The Hunger Games

the seasons went by, we grudgingly began to share our knowledge, our weapons, our secret places that were thick with wild plums or turkeys. He taught me snares and fishing. I showed him what plants to eat and eventually gave him one of our precious bows. And then one day, without either of us saying it, we became a team. Dividing the work and the spoils. Making sure that both our families had food.
    Gale gave me a sense of security I’d lacked since my father’s death. His companionship replaced the long solitary hours in the woods. I became a much better hunter when I didn’t have to look over my shoulder constantly, when someone was watching my back. But he turned into so much more than a hunting partner. He became my confidant, someone with whom I could share thoughts I could never voice inside the fence. In exchange, he trusted me with his. Being out in the woods with Gale . . . sometimes I was actually happy.
    I call him my friend, but in the last year it’s seemed too casual a word for what Gale is to me. A pang of longing shoots through my chest. If only he was with me now! But, of course, I don’t want that. I don’t want him in the arena where he’d be dead in a few days. I just . . . I just miss him. And I hate being so alone. Does he miss me? He must.
    I think of the eleven flashing under my name last night. I know exactly what he’d say to me. “Well, there’s some room for improvement there.” And then he’d give me a smile and I’d return it without hesitating now.
    I can’t help comparing what I have with Gale to what I’m pretending to have with Peeta. How I never question Gale’s motives while I do nothing but doubt the latter’s. It’s not a fair comparison really. Gale and I were thrown together by a mutual need to survive. Peeta and I know the other’s survival means our own death. How do you sidestep that?
    Effie’s knocking at the door, reminding me there’s another “big, big, big day!” ahead. Tomorrow night will be our televised interviews. I guess the whole team will have their hands full readying us for that.
    I get up and take a quick shower, being a bit more careful about the buttons I hit, and head down to the dining room. Peeta, Effie, and Haymitch are huddled around the table talking in hushed voices. That seems odd, but hunger wins out over curiosity and I load up my plate with breakfast before I join them.
    The stew’s made with tender chunks of lamb and dried plums today. Perfect on the bed of wild rice. I’ve shoveled about halfway through the mound when I realize no one’s talking. I take a big gulp of orange juice and wipe my mouth. “So, what’s going on? You’re coaching us on interviews today, right?”
    “That’s right,” says Haymitch.
    “You don’t have to wait until I’m done. I can listen and eat at the same time,” I say.
    “Well, there’s been a change of plans. About our current approach,” says Haymitch.
    “What’s that?” I ask. I’m not sure what our current approach is. Trying to appear mediocre in front of the other tributes is the last bit of strategy I remember.
    Haymitch shrugs. “Peeta has asked to be coached separately.”

Betrayal. That’s the first thing I feel, which is ludicrous. For there to be betrayal, there would have to have been trust first. Between Peeta and me. And trust has not been part of the agreement. We’re tributes. But the boy who risked a beating to give me bread, the one who steadied me in the chariot, who covered for me with the redheaded Avox girl, who insisted Haymitch know my hunting skills . . . was there some part of me that couldn’t help trusting him?
    On the other hand, I’m relieved that we can stop the pretense of being friends. Obviously, whatever thin connection we’d foolishly formed has been severed. And high time, too. The Games begin in two days, and trust will only be a weakness. Whatever triggered Peeta’s decision — and I suspect it had to do with my outperforming him in training — I should be nothing but grateful for it. Maybe he’s finally accepted the fact that the sooner we openly acknowledge that we are enemies, the better.
    “Good,” I say. “So what’s the schedule?”
    “You’ll each have four hours with Effie for presentation and four with me for content,” says Haymitch. “You start with Effie, Katniss.”
    I can’t imagine what Effie will have to teach me that could take four hours, but she’s got me working down to the last minute. We go to