“The one with the dried plums?” asks Caesar. I nod. “Oh, I eat it by the bucketful.” He turns sideways to the audience in horror, hand on his stomach. “It doesn’t show, does it?” They shout reassurances to him and applaud. This is what I mean about Caesar. He tries to help you out.

  “Now, Katniss,” he says confidentially, “When you came out in the opening ceremonies, my heart actually stopped. What did you think of that costume?”

  Cinna raises one eyebrow at me. Be honest. “You mean after I got over my fear of being burned alive?” I ask.

  Big laugh. A real one from the audience.

  “Yes. Start then,” says Caesar.

  Cinna, my friend, I should tell him anyway. “I thought Cinna was brilliant and it was the most gorgeous costume I’d ever seen and I couldn’t believe I was wearing it. I can’t believe I’m wearing this, either.” I lift up my skirt to spread it out. “I mean, look at it!”

  As the audience oohs and ahs, I see Cinna make the tiniest circular motion with his finger. But I know what he’s saying. Twirl for me.

  I spin in a circle once and the reaction is immediate.

  “Oh, do that again!” says Caesar, and so I lift up my arms and spin around and around letting the skirt fly out, letting the dress engulf me in flames. The audience breaks into cheers. When I stop, I clutch Caesar’s arm.

  “Don’t stop!” he says.

  “I have to, I’m dizzy!” I’m also giggling, which I think I’ve done maybe never in my lifetime. But the nerves and the spinning have gotten to me.

  Caesar wraps a protective arm around me. “Don’t worry, I’ve got you. Can’t have you following in your mentor’s footsteps.”

  Everyone’s hooting as the cameras find Haymitch, who is by now famous for his head dive at the reaping, and he waves them away good-naturedly and points back to me.

  “It’s all right,” Caesar reassures the crowd. “She’s safe with me. So, how about that training score. E-le-ven. Give us a hint what happened in there.”

  I glance at the Gamemakers on the balcony and bite my lip. “Um . . . all I can say, is I think it was a first.”

  The cameras are right on the Gamemakers, who are chuckling and nodding.

  “You’re killing us,” says Caesar as if in actual pain. “Details. Details.”

  I address the balcony. “I’m not supposed to talk about it, right?”

  The Gamemaker who fell in the punch bowl shouts out, “She’s not!”

  “Thank you,” I say. “Sorry. My lips are sealed.”

  “Let’s go back then, to the moment they called your sister’s name at the reaping,” says Caesar. His mood is quieter now. “And you volunteered. Can you tell us about her?”

  No. No, not all of you. But maybe Cinna. I don’t think I’m imagining the sadness on his face. “Her name’s Prim. She’s just twelve. And I love her more than anything.”

  You could hear a pin drop in the City Circle now.

  “What did she say to you? After the reaping?” Caesar asks.

  Be honest. Be honest. I swallow hard. “She asked me to try really hard to win.” The audience is frozen, hanging on my every word.

  “And what did you say?” prompts Caesar gently.

  But instead of warmth, I feel an icy rigidity take over my body. My muscles tense as they do before a kill. When I speak, my voice seems to have dropped an octave. “I swore I would.”

  “I bet you did,” says Caesar, giving me a squeeze. The buzzer goes off. “Sorry we’re out of time. Best of luck, Katniss Everdeen, tribute from District Twelve.”

  The applause continues long after I’m seated. I look to Cinna for reassurance. He gives me a subtle thumbs-up.

  I’m still in a daze for the first part of Peeta’s interview. He has the audience from the get-go, though; I can hear them laughing, shouting out. He plays up the baker’s son thing, comparing the tributes to the breads from their districts. Then has a funny anecdote about the perils of the Capitol showers. “Tell me, do I still smell like roses?” he asks Caesar, and then there’s a whole run where they take turns sniffing each other that brings down the house. I’m coming back into focus when Caesar asks him if he has a girlfriend back home.

  Peeta hesitates, then gives an unconvincing shake of his head.

  “Handsome lad like you. There must be some special girl. Come on, what’s her name?” says Caesar.

  Peeta sighs. “Well, there is this one girl. I’ve had a crush on her ever since I can remember. But I’m pretty sure she didn’t know I was alive until the reaping.”

  Sounds of sympathy from the crowd. Unrequited love they can relate to.

  “She have another fellow?” asks Caesar.

  “I don’t know, but a lot of boys like her,” says Peeta.

  “So, here’s what you do. You win, you go home. She can’t turn you down then, eh?” says Caesar encouragingly.

  “I don’t think it’s going to work out. Winning . . . won’t help in my case,” says Peeta.

  “Why ever not?” says Caesar, mystified.

  Peeta blushes beet red and stammers out. “Because . . . because . . . she came here with me.”

  Part II

  “The Games”

  10

  For a moment, the cameras hold on Peeta’s downcast eyes as what he says sinks in. Then I can see my face, mouth half open in a mix of surprise and protest, magnified on every screen as I realize, Me! He means me! I press my lips together and stare at the floor, hoping this will conceal the emotions starting to boil up inside of me.

  “Oh, that is a piece of bad luck,” says Caesar, and there’s a real edge of pain in his voice. The crowd is murmuring in agreement, a few have even given agonized cries.

  “It’s not good,” agrees Peeta.

  “Well, I don’t think any of us can blame you. It’d be hard not to fall for that young lady,” says Caesar. “She didn’t know?”

  Peeta shakes his head. “Not until now.”

  I allow my eyes to flicker up to the screen long enough to see that the blush on my cheeks is unmistakable.

  “Wouldn’t you love to pull her back out here and get a response?” Caesar asks the audience. The crowd screams assent. “Sadly, rules are rules, and Katniss Everdeen’s time has been spent. Well, best of luck to you, Peeta Mellark, and I think I speak for all of Panem when I say our hearts go with yours.”

  The roar of the crowd is deafening. Peeta has absolutely wiped the rest of us off the map with his declaration of love for me. When the audience finally settles down, he chokes out a quiet “Thank you” and returns to his seat. We stand for the anthem. I have to raise my head out of the required respect and cannot avoid seeing that every screen is now dominated by a shot of Peeta and me, separated by a few feet that in the viewers’ heads can never be breached. Poor tragic us.

  But I know better.

  After the anthem, the tributes file back into the Training Center lobby and onto the elevators. I make sure to veer into a car that does not contain Peeta. The crowd slows our entourages of stylists and mentors and chaperones, so we have only each other for company. No one speaks. My elevator stops to deposit four tributes before I am alone and then find the doors opening on the twelfth floor. Peeta has only just stepped from his car when I slam my palms into his chest. He loses his balance and crashes into an ugly urn filled with fake flowers. The urn tips and shatters into hundreds of tiny pieces. Peeta lands in the shards, and blood immediately flows from his hands.

  “What was that for?” he says, aghast.

  “You had no right! No right to go saying those things about me!” I shout at him.

  Now the elevators open and the whole crew is there, Effie, Haymitch, Cinna, and Portia.

  “What’s going on?” says Effie, a note of hysteria in her voice. “Did you fall?”

  “After she shoved me,” says Peeta as Effie and Cinna help him up.

  Haymitch turns on me. “Shoved him?”

  “This was your idea, wasn’t it? Turning me into some kind of fool in front of the entire country?” I answer.

  “It was my idea,” says Peeta, wincing as he pulls spikes of pottery from his palms. “Haymitch just helped me with it.”

  “Yes, Haymitch is very helpful. To you!” I say.

  “You are a fool,” Haymitch says in disgust. “Do you think he hurt you? That boy just gave you something you could never achieve on your own.”

  “He made me look weak!” I say.

  “He made you look desirable! And let’s face it, you can use all the help you can get in that department. You were about as romantic as dirt until he said he wanted you. Now they all do. You’re all they’re talking about. The star-crossed lovers from District Twelve!” says Haymitch.

  “But we’re not star-crossed lovers!” I say.

  Haymitch grabs my shoulders and pins me against the wall. “Who cares? It’s all a big show. It’s all how you’re perceived. The most I could say about you after your interview was that you were nice enough, although that in itself was a small miracle. Now I can say you’re a heartbreaker. Oh, oh, oh, how the boys back home fall longingly at your feet. Which do you think will get you more sponsors?”

  The smell of wine on his breath makes me sick. I shove his hands off my shoulders and step away, trying to clear my head.

  Cinna comes over and puts his arm around me. “He’s right, Katniss.”

  I don’t know what to think. “I should have been told, so I didn’t look so stupid.”

  “No, your reaction was perfect. If you’d known, it wouldn’t have read as real,” says Portia.

  “She’s just worried about her boyfriend,” says Peeta gruffly, tossing away a bloody piece of the urn.

  My cheeks burn again at the thought of Gale. “I don’t have a boyfriend.”

  “Whatever,” says Peeta. “But I bet he’s smart enough to know a bluff when he sees it. Besides you didn’t say you loved me. So what does it matter?”

  The words are sinking in. My anger fading. I’m torn now between thinking I’ve been used and thinking I’ve been given an edge. Haymitch is right. I survived my interview, but what was I really? A silly girl spinning in a sparkling dress. Giggling. The only moment of any substance I hail was when I talked about Prim. Compare that with Thresh, his silent, deadly power, and I’m forgettable. Silly and sparkly and forgettable. No, not entirely forgettable, I have my eleven in training.

  But now Peeta has made me an object of love. Not just his. To hear him tell it I have many admirers. And if the audience really thinks we’re in love . . . I remember how strongly they responded to his confession. Star-crossed lovers. Haymitch is right, they eat that stuff up in the Capitol. Suddenly I’m worried that I didn’t react properly.

  “After he said he loved me, did you think I could be in love with him, too?” I ask.

  “I did,” says Portia. “The way you avoided looking at the cameras, the blush.”

  They others chime in, agreeing.

  “You’re golden, sweetheart. You’re going to have sponsors lined up around the block,” says Haymitch.

  I’m embarrassed about my reaction. I force myself to acknowledge Peeta. “I’m sorry I shoved you.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” he shrugs. “Although it’s technically illegal.”

  “Are your hands okay?” I ask.

  “They’ll be all right,” he says.

  In the silence that follows, delicious smells of our dinner waft in from the dining room. “Come on, let’s eat,” says Haymitch. We all follow him to the table and take our places. But then Peeta is bleeding too heavily, and Portia leads him off for medical treatment. We start the cream and rose-petal soup without them. By the time we’ve finished, they’re back. Peeta’s hands are wrapped in bandages. I can’t help feeling guilty. Tomorrow we will be in the arena. He has done me a favor and I have answered with an injury. Will I never stop owing him?

  After dinner, we watch the replay in the sitting room. I seem frilly and shallow, twirling and giggling in my dress, although the others assure me I am charming. Peeta actually is charming and then utterly winning as the boy in love. And there I am, blushing and confused, made beautiful by Cinna’s hands, desirable by Peeta’s confession, tragic by circumstance, and by all accounts, unforgettable.

  When the anthem finishes and the screen goes dark, a hush falls on the room. Tomorrow at dawn, we will be roused and prepared for the arena. The actual Games don’t start until ten because so many of the Capitol residents rise late. But Peeta and I must make an early start. There is no telling how far we will travel to the arena that has been prepared for this year’s Games.

  I know Haymitch and Effie will not be going with us. As soon as they leave here, they’ll be at the Games Headquarters, hopefully madly signing up our sponsors, working out a strategy on how and when to deliver the gifts to us. Cinna and Portia will travel with us to the very spot from which we will be launched into the arena. Still final good-byes must be said here.

  Effie takes both of us by the hand and, with actual tears in her eyes, wishes us well. Thanks us for being the best tributes it has ever been her privilege to sponsor. And then, because it’s Effie and she’s apparently required by law to say something awful, she adds, “I wouldn’t be at all surprised if I finally get promoted to a decent district next year!”

  Then she kisses us each on the cheek and hurries out, overcome with either the emotional parting or the possible improvement of her fortunes.

  Haymitch crosses his arms and looks us both over.

  “Any final words of advice?” asks Peeta.

  “When the gong sounds, get the hell out of there. You’re neither of you up to the blood bath at the Cornucopia. Just clear out, put as much distance as you can between yourselves and the others, and find a source of water,” he says. “Got it?”

  “And after that?” I ask.

  “Stay alive,” says Haymitch. It’s the same advice he gave us on the train, but he’s not drunk and laughing this time. And we only nod. What else is there to say?

  When I head to my room, Peeta lingers to talk to Portia. I’m glad. Whatever strange words of parting we exchange can wait until tomorrow. My covers are drawn back, but there is no sign of the redheaded Avox girl. I wish I knew her name. I should have asked it. She could write it down maybe. Or act it out. But perhaps that would only result in punishment for her.

  I take a shower and scrub the gold paint, the makeup, the scent of beauty from my body. All that remains of the design-team’s efforts are the flames on my nails. I decide to keep them as reminder of who I am to the audience. Katniss, the girl who was on fire. Perhaps it will give me something to hold on to in the days to come.

  I pull on a thick, fleecy nightgown and climb into bed. It takes me about five seconds to realize I’ll never fall asleep. And I need sleep desperately because in the arena every moment I give in to fatigue will be an invitation to death.

  It’s no good. One hour, two, three pass, and my eyelids refuse to get heavy. I can’t stop trying to imagine exactly what terrain I’ll be thrown into. Desert? Swamp? A frigid wasteland? Above all I am hoping for trees, which may afford me some means of concealment and food and shelter. Often there are trees because barren landscapes are dull and the Games resolve too quickly without them. But what will the climate be like? What traps have the Gamemakers hidden to liven up the slower moments? And then there are my fellow tributes . . .

  The more anxious I am to find sleep, the more it eludes me. Finally, I am too restless to even stay in bed. I pace the floor, heart beating too fast, breathing too short. My room feels like a prison cell. If I don’t get air soon, I’m going to start to throw things again. I run down the hall to the door to the roof. It’s not only unlocked but ajar. Perhaps someone forgot to close it, but it doesn’t matter. The energy field enclosing the roof prevents any desperate form of escape. And I’m not looking to escape, only to fill my lungs with air. I want to see the sky and the moon on the last night that no one will be hunting me.

  The roof is not lit at night, but as soon as my bare feel reach its tiled surface I see his silhouette, black against the lights that shine endlessly in the Capitol. There’s quite a commotion going on down in the streets, music and singing and car horns, none of which I could hear through the thick glass window panels in my room. I could slip away now, without him noticing me; he wouldn’t hear me over the din. But the night air’s so sweet, I can’t bear returning to that stuffy cage of a room. And what difference does it make? Whether we speak or not?

  My feet move soundlessly across the tiles. I’m only yard behind him when I say, “You should be getting some sleep.”

  He starts but doesn’t turn. I can see him give his head a slight shake. “I didn’t want to miss the party. It’s for us, after all.”

  I come up beside him and lean over the edge of the rail. The wide streets are full of dancing people. I squint to make out their tiny figures in more detail. “Are they in costumes?”

  “Who could tell?” Peeta answers. “With all the crazy clothes they wear here. Couldn’t sleep, either?”

  “Couldn’t turn my mind off,” I say.

  “Thinking about your family?” he asks.

  “No,” I admit a bit guiltily. “All I can do is wonder about tomorrow. Which is pointless, of course.” In the light from below, I can see his face now, the awkward way he holds his bandaged hands. “I really am sorry about your hands.”

  “It doesn’t matter, Katniss,” he says. “I’ve never been a contender in these Games anyway.”

  “That’s no way to be thinking,” I say.

  “Why not? It’s true. My best hope is to not disgrace myself and . . .” He hesitates.

  “And what?” I say.

  “I don’t know how to say it exactly. Only . . . I want to die as myself. Does that make any sense?” he asks. I shake my head. How could he die as anyone but himself? “I don’t want them to change me in there. Turn me into some kind of monster that I’m not.”

  I bite my lip feeling inferior. While I’ve been ruminating on the availability of trees, Peeta has been struggling with how to maintain his identity. His purity of self. “Do you mean you won’t kill anyone?” I ask.