Hunger Games 01-The Hunger Games

by Suzanne Collins

  But tomorrow is no better in terms of weather. The deluge continues as if the Gamemakers are intent on washing us all away. The thunder’s so powerful it seems to shake the ground. Peeta’s considering heading out anyway to scavenge for food, but I tell him in this storm it would be pointless. He won’t be able to see three feet in front of his face and he’ll only end up getting soaked to the skin for his troubles. He knows I’m right, but the gnawing in our stomachs is becoming painful.

  The day drags on turning into evening and there’s no break in the weather. 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, lie’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 all, a tureen of that incredible lamb stew on wild rice. The very dish I told Caesar Flickerman was the most impressive thing the Capitol had to offer.

  Peeta wriggles back inside, his face lit up like the sun. “I guess Haymitch finally got tired of watching us starve.”

  “I guess so,” I answer.

  But in my head I can hear Haymitch’s smug, if slightly exasperated, words, “Yes, that’s what I’m looking lot, sweetheart.”

  Every cell in my body wants me to dig into the stew and cram it, handful by handful into my mouth. But Peeta’s voice stops me. “We better take it slow on that stew. Remember the first night on the train? The rich food made me sick and I wasn’t even starving then.”

  “You’re right. And I could just inhale the whole thing!” I say regretfully. But I don’t. We are quite sensible. We each have a roll, half an apple, and an egg-size serving of stew and rice. I make myself eat the stew in tiny spoonfuls — they even sent us silverware and plates — savoring each bite. When we finish, I stare longingly at the dish. “I want more.”

  “Me, too. Tell you what. We wait an hour, if it stays down, then we get another serving,” Peeta says.

  “Agreed,” I say. “It’s going to be a long hour.”

  “Maybe not that long,” says Peeta. “What was that you were saying just before the food arrived? Something about me . . . no competition . . . best thing that ever happened to you . . .”

  “I don’t remember that last part,” I say, hoping it’s too dim in here for the cameras to pick up my blush.

  “Oh, that’s right. That’s what I was thinking,” he says. “Scoot over, I’m freezing.”

  I make room for him in the sleeping bag. We lean back against the cave wall, my head on his shoulder, his arms wrapped around me. I can feel Haymitch nudging me to keep up the act. “So, since we were five, you never even noticed any other girls?” I ask him.

  “No, I noticed just about every girl, but none of them made a lasting impression but you,” he says.

  “I’m sure that would thrill your parents, you liking a girl from the Seam,” I say.

  “Hardly. But I couldn’t care less. Anyway, if we make it back, you won’t be a girl from the Seam, you’ll be a girl from the Victor’s Village,” he says.

  That’s right. If we win, we’ll each get a house in the part of town reserved for Hunger Games’ victors. Long ago, when the Games began, the Capitol had built a dozen fine houses in each district. Of course, in ours only one is occupied. Most of the others have never been lived in at all.

  A disturbing thought hits me. “But then, our only neighbor will be Haymitch!”

  “Ah, that’ll be nice,” says Peeta, tightening his arms around me. “You and me and Haymitch. Very cozy. Picnics, birthdays, long winter nights around the fire retelling old Hunger Games’ tales.”

  “I told you, he hates me!” I say, but I can’t help laughing at the image of Haymitch becoming my new pal.

  “Only sometimes. When he’s sober, I’ve never heard him say one negative thing about you,” says Peeta.

  “He’s never sober!” I
protest.

  “That’s right. Who am I thinking of? Oh, I know. It’s Cinna who likes you. But that’s mainly because you didn’t try to run when he set you on fire,” says Peeta. “On the other hand, Haymitch . . . well, if I were you, I’d avoid Haymitch completely. He hates you.”

  “I thought you said I was his favorite,” I say.

  “He hates me more,” says Peeta. “I don’t think people in general are his sort of thing.”

  I know the audience will enjoy our having fun at Haymitch’s expense. He has been around so long, he’s practically an old friend to some of them. And after his head-dive off the stage at the reaping, everybody knows him. By this time, they’ll have dragged him out of the control room for interviews about us. No telling what sort of lies he’s made up. He’s at something of a disadvantage because most mentors have a partner, another victor to help them whereas Haymitch has to be ready to go into action at any moment. Kind of like me when I was alone in the arena. I wonder how he’s holding up, with the drinking, the attention, and the stress of trying to keep us alive.

  It’s funny. Haymitch and I don’t get along well in person, but maybe Peeta is right about us being alike because he seems able to communicate with me by the timing of his gifts. Like how I knew I must be close to water when he withheld it and how I knew the sleep syrup just wasn’t something to ease Peeta’s pain and how I know now that I have to play up the romance. He hasn’t made much effort to connect with Peeta really. Perhaps he thinks a bowl of broth would just be a bowl of broth to Peeta, whereas I’ll see the strings attached to it.

  A thought hits me, and I’m amazed the question’s taken so long to surface. Maybe it’s because I’ve only recently begun to view Haymitch with a degree of curiosity. “How do you think he did it?”

  “Who? Did what?” Peeta asks.

  “Haymitch. How do you think he won the Games?” I say.

  Peeta considers this quite a while before he answers. Haymitch is sturdily built, but no physical wonder like Cato or Thresh. He’s not particularly handsome. Not in the way that causes sponsors to rain gifts on you. And he’s so surly, it’s hard to imagine anyone teaming up with him. There’s only one way Haymitch could have won, and Peeta says it just as I’m reaching this conclusion myself.

  “He outsmarted the others,” says Peeta.

  I nod, then let the conversation drop. But secretly I’m wondering if Haymitch sobered up long enough to help Peeta and me because he thought we just might have the wits to survive. Maybe he wasn’t always a drunk. Maybe, in the beginning, he tried to help the tributes. But then it got unbearable. It must be hell to mentor two kids and then watch them die. Year after year after year. I realize that if I get out of here, that will become my job. To mentor the girl from District 12. The idea is so repellent, I thrust it from my mind.

  About half an hour has passed before I decide I have to eat again. Peeta’s too hungry himself to put up an argument. While I’m dishing up two more small servings of lamb stew and rice, we hear the anthem begin to play. Peeta presses his eyes against a crack in the rocks to watch the sky.

  “There won’t be anything to see tonight,” I say, far more interested in the stew than the sky. “Nothing’s happened or we would’ve heard a cannon.”

  “Katniss,” Peeta says quietly.

  “What? Should we split another roll, too?” I ask.

  “Katniss,” he repeats, but I find myself wanting to ignore him.

  “I’m going to split one. But I’ll save the cheese for tomorrow,” I say. I see Peeta staring at me. “What?”

  “Thresh is dead,” says Peeta.

  “He can’t be,” I say.

  “They must have fired the cannon during the thunder and we missed it,” says Peeta.

  “Are you sure? I mean, it’s pouring buckets out there. I don’t know how you can see anything,” I say. I push him away from the rocks and squint out into the dark, rainy sky. For about ten seconds, I catch a distorted glimpse of Thresh’s picture and then he’s gone. Just like that.

  I slump down against the rocks, momentarily forgetting about the task at hand. Thresh dead. I should be happy, right? One less tribute to face. And a powerful one, too. But I’m not happy. All I can think about is Thresh letting me go, letting me run because of Rue, who died with that spear in her stomach. . . .

  “You all right?” asks Peeta.

  I give a noncommittal shrug and cup my elbows in my hands, hugging them close to my body. I have to bury the real pain because who’s going to bet on a tribute who keeps sniveling over the deaths of her opponents. Rue was one thing. We were allies. She was so young. But no one will understand my sorrow at Thresh’s murder. The word pulls me up short. Murder! Thankfully, I didn’t say it aloud. That’s not going to win me any points in the arena. What I do say is, “It’s just . . . if we didn’t win . . . I wanted Thresh to. Because he let me go. And because of Rue.”

  “Yeah, I know,” says Peeta. “But this means we’re one step closer to District Twelve.” He nudges a plate of foot into my hands. “Eat. It’s still warm.”

  I take a bite of the stew to show I don’t really care, but it’s like glue in my mouth and takes a lot of effort to swallow. “It also means Cato will be back hunting us.”

  “And he’s got supplies again,” says Peeta.

  “He’ll be wounded, I bet,” I say.

  “What makes you say that?” Peeta asks.

  “Because Thresh would have never gone down without a fight. He’s so strong, I mean, he was. And they were in his territory,” I say.

  “Good,” says Peeta. “The more wounded Cato is the better. I wonder how Foxface is making out.”

  “Oh, she’s fine,” I say peevishly. I’m still angry she thought of hiding in the Cornucopia and I didn’t. “Probably be easier to catch Cato than her.”

  “Maybe they’ll catch each other and we can just go home,” says Peeta. “But we better be extra careful about the watches. I dozed off a few times.”

  “Me, too,” I admit. “But not tonight.”

  We finish our food in silence and then Peeta offers to take the first watch. I burrow down in the sleeping bag next to him, pulling my hood up over my face to hide it from the cameras. I just need a few moments of privacy where I can let any emotion cross my face without being seen. Under the hood, I silently say good-bye to Thresh and thank him for my life. I promise to remember him and, if I can, do something to help his family and Rue’s, if I win. Then I escape into sleep, comforted by a full belly and the steady warmth of Peeta beside me.

  When Peeta wakes me later, the first thing I register is the smell of goat cheese. He’s holding out half a roll spread with the creamy white stuff and topped with apple slices. “Don’t be mad,” he says. “I had to eat again. Here’s your half.”

  “Oh, good,” I say, immediately taking a huge bite. The strong fatty cheese tastes just like the kind Prim makes, the apples are sweet and crunchy. “Mm.”

  “We make a goat cheese and apple tart at the bakery,” he says.

  “Bet that’s expensive,” I say.

  “Too expensive for my family to eat. Unless it’s gone very stale. Of course, practically everything we eat is stale,” says Peeta, pulling the sleeping bag up around him. In less than a minute, he’s snoring.

  Huh. I always assumed the shopkeepers live a soft life.

  And it’s true, Peeta has always had enough to eat. But there’s something kind of depressing about living your life on stale bread, the hard, dry loaves that no one else wanted. One thing about us, since I bring our food home on a daily basis, most of it is so fresh you have to make sure it isn’t going to make a run for it.

  Somewhere during my shift, the rain stops not gradually but all at once. The downpour ends and there’s only the residual drippings of water from branches, the rush of the now overflowing stream below us. A full, beautiful moon emerges, and even without the glasses I can see outside. I can’t decide if the moon is real or merely a projection of the
Gamemakers. I know it was full shortly before I left home. Gale and I watched it rise as we hunted into the late hours.

  How long have I been gone? I’m guessing it’s been about two weeks in the arena, and there was that week of preparation in the Capitol. Maybe the moon has completed its cycle. For some reason, I badly want it to be my moon, the same one I see from the woods around District 12. That would give me something to cling to in the surreal world of the arena where the authenticity of everything is to be doubted.

  Four of us left.

  For the first time, I allow myself to truly think about the possibility that I might make it home. To fame. To wealth. To my own house in the Victor’s Village. My mother and Prim would live there with me. No more fear of hunger. A new kind of freedom. But then . . . what? What would my life be like on a daily basis? Most of it has been consumed with the acquisition of food. Take that away and I’m not really sure who I am, what my identity is. The idea scares me some. I think of Haymitch, with all his money. What did his life become? He lives alone, no wife or children, most of his waking hours drunk. I don’t want to end up like that.

  “But you won’t be alone,” I whisper to myself. I have my mother and Prim. Well, for the time being. And then . . . I don’t want to think about then, when Prim has grown up, my mother passed away. I know I’ll never marry, never risk bringing a child into the world. Because if there’s one thing being a victor doesn’t guarantee, it’s your children’s safety. My kids’ names would go right into the reaping balls with everyone else’s. And I swear I’ll never let that happen.

  The sun eventually rises, its light slipping through the cracks and illuminating Peeta’s face. Who will he transform into if we make it home? This perplexing, good-natured boy who can spin out lies so convincingly the whole of Panem believes him to be hopelessly in love with me, and I’ll admit it, there are moments when he makes me believe it myself? At least, we’ll be friends, I think. Nothing will change the fact that we’ve saved each other’s lives in here. And beyond that, he will always be the boy with the bread. Good friends. Anything beyond that though . . . and I feel Gale’s gray eyes watching me watching Peeta, all the way from District 12.