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Chapter Nineteen
"Stuff it," Butterfly Skaggs says, glaring at me across the table.
"I beg your pardon?"
"All them extra forks, and six different glasses, and cutting up a cooked pigeon with a knife and fork instead of just eating it? I'm not doing it."
"I know it seems strange --"
"I don't want to be like you or your Capitol friends. They're going to kill me anyway. I'm not bothering to put on airs before they do."
"The sponsors --"
"Haven't seen anything from District Twelve in years. They're betting on Haymitch, and he ain't --" She sneers. "The odds ain't in his favor, if you like that better."
"Butterfly, you're about to spend a great deal of time being seen by the entire country --"
"The country can stuff it, too." She stands up and glares at me. "I don't give a rip what the Capitol thinks, and I wouldn't want anyone in the district to see me looking like… you. You're pathetic. What are you wearing, anyway, some kind of glass?"
"It's a specially treated plastic that moves --"
"Trying to show off your panties?"
In my head, I hear the boys at school taunting me, wanting to know what was under my wig. It seems like it should feel further away than it does. "They're shorts."
"They're real short, all right. I got panties longer than that. And did something get exposed to radiation and die on your head? Do you have any idea how dumb you look? Everyone thinks so. I'm not planning to look that way."
I take a deep breath. Somewhere in the next car, Haymitch is helping River Boldwood muddle through the closet of clothes that the Gamemakers sent so he'll arrive in the Capitol in something other than the oversized long coat and jeans he was reaped in. ("I'm real sorry, I just grew too fast this spring, and nothing fits," he said when the cameras went off. I told him I'd try to play it off as a fashion trend in Twelve, and I asked Mayor Undersee to get a handful of other boys dressed that way to wander around the broadcast screen where the cameras can see them before they head back.)
Butterfly is a better bet. She's ignorant, but not stupid, and both Haymitch and I thought it would be a simple matter to teach her a few skills and get her dressed in something nice and comfortable for the arrival.
She is still wearing her blue jeans and a shirt that seems to be the cut off top of a set of miners' overalls. She was barefoot when I reaped her, and I saw her parents led away from the farewell room to be punished for allowing her at the reaping like that, but all three of them just glared out with ridiculous defiance.
I straighten my skirt (and wonder obsessively if everyone does, in fact, think I look stupid), then say, "You don't need to look like me. This is simply a popular skirt this season. We want you to look like you, but in decent clothes. Don't you want to wear something decent, and made of comfortable material? It'll feel good."
"I'm a District Twelve girl," Butterfly says, and looks out the window. In the background, the District Four reaping is playing. I see Finnick reflected as a ghostly image in the window beside her, floating serenely along through the trees as his tributes for the year are called. "If I die, I'll die as a District Twelve girl."
"I've known a good number of District Twelve girls now," I tell her. "I haven't had one yet who's been sorry to put on a silk blouse, light as air."
"If I want something light as air, I'll take my top off. I do it at home, all the time."
"You do not," Haymitch says dully from the doorway, where he's standing rubbing his head. "I've been District Twelve my whole life. You'd be more likely to go topless in the Capitol than on the Seam, and you know it. The whole town would be gossiping, and your mama would be embarrassed."
"My mama told me not to let them turn me into one of them."
"That's the most ridiculous rebellion I ever heard of. Why are you giving Effie a hard time?"
"I don't have to kiss her ass just because you like to. And word is, you're not averse to giving her a hard… time… now and again, either."
Haymitch clenches his jaw. "Effie, you go help River. His hair's pretty matted up. Butterfly and I are going to have a long talk. Right now."
"What are you going to do?" Butterfly asks. "Kill me?"
"I'm examining my options," Haymitch says. "Effie, go. Butterfly will give you a long and detailed apology later."
"Hell I will."
"Effie."
I nod and go.
River is in his cabin, finally dressed in a pair of decent slacks and a bright blue shirt. He looks a good deal like Haymitch did at his reaping -- Haymitch's shirt was several years out of fashion then, but this year, the style has come back out of absolutely nowhere.
River is staring plaintively at a pair of shiny dress shoes, and carrying a pair of socks in his hands. "Haymitch told me to put my shoes on," he says. "Only I don't usually wear proper shoes like that, or fancy socks. Do the socks go on the inside, just like regular shoes? Or am I supposed to wear them outside, so everyone can see they're… Haymitch said 'silk.'"
I smile. "The silk is just a special treat for your feet. No one needs to see it."
"Oh. Right." He sits down and starts putting the socks on. On the television, Claudius finishes an impossible analysis of the two completely unknown kids from District Six. It moves on to District Seven, and the wet, crying girl in pigtails comes on again. "Think she's sick?" River asks. "Will they give her medicine for the arena, so she's got a chance?" He blanches. "Am I supposed to not want her to have a chance?"
"You want what you want," I say. "Be yourself." I look at her, shivering in the rain. "I hope they give her medicine, though. They have some treatments that can clear up anything. I think they usually give them to tributes. It's…" I'm not sure how to explain it, though I know what Haymitch would say: No fun to watch them all die of the sniffles when they could be murdering each other. It doesn't seem like a good thing to say to River. "I'm sure they'll want her to have the same chance as anyone."
"She doesn't look like she's got a chance. She looks like she knows it."
He's right. She's skinny anyway, and as the camera lingers on her bony face, I can see sores by her nose and mouth. She keeps trying to gather herself, but then breaks down in tears again. If it weren't for the sickness, she'd be pretty, if not beautiful. She has big brown eyes, and long, light brown hair that curls into large ringlets at the bottom of her pigtails. It's not a prettiness that would turn heads among the sponsors, though, even if they get her clear of her fever. I'm sure Finnick would tell her that it's just as well. Claudius takes only a moment to discount her -- "District Seven seems to have had some bad luck in its female tribute" -- before moving on to her district partner, a big lumberjack boy in a knit cap and a carefully tucked in plaid shirt.
I shake my head and get to River's hair, which is, indeed, a matted mess. It didn't look too bad at the reaping, because his idea of "getting fancy" was slicking it down with coal oil from a lamp. The heavily matted underside worked like back combing, at least from a distance -- it just looked like a thick head of hair on television. Close up, it's a rat's nest.
I tell him that we have two choices -- spend the rest of the trip trying to unknot it, or give him a short haircut, maybe even shave his head. This would be a shame. Like so many in District Twelve, the head of hair hidden in the tangles is wonderfully, almost decadently thick. But I don't want him to spend hours of one of his last days in pain while I try to yank through it.
He opts for the cut. It ends up being a full shave. I give his scalp a polish, and I'll spray tan it before the Games so he isn't two-toned until it grows (if he makes it past the Cornucopia), but it looks all right.
"So, that's what my head looks like," he says. "I never knew. Lots of bumps there." He looks up shyly. "Do you think I might be able to have something to eat? I didn't get anything this morning. We were saving the food for tonight."
He is very pleased with the food on the train. I have to slow him down before he eats himself sick.
Hours later, with the sun already down, Butterfly comes to the dining car. She's still in blue jeans, but Haymitch apparently talked her into one of the silk tank tops, and she's brushed her hair. She sits down sullenly.
I raise my eyebrow at her.
"I ain't apologizing, if that's what you're waiting for," she says.
"You need to learn to speak more politely before Caesar's show," I tell her.
"Not doing it."
"You don't have a choice."
"You can stick me in a chair, and they can even make me stand up, but I'm not going to talk to that old ghoul, either. I'll just sit it out, and see what he does for three minutes if I don't talk to him."
"You'll only hurt yourself. Caesar is an important ally."
"He's a Capitol tool, just like you."
"If I'm counted among the likes of Caesar Flickerman, than I'm doing something right."
She snorts, and digs into her food with her fingers.
Once I get both of them bundled off to sleep, I find Haymitch in the lounge car, grimly reading their files. "She apologize?" he asks.
"No."
He grinds his teeth. "I don't know what that's about," he says. "I'm sorry, anyway. They must be having another… whatever it is they have just before they break a few windows and write slogans on the wall and call each other rebels. You okay?"
"I'm fine. Haymitch, she has to get that under control before anyone hears her talk. She'll lose sponsors. She'll lose them for River, too. And… well, they'll look at you more."
"Can't have that," he mutters.
"It's fairly clear that she's not going to listen to me. It's going to have to be you. She's threatening not to talk to Caesar."
Haymitch jabs irritably at a plate of pasta. "You know, sometimes, I sit in my big house and think I was happier on the Seam. Then I remember. They used to call me names because I read a lot and had friends in town. I guess they figure I've gotten too snooty for even the merchants now. Making friends in the Capitol. I'm not 'real' District Twelve. Wonder what they'd do if they found out about my library pass."
"I imagine something roughly similar to what my practical school classmates would say if they knew I used it sometimes."
"Yeah. What's the matter with us? We better learn our place pretty soon." He starts to smile, then gives it up as a bad job. "She's got fight in her, I'll give her that. But if she offends the Gamemakers, they won't even give her a chance to fight."
We have a late snack together. He's in a terrible mood from not drinking ("They shut down my supplier," he gripes), and I'm not feeling particularly cheerful, so we don't talk very much, but we've been doing this for a decade now, and we don't really need to talk anymore.
As I expected, the next day is a nightmare. River is understandably popular with the cameras (he's a handsome boy, even with his head shaved -- I sell this to the production team as his wanting to try something daring), but he has trouble following even the simplest instructions. Haymitch finally settles for "Do whatever your prep team says." There's no time for extended explanations, because Butterfly is putting up a howling fight at every step. She makes rude gestures at the crowd near the train. She spits at a Peacekeeper. She screams obscenities at the prep team when they try to lead her away. Haymitch sends me off with River and actually throws her over his shoulder and carries her, kicking and screaming, to prep.
"It's not that I don't know how she feels," he says when he gets back. "She probably thinks she's striking a blow. But I want to keep her alive. If I can get her to fight the right way, I maybe can do it, though they better give her a house way down the green from mine if she wins."
"You think she could win?"
"If she manages to get through training without them taking that huge chip on her shoulder as a neon-lit target? She might actually be able to pull it off. I doubt it, though. Most of these fire-breathers are all show."
It takes a long time for her to get through prep. Therinus's new partner, a whip-thin boy named Ulysses, says that she's been biting at the prep team. Haymitch goes back up to get her under control, joking that maybe he should trade tributes with Enobaria this year.
River is in his coveralls, which really don't cover all that much, as the front is ripped open and the sleeves torn off. I get an earful from Therinus about the shaved head, but the make-up team actually managed something interesting with the coal dust this year, letting it settle and flow in the natural sweat patterns on his scalp. River himself is unimpressed with this. "If my daddy went out in public with all that grime from the mines on him, my mother'd about bust a vein screaming at him about it."
I don't point out that she let her son out on national television with his hair so matted that it had to be shaved off.
He's afraid of the horses, so I introduce him to them and let him pet them a little bit. The Games horses are incredibly tame, and he decides he likes them. He sees Finnick across the room, feeding them sugar cubes, and asks first if that is really the famous Mr. Odair, then if it could be possible to get some of what he's feeding the horses. I call Finnick, who is very patient with River and teaches him to feed the horses properly.
The tributes are starting to come back now. District Ten seems to have gone for a cowboy look this year. District Eight, always a good one for fabric (of course) is in a complicated patchwork design. The girl from Seven comes out, looking wobbly on her feet. She's dressed in a heavy brown corduroy dress, and has a vine covered with chiffon leaves wrapped around her, coming to a canopy over her head. She sways as she passes us.
Finnick reaches out and steadies her. "Are you going to be okay?"
She looks at him and blinks, her large, sunken eyes somewhat dazed. "They gave me a pill so I don't sneeze. I'm dizzy." Her chest hitches a few times. "I… I can't be dizzy in the arena. I'll fall off the platform and blow up!"
Behind her, I see the District Two tributes pointing at her and snickering behind their hands. I don't mention it, but I doubt I have to for her to know.
"That's just a stopgap for the parade," Finnick says. "You'll see. My tribute had a stomach bug a couple of years ago. They gave him pills to keep him from throwing up in the chariot, but after, they gave him something that cleared him up overnight. It's not all that pleasant, but you won't be dizzy in training."
"Okay." She looks at me, her eyes scanning over my skirt (another of the glass-look ones). I wait for her to make a comment like Butterfly's, but instead, she says, "Isn't that Maxentius Maxim?"
I blink, surprised. "Well, yes."
She nods vaguely. "I thought so. I don't sleep much. I sometimes watch fashion shows on television. Is that uncomfortable? I was wondering when I saw the models walking."
"Not really."
"It's not hot or anything?"
I shake my head and smile. "I'll tell you what. You're Jack's tribute, right? Jack's a friend of Haymitch's, so I'll most likely see him tomorrow. I'll get the skirt cleaned tonight and send it up with him. You can try it for yourself."
She actually manages a smile. "Really? Thanks!" She bats disdainfully at her lightweight leaves. "I hope I get to wear something better for interviews," she says. "I look like a really sick tree."
"Jo-jo!" Jack calls from the District Seven carriage.
"I better go," she says. "I wish he wouldn't call me Jo-jo. Only my parents called me that."
"So make him stop," Finnick says. There's not even a trace of humor in his voice. "You put your foot down and make him stop. He's waiting for you to do it, I bet."
"Yeah. Right." She trudges over to her mentor.
Finnick pets the horse a little, then says, "That girl's going to surprise people."
"What?"
"Did you see her get exactly what she wanted out of you? Sick and dizzy as she is, that's something. And she's in the middle of all of this, thinking about fashion shows."
"So?"
"So, you don't sit around District Seven -- let alone the Hunger Games -- watching Capitol fashion shows if you don't imagine some other world. She probably wants to know what's coming out next season." He shrugs. "I better get back. My tribute should be out soon." He smiles. "He's my age. Eighteen. They've all been eighteen, but starting next year, they'll all have to be younger than me. Finally. Think they'll listen?"
He saunters away without waiting for an answer.
"I think she's kind of pretty," River says. "And she seems nice." He goes back to petting the horse.
A few minutes later, Haymitch escorts Butterfly down to the chariots. She's sullen, but she's been put into her costume, and is behaving herself. For some reason, she's attached a mockingjay feather to her coveralls. Her prep team looks exhausted.
"Are we going to have trouble?" Haymitch asks her. "Or are you a team player?"
"Team player," she grumbles. "But I better get to see the end of the game."
"I'll do my part for that," Haymitch says. "But I can't do it if you offend everyone in sight."
"Fine."
"And you still owe Effie an apology. She's been nothing but nice to you."
"It's all right," I say.
"No. It's not."
Butterfly grimaces and stares at her feet, then manages to say, "Sorry if I hurt your feelings, Miss Trinket."
"I accept your apology," I say. "Now, you'd best get into the chariot. District One is ready to go."
She climbs up. River steadies her a little bit when the horses start to move.
They go out into the evening light.
I stand back beside Haymitch. "What did you talk about?"
"Strategy and tactics," he says. "She needed a little crash course."
"What's the feather about?"
"It's a district token. Lots of mockingjays in District Twelve." He doesn't address the issue further, and doesn't respond to any more questions about it, and apparently thinks that I'm somehow missing that it obviously has some further significance.
I let him think so.
As I expected, between his good looks and his romance novel name, River is a favorite after the parade, though one among several. I doubt we'll ever see the single-minded level of adulation that Finnick got again. Finnick's tribute is again found wanting in comparison to his mentor, but Mags's tribute -- a plucky looking girl with freckles and curly hair -- is popular. The boy from District Seven gets good remarks (and a hope that he doesn't catch whatever the girl has). Both tributes from District Two are well-represented in the throngs of Games fans, and a long-shot -- the boy from Six -- seems to be a favorite of a lot of people in the down-market part of town.
Butterfly is barely mentioned, and the camera does not linger on her.
During dinner, she lets me teach her the proper way to use basic silverware, but draws the line at using two separate forks for dinner and dessert. I relent, and she clearly feels that she's won a major battle. River isn't putting up a battle, but he keeps forgetting which fork he's used and which he hasn't, and can't seem to grasp that he's supposed to use one for the whole meal, including the carrots, even though they're big enough pieces to pick up with his fingers.
After we get them bundled off to bed, Haymitch and I watch a little bit of coverage. It's the same as ever. The announcer says that they will run a movie after mandatory viewing. It's going to be one of Mimi's. Haymitch turns it off without commentary.
"I do owe you an apology," he says.
"For what?"
"Apparently, half the Seam thinks that you and I -- " He shrugs. "The other half probably thinks it, but doesn't care enough to talk about it to Butterfly. Sorry. I didn't tell them anything. I mean, except joking with the press about how I'm saving myself for you, and I'm pretty sure everyone can tell I'm joking. Maybe I said something when I was drunk. I don't always remember. If I did…sorry."
"They'd be talking, anyway. People talk. I'm sure they talk in the Capitol, too."
"Doubt it. If they did, Claudius would have a panel of experts talking about it for filler." He thinks about it. "Maybe I should watch Capitol filler and find out what I've been up to."
I smile. "Anyway, there are worse rumors. I'm not worried."
"I am. You're better off if people don't think you're getting pillow talk about… things."
"You think they're saying we have time to talk about politics? How disappointing."
He laughs. "Yeah. Clearly, we need to put the passion back in our imaginary love life."
"Before you have a pretend affair with someone more interesting?"
"Me? You'd accuse me of pretend cheating? You're the one here with hundreds of possible make believe lovers."
"I just get tired of your imaginary jealousy."
He laughs. "Still. I'm sorry. I know you and I… but I'm no one you want to be saddled with in public."
"The thing is, Haymitch, in public, I'm already saddled. And I don't mind. Really, I don't. If I did, I'd have told you to stop joking about it." I look at the blank video screens. "Do you really think Butterfly has a chance?"
"I don't know. I was hoping she'd go over better at the parade. She's tough, and she's not dumb. Maybe."
"Finnick thinks the girl from Seven is going to surprise people."
"The sick one?"
"Yes. We talked to her for a few minutes. I told her I'd have my skirt cleaned and let her try it on. Is that all right?"
"It's your skirt, you can lend it to anyone you want." He frowns. "Finnick likes her, huh?"
"He thinks she's got something, anyway."
"Hmm. Maybe I'll take a better look. What do you think?"
"I don't know. I never think of them as… players. I only know that she seemed nice."
"Kind of refreshing after Butterfly?"
"Maybe."
He nods.
I start to leave for the night -- there's no reason for me to be here before breakfast -- but I hear him say, "Effie?"
I turn. "What?"
"Give her space. Butterfly, I mean. The Seam's not an easy place to live, and she lives in one of the hardest parts of it. It's hard to look up through a broken roof and not hate people who don't have to worry about it."
"Did you?"
"Hate Capitolites?"
"Yes."
"Probably. I mean, in the abstract, anyway. I never hate anyone in particular until I've had a good chance to find out why I should. Seems like a waste of energy to me. It's not like I ever run out of the hate-able ones, anyway."
I nod. "Good night, then."
I get my things and go back to my apartment, where I sit on the couch for a long time. I send my skirt out to be cleaned and tell them to deliver it to the training center. I watch Mimi's movie. It's a romantic comedy about a young mother who falls in love with the man who runs the childcare center. I get a nasty shock when I realize the sculpture she died under was an artist's rendering of a scene where she plays in the park with the child.
REAPED.
I shudder it away and go to sleep. Training begins tomorrow, and for once, we may have a real contender.
