“Effie!” cries Proserpina, flinging herself into the newcomer’s arms.
Effie pats her back. “Well, I’m not going to let my baby sister — or her friends! — fail because some slackard didn’t do his job!”
All the prep teams break into cheers or tears or both as they crowd around her. She accepts the adulation, but then gets serious. “Listen, everybody. There is something bigger than you and me happening here. As we all know, the Hunger Games are a sacred ceremony of remembrance for the Dark Days. A lot of people lost their lives to guarantee peace and prosperity for our nation. And this is our chance — no, it is our duty — to honor them!”
Well, she’s swallowed the Capitol propaganda hook and took the line and sinker with it, but at least she’s brought us some decent footwear. She
begins unzipping bags. “When you called, Prosie, at first, I didn’t know what to do, and then I thought, Great-Aunt Messalina!”
“Great-Aunt Messalina!” crows Proserpina. “She never throws anything out!”
“A lot of it’s really old, but fortunately all the war-era styles are back in fashion,” explains Effie. She holds up a black lace dress with matching gloves. “And there’s loads of black because there were so many funerals.”
“You — are — brilliant — Effie — Trinket!” sputters Vitus.
“I confess to having a moment,” says Effie. “Don’t worry, boys, Great-Uncle Silius was no slouch in the threads department either.”
He certainly wasn’t, and even better, he seemed to be roughly the
same size as Wyatt and me, with a few adjustments. We find a tuxedo for Wyatt and a three-piece suit with a rakish vest embroidered with cocktail
glasses for me. Just the thing for a rascal. Or a bootlegger. By the time I’ve added a roomy pair of patent leather shoes and eight-ball cuff links on my white silk shirt, I look slick as a whistle.
“Clothes make the man,” says Effie with satisfaction, giving me an approving pat on the shoulder. At least the Trinkets aren’t mean, just clueless, which makes for a big improvement over Drusilla and Magno. The girls look sensational, too, with Lou Lou in the black lace dress, expertly pinned up to fit her, and Maysilee in an off-the-shoulder velvet gown, a boa,
and the black lace gloves. I know we’re being prettied up for slaughter, but at least we might have some sponsors now.
“Who could believe they’re from District Twelve? It was really nice of your great-aunt to let you borrow everything,” says Vitus.
“Well, she owes us after all the disgrace she brought to the name of Trinket. We’ll be recovering from that for years,” Effie says, crinkling her brow. “If even only half the stories are true . . .”
Vitus puts a consoling arm around her and says, “You don’t pick your ancestors.” Then his voice drops to a shamed whisper. “My grandfather was a rebel sympathizer.”
“You win,” concedes Effie. “But look at you now!”
When Drusilla swings out of the kitchen, she does a double take at our outfits. “What happened here?”
“My sister!” beams Proserpina, nudging Effie forward.
“Oh, it was a privilege to dress them for Panem,” says Effie modestly. Drusilla’s face twists through a range of expressions — confusion,
relief, admiration, with bitterness ultimately winning. “These cannot be credited to Magno. You.” She grabs Effie by the arm. “You’re coming with us, and I’m telling everyone you’re responsible.”
“But — I don’t even have a backstage pass,” objects Effie.
“That, at least, I can remedy.” Drusilla waves us toward the door. “Come on, you lot, let’s try to make it to at least one event on time.”
Proserpina shoves a makeup box into Effie’s hands. “Touch-ups!” “I’m on it,” promises Effie. “For everybody!” She gives Lou Lou,
who’s baring her teeth, a worried look. “Maybe a lighter shade of lipstick for you.”
“And tone down the blush,” says Maysilee.
“Exactly,” agrees Effie. For a moment, they’re just two girls on a mission to beautify the world. Effie holds up a compact for her opinion. “I’m thinking maybe a peach?”
“Much better.”
“Hold on.” Effie reaches over and removes a broken feather from Maysilee’s boa. “There. You’re perfect.”
“Is my mascara okay?”
“Yes, but I can see it’d be a problem with those long lashes of yours.” Effie digs in the makeup box and hands her a little pad. “Take this in case it smudges.”
Drusilla starts to haul Effie to the elevator, sending the makeup box to the floor. It cracks open and tubes of color roll across the burnt-orange carpet. I lean over and collect them, returning it all to Effie, who looks slightly surprised.
“Thank you, Haymitch,” she says. “That was very considerate, especially given your circumstances.”
“Well, thank you for bringing us some dress-up clothes.”
“You deserve to look beautiful tonight,” Effie replies. “And I think you’re all being very brave.”
We don’t have much choice, but it’s nice to have someone recognize
it.
In the van, inspired by Great-Uncle Silius’s taste in fashion, I decide
to double down on the bootlegger angle. I imagine brewing up illegal booze falls into the category of what the Capitol would consider naughty, not dangerous. Judging by the opening ceremony crowd, most of these folks drink like fish, so there should be a fair amount of sympathy for a kid who goes outside the law to keep his district pickled. Anyway, it’s the best rascally angle I can come up with, and it’s founded in truth. I don’t want to get Hattie in any trouble, though, so I decide to pretend it’s something I do on my own.
I’m starting to get antsy about the breaking-the-arena plan, given that I still don’t know the timeline or how the explosives are being smuggled in. Mags and Wiress were allowed to accompany Drusilla, so Beetee should be with his tributes tonight, too.
The interviews are televised from an auditorium that seats a couple thousand people. Drusilla tells us there won’t be a delay, since there’s no potential for an uprising in the Capitol audience, so don’t mess up and expect her to cover for us. That’s rich. After she gets the official lineup, she slips off to have a word with Caesar Flickerman, so he can know how to approach our interviews. As she walks away, she mutters, “Shrew, calculator, lunatic, rascal.”
We’re taken to a waiting room backstage called the greenroom, although it’s painted white. It’s already crowded with mentors, escorts, and stylists hovering around their tributes, who are all polished up and dressed in chic evening wear in their districts’ signature color. Even District 1, who wore ball gowns and suits to the parade, have upped their game, and their snot-green ensembles with flowing trains and plumed coattails require three times the space of any other district.
Effie eyes them critically and whispers, “Thank goodness your color is black! Can you imagine trying to outfit everyone in peridot? That was a flash in the pan.”
Honestly, 12 comes off a lot classier and somehow potentially deadlier. Maybe I’m projecting. My jacket and vest have hidden
compartments and my belt some extra loops that Effie told me were for
decorative weapons. Hm, decorative. And Effie quickly ruled out the first
shirt I tried on because of something that looked suspiciously like a bloodstain that hadn’t come out in the wash. I can’t help wondering if what Great-Aunt Messalina and her husband did to disgrace the family was connected to some lifeless bodies. Makes me feel a little more dangerous, slipping into their skins tonight.
Beetee catches my eye from a cluster of electric blue and gives a quick nod toward the buffet. Drusilla’s busy making sure everybody knows Effie did our clothes, so I’m able to plead thirst and make a beeline for the punch bowl. The table’s spread with delicacies, like candy high-heeled
shoes and caviar in seashells and miniature pigs made of ham salad. I don’t recognize half the food, but I follow a lady’s example and smear a dollop of goat cheese on a square of peanut brittle. Surprisingly good.
I’m ladling myself some punch when Beetee sidles up beside me. He picks up a large pair of silver tweezers and begins to meticulously choose tiny vegetables from an arrangement shaped like a bunch of flowers. It’s ridiculous.
“Those work better than your fingers?” I ask.
“Trying not to draw attention to myself,” he says quietly.
I glance around and see several Peacekeepers have their eyes on us. A couple begin to close in when there’s a commotion at the door. Magno Stift
lurches into the room, holding a cage of reptiles above his head and shouting, “The party animals are here!”
As the Peacekeepers redirect toward my stylist, Beetee plucks off a minuscule radish and speaks rapidly under his breath. “Head north. Ampert will do the same after he has the explosive. Do your best to locate a mutt portal by tracking returning mutts after an attack. After you and Ampert meet up, take one to access Sub-A, where the tank is located. We’ve replaced the black cord in Ampert’s token with fuse, the blasting cap’s hidden in the weave.”
I take a deep pull on my punch, checking out Ampert’s token over the rim of the cup. It’s indistinguishable from the one Maysilee made, with no sign of the blasting cap in the braided cord. Beetee doesn’t say where it
came from, but the rebels must have someone on the inside who smuggled it through security and swapped it for the original.
“All four of District Nine’s sunflowers are now composed of explosive,” he adds.
“But their sunflowers are hard. Kerna’s shattered on the floor.”
“Yes. These are coated with a shellac. Wet them with water and rub them between your palms. The friction will help dissolve the shellac and leave the explosive malleable.”
“Does Nine know the plan?” I ask.
“They do not. Ampert will scavenge one from their persons.” From a dead body, he means. Probably at the bloodbath. “Or more if he can get them. It never hurts to have a spare. And if Ampert fails to show” — Beetee’s voice breaks slightly on this last bit. We both know why Ampert might not be able to reach me. For a moment, he examines a pea-sized tomato under his glasses — “we’ve also replaced the —”
A flutter of chiffon at my elbow alerts me to the arrival of all four District 6 doves, who shimmer in their iridescent gray finery. Beetee moves down to a meatball pyramid without further clarifications, a good-bye, or a good luck.
Wellie whispers, “Ampert says, when we get to the arena, we’re supposed to band together as soon as possible.”
Is that by design? Probably. If Ampert bands with the others, he’ll have access to the tributes from 9 when they die. Meanwhile, I have my own mission, which does not involve protecting this flock.
“That sounds like a good plan,” I agree.
“He says maybe some of you bigger tributes can grab weapons first,” Wellie tells me.
“I’ll give it a shot.” But I will not be able to look after them in the arena — I will have to devote my abilities to blowing up the tank or die
trying. “Listen, I’m going to be a real jerk in my interview. It’s something
my team worked up, but I will never hurt you, okay? Or any of the Newcomers. That’s a promise.”
“We know that,” says Wellie, eyes full of trust.
Too much trust. I need to distance myself from them for the good of everybody.
“There’s another thing, though,” I say. “You saw my score, that I only got a one. The Gamemakers may be targeting me. It’s dangerous for any of you to be around me. So I’m thinking of going it alone.”
Wellie’s face falls. “But they’re targeting all of us. We need you.” “You don’t if I’m drawing packs of mutts or being chased into the Careers. You don’t. And you all have to understand that. Tell the others,
okay?”
Across the room, a glassy-eyed Magno has backed into a corner but managed to clear some space by freeing a six-foot snake from the cage and waving it around. “Where are my tributes? I need to dress them!”
People are shrieking, and the Peacekeepers form a huddle to confer over their plan to subdue him. Drusilla looks overjoyed, shouting, “Take him down! Take him down!”
But before the Peacekeepers, tasers pulled, can do the job, Lou Lou steps up, hands extended for the snake, and says, “Mine.”
Magno grins, bypasses her hands, drapes the snake around her shoulders, then loops the tail end around her neck. “You wear her like this.”
Lou Lou entwines her arm with the snake’s neck so its head rests on
the back of her hand and holds it up. Magno leans over and kisses the snake on the mouth. It’s the very picture of madness, this damaged little girl and our debauched, drugged stylist. Wyatt goes to collect her, putting an arm around her to guide her back to the District 12 crew. The snake seems to
have given Lou Lou a sense of power, and she walks by tributes three times her size, brandishing the snake and hissing.
I rejoin my district just as the television at the end of the green room comes to life. On-screen, an invisible hand writes a big curlicue 50 over a shot of the auditorium stage as a booming voice announces, “Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to the Fiftieth Hunger Games Night of Interviews.
And here’s everybody’s favorite host, Caesar Flickerman!”
Caesar descends from the ceiling perched on a crescent moon, stars shooting behind him. He’s a young guy wearing a suit so dark blue it’s almost black, embedded with tiny light bulbs that make it twinkle. The suit never changes, but every year he dyes his hair a different color, tonight a deep pine-forest green, and paints his eyelids and lips the same color.
Maybe you could make an argument for the hair and eyes, but green lips suggest a man in the process of decomposition. He just looks ghoulish. The
gleam of his overly white teeth as he flashes the audience a knowing smile only reminds you that he’s got a skull under all that glop. As he deftly
dismounts the moon, he opens his arms and says, “Hello, Panem! Shall we get this party started?” The audience roars in approval.
Here in the green room, a young Gamemaker lines up Districts 1 and 2, reading out their order of appearance. They file out the door after her to wait in the wings.
On-screen, Caesar launches into a brief retrospective of the other forty-nine Games, starting with the no-frills version of the early years
directly after the war, when the tributes were thrown into an old, bombed- out sports arena with weapons and little else. I watch carefully when he
talks about the Tenth Games being a turning point, as that was the year District 12 had a victor, but they only feature the introduction of betting, the sponsors, and the rickety drones that dropped food and water to the tributes.
From this point on, the Games evolved from pure punishment to
unapologetic entertainment. The original sports venue was abandoned as the Gamemakers began to use existing settings in the wild or bombed-out
towns and such, introducing an assortment of mutts and a variety of weapons.
The Twenty-fifth Games, the first Quarter Quell, proved particularly heinous, as the districts were forced to choose their own tributes rather than
relying on the reaping. Another Flickerman named Lucky hosted with commentary from a relic of a woman named Gaul, who was credited with coining the phrase “May the odds be EVER in your favor” for the anniversary. That phrase has caught on as a way to wish someone good luck, but if you think about it, it’s a sadistic thing to say to a tribute, given that survival’s an impossibility for twenty-three of the twenty-four kids.
For this first Quell, the Gamemakers had the tributes kick off the Capitol portion by riding chariots through the streets in district-flavored costumes. Rather than scout a location for the Games, they built an arena for a single use. Also, the Cornucopia made its first appearance, loaded with weapons and supplies, triggering a heated bloodbath when the opening gong sounded.
For the last twenty-four years, they’ve unveiled a brand-new arena each year based on a different environment or theme, from a desert to a frigid landscape to Wiress’s reflective puzzle, which they called the Nest of Mirrors. Caesar teases the audience about the second Quarter Quell arena.
He’s heard a rumor it puts all the previous arenas to shame. Can they imagine it? No, they can’t. Will it be fabulous? Yes, it will.
My stomach feels sick and I’m glad I don’t have to go first. I’m also glad District 1 does. When Caesar introduces Silka, she strides onstage dragging fifteen feet of a snot-green train behind her.
“Ugh. Just like a snail,” comments Maysilee loudly, getting a round of nervous laughter in the green room. What everybody’s really thinking is about how Silka’s over six feet tall without the heels and can throw an ax into a dummy’s heart at fifteen feet. And that is not something you can laugh off.
Since there are so many of us this year, we’re limited to two-minute interviews and after every four districts, there will be some sort of break that Caesar calls a “palate cleanser.”
Silka wastes no time in bragging about her size, her strength, her ax- handling, and her scoring a ten. She doesn’t even bother mentioning her
alliance with the Careers, and when Caesar brings them up, she just says, “Sure, it helps to have someone to clear the field.”
Panache swaggers onstage next, stopping three different times to pose and flex his muscles for the audience.
“Panache from District One!” Caesar bellows. Then asks him, “So, Panache, in addition to your obvious assets, why should our audience back you?”
“Because I’m the biggest, the beefiest, and the best!” Panache hits another pose.
“My word, it sounds like we should barbeque you!” quips Caesar.
“That’s right. I’m all meat, little man,” says Panache, giving Caesar a patronizing pat on the head.
He’s just so easy to loathe. You can see the cut landing with Caesar, but he lives for this stuff. “Even your brain?” he asks in wonder.
The audience titters. Confusion crosses Panache’s face, then anger at the teasing. “Not my brain! Obviously, it’s . . . gray stuff.”
Caesar nods, straight-faced, as if digesting this, while the audience
cracks up. Panache begins to burn and I remember the train window, which was only an innocent bystander. For a minute I think he might destroy Caesar, but he catches himself and just shouts at the audience, “What does it matter?”
“Matter?” Caesar sputters. “I think brain matter . . . matters quite a
bit!”
The Capitol citizens lose it and so do I, until I remember the joke’s
not just on Panache. It’s on all of us stupid, clawed district piglets. Animals for their entertainment. Expendable for their pleasure. Too dumb to deserve to live.
Caesar settles the audience and tries to get back to the interview. “All in good fun, Panache, all in good fun. Personally, I failed biology. So tell us, what’s your weapon of choice?”
“My fists,” says Panache, holding one right up to Caesar’s nose.
Caesar takes a delicate step back, turns his head to the audience, and stage-whispers, “Also meaty.”
It’s all over then for Panache. They show shots of people overcome with hilarity, tears streaming down their cheeks, gasping for breath. Caesar pretends he’s trying to continue his questions, then jumps back every time Panache looks at him, mugging in terror for the cameras. I can’t stand Panache, but it’s unfair. A bell signals his time’s up, and he has no choice but to leave the stage, steaming and humiliated.
The rest of the tributes from Districts 1 and 2 seem to realize they’re in danger of being classified as stupid beasts, too, so they make an effort to play up their prowess with weapons and the benefits of the Career pack. But Panache has done some damage, and any attempt to boast about muscle
comes with a comic side-eye from Caesar that tickles the audience. I remember my pa saying, if you can get people to laugh at someone, it
makes them look weak. He meant the heavies in the Capitol, but it seems to be true here as well.
Up until this point, no mention has been made of the Newcomers, but Dio kicks off the District 3 interviews with news of our alliance, generously laying out the entire team by name, every one of us, and touting our skills. Ampert follows with his whole theory of previous tributes being brainwashed, the disproportionate number of Career wins, and how it will
only take numbers to bring a different result. He doesn’t even mention his own attributes, but he doesn’t need to, because he’s clearly so whip-smart that Caesar remarks on it with approval. In fact, all of District 3 comes off as brainy, collaborative, and composed, in high contrast to the Careers, and they get plenty of applause.
District 4 came prepared to showcase their trident and netting skills, not to strategize about the Newcomers. They fumble when confronted with Caesar’s line of questioning. “Those kids seem pretty bright, don’t you
think?” “What else do you think they have up their sleeves?” “What about their numbers?” “What plans have the Careers discussed to counter the
Newcomers?”
By the first palate cleanser, the Capitol’s buzzing about the Newcomers. While the audience is treated to highlights of fashion through the Games, District 5 calls an emergency meeting in the green room. As the sole remaining Career district, this will be their alliance’s last chance to present their case against the Newcomers. The rest of the evening will belong to us.
District 9, despite their commitment to the Newcomers, tends to remain exclusive. Shy, maybe, or just not very social. I go over to say hey, which also gives me an opportunity to covertly examine their sunflower tokens. I see the replicas have been approached just as seriously as
Ampert’s token. The little cracks in Kerna’s flower look so convincing I worry they haven’t actually replaced it. I don’t want to go to the trouble of getting to that tank only to be caught trying to detonate a lump of salt flour dough. But either I trust Beetee or I don’t. He’s certainly going out on a limb trusting me.
After the break, District 5 does their best to highlight our shortcomings. They focus on our size and dearth of training, but they lack a cohesive plan to eliminate us, probably because the smugness of Careers
made this seem unnecessary, and they end up contradicting each other. Will they stay in one pack or break up? Will they share food and water? Who is the leader of the Careers and will they follow them? Basic questions clearly never discussed. And when they’re not sure of the answers, the temptation to promote themselves wins out.
I’m a little worried since my doves are next, swimming in chiffon ruffles, but once Wellie steps up to Caesar’s mic, it’s pure Newcomers for the rest of the night. Her diminutive size becomes secondary as she assuredly answers the same questions that tripped up District 5 without hesitation:
“We’ll always be one pack, as you call it. But we’ll divide up as necessary to defeat the Careers.”
“Oh, we’re going to share our provisions. It just makes sense.”
“We don’t have one leader, as such. The Newcomers are more committed to the alliance itself, which is better, you know, because we will lose kids. But Ampert came up with the idea and brought us all together, and we’ve all sworn to follow his plan and protect one another to the end.”
I don’t know, maybe Ampert left me out of the loop when it came to our interview strategy because he knew I’d be pre-occupied with sabotage, but the Newcomers have their ducks in a row. Nobody talks too much about themselves, they stress the power of the group and the advantages the
Newcomers will exploit in the arena. How small size can be a plus for climbing trees or hiding or needing less food, how being able to trust your teammates means you’ll get better sleep — so the Careers won’t be catching any zzz’s — and how brain power, which we have in spades,
comes in handy for everything from strategy to building things to catching food. In the brief moments when they pitch their personal skills, it’s about how they’ll use them to help one another.
Maybe we’ll lose, but we’re sure making a lot of people proud back home.
Even with the interruption of the second palate cleanser, a terrifying review of the deadliest mutts in Games history, the Newcomers keep building our case, and before you know it, District 12 is up.
As admirable as the Newcomers may be, I think we’ve begun to wear on Caesar. Selflessness and quiet resolve don’t really make for rollicking entertainment. So, after a quick confirmation of our Newcomer commitment, he’s more than ready to go with District 12’s sauce.
Caesar eggs on Maysilee, who garners a lot of laughs when she
machine-guns the midsection of the front row for their poor taste. To a man dressed in a suit made of hundred-dollar bills, she says, “That’s sweet. You wore all your friends tonight.” To a lady with surgically implanted cat ears. “And is that purse for your flea powder?”
Wyatt spouts off complicated odds that a Gamemaker with a calculator confirms. When he correctly figures the amount of sponsor
dollars it would take to send a tribute a stuffed pheasant two weeks into the Games, given rising inflation of thirty-eight percent a day, he genuinely
blows Caesar away. “I wasn’t so hot in arithmetic either!” he exclaims. “I don’t know if the odds are in your favor in the arena, Wyatt, but if you win, you and me are heading to the casino!”
Lou Lou’s a sensation, wielding her snake, baring her teeth at the audience. As usual, she states her name and district, but then resorts to hissing at Caesar when he asks a question. When the audience snickers, she crouches down and holds out the snake, causing some people to jokingly recoil, and the bolder ones to stroke its sinewy body. She’s winning them
over, until, for the first time this evening, perhaps inspired by her ferocity, Caesar asks, “Now, Louella, what will the Newcomers do if they kill off all the Careers? What will happen with you kids then?”
As if on cue, the snake hisses in a woman’s jewel-studded face and Lou Lou growls, “You’ll murder us. You’ll murder us.”
If the sight of this strange little girl wrapped in a snake amused them, her attack on the Capitol does not. Gasps and sounds of disapproval rise from the audience, but she persists.
“You’ll murder us! You’ll murder us!” Her pitch gets higher and higher and the effect is chilling. “You’ll murder us!”
The facade of fun vanishes. She begins to crawl along the edge of the stage, singling out front-row ticket holders and shouting, “You! . . . You! . . . You! . . . You! . . .”
Even Caesar’s famous cool is blown as he dances after her, trying to recapture the magic. “Okay, Louella . . . Louella! It’s unfortunate, but the Games can only have one winner. Louella! She’s certainly determined! A little help here, please!”
Mid-accusation, Lou Lou falls silent. Her eyes roll upward and she collapses to the floorboards.
“She’s fainted from exertion, and not a moment too soon!” exclaims Caesar. I’m certain the Gamemakers had a hand in it, probably drugging her
through her pump. They let Wyatt return to carry her offstage as Caesar immediately segues into introducing me. “And now our final tribute of the evening, Haymitch Abernathy from District Twelve!”
I take my time crossing the stage, because I don’t think a guy with cocktail glasses on his vest would hurry. Caesar, in recovery mode, jumps right in. “So, Haymitch, what do you think of the Games having one hundred percent more competitors than usual?”
This is the first time they will hear me speak, and I want to make a lasting impression. But suddenly I’m not thinking of Great-Uncle Silius — I’m thinking of Woodbine Chance, who should have been standing here in my place. He was always walking a line of trouble, but people liked him.
Especially the girls. Too young to be considered a real danger yet, but certainly a rascal.
I give a shrug and let a little of that Chance attitude slip in. “I don’t see that it makes much difference. They’ll still be one hundred percent as stupid as usual, so I figure the odds will be roughly the same.”
An appreciative chuckle runs through the audience.
I give them half a smile. “I’m speaking of the Careers, of course.”
“Well, it isn’t common knowledge, but I heard you’ve had some run- ins with one of the Careers. Panache maybe?” Caesar asks.
I come back with, “Heard you did, too.” Caesar laughs along with the audience. “Yeah, I’m not on good terms with any of the Careers. But the
Newcomers are plenty smart and one hundred percent safe with me.”
“Well, judging by your Gamemakers’ score, everybody’s safe with
you,” observes Caesar, drawing an ooh from the audience. “I hear you got a one in training?”
“Not so easy!” I tell him. “I consider that one a badge of honor. I mean, I’ve got thirty-one sworn allies, this rock-hard body, and a brain five times smarter than any Career’s. Know what else I’ve got? Guts. Because clearly . . . I’m not afraid to piss off the Gamemakers!”
I open my arms to the audience and pace along the front of the stage while they hoot in support. “Shoot, a ten? A ten? Anybody can get a ten!
You have to be a special kind of trouble to get a one, am I right?” Cheers of affirmation. “I can tell some of you know just what I mean.” I point out a man in the second row who wears a glass cube of live bees on his head.
“This gentleman right here, for instance.” He nods vigorously. “And you, darling?” I lean over the lady with the cat ears. She covers her face in gleeful embarrassment. “Sure, you been there.”
“So let’s make a list of everyone you’ve pissed off,” says Caesar. “There’s Panache . . . and the other Careers . . . and the Game-makers.
That’s just in the few days you’ve been in the Capitol. Anybody back home?”
“Well, there’s the Peacekeepers.” The audience quiets a bit. “They can get out of sorts if I don’t deliver their white liquor on time.” Shocked laughter.
“‘Their white liquor?’ Just exactly what do you do after school, Haymitch?”
I’m careful to keep this as removed from Hattie’s still as I can. “Well, let’s just call it my science homework. Turns out, I can make hooch out of just about anything, Caesar. District Twelve can’t brag about much, but
we’ve got the finest shine in Panem. And I’m pretty sure the base commander will back me up on that!”
“But . . . isn’t that illegal?”
“Is it? For real?” I turn to a moustachioed man holding an oversized brandy snifter. “You’d think the commander might’ve mentioned that.”
The bell rings and Caesar gives me a slap on the back. “This one’s a real rascal, ladies and gentlemen! Haymitch Abernathy from District Twelve! May the odds be EVER in his favor!”
Half the audience gets to their feet to applaud me off. I wink at the lady with the cat ears, much to her delight, and exit the stage. I’m pretty
sure Drusilla planted the label rascal in Caesar’s head, but even so, I feel I’ve earned it.
Backstage, Mags and Wiress await me. Mags gives me a hug, Wiress a quick nod, saying only, “You’ve got some sponsors.”
I can hear Caesar wrapping things up for the evening as we rejoin the rest of the team and hurry down the halls to our exit. I think we must be headed back to the apartment, but when we reach our van, Plutarch’s waiting.
He addresses Drusilla. “Great job! You know, these kids never got a proper photo shoot. What say we swing by my place and get some high- quality pictures, maybe even a little footage? Be nice to have for cameos if they hang in there. And it might seem like you and I weren’t doing our jobs without it.”
Drusilla considers this. “Just so long as Magno Stift is never mentioned.”
“Magno who?” says Plutarch, and Drusilla flounces off to her private
car.
Under her breath, Effie says, “Some marriages should never have
happened.”
“Drusilla and Magno were married?” I ask in disbelief.
“Still are, technically,” says Plutarch. “Thirty years and counting! She says it’s a tax thing, but who really knows? Shall we go?”
Mags and Wiress weren’t invited, but the rest of us land in Plutarch’s library with Trajan Heavensbee watching over us. Everybody almost looks at home in the Trinkets’ wardrobe. Effie touches up our makeup and even adds a flower to my lapel from an arrangement in a replica of the golden staircase.
Plutarch suggests he take us off one at a time to the conservatory to practice for the video footage. “District Twelve’s gone from nobodies to a
hot commodity among the more daring sponsors,” he says brightly. “That’s a breakthrough. But let’s try and get everybody to jump on that
bandwagon.” I go with him first, while Drusilla oversees Maysilee’s photo shoot and Wyatt keeps an eye on Lou Lou, who stares in fascination at a
candelabra while she cuddles her snake.
We left the Peacekeepers at the entrance, since Plutarch said his
private security team would be sufficient, so we’re as unguarded as on my earlier visit to the mansion.
Plutarch seems in a hurry, and I’m practically jogging to keep up with him. “I was thinking, like you said, about people who think we’re too risky, and I —”
He cuts me off. “Listen, Haymitch, I know you don’t like me, and you certainly don’t trust me, but you should know that, despite appearances, a
desire for freedom is not limited to the districts. And your misfortune does not give you the right to assume so. I hope after tonight you’ll consider
this.”
I have no idea what he’s talking about. “What?”
The warm air of the conservatory hits my face. He crosses over to the swan telephone, lifts the receiver, and says, “Ready on this end.” He listens for a moment more, then hands it to me. “Someone wants to talk to you.” Then he walks a discreet distance away.
Oh. Now I get it. President Snow. I overdid it in the interview and I’m about to hear about my gory demise. And Plutarch, who likes to think of himself as a decent guy, is upset about throwing me to the wolves again.
Figures. With trepidation, I lift the receiver to my ear, brace myself, and manage to get out a “Yeah?”
“Haymitch? Is that really you?” The breathless voice, rough with recent tears, cuts right through to my heart.
Lenore Dove.
