The screens went black for a heartbeat before the flag flickered back on. Clearly, they didn't want the rest of the country witnessing the disorder here in District 1.
The square erupted. Some people bolted for the side streets; others rushed to help Woodbine, even though he was long past helping. The Peacekeepers kept firing, mostly warning shots, but a few unfortunates at the edge of the crowd went down. I didn't know which way to run. Should I find Sid and Ma? Get Lenore Dove off the square? Or just dive for cover?
"Who did this? Who did this?" Drusilla demanded.
A bewildered young Peacekeeper got shoved to the edge of the Justice Building roof.
"You imbecile!" Drusilla berated him from below. "You couldn't wait until he was in the alley? Look at this mess!"
It was a mess, all right. I caught sight of Ma and Sid at the edge of the crowd and took a step toward them when a rough male voice boomed over the sound system.
"On the ground! On the ground, everybody! Now!"
Automatically, I dropped to my knees and assumed the position—hands linked behind my neck, forehead pressed to the sooty bricks of the square. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw almost everyone around me follow suit. But Otho Mellark, a big lug of a guy whose folks owned the bakery, seemed bewildered. His meaty hands dangled loosely at his sides, his feet shuffling back and forth. Then I noticed his blond hair was splattered with someone's blood. Burdock punched him hard in the back of the knee, enough to get him down on the ground and out of the line of fire.
Drusilla's hot mic bounced her voice around the square as she screamed at her team. "We've got five minutes! A five-minute delay, and then we'll have to finish this live! Get rid of the bloody ones!"
For the first time, I understood that when they showed the reaping live, it wasn't really live. There had to be a five-minute hold on the broadcast in case something like this happened.
Peacekeepers' boots tramped through the audience as soldiers grabbed anyone marked with gore, including Otho, and pushed them into nearby shops to conceal them.
"We need another boy! That dead one's no good!" Drusilla said, clunking down the steps into the square.
A high-pitched keening rose, followed by Peacekeepers barking orders. Then I heard Lenore Dove's voice, and my head shot up like I didn't control it. She was trying to help Woodbine's ma, who had latched on to his hand as a pair of Peacekeepers attempted to carry him away. Lenore Dove tugged on one of the soldier's arms, begging them to please let his ma have him, just let her see him for one minute. But they didn't seem to have a minute.
This would not end well. Should I get in there? Pull Lenore Dove away? Or would I only make the situation worse? I felt like my knees were glued to the ground.
"What's the problem there?" I heard Drusilla say. "Get that body off the square!" A squad of four more Peacekeepers headed over.
Having Woodbine referred to as a "body" set his ma off. She began to shriek, flinging her arms around his chest, trying to pull her son away from the soldiers. Lenore Dove joined her, grabbing hold of Woodbine's legs to help free him.
Ma was going to lay into me for intervening, but I just couldn't grovel on the ground while Lenore Dove was in danger. I pushed myself up and ran toward her, hoping to get her to let Woodbine loose. I spied one of the incoming Peacekeepers raising his rifle to knock her out.
"Stop!" I leaped in to shield her, just in time to intercept the rifle butt that slammed against my temple. Pain exploded in my head as jagged lights cut through my vision. I didn't even make it to the ground before iron hands locked on my upper arms and hauled me forward, my nose inches from the bricks. I was dropped flat on my face before a pair of yellow boots. The tip of one lifted my chin before letting it bang back on the ground.
"Well, I think we've just found our replacement."
Lenore Dove was behind me, pleading. "Don't take him—it wasn't his fault! It was mine! Punish me!"
"Oh, just shoot that girl, would you?" Drusilla said. A nearby Peacekeeper trained his rifle on Lenore Dove, and Drusilla snorted in exasperation. "Not here! We've got enough blood to clean up. Find a discreet location, can't you?"
As the soldier took a step toward Lenore Dove, a guy in a violet jumpsuit appeared, laying a hand on his elbow. "Hold it. If I could, Drusilla, I'd love to keep her for the tearful goodbye. The audience eats that stuff up, and as you always remind us, it's a challenge to get them to even notice Twelve."
"Fine, Plutarch. Whatever. Just get the rest of them up. Up! On your feet, you district pigs!" As they lifted me, I noticed Drusilla had a riding crop clipped to the side of one boot and wondered if it was just decorative. Her dead-fish breath hit my face. "Play this right or I'll shoot you myself."
"Haymitch!" I heard Lenore Dove cry.
I started to respond, but Drusilla clamped on to my face with her long fingers. "And she can watch."
Plutarch gestured to one of the crew. "Get a camera on that girl, would you, Cassia?" He pursued Drusilla. "You know, we've got footage of the Peacekeepers controlling the crowd. It could be an opportunity to hit the 'No Peacekeeper, No Peace' angle."
"I don't have time, Plutarch! I barely have time to pull off the status quo! Get the first boy.... What was his name?"
"Wyatt Callow," said Plutarch.
"Get Wyatt Callow back in the pen." Drusilla smacked her forehead. "No!" She thought a moment. "Yes! I'll call them both. It will be smoother."
"It will cost you another thirty seconds."
"Then let's get going." She pointed at me. "What's your name?"
My name sounded alien as it left my lips. "Haymitch Abernathy."
"Haymitch Abernanny," she repeated.
"Haymitch Abernathy," I corrected her.
She turned to Plutarch in vexation. "It's too long!" He scribbled on his clipboard pad and ripped off a strip of paper. She took it and read, "Wyatt Callow and Haymitch... Aber... nathy. Wyatt Callow and Haymitch Abernathy."
"Why, you're the professional," Plutarch said. "Better take your place. I'll position him." As Drusilla hurried up the steps, he took my elbow and whispered, "Don't be stupid, kid. She'll kill you with a snap if you mess up again."
I didn't know if he meant with a snap of her fingers or some extra-horrible snappy way to die. Either way, I didn't want to die with a snap.
Plutarch led me to a spot closer to the stage. "This'll do. Just stay here, and when Drusilla calls your name, you calmly walk up onstage. Okay?"
I tried to nod. My head throbbed and my thoughts tumbled around like rocks in a tin can. What just happened? What was happening now? Somewhere inside me, I knew. I was a tribute in the Hunger Games. In a few days, I'd die in the arena. I knew all this, but it felt like it was happening to someone else while I watched from a distance.
The remaining members of the audience had regained their feet but not their composure. People whispered urgently to their neighbors, trying to figure out what was going on.
"Live in thirty," someone said over the speakers. "Twenty-nine, twenty-eight, twenty-seven..."
"Shut up!" Drusilla yelled at the crowd as a makeup person puffed some powder on her sweaty face. "Shut up or we'll kill every last one of you!" As if to emphasize this, a Peacekeeper next to her fired a spray of bullets into the air, and a hovercraft passed right over the square.
It got quiet fast, and I could hear my blood pounding in my ears. I had an impulse to flee, like Woodbine did, but I remembered the look of his brains hanging out of his skull.
". . . ten, nine, eight . . ."
Everyone onstage had returned to their pre-shooting places: Louella and Maysilee, the Peacekeepers, and Drusilla, who quickly tore the paper Plutarch gave her in two and positioned the slips on the pile in the glass ball.
I reached for Burdock and Blair to steady myself, but, of course, they weren't there. Just a couple of younger kids who were giving me plenty of room.
". . . three, two, one, and we're live."
Drusilla pretended to draw a name. "And the first gentleman who gets to accompany the ladies is... Wyatt Callow!"
In some strange replay, I watched Wyatt, as impassive as before, go by and obediently take his place on the stage.
Drusilla's hand hovered over the ball, then removed a slip with surgical precision. "And our second boy will be... Haymitch Abernathy!" I just stood there in case this was a bad dream and I was about to wake up in my own bed. Everything was all wrong. Minutes ago, I'd dodged this bullet. I was headed home, then to the woods, safe for another year.
"Haymitch?" Drusilla repeated, looking straight at me.
My face filled the screen over the stage. My feet began to move. I saw them cut to Lenore Dove, who had a hand pressed against her mouth. She wasn't crying, so Plutarch wouldn't get his tearful goodbye. Not from her, and not from me. They would not use our tears for their entertainment.
"Ladies and gentlemen, join me in welcoming the District Twelve tributes of the Fiftieth Hunger Games!" Drusilla acknowledged us. "And may the odds be EVER in your favor!" She began to clap, and I heard a huge audience response over the speakers, although I could only see a handful of people applauding in 1.
I located Lenore Dove in the crowd and we locked eyes, desperation setting in. For a moment, everything else peeled away and there was only us. She lowered her hand and pressed it to her heart as her lips formed the words silently. *I love you like all-fire.* I mouthed back, *You, too.*
Cannons broke the spell. Confetti showered down on me, on the stage, on the whole square. I lost sight of her in the fluttering bits of bright paper.
Drusilla spread her arms wide. "Happy second Quarter Quell, everybody!"
"And we're out," said the voice on the speaker.
The broadcast had moved on to the District 11 reaping. The canned applause cut off and Drusilla let out a groan, dramatically slumping against the podium.
The Capitol TV crew gave a loud cheer as Plutarch appeared from the side of the stage, shouting, "Brilliant! Bravo, everybody! Absolutely seamless, Drusilla!"
Drusilla recovered and yanked off her daffodil hat by the chin strap. "I have no idea how I just did that." She pulled a pack of cigarettes from her boot and lit up, exhaling the smoke through her nose like it was a chimney. "Well, it's a great story for dinner parties!"
One of the assistants appeared with a tray of glasses filled with a pale liquid. He accidentally offered one to me—"Champagne?"—before he realized his mistake. "Whoops! None for the children!"
Drusilla grabbed a glass and noticed the people of District 1 standing mute and miserable while the last bits of confetti drifted down on them. "Well, what are they staring at? Filthy beasts. Go home! All of you!" She addressed a Peacekeeper. "Get them out of here before their smell gets in my hair." She sniffed a lock of her hair and grimaced. "Too late."
The Peacekeeper gave a signal and the soldiers began pushing the crowd back. While I saw Burdock and Blair put up a struggle, most people rushed to the side streets, only too happy to escape the ordeal of the reaping, to hurry home, embrace their children, and, for those who patronized Hattie's stall, get good and drunk.
I was panicked by the sight of a District 1 Peacekeeper restraining Lenore Dove. Why hadn't I stepped in sooner? Why did I wait until I had no choice but to defy that soldier? Was I feeling afraid? Confused? Or just powerless in the face of those white uniforms? Now we were both doomed. The Peacekeeper was bringing out cuffs when Clerk Carmine and Tam Amber swooped in. They talked to him fast and low, and I thought some money changed hands. To my relief, the Peacekeeper glanced around, released her, and walked off. Lenore Dove made for me, but her uncles hustled her down a side street.
The other luckless loved ones of this year's tributes remained behind.
Mr. Donner ran up on the stage with a fistful of cash, hoping to somehow bail Maysilee out, while his wife and Merrilee huddled near their storefront. "Don't, Papa!" Maysilee cried, but her father kept waving the money in people's faces.
There was a family I judged to be the Callows, where a woman wept hysterically and the menfolk had come to blows. "You jinxed him!" one accused another. "This is on you!"
Our neighbors, the McCoys, had their arms wrapped around Ma, who was barely able to stand. Sid was hanging on her hand, pulling her forward, as he hollered, "Haymitch! Haymitch!" I was already so homesick I could die. I knew I needed to be strong, but the sight of them totaled me. How would they manage without me?
What was supposed to happen next was that the tributes went into the Justice Building for a final farewell to their families and friends. I'd done this once before. My ma and pa took me when Sarshee Whitcomb, the daughter of Pa's old crew boss, got reaped. She'd been orphaned that year when her pa, Lyle, died of black lung. Ma told the Peacekeepers we were kin and they took us to a sitting room with a lot of scratchy furniture that needed dusting. I think we were her only visitors.
I knew I should wait for the official goodbye time, but the only thing that mattered now was to hug Ma and Sid. With Mr. Donner and Maysilee making a ruckus, I got to the edge of the stage, crouched down, and reached for them as they ran to me.
"None of that!" I was yanked backward by a Peacekeeper as Drusilla continued. "No goodbyes for these people. They've lost that privilege after that outrageous display today. Take them straight to the train, and let's get out of this stinkhole."
A pair of Peacekeepers tossed Mr. Donner off the stage. Midair, he lost his grip on his money, which floated down and mingled with the confetti on the ground. Then they pulled out handcuffs.
Louella had been holding it together, but now she looked at me, her eyes wide with fright. I laid my hand on her shoulder to steady her, but as the cold metal touched her skin, she let out a small squeak, like a baby animal in a trap. At the sound, the families surged forward, desperate to reclaim us.
The Peacekeepers held them back as Plutarch spoke up. "I don't mean to be a pain, Drusilla, but I'm really low on reaction shots for the recap. Could I just snag a few?"
"If you must. But if you're not on the train in fifteen, you can walk home," said Drusilla.
"I owe you." Plutarch did a quick assessment of our families and pointed to me and Louella. "Leave me this and this."
The Peacekeepers steered Maysilee and Wyatt into the Justice Building, beating back their relatives with batons when they tried to follow. Somehow, Merrilee slipped by them, and for a moment the Donner twins became one, arms locked around each other's necks, foreheads and noses pressed together. A mirror image that the Peacekeepers tore in two. I saw Wyatt give a final look to the hysterical Callow woman before marching through the door.
Louella and I rushed for our folks, but Plutarch intervened. "Let's get the footage."
The crew swept an area in front of the shops clear of confetti. A cameraman positioned himself while Plutarch posed Louella's parents and her half dozen brothers and sisters in front of the bakery. "Wait, if you were in the reaping, get out of the picture." Two of the kids moved out of range of the camera. "Good," he said. "Very nice. Now, what I need you to do is to react exactly the way you did when you heard them call Louella's name. In three, two, one, action."
The McCoy family stared at him numbly.
"And cut!" Plutarch crossed to the McCoys. "Sorry. Obviously, I wasn't clear. When you heard them call Louella, it was a big shock, right? 'Oh, no!' Maybe you gasped or cried out her name. Anyway, you did something. And now I need you to do the same thing for the camera. Okay?" He backed up. "So, in three, two, one, action!"
If anything, the McCoys were more stony-faced than before. It wasn't confusion; it was a blanket refusal to put on a show for the Capitol.
"Cut." Plutarch rubbed his eye and sighed. "Take the girl to the train."
Peacekeepers whisked Louella into the Justice Building as the McCoys finally cracked, crying out her name in anguish. Plutarch motioned to the crew to film their reaction. When the McCoys realized he got their distress on tape, they were infuriated, but the Peacekeepers just muscled them off the square.
Plutarch turned to Ma and Sid. "Listen, I know this isn't easy, but I think we can help each other out. If I can get a usable reaction shot from you, I can give you a minute with Haymitch. We clear?"
I saw Sid's eyes flicker skyward as there was a low rumble of thunder, which felt like a warning. I looked at my ma's pale face, my brother's trembling lips. The words spilled out of my mouth unbidden. "Don't do it, Ma."
But Ma overruled me and addressed Plutarch. "No, I'll do it. We'll both do it, if you let us hold him one more time."
"Deal." Plutarch positioned them side by side, but Ma moved behind Sid and wrapped her arms around him. "Nice. I like it. Okay, so it's the middle of the reaping, Drusilla is picking the boys. She's just said, 'Haymitch Abernathy.' And three, two, one, action."
Ma gasped and Sid, confused, as no doubt he was at the time, craned his head around to look at her.
"Cut! That was terrific. Can we try it once more, and this time, maybe make the gasp a little louder? Okay, in three, two, one..."
But it wasn't once. Plutarch kept calling for more dramatic responses—"Call out his name!" "Hide your face in her dress!" "Can you break into tears?"—until Sid was crying for real and my ma looked ready to pass out.
"Stop it!" I burst out. "That's enough! You've got enough!"
The walkie-talkie on his belt crackled and I heard Drusilla's impatient voice. "Where are you, Plutarch?"
"Just wrapping up. There in five." Plutarch waved Ma and Sid in my direction and they rushed into my arms. "You've got two minutes."
I crushed them against me for what I knew was the last time. But time was wasting and we were not a wasteful family. "Take this." I emptied the contents of my pockets into their hands, money and peanuts into Ma's, knife and the white sack of gumdrops into Sid's. Bequeathing them the remains of my life in 1.
Sid raised the gumdrops. "For Lenore Dove?"
"Yeah, you see she gets them, okay?" I said.
Sid's voice was hoarse with tears, but determined. "She'll get them."
"I know she will. Because I can always depend on you." I knelt in front of my little brother and held out my sleeve like I did when he was tiny, so he could wipe his nose on it. "You're the man of the house now. If you were some other kid, I'd be worried, but I know you can handle it." Sid started to shake his head. "You're twice as smart as me and ten times as brave. You can do this. Okay? Okay?" He nodded and I mussed his hair. Then I rose and hugged my mother. "You can, too, Ma."
"I love you, son," she whispered.
"I love you, too," I said.
Through the static of Plutarch's walkie-talkie, I heard Drusilla's impatient voice. "Plutarch! Don't think I won't leave without you!"
"Got to go, people," Plutarch said. "Drusilla waits for no man."
The Peacekeepers moved in to separate us, but Ma and Sid held tight.
"You remember what your pa said to the Whitcomb child?" Ma said urgently. "It still goes."
I flashed back to the Justice Building, and the weeping girl and the sickly scent of decomposing flowers that pervaded the place. Pa was talking to Sarshee, and he was telling her, "Don't let them use you, Sarshee. Don't—"
"Plutarch!" screeched Drusilla. "Plutarch Heavensbee!"
Peacekeepers ripped us apart. I was lifted off my feet as Sid begged, "Please don't take my brother! Please don't take him. We need him!"
I couldn't help it; I should be a good example, but I struggled to get free. "It's okay, Sid! It's going to be—" A jolt of electricity racked my body and I went limp. I could track the heels of my boots bouncing up the stairs, over the carpets of the Justice Building, through the gravel on the drive behind it. In the car, I let them cuff me without objecting. My brain was fuzzy, but I knew I didn't want to be zapped again. Wobbly-legged, I climbed the metal steps to the train, where I was tossed into some compartment with a single, barred window. I pressed my face against the glass, but there was nothing to see but a grimy coal car.
For all Drusilla's whining, we went nowhere for an hour. The sky blackened and the storm broke. Hail clattered against my window, followed by sheets of rain. By the time the wheels of the train began to turn, my head had cleared. I tried to memorize every fleeting image of 1—the lightning illuminating the dingy warehouses, the water streaming down the slag heaps, and the glow of the green hills.
That's when I saw Lenore Dove. She was up on a ridge, her red dress plastered to her body, one hand clutching the bag of gumdrops. As the train passed, she tilted her head back and wailed her loss and rage into the wind. And even though it gutted me, even though I smashed my fists into the glass until they bruised, I was grateful for her final gift. That she'd denied Plutarch the chance to broadcast our farewell.
The moment our hearts shattered? It belonged to us.