Catching Fire

little misty. “Was it a picture of Katniss?”
    “Why would he paint a picture of me, Effie?” I ask, somehow annoyed.
    “To show he’s going to do everything he can to defend you. That’s what everyone in the Capitol’s expecting, anyway. Didn’t he volunteer to go in with you?” Effie says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
    “Actually, I painted a picture of Rue,” Peeta says. “How she looked after Katniss had covered her in flowers.”
    There’s a long pause at the table while everyone absorbs this. “And what exactly were you trying to accomplish?” Haymitch asks in a very measured voice.
    “I’m not sure. I just wanted to hold them accountable, if only for a moment,” says Peeta. “For killing that little girl.”
    “This is dreadful.” Effie sounds like she’s about to cry. “That sort of thinking . . . it’s forbidden, Peeta. Absolutely. You’ll only bring down more trouble on yourself and Katniss.”
    “I have to agree with Effie on this one,” says Haymitch. Portia and Cinna remain silent, but their faces are very serious. Of course, they’re right. But even though it worries me, I think what he did was amazing.
    “I guess this is a bad time to mention I hung a dummy and painted Seneca Crane’s name on it,” I say. This has the desired effect. After a moment of disbelief, all the disapproval in the room hits me like a ton of bricks.
    “You . . . hung . . . Seneca Crane?” says Cinna.
    “Yes. I was showing off my new knot-tying skills, and he somehow ended up at the end of the noose,” I say.
    “Oh, Katniss,” says Effie in a hushed voice. “How do you even know about that?”
    “Is it a secret? President Snow didn’t act like it was. In fact, he seemed eager for me to know,” I say. Effie leaves the table with her napkin pressed to her face. “Now I’ve upset Effie. I should have lied and said I shot some arrows.”
    “You’d have thought we planned it,” says Peeta, giving me just the hint of a smile.
    “Didn’t you?” asks Portia. Her fingers press her eyelids closed as if she’s warding off a very bright light.
    “No,” I say, looking at Peeta with a new sense of appreciation. “Neither of us even knew what we were going to do before we went in.”
    “And, Haymitch?” says Peeta. “We decided we don’t want any other allies in the arena.”
    “Good. Then I won’t be responsible for you killing off any of my friends with your stupidity,” he says.
    “That’s just what we were thinking,” I tell him.
    We finish the meal in silence, but when we rise to go into the sitting room, Cinna puts his arm around me and gives me a squeeze. “Come on and let’s go get those training scores.”
    We gather around the television set and a red-eyed Effie rejoins us. The tributes’ faces come up, district by district, and their scores flash under their pictures. One through twelve. Predictably high scores for Cashmere, Gloss, Brutus, Enobaria, and Finnick. Low to medium for the rest.
    “Have they ever given a zero?” I ask.
    “No, but there’s a first time for everything,” Cinna answers.
    And it turns out he’s right. Because when Peeta and I each pull a twelve, we make Hunger Games history. No one feels like celebrating, though.
    “Why did they do that?” I ask.
    “So that the others will have no choice but to target you,” says Haymitch flatly. “Go to bed. I can’t stand to look at either one of you.”
    Peeta walks me down to my room in silence, but before he can say good night, I wrap my arms around him and rest my head against his chest. His hands slide up my back and his cheek leans against my hair. “I’m sorry if I made things worse,” I say.
    “No worse than I did. Why did you do it, anyway?” he says.
    “I don’t know. To show them that I’m more than just a piece in their Games?” I say.
    He laughs a little, no doubt remembering the night before the Games last year. We were on the roof, neither of us able to sleep. Peeta had said something of the sort then, but I hadn’t understood what he meant. Now I do.
    “Me, too,” he tells me. “And I’m not saying I’m not going to try. To get you home, I mean. But if I’m perfectly honest about it . . .”
    “If you’re perfectly honest about it, you think President Snow has probably given them direct orders to make sure we die in the arena anyway,” I say.
    “It’s crossed my mind,” says Peeta.
    It’s crossed my mind, too. Repeatedly. But while I