第18章

  says haymitch. “did i actually get a pair
  of fighters this year?”
  peeta rises from the floor and scoops up a handful of ice
  from under the fruit tureen. he starts to raise it to the red
  mark on his jaw.
  “no,” says haymitch, stopping him. “let the bruise show.
  the audience will think you’ve mixed it up with another tri-
  bute before you’ve even made it to the arena.”
  “that’s against the rules,” says peeta.
  “only if they catch you. that bruise will say you fought, you
  weren’t caught, even better,” says haymitch. he turns to me.
  “can you hit anything with that knife besides a table?”
  the bow and arrow is my weapon. but i’ve spent a fair
  amount of time throwing knives as well. sometimes, if i’ve
  wounded an animal with an arrow, it’s better to get a knife in-
  to it, too, before i approach it. i realize that if i want hay-
  mitch’s attention, this is my moment to make an impression. i
  yank the knife out of the table, get a grip on the blade, and
  then throw it into the wall across the room. i was actually just
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  hoping to get a good solid stick, but it lodges in the seam be-
  tween two panels, making me look a lot better than i am.
  “stand over here. both of you,” says haymitch, nodding to
  the middle of the room. we obey and he circles us, prodding
  us like animals at times, checking our muscles, examining our
  faces. “well, you’re not entirely hopeless. seem fit. and once
  the stylists get hold of you, you’ll be attractive enough.”
  peeta and i don’t question this. the hunger games aren’t a
  beauty contest, but the best-looking tributes always seem to
  pull more sponsors.
  “all right, i’ll make a deal with you. you don’t interfere with
  my drinking, and i’ll stay sober enough to help you,” says
  haymitch. “but you have to do exactly what i say.”
  it’s not much of a deal but still a giant step forward from
  ten minutes ago when we had no guide at all.
  “fine,” says peeta.
  “so help us,” i say. “when we get to the arena, what’s the
  best strategy at the cornucopia for someone —”
  “one thing at a time. in a few minutes, we’ll be pulling into
  the station. you’ll be put in the hands of your stylists. you’re
  not going to like what they do to you. but no matter what it is,
  don’t resist,” says haymitch.
  “but —” i begin.
  “no buts. don’t resist,” says haymitch. he takes the bottle
  of spirits from the table and leaves the car. as the door swings
  shut behind him, the car goes dark. there are still a few lights
  inside, but outside it’s as if night has fallen again. i realize we
  must be in the tunnel that runs up through the mountains into
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  the capitol. the mountains form a natural barrier between the
  capitol and the eastern districts. it is almost impossible to en-
  ter from the east except through the tunnels. this geographi-
  cal advantage was a major factor in the districts losing the war
  that led to my being a tribute today. since the rebels had to
  scale the mountains, they were easy targets for the capitol’s
  air forces.
  peeta mellark and i stand in silence as the train speeds
  along. the tunnel goes on and on and i think of the tons of
  rock separating me from the sky, and my chest tightens. i hate
  being encased in stone this way. it reminds me of the mines
  and my father, trapped, unable to reach sunlight, buried for-
  ever in the darkness.
  the train finally begins to slow and suddenly bright light
  floods the compartment. we can’t help it. both peeta and i run
  to the window to see what we’ve only seen on television, the
  capitol, the ruling city of panem. the cameras haven’t lied
  about its grandeur. if anything, they have not quite captured
  the magnificence of the glistening buildings in a rainbow of
  hues that tower into the air, the shiny cars that roll down the
  wide paved streets, the oddly dressed people with bizarre hair
  and painted faces who have never missed a meal. all the col-
  ors seem artificial, the pinks too deep, the greens too bright,
  the yellows painful to the eyes, like the flat round disks of
  hard candy we can never afford to buy at the tiny sweet shop
  in district 12.
  the people begin to point at us eagerly as they recognize a
  tribute train rolling into the city. i step away from the win-
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  dow, sickened by their excitement, knowing they can’t wait to
  watch us die. but peeta holds his ground, actually waving and
  smiling at the gawking crowd. he only stops when the train
  pulls into the station, blocking us from their view.
  he sees me staring at him and shrugs. “who knows?”