The Hunger Games - Suzanne Collins [26]
Good. I’m starving.
Peeta, Cinna, and Portia are standing out on a balcony that overlooks the Capitol when we enter the dining room. I’m glad to see the stylists, particularly after I hear that Haymitch will be joining us. A meal presided over by just
Effie and Haymitch is bound to be a disaster. Besides, dinner isn’t really about food, it’s about planning out our strategies, and Cinna and Portia have already proven how valuable they are.
A silent young man dressed in a white tunic offers us all stemmed glasses of wine. I think about turning it down, but I’ve never had wine, except the homemade stuff my mother uses for coughs, and when will I get a chance to try it again? I take a sip of the tart, dry liquid and secretly think it could be improved by a few spoonfuls of honey.
Haymitch shows up just as dinner is being served. It looks as if he’s had his own stylist because he’s clean and groomed and about as sober as I’ve ever seen him. He doesn’t refuse the offer of wine, but when he starts in on his soup, I realize it’s the first time I’ve ever seen him eat. Maybe he really will pull himself together long enough to help us.
Cinna and Portia seem to have a civilizing effect on Haymitch and Effie. At least they’re addressing each other decently. And they both have nothing but praise for our stylists’ opening act. While they make small talk, I concentrate on the meal. Mushroom soup, bitter greens with tomatoes the size of peas, rare roast beef sliced as thin as paper, noodles in a green sauce, cheese that melts on your tongue served with sweet blue grapes. The servers, all young people dressed in white tunics like the one who gave us wine, move wordlessly to and from the table, keeping the platters and glasses full. About halfway through my glass of wine, my head starts feeling foggy, so I change to water instead. I don’t like the feeling and hope it wears off soon. How Haymitch can stand walking around like this full-time is a mystery. I try to focus on the talk, which has turned to our interview costumes, when a girl sets a gorgeous-looking cake on the table and deftly lights it. It blazes up and then the flames flicker around the edges awhile until it finally goes out. I have a moment of doubt. “What makes it burn? Is it alcohol?” I say, looking up at the girl. “That’s the last thing I wa—oh! I know you!”
I can’t place a name or time to the girl’s face. But I’m certain of it. The dark red hair, the striking features, the porcelain white skin. But even as I utter the words, I feel my insides contracting with anxiety and guilt at the sight of her, and while I can’t pull it up, I know some bad memory is associated with her. The expression of terror that crosses her face only adds to my confusion and unease. She shakes her head in denial quickly and hurries away from the table.
When I look back, the four adults are watching me like hawks.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Katniss. How could you possibly know an Avox?” snaps Effie. “The very thought.”
“What’s an Avox?” I ask stupidly.
“Someone who committed a crime. They cut her tongue so she can’t speak,” says Haymitch. “She’s probably a traitor of some sort. Not likely you’d know her.”
“And even if you did, you’re not to speak to one of them unless it’s to give an order,” says Effie. “Of course, you don’t really know her.”
But I do know her. And now that Haymitch has mentioned the word traitor I remember from where. The disapproval is so high I could never admit it. “No, I guess not, I just—” I stammer, and the wine is not helping.
Peeta snaps his fingers. “Delly Cartwright. That’s who it is. I kept thinking she looked familiar as well. Then I realized she’s a dead ringer for Delly.”
Delly Cartwright is a pasty-faced, lumpy girl with yellowish hair who looks about as much like our server as