It’s like having a piece of my father with me, protecting me. 

I fasten the pin onto my shirt, and with the dark green fabric 

as a background, I can almost imagine the mockingjay flying

through the trees.

Effie Trinket comes to collect me for supper. I follow her

through the narrow, rocking corridor into a dining room with

polished paneled walls. There’s a table where all the dishes

are highly breakable. Peeta Mellark sits waiting for us, the

chair next to him empty.

“Where’s Haymitch?” asks Effie Trinket brightly.

“Last time I saw him, he said he was going to take a nap,”

says Peeta.

“Well, it’s been an exhausting day,” says Effie Trinket. I

think she’s relieved by Haymitch’s absence, and who can

blame her?

The supper comes in courses. A thick carrot soup, green

salad, lamb chops and mashed potatoes, cheese and fruit, a

chocolate cake. Throughout the meal, Effie Trinket keeps 

reminding us to save space because there’s more to come. But

I’m stuffing myself because I’ve never had food like this, so

good and so much, and because probably the best thing I can

do between now and the Games is put on a few pounds.

“At least, you two have decent manners,” says Effie as we’re

finishing the main course. “The pair last year ate everything

with their hands like a couple of savages. It completely upset

my digestion.”

The pair last year were two kids from the Seam who’d never,

not one day of their lives, had enough to eat. And when

they did have food, table manners were surely the last thing

on their minds. Peeta’s a baker’s son. My mother taught Prim

and I to eat properly, so yes, I can handle a fork and knife. But

I hate Effie Trinket’s comment so much I make a point of eating

the rest of my meal with my fingers. Then I wipe my hands

on the tablecloth. This makes her purse her lips tightly together.

Now that the meal’s over, I’m fighting to keep the food

down. I can see Peeta’s looking a little green, too. Neither of

our stomachs is used to such rich fare. But if I can hold down

Greasy Sae’s concoction of mice meat, pig entrails, and tree

bark — a winter specialty — I’m determined to hang on to

this.

We go to another compartment to watch the recap of the

reapings across Panem. They try to stagger them throughout

the day so a person could conceivably watch the whole thing

live, but only people in the Capitol could really do that, since

none of them have to attend reapings themselves.

One by one, we see the other reapings, the names called,

(the volunteers stepping forward or, more often, not. We 

examine the faces of the kids who will be our competition. 

A few stand out in my mind. A monstrous boy who lunges 

forward to volunteer from District 2. A fox-faced girl with 

sleek red hair from District 5. A boy with a crippled foot from 

District 10. And most hauntingly, a twelve-year-old girl from 

District 11. She has dark brown skin and eyes, but other than 

that, she’s very like Prim in size and demeanor. Only when she

mounts the stage and they ask for volunteers, all you can hear

is the wind whistling through the decrepit buildings around

her. There’s no one willing to take her place.

Last of all, they show District 12. Prim being called, me

running forward to volunteer. You can’t miss the desperation

in my voice as I shove Prim behind me, as if I’m afraid no one

will hear and they’ll take Prim away. But, of course, they do

hear. I see Gale pulling her off me and watch myself mount the

stage. The commentators are not sure what to say about the

crowd’s refusal to applaud. The silent salute. One says that

District 12 has always been a bit backward but that local 

customs can be charming. As if on cue, Haymitch falls off the

stage, and they groan comically. Peeta’s name is drawn, and he

quietly takes his place. We shake hands. They cut to the anthem

again, and the pro-gram ends.

Effie Trinket is disgruntled about the state her wig was in.

“Your mentor has a lot to learn about presentation. A lot about

televised behavior.”

Peeta unexpectedly laughs. “He was drunk,” says Peeta.

“He’s drunk every year.”

“Every day,” I add. I can’t help smirking a little. Effie Trinket

makes it sound like Haymitch just has somewhat rough manners

that could be corrected with a few tips from her.

“Yes,” hisses Effie Trinket. “How odd you two find it amusing.

You know your mentor is your lifeline to the world in

these Games. The one who advises you, lines up your sponsors,

and dictates the presentation of any gifts. Haymitch can

well be the difference between your life and your death!”

Just then, Haymitch staggers into the compartment. “I miss

supper?” he says in a slurred voice. Then he vomits all over

the expensive carpet and falls in the mess.

“So laugh away!” says Effie Trinket. She hops in her pointy

shoes around the pool of vomit and flees the room.