Catching Fire (The Hunger Games, #2)

by Suzanne Collins

“Peeta’s argument is that since I chose you, I now owe him. Anything he wants. And what he wants is the chance to go in again to protect you,” says Haymitch. I knew it. In this way, Peeta’s not hard to predict. While I was wallowing around on the floor of that cellar, thinking only of myself, he was here, thinking only of me. Shame isn’t a strong enough word for what I feel. “You could live a hundred lifetimes and not deserve him, you know,” Haymitch says.

“Okay, I figured out what I’m asking,” I say. “If it is Peeta and me in the Games, this time we try to keep him alive.” Something flickers across his bloodshot eyes. Pain. “Like you said, it’s going to be bad no matter how you slice it. And whatever Peeta wants, it’s his turn to be saved. We both owe him that.” My voice takes on a pleading tone.

The day of the reaping’s hot and sultry. The population of District 12 waits, sweating and silent, in the square with machine guns trained on them. I stand alone in a small roped-off area with Peeta and Haymitch in a similar pen to the right of me. The reaping takes only a minute. Effie, shining in a wig of metallic gold, lacks her usual verve. She has to claw around the girls’ reaping ball for quite a while to snag the one piece of paper that everyone already knows has my name on it. Then she catches Haymitch’s name. He barely has time to shoot me an unhappy look before Peeta has volunteered to take his place.

I’m left staring out the window, watching District 12 disappear, with all my good-byes still hanging on my lips.

I’m called. Then Haymitch. And Peeta volunteers. One of the announcers actually gets teary because it seems the odds will never be in our favor, we star-crossed lovers of District 12. Then she pulls herself together to say she bets that “these will be the best Games ever!”

That Career is about to slit his throat when a dart drops him to the ground. Maysilee Donner steps out of the woods. “We’d live longer with two of us.” “Guess you just proved that,” says Haymitch, rubbing his neck. “Allies?” Maysilee nods.

And there they are, instantly drawn into one of those pacts you’d be hard-pressed to break if you ever expect to go home and face your district.

Just like Peeta and me, they do better together. Get more rest, work out a system to salvage more rainwater, fight as a team, and share the food from the dead tributes’ packs. Bu...

When they finally do make it through that impossible hedge, using a blowtorch from one of the dead Careers’ packs, they find themselves on flat, dry earth that leads to a cliff. Far below, you can see jagged rocks. “That’s all there is, Haymitch. Let’s go back,” says Maysilee. “No, I’m staying here,” he says. “All right. There’s only five of us left. May as well say good-bye now, anyway,” she says. “I don’t want it to come down to you and me.” “Okay,” he agrees. That’s all. He doesn’t offer to shake her hand or even look at her. And she walks away.

The crunching hits my ear before I even know he’s beside me, and when I turn my head, Finnick Odair’s famous sea green eyes are only inches from mine. He pops a sugar cube in his mouth and leans against my horse. “Hello, Katniss,” he says, as if we’ve known each other for years, when in fact we’ve never met.

“Hello, Finnick,” I say, just as casually, although I’m feeling uncomfortable at his closeness, especially since he’s got so much bare skin exposed. “Want a sugar cube?” he says, offering his hand, which is piled high. “They’re supposed to be for the horses, but who cares? They’ve got years to eat sugar, whereas you and I . . . well, if we see something sweet, we better grab it quick.”

“Having an eye for beauty isn’t the same thing as a weakness,” Peeta points out. “Except possibly when it comes to you.”

“Are we supposed to hold hands this year?” I ask. “I guess they’ve left it up to us,” says Peeta. I look up into those blue eyes that no amount of dramatic makeup can make truly deadly and remember how, just a year ago, I was prepared to kill him. Convinced he was trying to kill me. Now everything is reversed. I’m determined to keep him alive, knowing the cost will be my own life, but the part of me that is not so brave as I could wish is glad that it’s Peeta, not Haymitch, beside me. Our hands find each other without further discussion. Of course we will go into this as one.

I can’t help catching glimpses of us on the huge screens along the route, and we are not just beautiful, we are dark and powerful.

Before either of us says a word, she embraces me. I know somehow it must be because of Rue and Thresh. Before I can stop myself, I whisper, “The families?”

“They’re alive,” she says back softly before letting me go.

As I walk toward the elevators, my hand still linked with Peeta’s, someone else rustles up to my side. The girl pulls off a headdress of leafy branches and tosses it behind her without bothering to look where it falls. Johanna Mason. From District 7. Lumber and paper, thus the tree. She won by very convincingly portraying herself as weak and helpless so that she would be ignored. Then she demonstrated a wicked ability to murder.

While we wait for the elevators, Johanna unzips the rest of her tree, letting it drop to the floor, and then kicks it away in disgust. Except for her forest green slippers, she doesn’t have on a stitch of clothing. “That’s better.”

We end up on the same elevator with her, and she spends the whole ride to the seventh floor chatting to Peeta about his paintings while the light of his still-glowing costume reflects off her bare breasts. When she leaves, I ignore him, but I just know he’s grinning. I toss aside his hand as the doors close behind Chaff and Seeder, leaving us alone, and he breaks out laughing. “What?” I say, turning on him as we step out on our floor. “It’s you, Katniss. Can’t you see?” he says. “What’s me?” I say. “Why they’re all acting like this. Finnick with his sugar cubes and Chaff kissing you and that whole thing with Johanna stripping down.” He tries to take on a more serious tone, unsuccessfully. “They’re playing with you because you’re so . . . you know.” “No, I don’t know,” I say. And I really have no idea what he’s talking about.

“It’s like when you wouldn’t look at me naked in the arena even though I was half dead. You’re so . . . pure,” he says finally. “I am not!” I say. “I’ve been practically ripping your clothes off every time there’s been a camera for the last year!” “Yeah, but . . . I mean, for the Capitol, you’re pure,” he says, clearly trying to mollify me. “For me, you’re perfect. They’re just teasing you.” “No, they’re laughing at me, and so are you!” I say. “No.” Peeta shakes his head, but he’s still suppressing a smile. I’m seriously rethinking the question of who should get out of these Games alive when the other elevator opens. Haymitch and Effie join us, ...

“Looks like they’ve got you a matched set this year.” I turn around and find the redheaded Avox girl who tended to me last year until the Games began. I think how nice it is to have a friend here. I notice that the young man beside her, another Avox, also has red hair. That must be what Effie meant by a matched set. Then a chill runs through me. Because I know him, too. Not from the Capitol but from years of having easy conversations in the Hob, joking over Greasy Sae’s ...

So I give up trying to make friends and go over to the archery range for some sanity. It’s wonderful there, getting to try out all the different bows and arrows. The trainer, Tax, seeing that the standing targets offer no challenge for me, begins to launch these silly fake birds high into the air for me to hit. At first it seems stupid, but it turns out to be kind of fun. Much more like hunting a moving creature. Since I’m hitting everything he throws up, he starts increasing the number of birds he sends airborne. I forget the rest of the gym and the victors and how miserable I am and lose myself in the shooting. When I manage to take down five birds in one round, I realize it’s so quiet I can hear each one hit the floor. I turn and see the majority of the victors have stopped to watch me. Their faces show everything from envy to hatred to admiration. After training, Peeta and I hang out, waiting for Haymitch and Effie to show up for dinner. When we’re called to eat, Haymitch pounces on me immediately. “So at least half the victors have instructed their mentors to request you as an ally. I know it can’t be your sunny personality.” “They saw her shoot,” says Peeta with a smile. “Actually, I saw her shoot, for real, for the first time. I’m about to put in a formal request myself.” “You’re that good?” Haymitch asks me. “So good that Brutus wants you?” I shrug. “But I don’t want Brutus. I want Mags and District Three.” “Of course you do.” Haymitch sighs and orders a bottle of ...

Peeta and I are finally left alone. He reaches across the table to take my hands. “Decided what to do for the Gamemakers yet?” I shake my head. “I can’t really use them for target practice this year, with the force field up and all. Maybe make some fishhooks. What about you?” “Not a clue. I keep wishing I could bake a cake or something,” he says. “Do some more camouflage,” I suggest. “If the morphlings have left me anything to work with,” he says wryly. “They’ve been glued to that station since training started.” We sit in silence awhile and then I blurt out the thing that’s on both our minds. “How are we going to kill these people, Peeta?” “I don’t know.” He leans his forehead down on our entwined hands. “I don’t want them as allies. Why did Haymitch want us to get to know them?” I say. “It’ll make it so much harder than last time. Except for Rue maybe. But I guess I never really could’ve killed her, anyway. She was just too much like Prim.” Peeta looks up at me, his brow creased in thought. “Her death was the most despicable, wasn’t it?” “None of them were very pretty,” I say, thinking of Glimmer’s and Cato’s ends.

When I go in, I smell the sharp odor of cleaner and notice that one of the mats has been dragged to the center of the room. The mood is very different from last year’s, when the Gamemakers were half drunk and distractedly picking at tidbits from the banquet table. They whisper among themselves, looking somewhat annoyed. What did Peeta do? Something to upset them? I feel a pang of worry. That isn’t good. I don’t want Peeta singling himself out as a target for the Gamemakers’ anger. That’s part of my job. To draw fire away from Peeta. But how did he upset them? Because I’d love to do just that and more. To break through the smug veneer of those who use their brains to find amusing ways to kill us. To make them realize that while we’re vulnerable to the Capitol’s cruelties, they are as well.

Suddenly I know just what I’m going to do. Something that will blow anything Peeta did right out of the water. I go over to the knot-tying station and get a length of rope. I start to manipulate it, but it’s hard because I’ve never made this actual knot myself. I’ve only watched Finnick’s clever fingers, and they moved so fast. After about ten minutes, I’ve come up with a respectable noose. I drag one of the target dummies out into the middle of the room and, using some chinning bars, hang it so it dangles by the neck. Tying its hands behind its back would be a nice touch, but I think I might be running out of time. I hurry over to the camouflage station, where some of the other tributes, undoubtedly the morphlings, have made a colossal mess. But I find a partial container of bloodred berry juice that will serve my needs. The flesh-colored fabric of the dummy’s skin makes a good, absorbent canvas. I carefully finger paint the words on its body, concealing them from view. Then I step away quickly to watch the reaction on the Gamemakers’ faces as they read the name on the dummy. SENECA CRANE.

The effect on the Gamemakers is immediate and satisfying. Several let out small shrieks. Others lose their grips on their wineglasses, which shatter musically against the ground. Two seem to be considering fainting. The look of shock is unanimous. Now I have Plutarch Heavensbee’s attention. He stares steadily at me as the juice from the peach he crushed in his hand runs through his fingers. Finally he clears his throat and says, “You may go now, Miss Everdeen.” I give a respectful nod and turn to go, but at the last moment I can’t resist tossing the container of berry juice over my shoulder. I can hear the contents splatter against the dummy while a couple more wineglasses break. As the elevator doors close before me, I see no one has moved. That surprised them, I think. It was rash and dangerous and no doubt I will pay for it ten times over. But for the moment, I feel something close to elation and I let myself savor it.

As we all gather for dinner, I notice Peeta’s hands are faintly stained with a variety of colors, even though his hair is still damp from bathing. He must have done some form of camouflage after all. Once the soup is served, Haymitch gets right to the issue on everyone’s mind. “All right, so how did your private sessions go?” I exchange a look with Peeta. Somehow I’m not that eager to put what I did into words. In the calm of the dining room, it seems very extreme. “You first,” I say to him. “It must have been really special. I had to wait for forty minutes to go in.” Peeta seems to be struck with the same reluctance I’m experiencing. “Well, I — I did the camouflage thing, like you suggested, Katniss.” He hesitates. “Not exactly camouflage. I mean, I used the dyes.” “To do what?” asks Portia. I think of how ruffled the Gamemakers were when I entered the gym for my session. The smell of cleaners. The mat pulled over that spot in the center of the gym. Was it to conceal something they were unable to wash away? “You painted something, didn’t you? A picture.” “Did you see it?” Peeta asks. “No. But they’d made a real point of covering it up,” I say. “Well, that would be standard. They can’t let one tribute know what another did,” says Effie, unconcerned. “What did you paint, Peeta?” She looks a little misty. “Was it a picture of Katniss?” “Why would he paint a picture of me, Effie?” I ask, somehow annoyed. “To show he’s going to do everything he can to defend you. That’s what e...

“You’d have thought we planned it,” says Peeta, giving me just the hint of a smile. “Didn’t you?” asks Portia. Her fingers press her eyelids closed as if she’s warding off a very bright light. “No,” I say, looking at Peeta with a new sense of appreciation. “Neither of us even knew what we were going to do before we went in.” “And, Haymitch?” says Peeta. “We decided we don’t want any other allies in the arena.” “Good. Then I won’t be responsible for you killing off any of my friends with your stupidity,” he says. “That’s just what we were thinking,” I tell him.

We finish the meal in silence, but when we rise to go into the sitting room, Cinna puts his arm around me and gives me a squeeze. “Come on and let’s go get those training scores.” We gather around the television set and a red-eyed Effie rejoins us. The tributes’ faces come up, district by district, and their scores flash under their pictures. One through twelve. Predictably high scores for Cashmere, Gloss, Brutus, Enobaria, and Finnick. Low to medium for the rest. “Have they ever given a zero?” I ask. “No, but there’s a first time for everything,” Cinna answers. And it turns out he’s right. Because when Peeta and I each pull a twelve, we make Hunger Games history. No one feels like celebratin...

Peeta walks me down to my room in silence, but before he can say good night, I wrap my arms around him and rest my head against his chest. His hands slide up my back and his cheek leans against my hair. “I’m sorry if I made things worse,” I say. “No worse than I did. Why did you do it, anyway?” he says. “I don’t know. To show them that I’m more than just a piece in their Games?” I say. He laughs a little, no doubt remembering the night before the Games last year. We were on the roof, neither of us able to sleep. Peeta had said something of the sort then, but I hadn’t understood what he meant. Now I do. “Me, too,” he tells me. “And I’m not saying I’m not going to try. To get you home, I mean. But if I’m perfectly honest about it . . .” “If you’re perfec...

“But even if that happens, everyone will know we’ve gone out fighting, right?” Peeta asks. “Everyone will,” I reply.

Peeta would lose it if he knew I was thinking any of this, so I only say, “So what should we do with our last few days?” “I just want to spend every possible minute of the rest of my life with you,” Peeta replies. “Come on, then,” I say, pulling him into my room. It feels like such a luxury, sleeping with Peeta again. I didn’t realize until now how starved I’ve been for human closeness. For the feel of him beside me in the darkness. I wish I hadn’t wasted the last couple of nights shutting him out. I sink down into sleep, enveloped in his warmth, and when I open my eyes again, daylight’s streaming through the windows. “No nightmares,” he says. “No nightmares,” I confirm. “You?” “None. I’d forgotten what a real night’s sleep feels like,” he says. We lie there for a while, in no rush to begin the day. Tomorrow night will be the televised interview, so today Effie and Haymitch should be coaching us. More high heels and sarcastic comments, I think. But then the redheaded Avox girl comes in with a note from Effie saying that, given our recent tour, both she and Haymitch have agreed we can handle ourselves adequately in public. The coaching sessions have been canceled. “Really?” says Peeta, taking the note from my hand and examining it. “Do you know what this means? We’ll have the whole day to ourselves.” “It’s too bad we can’t go somewhere,” I say wistfully. “Who says we can’t?” he asks. The roof. We order a bunch of food, grab some blankets, and head up to the roof for a picni...