Chapter Text
2.
More Peacekeepers sit me on a couch in the Justice Building. Tributes are given a limited amount of time to say goodbye to our loved ones and I don’t have time to think of what I should say to them. My mother and father enter first. My father looks even grimmer than usual. It’s quiet for too long so I make a joke. “I guess I’m not going to inherit the bakery.”
I am usually pretty good at knowing what to say. I never quite figured out either of my parents though. Maybe you are not supposed to until you are older, when you can see them as regular people. I’ll never get there now.
Neither of them cracks a smile.
Not long ago my father tentatively suggested that I should become District 12’s next baker. He argued that I was the best baker, I enjoyed it. My mother insisted that was not the “order of things.” My oldest brother, Ryen, would inherit the bakery. That's just how things are done. What difference did it make if I enjoyed baking? Jobs weren’t for enjoying. They were work.
“Son...” my father begins, but he has no more words.
My father doesn’t talk much. It’s like he only has so many words for his entire life, and he is trying to save them for the most important moments. He’s the opposite of me, in that regard. Mother says I could talk to a wall. But if you stay with him through the quiet, sometimes he will find something worth saying. That is why I always wanted him to walk me to school when I was little, not my mother. Moments alone with him are special.
I guess this is my last one. He sits next to me, not speaking, only sitting. I can tell that he is sad. That he is sorry this happened to me. But also that he is powerless to stop it.
I want to cry. I want my mommy to hold me and tell me that everything will be okay. She doesn’t though. She folds her arms across her chest and looks at the floor. She’s clearly angry but I don’t think it’s at me for once.
Again, I search for the right words to put them at ease. I always tried to smooth things over in our house. My mother was volatile. My brothers were high strung and loud. My father was stubborn and quiet. Over the years, I had kept more peace than the Peacekeepers in District 12. But, finally, my words have dried up, just like my father.
Before I know it, time is up. My father puts his hand on my shoulder and looks at me with a pained expression.
My mother finally says something as the Peackeepers lead her out the door. “You don’t have to be noble all the time, Peeta. Just do what you have to do.” She is telling me it is okay to kill other kids. It’s an odd thing to hear from your own mother. But tears spring to my eyes anyway. She hasn’t given up on me yet. “You get that old drunk to do his job. Don’t take any shit from him,” she hollers as the doors close.
I don’t quite know what to make of her advice. Part of me is so happy that she thinks there is even a chance I could do this. Is that what I want? To win? Could I kill someone? If they attacked me, maybe. Or if they were too injured to go on. But I can’t imagine myself among a Career Pack picking kids off one-by-one.
I can’t win, I think. I didn’t even win the wrestling competition in District 12. I like Michel win. He was trying to impress a girl and it’s his last year in school. I thought there would be other chances for me, that it was the right thing to do.
“You don’t have to be noble all the time, Peeta.” Does she know? I always thought she paid no attention to what we did outside of the bakery.
My brothers came in next. Michel looks guilty and at first I am confused because I was thinking about the wrestling match.
“Peeta…” he begins and that’s when I remember he is also eligible still. This was his last Reaping. I hadn't expected him to volunteer for me. I couldn't imagine anyone doing that—throwing their life away.
“It’s okay,” I say, wondering if I would be brave enough to volunteer if he got picked.
“No, it's not,” Ryen says. He means the whole thing. The Hunger Games, Panem. And he’s right, but we can’t discuss that in any detail so what else was there to say? He leans over to hug me quickly. “We’re gonna miss you. Who’s gonna do the cakes now?” Neither of them had the patience for the decorating but I liked it.
He’s crying and Michel is crying so I start crying. Lots of siblings are closer than I am to my brothers (Katniss and Prim, for example). Miche is so like Dad and Ryen so like Mom. I feel like I am the one who never fit. But we have shared a bedroom for my entire life so I know more about them than any other guys in the world. It’s weird to think they will never shake the rickety bunk bed and try to scare me awake again, because of course the youngest has to be on the top bunk. And older brothers are required to prank you.
My brothers hug me. They tell me I am strong. They tell me not to give up.
But I can see in their eyes they already have, and that’s the worst part.
I’m already dead, I think. I look at my hands, half-expecting them to be skeletal. Dead but not dead then—some in between world.
Next, Delly Cartwright enters in a flurry. She throws her arms around me like we are still close friends. I have to admit it feels nice for a woman to hug me, like I wanted my mother to do. Delly is warm and soft. We used to pretend I was her brother, and in this moment I wish I really were. As we got older it was less acceptable to have a girl as your best friend so we drifted apart.
“Peeta, I am so sorry,” she says, and I can feel her tears drip onto my neck, which makes me start crying again.
With a fierceness I have not seen in her before she adds: You are the best person I know. You are so smart. If anyone can come home, you can. Get Haymitch to tell you how he did it.”
“Maybe it was just luck,” I say.
“Maybe,” she admits. There does always seem to be an element of luck to the Hunger Games. Even the strongest contenders can just fall and break their neck. “Just.. promise me you will try. Don’t give up.”
Don’t throw this one like the wrestling competition.
Delly’s words bring back my mother’s. Just do what you have to do. Just try. Talk to Haymitch. It’s odd for Delly and Mother to be so in sync about something because I think of them as opposites.
I hug her back and say, “I'll try.” To play the Hunger Games. To win.
I just have no idea how.