The screens go dark for a second and then the flag reappears.
Obviously, they don’t want the rest of the country to witness the disorder here in District 12.
The square erupts as some people make for the side streets and some rush to help Woodbine, even though he’s long past helping. The
Peacekeepers keep firing, mostly as a warning but hitting a few
unfortunates at the edge of the crowd. I don’t know which way to go. Do I find Sid and Ma? Get Lenore Dove off the square? Just run for cover?
“Who did this? Who did this?” demands Drusilla.
A bewildered young Peacekeeper gets pushed to the edge of the roof of the Justice Building.
“You imbecile!” Drusilla berates him from below. “You couldn’t wait until he was in the alley? Look at this mess!”
It’s a mess all right. I catch sight of Ma and Sid at the edge of the crowd and take a step their way when a rough male voice booms over the sound system.
“On the ground! On the ground, everybody! Now!” Automatically, I fall on my knees and assume the position — hands linked behind my neck, forehead pressed to the sooty bricks of the square. Out of the corner of my eye, I see almost everybody around me follow suit, but Otho Mellark, a big lug of a guy whose folks own the bakery, seems bewildered. His meaty
hands dangle loosely at his sides and his feet shuffle back and forth, and then I notice his blond hair’s splattered with someone’s blood. Burdock
punches him hard in the back of his knee and it’s enough to get him down on the ground and out of the line of fire.
Drusilla’s hot mic bounces her voice around the square as she screams at her team, “We’ve got five minutes! A five-minute delay and then we’ll
have to finish this live! Get rid of the bloody ones!”
For the first time, I understand that when they show the reaping live, it isn’t really live. There must be a five-minute hold on the broadcast in case something like this happens.
Peacekeepers’ boots tramp through the audience as the soldiers grab anyone marked with gore, including Otho, and push them into the nearby shops to conceal them.
“We need another boy! That dead one’s no good!” says Drusilla, clunking down the steps into the square.
There’s a high-pitched keening followed by Peacekeepers barking orders. Then I hear Lenore Dove’s voice, and my head shoots up like I don’t control it. She’s trying to help Woodbine’s ma, who’s latched on to his hand as a pair of Peacekeepers attempts to carry him away. Lenore Dove’s tugging on one of the soldier’s arms, begging them to please let his ma have him, just let her see him for one minute. But they don’t seem to have a minute.
This will not end well. Should I get in there? Pull Lenore Dove away?
Or will I only make the situation worse? I feel like my knees are glued to the ground.
“What’s the problem there?” I hear Drusilla say. “Get that body off the square!” A squad of four more Peacekeepers heads over.
Having Woodbine referred to as a “body” sets his ma off. She begins to shriek, flinging her arms around his chest, trying to pull her son away from the soldiers. Lenore Dove joins her, grabbing hold of Woodbine’s legs to help free him.
Ma’s going to lay into me for intervening, but I just can’t grovel on
the ground while Lenore Dove’s in danger. I push myself up and run toward her, hoping to get her to let Woodbine loose. I spy one of the incoming
Peacekeepers raising his rifle to knock her out.
“Stop!” I leap in to shield her, just in time to intercept the rifle butt that slams against my temple. Pain explodes in my head as jagged lights cut through my vision. I don’t even make it to the ground before iron hands lock on my upper arms and haul me forward, my nose inches from the bricks. I’m dropped flat on my face before a pair of yellow boots. The tip of one lifts my chin before letting it bang back on the ground.
“Well, I think we’ve just found our replacement.”
Lenore Dove’s behind me, pleading. “Don’t take him — it wasn’t his fault! It was mine! Punish me!”
“Oh, just shoot that girl, would you?” says Drusilla. A nearby Peacekeeper trains his rifle on Lenore Dove, and Drusilla snorts in exasperation. “Not here! We’ve got enough blood to clean up. Find a discreet location, can’t you?”
As the soldier takes a step toward Lenore Dove, a guy in a violet jumpsuit appears, laying a hand on his elbow. “Hold it. If I could, Drusilla, I’d love to keep her for the tearful good-bye. The audience eats that stuff up
and, as you always remind us, it’s a challenge to get them to even notice Twelve.”
“Fine, Plutarch. Whatever. Just get the rest of them up. Up! On your feet, you district pigs!” As they lift me, I notice Drusilla has a riding crop clipped to the side of one boot and wonder if it’s just decorative. Her dead- fish breath hits my face. “Play this right or I’ll shoot you myself.”
“Haymitch!” I hear Lenore Dove cry.
I start to respond but Drusilla clamps on to my face with her long fingers. “And she can watch.”
Plutarch gestures to one of the crew. “Get a camera on that girl, would you, Cassia?” He pursues Drusilla. “You know, we’ve got footage of the
Peacekeepers controlling the crowd. It could be an opportunity to hit the ‘No Peacekeeper, No Peace’ angle.”
“I don’t have time, Plutarch! I barely have time to pull off the status quo! Get the first boy What was his name?”
“Wyatt Callow,” says Plutarch.
“Get Wyatt Callow back in the pen.” Drusilla smacks her forehead.
“No!” She thinks a moment. “Yes! I’ll call them both. It will be smoother.” “It will cost you another thirty seconds.”
“Then let’s get going.” She points at me. “What’s your name?”
My name sounds alien as it leaves my lips. “Haymitch Abernathy.”
“Haymitch Abernanny,” she repeats. “Haymitch Abernathy,” I correct her.
She turns to Plutarch in vexation. “It’s too long!” He scribbles on his clipboard pad and rips off a strip of paper. She takes it and reads, “Wyatt Callow and Haymitch . . . Aber . . . nathy. Wyatt Callow and Haymitch Abernathy.”
“Why you’re the professional,” Plutarch says. “Better take your place.
I’ll position him.” As Drusilla hurries up the steps, he takes my elbow and whispers, “Don’t be stupid, kid. She’ll kill you with a snap if you mess up again.”
I don’t know if he means with a snap of her fingers or some extra- horrible snappy way to die. Either way, I don’t want to die with a snap.
Plutarch leads me to a spot closer to the stage. “This’ll do. Just stay here, and when Drusilla calls your name, you calmly walk up onstage.
Okay?”
I try to nod. My head throbs and my thoughts tumble around like rocks in a tin can. What just happened? What’s happening now?
Somewhere inside me, I know. I’m a tribute in the Hunger Games. In a few days, I’ll die in the arena. I know all this, but it’s like it’s happening to
someone else while I watch from a distance.
The remaining members of the audience have regained their feet but not their composure. People whisper urgently to their neighbors, trying to figure out what’s going on.
“Live in thirty,” someone says over the speakers. “Twenty-nine, twenty-eight, twenty-seven . . .”
“Shut up!” Drusilla yells at the crowd as a makeup person puffs some powder on her sweaty face. “Shut up or we’ll kill every last one of you!” As if to emphasize this, a Peacekeeper next to her fires a spray of bullets into
the air, and a hovercraft passes right over the square.
It gets quiet fast and I can hear my blood pounding in my ears. I have an impulse to flee, like Woodbine did, but remember the look of his brains hanging out of his skull.
“. . . ten, nine, eight . . .”
Everyone onstage has returned to their pre-shooting places: Louella and Maysilee, the Peacekeepers, and Drusilla, who quickly tears the paper Plutarch gave her in two and positions the slips on the pile in the glass ball.
I reach for Burdock and Blair to steady myself, but, of course, they’re not there. Just a couple of younger kids who are giving me plenty of room.
“. . . three, two, one, and we’re live.”
Drusilla pretends to draw a name. “And the first gentleman who gets to accompany the ladies is . . . Wyatt Callow!”
In some strange replay, I watch Wyatt, as impassive as before, go by and obediently take his place on the stage.
Drusilla’s hand hovers over the ball, then removes a slip with surgical precision. “And our second boy will be . . . Haymitch Abernathy!” I just stand there in case this is a bad dream and I’m about to wake up in my own bed. Everything’s all wrong. Minutes ago, I dodged this bullet. I was headed home, then to the woods, safe for another year.
“Haymitch?” Drusilla repeats, looking straight at me.
My face fills the screen over the stage. My feet begin to move. I see them cut to Lenore Dove, who has a hand pressed against her mouth. She isn’t crying, so Plutarch won’t get his tearful good-bye. Not from her and not from me. They will not use our tears for their entertainment.
“Ladies and gentlemen, join me in welcoming the District Twelve tributes of the Fiftieth Hunger Games!” Drusilla acknowledges us. “And
may the odds be EVER in your favor!” She begins to clap and I hear a huge audience response over the speakers, although I can only see a handful of
people applauding in 12.
I locate Lenore Dove in the crowd and we lock eyes, desperation setting in. For a moment, everything else peels away and there’s only us. She lowers her hand and presses it to her heart as her lips form the words silently. I love you like all-fire. I mouth back, You, too.
Cannons break the spell. Confetti showers down on me, on the stage, on the whole square. I lose sight of her in the fluttering bits of bright paper.
Drusilla spreads her arms wide. “Happy second Quarter Quell, everybody!”
“And we’re out,” says the voice on the speaker.
The broadcast has moved on to the District 11 reaping. The canned applause cuts off and Drusilla lets out a groan, dramatically slumping against the podium.
The Capitol TV crew gives a loud cheer as Plutarch appears from the side of the stage, shouting, “Brilliant! Bravo, everybody! Absolutely seamless, Drusilla!”
Drusilla recovers and yanks off her daffodil hat by the chin strap. “I have no idea how I just did that.” She pulls a pack of cigarettes from her
boot and lights up, exhaling the smoke through her nose like it’s a chimney. “Well, it’s a great story for dinner parties!”
One of the assistants appears with a tray of glasses filled with a pale liquid. He accidentally offers one to me — “Champagne?” — before he
realizes his mistake. “Whoops! None for the children!”
Drusilla grabs a glass and notices the people of District 12 standing
mute and miserable while the last bits of confetti drift down on them. “Well, what are they staring at? Filthy beasts. Go home! All of you!” She
addresses a Peacekeeper. “Get them out of here before their smell gets in my hair.” She sniffs a lock of her hair and grimaces. “Too late.”
The Peacekeeper gives a signal and the soldiers begin pushing the crowd back. While I see Burdock and Blair put up a struggle, most people rush to the side streets, only too happy to escape the ordeal of the reaping, to hurry home, embrace their children, and, for those who patronize Hattie’s stall, get good and drunk.
I’m panicked by the sight of a District 12 Peacekeeper restraining Lenore Dove. Why didn’t I step in sooner? Why did I wait until I had no choice but to defy that soldier? Was I feeling afraid? Confused? Or just powerless in the face of those white uniforms? Now we’re both doomed.
The Peacekeeper’s bringing out cuffs when Clerk Carmine and Tam Amber swoop in. They talk to him fast and low, and I think some money changes hands. To my relief, the Peacekeeper glances around, releases her, and
walks off. Lenore Dove makes for me, but her uncles hustle her down a side street.
The other luckless loved ones of this year’s tributes remain behind.
Mr. Donner runs up on the stage with a fistful of cash, hoping to
somehow bail Maysilee out, while his wife and Merrilee huddle near their storefront. “Don’t, Papa!” Maysilee cries, but her father keeps waving the money in people’s faces.
There’s a family I judge to be the Callows, where a woman weeps hysterically and the menfolk have come to blows. “You jinxed him!” one accuses another. “This is on you!”
Our neighbors, the McCoys, have their arms wrapped around Ma, who’s barely able to stand. Sid’s hanging on her hand, pulling her forward, as he hollers, “Haymitch! Haymitch!” I’m already so homesick I could die. I know I need to be strong, but the sight of them totals me. How will they manage without me?
What’s supposed to happen next is that the tributes go into the Justice Building for a final farewell to their families and friends. I’ve done this
once before. My ma and pa took me when Sarshee Whitcomb, the daughter of Pa’s old crew boss, got reaped. She’d been orphaned that year when her pa, Lyle, died of black lung. Ma told the Peacekeepers we were kin and they took us to a sitting room with a lot of scratchy furniture that needed dusting. I think we were her only visitors.
I know I should wait for the official good-bye time, but the only thing that matters now is to hug Ma and Sid. With Mr. Donner and Maysilee making a ruckus, I get to the edge of the stage, crouch down, and reach for them as they run to me.
“None of that!” I’m yanked backward by a Peacekeeper as Drusilla continues. “No good-byes for these people. They’ve lost that privilege after
that outrageous display today. Take them straight to the train, and let’s get out of this stinkhole.”
A pair of Peacekeepers tosses Mr. Donner off the stage. Midair, he loses his grip on his money, which floats down and mingles with the confetti on the ground. Then they pull out handcuffs.
Louella’s been holding it together, but now she looks at me, her eyes wide with fright. I lay my hand on her shoulder to steady her, but as the cold metal touches her skin, she lets out a small squeak, like a baby animal in a trap. At the sound, the families surge forward, desperate to reclaim us.
The Peacekeepers hold them back as Plutarch speaks up. “I don’t mean to be a pain, Drusilla, but I’m really low on reaction shots for the recap. Could I just snag a few?”
“If you must. But if you’re not on the train in fifteen, you can walk home,” says Drusilla.
“I owe you.” Plutarch does a quick assessment of our families and points to me and Louella. “Leave me this and this.”
The Peacekeepers steer Maysilee and Wyatt into the Justice Building, beating back their relatives with batons when they try to follow. Somehow, Merrilee slips by them, and for a moment the Donner twins become one,
arms locked around each other’s necks, foreheads, noses pressed together. A
mirror image that the Peacekeepers tear in two. I see Wyatt give a final look to the hysterical Callow woman before marching through the door.
Louella and I rush for our folks, but Plutarch intervenes. “Let’s get the footage.”
The crew sweeps an area in front of the shops clear of confetti. A cameraman positions himself while Plutarch poses Louella’s parents and her half dozen brothers and sisters in front of the bakery. “Wait, if you were in the reaping, get out of the picture.” Two of the kids move out of range of the camera. “Good,” he says. “Very nice. Now, what I need you to do is to react exactly the way you did when you heard them call Louella’s name. In three, two, one, action.”
The McCoy family stares at him numbly.
“And cut!” Plutarch crosses to the McCoys. “Sorry. Obviously, I wasn’t clear. When you heard them call Louella, it was a big shock, right? ‘Oh, no!’ Maybe you gasped or cried out her name. Anyway, you did something. And now I need you to do the same thing for the camera.
Okay?” He backs up. “So, in three, two, one, action!”
If anything, the McCoys are more stony-faced than before. It’s not confusion; it’s a blanket refusal to put on a show for the Capitol.
“Cut.” Plutarch rubs his eye and sighs. “Take the girl to the train.”
Peacekeepers whisk Louella into the Justice Building as the McCoys finally crack, crying out her name in anguish. Plutarch motions to the crew to film their reaction. When the McCoys realize he got their distress on tape, they’re infuriated, but the Peacekeepers just muscle them off the square.
Plutarch turns to Ma and Sid. “Listen, I know this isn’t easy, but I think we can help each other out. If I can get a usable reaction shot from you, I can give you a minute with Haymitch. We clear?”
I see Sid’s eyes flicker skyward as there’s a low rumble of thunder, which feels like a warning. I look at my ma’s pale face, my brother’s trembling lips. The words spill out of my mouth unbidden. “Don’t do it, Ma.”
But Ma overrules me and addresses Plutarch. “No, I’ll do it. We’ll both do it, if you let us hold him one more time.”
“Deal.” Plutarch positions them side by side, but Ma moves behind Sid and wraps her arms around him. “Nice. I like it. Okay, so it’s the middle of the reaping, Drusilla is picking the boys. She’s just said, ‘Haymitch Abernathy.’ And three, two, one, action.”
Ma gasps and Sid, confused, as no doubt he was at the time, cranes his head around to look at her.
“Cut! That was terrific. Can we try it once more, and this time, maybe make the gasp a little louder? Okay, in three, two, one . . .”
But it isn’t once. Plutarch keeps calling for more dramatic
responses — “Call out his name!” “Hide your face in her dress!” “Can you break into tears?” — until Sid’s crying for real and my ma looks ready to pass out.
“Stop it!” I burst out. “That’s enough! You’ve got enough!”
The walkie-talkie on his belt crackles and I hear Drusilla’s impatient voice. “Where are you, Plutarch?”
“Just wrapping up. There in five.” Plutarch waves Ma and Sid in my direction and they rush into my arms. “You’ve got two minutes.”
I crush them against me for what I know is the last time. But time’s a- wasting and we are not a wasteful family. “Take this.” I empty the contents of my pockets into their hands, money and peanuts into Ma’s, knife and the white sack of gumdrops into Sid’s. Bequeathing them the remains of my life in 12.
Sid raises the gumdrops. “For Lenore Dove?” “Yeah, you see she gets them, okay?” I say.
Sid’s voice is hoarse with tears, but determined. “She’ll get them.” “I know she will. Because I can always depend on you.” I kneel in
front of my little brother and hold out my sleeve like I did when he was
tiny, so he can wipe his nose on it. “You’re the man of the house now. If you were some other kid, I’d be worried, but I know you can handle it.” Sid starts to shake his head. “You’re twice as smart as me and ten times as brave. You can do this. Okay? Okay?” He nods and I muss his hair. Then I
rise and hug my mother. “You can, too, Ma.” “I love you, son,” she whispers.
“I love you, too,” I say.
Through the static of Plutarch’s walkie-talkie, I hear Drusilla’s impatient voice. “Plutarch! Don’t think I won’t leave without you!”
“Got to go, people,” Plutarch says. “Drusilla waits for no man.”
The Peacekeepers move in to separate us, but Ma and Sid hold tight. “You remember what your pa said to the Whitcomb child?” Ma says
urgently. “It still goes.”
I flash back to the Justice Building, and the weeping girl and the sickly scent of decomposing flowers that pervaded the place. Pa is talking to Sarshee, and he’s telling her, “Don’t let them use you, Sarshee. Don’t —”
“Plutarch!” screeches Drusilla. “Plutarch Heavensbee!”
Peacekeepers rip us apart. I’m lifted off my feet as Sid begs, “Please don’t take my brother! Please don’t take him. We need him!”
I can’t help it, I should be a good example, but I struggle to get free. “It’s okay, Sid! It’s going to be —” A jolt of electricity racks my body and I
go limp. I can track the heels of my boots bouncing up the stairs, over the carpets of the Justice Building, through the gravel on the drive behind it. In
the car, I let them cuff me without objecting. My brain’s fuzzy, but I know I don’t want to be zapped again. Wobbly-legged, I climb the metal steps to
the train, where I’m tossed into some compartment with a single, barred window. I press my face against the glass, but there’s nothing to see but a grimy coal car.
For all Drusilla’s whining, we go nowhere for an hour. The sky
blackens and the storm breaks. Hail clatters against my window, followed by sheets of rain. By the time the wheels of the train begin to turn, my head has cleared. I try to memorize every fleeting image of 12 — the lightning illuminating the dingy warehouses, the water streaming down the slag heaps, and the glow of the green hills.
That’s when I see Lenore Dove. She’s up on a ridge, her red dress plastered to her body, one hand clutching the bag of gumdrops. As the train passes, she tilts her head back and wails her loss and rage into the wind.
And even though it guts me, even though I smash my fists into the glass until they bruise, I’m grateful for her final gift. That she’s denied Plutarch the chance to broadcast our farewell.
The moment our hearts shattered? It belongs to us.
