i stare out the window as the capitol flashes past. it’s passing by too quickly to really make out details, but i catch a smile, a little girl on her dad’s shoulders so she can see us over the crowd, a dog straining against its leash. if these people weren’t here because they want to watch us die, and if they didn’t have bright pink hair and orange skin, i could almost believe that they were just district twelve citizens, here to watch the panem parade that rolls through town every fifth of april.
i push away from the window, feeling sick. i won’t ever see the panem parade, with its bright lights and happy songs, again. i’ll never see my little sister, laughing as she dances with papa. never giggle over boys with eva and muriel again. the thought knocks the air out of me and i double over, clutching my stomach and sucking in breath. it’s only just hit me that i’m going to die,
“pretty sick, huh?” my head snaps up. haymitch, one of the boy reaped, stands in the doorway, watching me. i remember him, emerging from a crowd of seventeens with a glare on his face. thinking he won’t hesitate to kill me. now, as i look at him, he’s smiling. smiling.
i ignore him, focus on breathing properly. in, out, in out, i tell myself. i’ve always had problems with my lungs. too much excitement or exercise would set me off. asthma, the doctor had called it. i translated it to “no gym class for you” instead. i had been relieved, then. now i wish i had gone anyway.
the couch dips slightly as haymitch takes a seat beside me. i can feet his eyes on me, watching my struggle to fill my lungs with air.
he’s still there when the asthma attack finally ends. i turn to look at him, and find that he’s staring at me. his eyes are grey, like everyone from the seam. “polluted eyes,” mama used to say. “stay away from people with polluted eyes.” i wonder what mama would say now. we’re sitting so close our shoulders are touching.
haymitch leans forward. so close i can make out the details of his eyes. what i thought was grey is actually a murky green color, with golden flecks. close up, his eyes are beautiful. they don’t look polluted to me at all.
i find my voice. “it’s disgusting.” it is, how they are crowded around outside, eager to see who they get to watch die this year. i wonder how i’ll die. knife to the heart? no, too kind. i’ll probably end up with a spear in my stomach, or torn apart by mutts. the thought isn’t pleasant. i focus on haymitch’s eyes again.
“maysilee,” he says. i wait, but that all he has to say. just my name. we sit and stare at each other for a while, and i wonder if he’s looking at my eyes, too. they’re blue – not as fascinating as his. but i still hope that he finds something special in them. it’s a stupid thought. my eyes are boring.
obviously, haymitch agrees because he sit back and turns his gaze away from me. “augustus wanted me to come get you. it’s time to go,” he tells me. “come on, let’s go.”
♔ ♔ ♔
the next time i see haymitch, he’s waiting next to the chariot. when he sees me, he blinks a few times, shocked.
“maysilee?” i smile at him. i’m in a pale yellow dress that looks like it is make of feathers. they dance up my neck, weave themselves into my hair and down my arms – it’s obvious what i am supposed to be. a canary.
haymitch doesn’t look bad, either. he is in a grey suit, but the canary theme continues because there are feathers in his hair, too. we are two birds, side-by-side.
the other two tributes are dressed similarly, except for one difference. they are dressed in red, not yellow. we look brilliant. stunning. as radiant as the sun. and apparently the capitol agrees, because we get more than our share of camera time. our stylists are geniuses. nobody has every gone into the tribute parade as canaries. at least, not this well done. we are sure to win a fair bit of sponsors for our beautiful outfits.
