Mockingjay (The Hunger Games, #3)

by Suzanne Collins

My arms rise slightly — as if recalling the black-and-white wings Cinna gave me — then come to rest at my sides. “I’m going to be the Mockingjay.”

How ridiculous, how perverse I would feel presenting that painted Capitol mask to these people. The damage, the fatigue, the imperfections. That’s how they recognize me, why I belong to them.

It isn’t possible. For someone to make Peeta forget he loves me . . . no one could do that.

His voice is quiet, but mine rings through the room. “Let the Seventy-sixth Hunger Games begin!”