The Hunger Games

impressed you most since you arrived here?” asks Caesar.
    What? What did he say? It’s as if the words make no sense.
    My mouth has gone as dry as sawdust. I desperately find Cinna in the crowd and lock eyes with him. I imagine the words coming from his lips. “What’s impressed you most since you arrived here?” I rack my brain for something that made me happy here. Be honest , I think. Be honest.
    “The lamb stew,” I get out.
    Caesar laughs, and vaguely I realize some of the audience has joined in.
    “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 ooh s and ah s, 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