The Hunger Games

Haymitch is our only hope, but nothing is forthcoming, either from lack of money — everything will cost an exorbitant amount — or because he’s dissatisfied with our performance. Probably the latter. I’d be the first to admit we’re not exactly riveting today. Starving, weak from injuries, trying not to reopen wounds. We’re sitting huddled together wrapped in the sleeping bag, yes, but mostly to keep warm. The most exciting thing either of us does is nap.
    I’m not really sure how to ramp up the romance. The kiss last night was nice, but working up to another will take some forethought. There are girls in the Seam, some of the merchant girls, too, who navigate these waters so easily. But I’ve never had much time or use for it. Anyway, just a kiss isn’t enough anymore clearly because if it was we’d have gotten food last night. My instincts tell me Haymitch isn’t just looking for physical affection, he wants something more personal. The sort of stuff he was trying to get me to tell about myself when we were practicing for the interview. I’m rotten at it, but Peeta’s not. Maybe the best approach is to get him talking.
    “Peeta,” I say lightly. “You said at the interview you’d had a crush on me forever. When did forever start?”
    “Oh, let’s see. I guess the first day of school. We were five. You had on a red plaid dress and your hair . . . it was in two braids instead of one. My father pointed you out when we were waiting to line up,” Peeta says.
    “Your father? Why?” I ask.
    “He said, ‘See that little girl? I wanted to marry her mother, but she ran off with a coal miner,’” Peeta says.
    “What? You’re making that up!” I exclaim.
    “No, true story,” Peeta says. “And I said, ‘A coal miner? Why did she want a coal miner if she could’ve had you?’ And he said, ‘Because when he sings . . . even the birds stop to listen.’”
    “That’s true. They do. I mean, they did,” I say. I’m stunned and surprisingly moved, thinking of the baker telling this to Peeta. It strikes me that my own reluctance to sing, my own dismissal of music might not really be that I think it’s a waste of time. It might be because it reminds me too much of my father.
    “So that day, in music assembly, the teacher asked who knew the valley song. Your hand shot right up in the air. She stood you up on a stool and had you sing it for us. And I swear, every bird outside the windows fell silent,” Peeta says.
    “Oh, please,” I say, laughing.
    “No, it happened. And right when your song ended, I knew — just like your mother — I was a goner,” Peeta says. “Then for the next eleven years, I tried to work up the nerve to talk to you.”
    “Without success,” I add.
    “Without success. So, in a way, my name being drawn in the reaping was a real piece of luck,” says Peeta.
    For a moment, I’m almost foolishly happy and then confusion sweeps over me. Because we’re supposed to be making up this stuff, playing at being in love, not actually being in love. But Peeta’s story has a ring of truth to it. That part about my father and the birds. And I did sing the first day of school, although I don’t remember the song. And that red plaid dress . . . there was one, a hand-me-down to Prim that got washed to rags after my father’s death.
    It would explain another thing, too. Why Peeta took a beating to give me the bread on that awful hollow day. So, if those details are true . . . could it all be true?
    “You have a . . . remarkable memory,” I say haltingly.
    “I remember everything about you,” says Peeta, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “You’re the one who wasn’t paying attention.”
    “I am now,” I say.
    “Well, I don’t have much competition here,” he says.
    I want to draw away, to close those shutters again, but I know I can’t. It’s as if I can hear Haymitch whispering in my ear, “Say it! Say it!”
    I swallow hard and get the words out. “You don’t have much competition anywhere.” And this time, it’s me who leans in.
    Our lips have just barely touched when the clunk outside makes us jump. My bow comes up, the arrow ready to fly, but there’s no other sound. Peeta peers through the rocks and then gives a whoop. Before I can stop him, he’s out in the rain, then handing something in to me. A silver parachute attached to a basket. I rip it open at once and inside there’s a feast — fresh rolls, goat cheese, apples, and best of