When The Canary Sings

Not a Kid.

First Person Point of View: Becca Blue: 

*

Haymitch and I stand together at the other side of the long runway, waiting for the chariots to come out. The other victors and mentors are here too, but no one is really talking. When I walked in, I waved and smiled to my acquaintances, but no one even smiled back. They just looked at me. Not a smile, not a wave, not even a head nod. Just eyes. It's like they didn't want me, they all ignored me.

To try and distract myself, I think about what they will be wearing. I never really got the chance to interact with Cinna at all, even though I did like him. But, the fact that I had no idea at all what he was doing scared me. They could be naked, I think, completely naked and covered in dust. That thought scares me, because I know it is one hundred percent plausible. I need to move, I think. As I stand next to Haymitch, I start to sway side to side, but this does nothing to ease my worries.

My nervous habits have always been annoying. Usually consisting of snaps, stomping, tipping my toe, clapping my hands, hitting my leg, or really anything that creates a beat. Anything with a rhythm and a rhyme can calm me down fast, and the way my stomach is churning right now, there needs to be a melody somewhere. Unfortunately, it was quiet in the big arches room we all waited in, if people were talking, they would go unnoticed.

I look down at my feet as an announcement comes over the PA. Ten minutes till boarding time. Ten minutes till boarding time. Haymitch just stares out at the long road, and I look up at President Snow. I dig my heel into the ground and leave the ball of my foot in the air.

dig, pull, tip, heel, dig, pull, tip, heel, dig, pull, tip, heel, dig, pull, tip, heel, repeat repeat repeat.

It created a rhythm, a comforting one. It was the way we danced back home, stomping our feet in different ways to create rhythm, to create music. In the old world, I think it was called tap dancing, because you tap your feet on the ground.

dig, pull, tip, heel, dig, pull, tip, heel, dig, pull, tip, heel, stomp!

"What are you doing?" Haymitch asks, looking down at me. He probably noticed my bouncing up and down everytime I did the heel. Immediately, I fall and let my feet go flat. I look around and see some of the mentors staring at me, my face heats up in embarrassment and like before, I blush through my sunburnt face.

"Sorry," I say quickly and under my breath. I curl my hands into fists and squeeze them in different patterns. It creates a silent and boring melody. I look at the mentors waiting anxiously for their tributes, none of them look at me. I have only met these people once or twice, once when they came for the show, and the second time on the tour. I didn't really speak with any of them, besides Finnick and maybe Beetee, in anything other than cryptic sentences or phrases I didn't understand.

Then, it dawns on me. They have no actual idea what to do with a kid around. The last time it happened was with Finnick like nine years ago, ever since then, all the victors have been of age, older than sixteen. Now that a kid is in the mix, they have no clue what to do. I start to realize all the other times. At parties when they wouldn't leave me alone, but they wouldn't really talk, just kinda stand there awkwardly. I wonder how they felt when I won the games, disappointed, probably. Valor deserved to win, not me. I picture Gloss and Cashmere cursing my name, grieving over their lost kids. Same with everyone else, but growing up with Ryder stalking my every move... I got used to people cursing my name.

I am so wrapped up in my thoughts, I almost miss my tributes on fire. I take a step forward to start running to help them, but Haymitch puts a girl hand on my shoulder and draws me back. It's not real. If it was, they'd already be burnt to a crisp.