. “No goodbyes for these people. They lost that privilege after today’s absurd behavior. Take them all to the train, and let’s get out of this hole.”
I notice two peacekeepers pushing Mr. Donner off the stage; as he falls, the bills slip from his hands. My uncles had already moved away from the stage—at least that much. The Peacekeepers produced handcuffs, and soon I see them putting them on each of us.
“Not to interrupt, Drusilla, but I’m running low on footage of the families’ reactions for the recap. Can I film a few?”
“If it’s really necessary. But if you’re not on the train in fifteen minutes, you’ll have to walk home,” says Drusilla.
“I owe you one.” Plutarch takes a quick look at the families and points at me and Haymitch. “Leave these two alone.”
The Peacekeepers take Maysilee and Wyatt to the Justice Building and beat their relatives with batons when they try to follow. They try to follow Merrilee, who walks past them, and for a moment, the Donner twins become one, their arms around each other’s necks, foreheads and noses touching. A mirror image that the Peacekeepers tear in two. I see Wyatt cast one last glance at the hysterical woman from the Callow family before walking through the door.
I see Haymitch run to his mother, and I head toward my uncles, but Plutarch steps in between us.
“Let’s do the recording.”
The crew sweeps up the confetti in front of the shops. A camera takes its position while Plutarch tries to organize Clerk Carmine and Tam Amber in front of the bakery.
“Great,” he says. “Very good. Now, I need you to react exactly as you did when you heard Lenore’s name. On three, two, one, action.”
Tam Amber shows no reaction, and Clerk Carmine merely lets out a mechanical sigh.
“Cut!” Plutarch approaches the Bairds. “Sorry. Obviously, I wasn’t clear. When you heard Drusilla call out Lenore’s name, it was a huge shock, right? ‘Oh, no! Not her!’ You were left breathless or shouted her name. Well, you did something. And now I need you to repeat the scene in front of the cameras. Is that okay?”
I don’t notice any change in their expressions. I chuckled at Plutarch’s reaction when he realized that.
“Take the girl to the train.”
The Peacekeepers begin to escort me toward the Justice Building:
“Lenore Dove!” I hear my uncle Clerk Carmine shout. I notice that Plutarch has signaled the crew to record that moment. "Remember: nothing they can take from you is worth keeping."
No one seems to understand the situation, and to them I just look lost in thought; as he leads me toward the vehicle, I turn and see him smile before he leaves with Uncle Tam Amber.
I’m led along with the others. As I board the train, they remove my handcuffs. The interior is extremely colorful; I notice this as soon as I walk through the door. I walk down the aisle to another car, where I settle into an empty seat across from Wyatt and Maysilee. We sit there in silence, each of us reflecting on what we risk losing in these games.
I let go of my hand and realize I’m still holding the medallion; I’d gripped it so tightly that it left a mark on my skin. As I look at it more closely, I see that the medallion depicts a raven. It has intricate details and is truly beautiful. There’s no doubt that Uncle Tam Amber made it for me. I pin it to my dress.
In a few minutes, I watch the train pull away, but Haymitch doesn’t show up. Maysilee follows my gaze and seems to understand what I mean. I turn my gaze to Drusilla, who is standing farther away from us, and when I finally work up the courage to speak after a few long minutes, I hear Maysilee sigh and ask about me.
“Where could Haymitch be?”
She answers without even looking at us.
“He must be in the last car.”
I feel uneasy. Isn’t the last car usually the coal car? I look out the window and notice a storm approaching. How long are they going to leave him there?
It’s been quite a while. The storm has arrived; now only a few raindrops are trickling down the glass. The trees seem to have been there too long, making me more and more anxious with every passing minute. I rest my head on the table, using my arms as a pillow; I stay like this until he shows up.
Voices mingle in the background, and the loudest is Drusilla’s. It was a mix of complaint and self-adulation. She’s an unabashed narcissist.
I don’t notice Maysilee or Wyatt; just Drusilla, a few staff members whose names I don’t know, and Plutarch.
The seat next to me sinks, and I feel my hair being tucked behind my ear.
“Lenore Dove?” I lift my head immediately, meeting Haymitch’s gray gaze. He looks exhausted, which comes as no surprise.
“Darling,” I throw myself into his arms, hugging him tightly. He returns the hug instinctively. “Forgive me—I shouldn’t have dragged you into this.”
“Neither should you,” he replies, running his hand over my cheek. “No one should be here.”
“Of course not,” I nod, kissing his lips quickly. “I’m sorry it had to be on your birthday.”
He lets out a quiet laugh, kissing my cheek in response.
“If it were going to happen, it would be on my birthday.” I know he’s referring to our conversation this morning about the lack of harvests on his birthday. I feel even worse, and he notices; that’s why he takes my hand and caresses it gently. “I love you like all-fire."
“I love you like all-fire too.”
I notice him looking around. Oh, right. He wasn’t here before. I follow his gaze: first to Maysilee, who’s now looking out the train window, her fingers intertwined with the many necklaces. And then to… Plutarch.
Plutarch enters the car accompanied by an official from the capital, who is carrying a tray piled high with sandwiches. Each one has so much meat it would be worth a day’s wages.
The official holds the tray out to me, and I hesitate for a moment. I’m not hungry—the situation I’m in has taken away my appetite—but I’ve never eaten this kind of meat. Of course, we in the group hunt and fish, but it’s different.
“Is there a problem, miss?”
I stiffen beside Haymitch, who squeezes my hand as if I need support. Before he can take the sandwiches for both of us and answer for me, Maysilee says:
“Of course there’s a problem!” Do you expect her to eat with just her hands? Or don’t you have plates and silverware here in the Capitol?
I know she spoke up for me, but for now, it sounds strange. Most of the time, you eat a sandwich with your hands.
The employee blushes with embarrassment and answers hesitantly.
The server turns to Plutarch, visibly shaken.
“Can they use napkins?”
“Of course. They’re our guests, Tibby,” Plutarch replies calmly. “I need to check something in the kitchen. Let’s see if we can find some plates, too. Excuse me."
When the door closes, I hear Haymitch laugh, followed by a “Shut up” from Maysilee.
“Listen, Lenore Dove, if you let them treat you like an animal, that’s how they’ll act. So don’t let them.”
I refuse to let them treat me like an animal, and she knows that very well. That phrase applies to anyone, not just me, and that’s why it irritates me.
“I won’t let them,” I reply, narrowing my eyes; she returns the gesture. Then she laughs, and I realize she’s remembered what I did—the graffiti with the message:
NO CAPITAL, NO HANGING TREE!
NO CAPITAL, NO REAPING!
It’s a play on the slogans: NO PEACE, NO BREAD! NO PEACE, NO SECURITY! NO PEACEMAKERS, NO PEACE! NO CAPITAL, NO PEACE!
Maysilee figured out it was me because the paint was orange, and some had gotten under my fingernails.
“It’s okay,” says Maysilee. “You don’t need my help.”
And then the subject died there, or at least that’s what I hope. Silence settled in once more until the sound of a key clicking in the lock, when Tibby walked in pushing a cart loaded with dinner supplies. Everything there seemed to be made of plastic: the cart, the benches, the cutlery, the glasses, the plates. I imagine it must be easier to clean. Or maybe it’s safer, so no tribute commits suicide before the harvest.
“I checked. And there’s a surprise for dessert,” Plutarch teases from the doorway.
Without a doubt, this day needed a little more excitement than it had been showing so far. I let out a sigh and rest my head on Haymitch’s shoulder; he shifts to make more room for me.
Tibby stops in front of us.
“What can I get you? The options are chicken, ham, and roast beef.”
I whisper something to Haymitch, who repeats it aloud.
“Chicken for her.”
“Are you sure you don’t want to try the roast beef too? The chef uses a marinade that makes the meat really special,” Tibby asks.
“Go ahead,” Haymitch replies, pointing to a tray that appears with a chicken sandwich and a roast beef sandwich in front of me. Next to them are cutlery, napkins, and a bottle of lemonade. “I’ll have one of each.”
Then they move on to let Maysilee and Wyatt choose what they want.
I lift my head off Haymitch’s shoulder and start eating. The flavor explodes in my mouth; it’s really good. I hadn’t realized how hungry I was until I started eating. When I finish eating, I notice that only Maysilee is left to finish. I sip the lemonade slowly, observing and pondering what’s going on around me.
The food gave me a little boost, so I start to let my mind wander, and the first thing that comes to mind is Clerk Carmine and a line from the song.
That’s right, the only winner from District 12 that no one remembers is a Covey girl. Her last name is Baird. Her name is Lucy Gray.
She won the Hunger Games; she was the first to claim victory. Tam Amber witnessed that when she was younger—after all, they were close friends. Clerk Carmine also watched the event; he was still a child at the time, and he, too, stayed in touch with her. No one knows exactly how she managed to win. But there’s no doubt she won, and then, as if carried away by the wind, she disappeared.
A Baird has triumphed before, so why couldn’t I? I think to myself, surveying my surroundings. The competition isn’t that formidable. Compared to Wyatt and Maysilee, I know how to hunt and identify plants. I have Burdie to thank for that. He’s always had a passion for hunting and an almost supernatural appreciation for plants and flowers. I also know how to swim, which gives me an edge over many, and on top of that, I can climb. Yes, the competition seems weak when I consider my strengths.
My eyes turn to Haymitch, who kisses me on the cheek before resting his head on my shoulder. This isn’t good. Haymitch is my boyfriend and he’s here because of me; I couldn’t bear the thought of him not coming back alive. He has Sid, and Willamae needs him. What a mess I’ve gotten myself into…
Besides, Lucy Gray had a captivating voice; she drew everyone’s attention. I’m far too shy for something like this. I don’t even introduce myself in public, so how am I supposed to draw attention to myself without feeling humiliated? To others, I seem withdrawn and quiet; it’s often my uncles, Burdie or Haymitch, who speak for me. Only when I’m alone do I become more outgoing and expressive. That poses a considerable problem.
When we finish dinner, Plutarch reappears and invites us to accompany him to the last sleeper car. As we walk down the aisle, I notice that Peacekeepers are stationed at every possible exit. Not that I’d ever consider jumping off a moving train.
At the end of the train there’s an area set up like a living room. The plastic-covered furniture is softer and stickier than the seats in our compartment. Capital News is playing on a screen built into the wall, and the recap of the day’s harvest has already begun by the time we settle in.
“I spent the whole afternoon working on the District 12 segment,” says Plutarch. “I gave it the old Heavensbee touch. The four of you are coming across great.”
Drusilla walks through the door, holding a tall glass filled with a red drink garnished with greens. The front of her yellow military jacket, now unbuttoned, gapes open, revealing her undergarments.
Plutarch offers her a chair.
“I saved the best seat for you.”
She plops down in the seat, pulls a celery stalk from the drink, and takes a bite.
“How old did I look today, Plutarch?”
“Not a day over thirty,” Plutarch assures her. “Everyone commented on it.”
Plutarch must need to flatter this woman to the point of losing his dignity just to stay in one piece, because, honestly, that’s not normal. Not even natural. And it’s certainly not pretty. Her face is scary—it looks like it was made specifically to frighten people.
“Well, you get what you pay for,” she says, carefully poking her cheek with the celery stalk, then points at the screen and laughs. “Ha! Look at Juvenia! Miss Perfect was roasting under the sun. She looks awful, don’t you think?”
Juvenia, a tiny woman wearing fifteen-centimeter heels and pink polka-dot clothes, begins calling out the names from District 1. The program continues, and all the tributes are shown. Besides us, forty-four young people were selected today—twenty-two girls, twenty-two boys—of all shapes and sizes. As always, the tributes from Districts 1, 2, and 4 live up to their nickname, “Careerists”—which means they look like they’ve been training for the Hunger Games since birth.
Here and there, luck has chosen a few other muscular ones, but there are plenty of skinny ones to balance it out. On the spectrum between muscular and skinny, I’m doing okay, I suppose. There are plenty of girls much taller than me, but I’m neither short nor too skinny. I glance quickly at Haymitch. He’s doing well, too, since he’s hauling big sacks of grain for Hattie. Haymitch is practically her pack mule. He’s strong, no doubt about it.
When a stocky boy steps onto the stage from District 11, Drusilla states the obvious:
“I hope you’re good runners.”
She doesn’t even say it in a cruel way, which makes it all the more frightening.
All right, I run fast. And Haymitch is the second fastest in District 12, after Woodbine… No. He’s the fastest in District 12. I correct myself.
“Factors other than size matter.” Intelligence, skill, strategy. And never count out luck,” Plutarch remarks. “Your mentors will guide you through all of this.”
Our mentors are our protectors in the Hunger Games. Except that the tributes from District 12 don’t have automatic mentors—none at all—because we’re the only district without any living victors, and that role traditionally belongs to them.
The only District 12 winner in the past fifty years was Lucy Gray Baird. But we don’t know if she’s alive or dead. She’s a mystery, just like the poem itself. The Coveys don’t know where she is, the Capitol doesn’t even know who she is, and the districts don’t even remember her anymore.
“Who are our mentors, anyway?” Haymitch asks.
“They’re still being selected from among the victors who aren’t assigned to supervise the tributes from their own districts,” Plutarch explains. “Don’t worry—we’ve got some very talented candidates there.”
Depending on which mentor is assigned to us, it could be a good thing. If it’s someone truly honest, maybe we’ll have a chance. But if he thinks like the others… we won’t stand a chance. That’s why we need them. We need mentors to secure sponsorships, get advice, and, most importantly, have someone who knows how to survive those Games.
Drusilla suddenly gasps.
“The daylight is killing me.”
The scene cuts to District 12, to the moment the raven cawed for the first time.
“And yet, you’re glowing,” Plutarch assures her.
I watch, at once fascinated and nauseated by the seamless transition between Maysilee’s drawing, mine, Wyatt’s, and Haymitch’s. There’s not the slightest sign of the shot that hit Woodbine, nor of the chaos that followed.
And there’s my name. There I am. And there are my uncles, solemn, as Uncle Clerk Carmine’s voice addresses me.
Then the image shifts.
Sid appears, crying, and Willamae, in utter despair.
“That’s not what happened,” Haymitch protests.
“The footage wasn’t altered… there wasn’t time to do that properly,” says Plutarch. “I just shuffled the cards a little to help you guys.”
“In other words, he stacked the deck in our favor. He dealt the hands to give us an advantage.”
Plutarch smiles at him. “Exactly!”
None of us shows any reaction.
“So, could that be considered cheating?” I ask.
I know it isn’t, but I want to hear Plutarch’s explanation. He’s confusing me. It’s intriguing, actually.
“It is and it isn’t,” says Plutarch. “Look, we have to sell you to the sponsors. If I showed the public what really happened… that boy’s head being blown off, the crowd having to be controlled, Haymitch attacking the Peacekeepers…”
“I didn’t attack anyone,” Haymitch protests. “They attacked my girl, and I had to act.”
I smile at his words, and smile even more when he emphasizes them, wrapping his arm around my shoulders and pulling me closer.
“It amounts to the same thing,” says Drusilla. “You’re not allowed to interfere with our Peacekeepers’ actions.”
I swallow hard as soon as she says that, feeling anger rise all at once. I start to tremble, and Haymitch must notice, because he tightens his arm around me, pulling me closer. I don’t know where I find the courage to stand up to her, but before I can think it through, I retort:
“When…” my voice came out shaky, but I continued anyway “When your Peacekeepers, as you call them, are causing harm to the people, beating and shooting at us, it’s obvious that Haymitch would intervene. He’s not going to stand by and watch people get beaten just because you’ve decided to call that ‘maintaining order.’”
Drusilla looks annoyed by what I’ve said.
“If you district pigs weren’t so unruly, this wouldn’t happen.
“If you people from the Capitol didn’t treat us like animals and send us to the slaughter every year, we wouldn’t be like this.”
My retort made her even angrier, and before I knew it, a hand came flying toward me, but it didn’t hit me because Haymitch’s arm was in the way.
Plutarch notices the situation and quickly pulls that woman away.
“I’m trying to present you in the best possible light,” Plutarch explains.
I take the opportunity to turn back to Haymitch, who has a stern expression, still on his guard. His gaze follows Drusilla. I pull his arm, turning him slightly, and see that her nails have left a mark on Haymitch’s skin, causing a deep scratch. Damn that woman.
“Are you okay?” I whisper to him. Haymitch turns his gaze to me and nods silently.
“You should be on your knees, kissing this man’s feet; at least then you wouldn’t risk scaring him,” Drusilla points out, giving me a special look. “He’s completely transformed you.”
“You mean he’s reshaped the Capitol?” Maysilee retorts sarcastically. “He’s made you look capable, even though you couldn’t even handle the harvest properly.”
And now Drusilla’s wrath turns to Maysilee; if we could split the scolding, I wouldn’t object.
“I like to see how beneficial it was for both of you,” Plutarch says, trying to calm things down. “And the public remains oblivious; I made sure of that.”
Come to think of it, what does Plutarch gain by acting this way toward us? From the very beginning, he’s taken contradictory stances.
I hear the living room door swing open suddenly, as Tibby appears carrying a huge birthday cake, lit by sixteen candles. I turn to Haymitch, who looks pale. The cake is placed in front of Haymitch, and suddenly they begin to sing: Happy Birthday.
Happy birthday
To someone special!
And we wish you many more!
Once a year
We give a cheer
To you, Hay-ay-ay-mitch!
Happy birthday!
The cameraman from Plutarch’s crew, hiding his lens over Tibby’s shoulder to film Haymitch’s reaction, seems to be the icing on the cake of this birthday fiasco they’ve orchestrated for my boyfriend.
It’s clear that Plutarch wants to capture his delight so he can broadcast it throughout Panem. Notice how well the Capitol treats the tributes. How they forgive their enemies. How they set themselves above those little district pigs.
In contrast, Haymitch turns into a sort of Maysilee Donner, turns his back, and walks over to the window.
I see Tibby deflate.
“It has pineapple filling,” he says.
Haymitch nods slightly.
“A miscalculation on my part,” says Plutarch. “Take it out, Tibby. I apologize, Haymitch.”
An apology? From a guy from the Capitol? What is this man up to, anyway? I remember hearing him talk to Haymitch earlier, but I don’t know what they were talking about. And, judging by the previous recordings, it was because of him that Sid cried during those broadcasts.
After the cake and the Capitol’s congratulations are gone, Plutarch continues:
“Back to work. In addition to your children, District 12 will have its own stylist.”
“Very necessary, by the way.” Drusilla makes a mocking sound and casts a critical eye over our outfits. “Honestly, where do you guys get these things?”
“Do you want some tips on how to improve? Because, honestly, it looks like someone crossed a Peacekeeper with a canary, and you’re the end result. I don’t know whether to laugh or feel sorry for you.”
“What?” says Drusilla.
She stands up from her chair but wobbles a bit before regaining her balance on her stiletto heels.
“Careful,” suggests Maysilee, her tone sweet as honey before she goes for the jugular. “Maybe it’s time to rethink those boots. Wouldn’t something closer to the ground be safer for someone your age?”
Drusilla steps forward and slaps Maysilee across the face, who, without hesitating for even a second, returns the blow. A full-force slap. Drusilla is knocked back and plops down in the chair I’d just gotten up from. Everyone freezes.
“Don’t ever touch me again,” says Maysilee.
The color has drained from her face, except for the mark left by Drusilla’s hand. I can’t help but recall the mark on Haymitch’s arm, made by Drusilla. Maysilee really is a unique girl; we all know no one would use images of her in an advertisement.
“Why don’t we pause for a moment and take a deep breath?” suggests Plutarch. “It’s been a tough day.” Everyone’s on edge, and…
He means Drusilla is overcome by her emotions, right? She lunged at me, and nothing occurred to me because Haymitch intervened; even so, he got scratched. Now she’s repeating the attack against Maysilee.
Drusilla jumps to her feet, yanks the riding crop from her boot leg, and begins whipping Maysilee, who screams and raises her arms to protect her head. I spring up on impulse to help Maysilee, and Haymitch grabs my hand, signaling for me not to go. To keep me from putting myself in further danger. I almost disobey, but the blows don’t stop, and she ends up cowering on the floor.
Maysilee Donner, the proud girl, cowering on the floor because of a woman from the Capitol.
“Drusilla! Stop! Drusilla, tomorrow we need to put the girl in front of the cameras!” Plutarch warns.
Before anyone can intervene, I shove Drusilla, who once again rises from the chair she’d knocked over. She turns her attention to me, snorting. No sooner have I done so than Haymitch is already standing before me, placing himself between me and Drusilla.
“I advise you not to even think about getting close to my girl,” he says, still standing between us. I help Maysilee up from the floor. She maintains that same defiant look as always; it’s reassuring to see that Drusilla’s reaction hasn’t changed her. “Besides, I’d recommend you keep your distance from my ally.”
Ally, I think. Haymitch must be Maysilee’s ally. I see the answer in Maysilee’s eyes; she seems to share the same impression. I smile back, with that smile laced with sarcasm.
Drusilla doesn’t come after us again because Plutarch had to call two Peacekeepers from the hallway to restrain her.
“Repulsive, disgusting creatures,” Drusilla mutters, panting. “I’ll destroy all of you before you even reach the arena.”
Whip marks are already appearing on Maysilee’s arms and neck, but she ignores them. I doubted anyone had ever beaten her before, let alone with a whip. I’ve never been through anything like that either. I’ve always just been the target of my uncles’ scoldings; I’ve never actually been beaten. Maysilee slowly stands up, using me for support, before responding.
“So what? How? You’re not a Games Idealizer. You’re not even a fashion designer. You’re nothing but a cheap escort clinging with tooth and nail to the trashiest district in Panem.”
That hits a nerve. Drusilla flashes a look of fear before regaining her composure.
“And you’re headed for a bloody, agonizing death.”
Maysilee lets out a bitter laugh.
“Yeah. I really am. So why would I care what you say? Unless I win, of course.” But then who do you think will be more popular? The champion of the Quaternary Massacre… or you?
Drusilla gives her a look of contempt.
“I hope you win. You have no idea what’s in store for you if you win. You don’t know a thing.”
She limps toward the door.
“I know my grandmother had a jacket just like yours, but we wouldn’t let her wear it outside the house,” Maysilee adds.
Drusilla tenses up, but tries to leave with dignity. There’s a long pause, then Plutarch says:
“You may think Drusilla is ridiculous, but be smart. The four of you don’t have a mentor from your own district. Your stylist’s job begins and ends with your appearance. It may not be fair, but Drusilla might be the best advocate you’ll have in the Capital. Think about that before you burn that bridge for good.
He leaves and closes the door carefully behind him.
“Are you okay?” Haymitch asks Maysilee.
“I’ve never been better.”
She gently touches the welts, her eyes filled with tears. I can’t help but feel sorry for her or be impressed by the way she stood up to Drusilla.
Even though she’s rich, she isn’t trying to curry favor with anyone.
We’re all equally inferior in Drusilla’s eyes.
“I’m trying to act superior because of the cake, and you show up and decide to act like a wild cat,” Haymitch says, laughing.
Maysilee gives a half-smile.
“Look, I have very strong opinions about fashion.”
“Apparently, that’s exactly right,” I reply.
“It’s been a while since anyone needed to tell Miss Matchy-Matchy just how detestable she is,” Maysilee says. “But you two aren’t far behind me. What’s up, Haymitch? ‘Your ally’?”
I see a rapid succession of emotions flash across Haymitch’s face before he speaks.
“I hope you don’t mind us being allies, Miss Donner.”
“Why would I? District 12 is united.”
I realize she’s thinking of the group as a whole, so she includes Wyatt—maybe they’d talked at some point when I wasn’t paying attention. That’s fine; it’s better if we’re all together.
A Peacekeeper ushers us to the door, and we walk down a train corridor to a compartment with two bunk beds against the walls. A door leads to a small bathroom with a toilet and sink: there are toothbrushes and towels there, and we each get our own bed.
She stands there, as if expecting a thank-you, but the only reaction comes from Maysilee.
“This place smells like cooked cabbage.”
“Back in the day, we used to cram you guys into coal cars,” replies the Peacekeeper, and locks the door.
On top of the pillows are pajamas, distributed among us according to our sizes. We each use the bathroom, and then we go to bed.
I climb onto my bed to grab my pillow, then go over to Haymitch’s bed, where he makes room for me. So we lie down together, and I snuggle into Haymitch’s warmth.
The blinds automatically lower over the windows, and the lights above the door dim, leaving the room in semi-darkness. Wyatt falls asleep almost immediately, judging by his snoring.
I feel Haymitch kiss my forehead before whispering:
“Good night, darlin’, sleep well and have sweet dreams. I love you like all-fire.”
Before I fall completely asleep, I reply:
“Me too.”