Playing Games

Chapter Fifteen Victors

Every cell in my body wants me to dig into the stew and cram it, handful by handful into my mouth. But Peeta's voice stops me. "We better take it slow on that stew. Remember the first night on the train? The rich food made me sick and I wasn't even starving then."

"You're right. And I could just inhale the whole thing!" I say regretfully. But I don't. We are quite sensible. We each have a roll, half an apple, and an egg-size serving of stew and rice. I make myself eat the stew in tiny spoonfuls - they even sent us silverware and plates savoring each bite. When we finish, I stare longingly at the dish. "I want more."

"Me, too. Tell you what. We wait an hour, if it stays down, then we get another serving," Peeta says.

"Agreed," I say. "It's going to be a long hour."

"Yeah," says Peeta.

'How do you think our families back home are reacting to everything being out in the open, and in public?" I ask him.

"I don't know," he laughs without humor, "I wasn't announcing it for them, I was announcing it for us."

"I know."

"I bet my mom won't take it well. It's a good thing I won't be living in her house if I go home."

"Would she be that bad?" I ask him cautiously.

He takes a sharp breath, and nods. I can see he is remembering something, and its not pleasant.

Silently I pat his hand.

"I always thought your mom didn't like me because I was from the Seam."

"Well i don't think that helped." he shakes his head, "If we go home you won't be from the seam, you'll be from victors village."

That's right. If we win, we'll each get a house in the part of town reserved for Hunger Games' victors. Long ago, when the Games began, the Capitol had built a dozen fine houses in each district. Of course, in ours only one is occupied. Most of the others have never been lived in at all.

A disturbing thought hits me. "But then, our only neighbor will be Haymitch!"

"Ah, that'll be nice," says Peeta. "You and me and Haymitch. Very cozy. Picnics, birthdays, long winter nights around the fire retelling old Hunger Games' tales."

"I told you, he hates me!" I say, but I can't help laughing at the image of Haymitch becoming my new pal.

"Only sometimes. When he's sober, I've never heard him say one negative thing about you," says Peeta.

"He's never sober!" I protest.

"That's right. Who am I thinking of? Oh, I know. It's Cinna who likes you. But that's mainly because you didn't try to run when he set you on fire," says Peeta. "On the other hand, Haymitch . . . well, if I were you, I'd avoid Haymitch completely. He hates you."

"I thought you said I was his favorite," I say.

"He hates me more," says Peeta. "I don't think people in general are his sort of thing."

I know the audience will enjoy our having fun at Haymitch's expense. He has been around so long, he's practically an old friend to some of them. And after his head-dive off the stage at the reaping, everybody knows him. By this time, they'll have dragged him out of the control room for interviews about us. No telling what sort of lies he's made up. He's at something of a disadvantage because most mentors have a partner, another victor to help them whereas Haymitch has to be ready to go into action at any moment.

It's funny. Haymitch and I don't get along well in person, but maybe Peeta is right about us being alike because he seems able to communicate with me by the timing of his gifts. Like how I knew I must be close to water when he withheld it and how I knew the sleep syrup just wasn't something to ease Peeta's pain.