The Hunger Games

we straggle back to the twelfth floor of the Training Center. I think now I’ll finally get a word alone with Peeta, but Haymitch sends him off with Portia to get something fitted for the interview and personally escorts me to my door.
    “Why can’t I talk to him?” I ask.
    “Plenty of time for talk when we get home,” says Haymitch. “Go to bed, you’re on air at two.”
    Despite Haymitch’s running interference, I’m determined to see Peeta privately. After I toss and turn for a few hours, I slip into the hall. My first thought is to check the roof, but it’s empty. Even the city streets far below are deserted after the celebration last night. I go back to bed for a while and then decide to go directly to his room, but when I try to turn the knob, I find my own bedroom door has been locked from the outside. I suspect Haymitch initially, but then there’s a more insidious fear that the Capitol may be monitoring and confining me. I’ve been unable to escape since the Hunger Games began, but this feels different, much more personal. This feels like I’ve been imprisoned for a crime and I’m awaiting sentencing. I quickly get back in bed and pretend to sleep until Effie Trinket comes to alert me to the start of another “big, big, big day!”
    I have about five minutes to eat a bowl of hot grain and stew before the prep team descends. All I have to say is, “The crowd loved you!” and it’s unnecessary to speak for the next couple of hours. When Cinna comes in, he shoos them out and dresses me in a white, gauzy dress and pink shoes. Then he personally adjusts my makeup until I seem to radiate a soft, rosy glow. We make idle chitchat, but I’m afraid to ask him anything of real importance because after the incident with the door, I can’t shake the feeling that I’m being watched constantly.
    The interview takes place right down the hall in the sitting room. A space has been cleared and the love seat has been moved in and surrounded by vases of red and pink roses. There are only a handful of cameras to record the event. No live audience at least.
    Caesar Flickerman gives me a warm hug when I come in. “Congratulations, Katniss. How are you faring?”
    “Fine. Nervous about the interview,” I say.
    “Don’t be. We’re going to have a fabulous time,” he says, giving my cheek a reassuring pat.
    “I’m not good at talking about myself,” I say.
    “Nothing you say will be wrong,” he says.
    And I think, Oh, Caesar, if only that were true. But actually, President Snow may be arranging some sort of “accident” for me as we speak.
    Then Peeta’s there looking handsome in red and white, pulling me off to the side. “I hardly get to see you. Haymitch seems bent on keeping us apart.”
    Haymitch is actually bent on keeping us alive, but there are too many ears listening, so I just say, “Yes, he’s gotten very responsible lately.”
    “Well, there’s just this and we go home. Then he can’t watch us all the time,” says Peeta.
    I feel a sort of shiver run through me and there’s no time to analyze why, because they’re ready for us. We sit somewhat formally on the love seat, but Caesar says, “Oh, go ahead and curl up next to him if you want. It looked very sweet.” So I tuck my feet up and Peeta pulls me in close to him.
    Someone counts backward and just like that, we’re being broadcast live to the entire country. Caesar Flickerman is wonderful, teasing, joking, getting choked up when the occasion presents itself. He and Peeta already have the rapport they established that night of the first interview, that easy banter, so I just smile a lot and try to speak as little as possible. I mean, I have to talk some, but as soon as I can I redirect the conversation back to Peeta.
    Eventually though, Caesar begins to pose questions that insist on fuller answers. “Well, Peeta, we know, from our days in the cave, that it was love at first sight for you from what, age five?” Caesar says.
    “From the moment I laid eyes on her,” says Peeta.
    “But, Katniss, what a ride for you. I think the real excitement for the audience was watching you fall for him. When did you realize you were in love with him?” asks Caesar.
    “Oh, that’s a hard one . . .” I give a faint, breathy laugh and look down at my hands. Help.
    “Well, I know when it hit me. The night when you shouted out his name from that tree,” says Caesar.
    Thank you, Caesar! I think, and then go with his idea. “Yes, I