odair

Chapter Three - Finnigan

I sat through the first half of the first day of school, not doing anything more than was required of me. It was boring, and not really any different than elementary and middle school, except now I'm older, and apparently expected to be disobedient and a terrible listener. At lunch, I sat down at an empty table, hoping to continue the rest of the day as I had the beginning: alone and silent, like a shadow.

But it was not to be.

A girl I knew well but had never talked to before sat down beside me. "Hey," she said.

"Hi," I replied.

"My name is Eleanora," she continued, "but you can call me El. And you're Finnigan Odair." It wasn't a question. "Your dad's super cool, you know that, right? He's a hero. Honestly, we wouldn't be here today having this conversation if it weren't for everything he did. I know you probably don't like talking about him, you know, 'cause of everything that happened, but my mom says we're supposed to talk about our feelings. Is there anything you wanna talk about? I can be quiet and listen if you want, hard as it may be to believe." She took a short pause in her speech to laugh. "My dad fought in the rebellion, too, you know. He lives in District 2, though, and works in the Army, so I almost never get to see him, but Mom always liked the ocean so that's why we came here. It's better than 2, at least. Or 12. Or the Capitol. And you're here, so that's cool." She smiled. "Oh, oops, sorry. Was there anything you wanted to say?"

I shook my head and studied the girl sitting across from me. She had shoulder-length, choppy dark brown hair, gray eyes, and tanned skin. She was tall and thinish, though by no means starving.

She was talking again. "My dad used to be friends with the Mockingjay, isn't that cool? I think he wanted to marry her, but he doesn't like to talk about her. Anyway, he has Mom now, and they love each other. Love is weird, isn't it? I'm not sure I'll ever understand it. I don't think anyone truly does. What do you think, Finn? Can I call you Finn? Did anyone ever call your dad Finn? I've always wondered that, cause his name being Finnick and all, it seems kind of hard to say in a hurry. Finnickfinnickfinnickfinn - I don't know. Anyway. What was I saying? Oh, yeah. Love. What do you think about love, Finnigan?"

I shrugged. Talkative, excitable, 11-year-old genius Eleanora Hawthorne. I supposed I should be nice to her. She and her parents had been through a lot, too. But I was just slightly, a little bit, very much annoyed. I just wanted peace. I just wanted to go home.

The bell rang, signaling the end of lunch, and Eleanora shot out of her seat. "Oh, gotta go. Bye, Finn, it was nice talking to you. Can I sit with you again tomorrow? I have a feeling we're gonna be good friends." As quickly as she had arrived, she was gone, and I was left staring down at my place. I hadn't eaten anything. I quickly shoved it all back into my backpack, not wanting to waste anything, and hurried to my next class, my stomach grumbling at me.

Be quiet, I silently willed it. I didn't want it to catch anyone's attention. I didn't want anyone to notice me.

I went through the rest of my classes silently until I could go back home. As soon as we were dismissed, I hurried outside. I had planned on heading straight home, but I found myself staring at Peeta Mallark's mural instead. The more I looked at it, I realized that I knew some of the people sitting on the beach. Not personally. I didn't know any of them personally, but I'd seen pictures or videos of them all. There was Katniss's sister and her stylist and her friend and Ally. There was District 12's deceased Mayor and his whole family. There was Mags, The 11th Hunger Games Victor and volunteer for my mom in the 75th Games. There were a few other District 13 Rebels, and Presidents Coin and Snow. There were all the dead Tributes from every Games. And there was my dad.

"Isn't it beautiful?" a voice said beside me. I turned and saw Eleanora looking up at the mural, a strange expression on her face. "He's such a good artist."

I nodded. "Yeah he is. And it's not just any mural, is it?"

"Nope," she said.

"It's a memorial," I said. It was perfect.