A surprise gift from an old frenemy prompts the goose family's first Hunger Games conversation with the toast babies. Rated T for language.
“Where did you get that!” Katniss screeches.
I whip around from my position flipping pancakes at the stove. That voice. I know it intimately, but I haven't heard it for months, maybe years. Panic.
My heart clenches and the spatula clatters to the counter top.
Daisy is frozen by the table, an unfamiliar plastic doll clenched in her tiny fist. Her lips wobbles.
“It's you, mama,” she gulps.
“Give it to me!” cries Katniss frantically, seizing the doll and tugging.
Surprised, Daisy trips over her chronically untied shoelaces (she does not take after me in that regard) and falls to the floor. The floodgates open. Fat tears forge trails down her rosy cheeks, while on the other side of the kitchen, her brother, Aspen, pauses with a slimy handful of mashed up pancake halfway to his lips. Never one to be outdone in theatrics, he tips his back and howls.
I plant a reassuring kiss on Katniss' temple, then scoop up our children, one in each arm. Aspen immediately forgets he's upset about something and squeals with glee. Daisy just sobs harder.
“No, I want mama!” she wails.
Katniss sinks into a wicker-backed chair, pinching the bridge of her nose. The cardboard box beside her is stamped with a return address from the Capitol. Never a good sign.
“Mama needs a rest, little gosling,” I say, tugging on Daisy's ebony braid affectionately and casting a worried look at my wife. “Let's go see Paw Paw. D’you know what? Gerty lost her pretty blue ribbon and Paw Paw doesn't know how to tie it on right, does he?”
Gerty is Daisy's favorite goose. Stubborn, territorial, and down-right mean, Daisy's the only one who can get anywhere near the old dame.
Daisy sniffles at the suggestion. “Can I give her some corn?”
“Well you better,” I say, with a sly grin. “Else she might have to eat Aspie!”
I poke Aspen in the tummy and they both shake with laughter.
“Stay here. I'll be right back,” I tell Katniss. Her eyes flit to the side door where her muddy hunting boots sit ready and waiting. I can tell she's fixing to disappear, but she shouldn't be alone with this. We don't bear burdens alone in this household. How could we? We'd sink clear through to the earth's core under the weight. “I'll be right back.”
When I return, Katniss is near catatonic at the table, the phone receiver pressed to her ear. I drop into the chair beside her and take her face in my palms, searching her vacant eyes until I catch a flicker in their depths. Inside the cardboard box, I notice a silver case decorated with shiny red and orange flames. I wrench it free in disbelief.
Katniss Everdeen: Girl On Fire, it reads. Dress up Katniss! Endless fun for children ages 3 and up!
Slack-jawed, I rifle through the accessories. A tiny leather hunting jacket. A mini bow and arrows. Several of Cinna’s victory tour gowns. And…the fucking wedding dress! I fling the box aside with disgust and unclamp Katniss' death grip on the phone one icy finger at a time.
“Who the hell is this?!” I shout into the receiver.
There's a muffled sound of bewilderment on the other end. Then a familiar voice. “Well, I should be asking the same thing, shouldn't I?”
“This is Peeta Mellark!” I snap, trying to place the caller. He speaks with an odd inflection. An over enunciation of the vowels.
A delighted chuckle answers back. “Peeta, my boy. If I had known sending gifts would motivate you to answer my calls, I would have sent one much sooner.”
The pieces suddenly click into place like clockwork. Like wedges in an arena. Plutarch Heavensbee. That bastard.
“Did you send my wife a Hunger Games action figure?” My voice is controlled. Deadly calm. I can picture Plutarch holed up in his manor, wrapped in the spoils of victory like the mercenary rat he is.
Plutarch chuckles again. “Not to Katniss, no. To Daisy. Happy 6th birthday!”
The table rattles violently and it takes me a moment to realize it's because I've slammed my fist down on it. Katniss starts at the sound. Then her hand finds my forearm and she squeezes. Once. Twice. Three times. Stay with me, her fingers say.
I take a deep, steadying breath.
Plutarch is still prattling on, oblivious to the simmering rage on the other end of the line. “Isn't it exquisite? The details are so lifelike. We had the designers watch the old footage, of course–”
“Plutarch,” I interrupt, and the hard edges of my voice must cow him, because he falls silent. “Tell me what the fuck you're doing. And tell me in as few words as possible.”
“It's a prototype. For a new line of toys inspired by historical events,” he explains, sounding huffy. “You'll get a cut, of course. We expect the Katniss model to go quickly. There will be a Peeta one, too, but most of the boy dolls didn't do as well in testing. The Finnick Odair one, on the other hand–”
My brain is having trouble processing. It's too appalling.
“Wait, wait, wait, let me get this straight. You're going to sell these?”
“Well, yes, of course. Believe me, it's going to be very lucrative. With the low labor costs in District 8 we can churn them out for pennies. And just so you know,” says Plutarch in a mollifying voice. “Two percent of sales goes to mental health counseling for district citizens impacted by the Games.”
My eye is twitching. I hold on to Katniss' hand like it is my last thread of sanity and then say in a low, dangerous voice. “Plutarch, I'm only going to say this once. If I ever see one of these dolls in District 12 again, I am going to take the first hovercraft to the Capitol and make your life a living hell.
I will accept every interview invitation I ever turned down and use them to curse the Heavensbee name. I will use my fucking unwanted clout to turn every building and monument named after you into a Panem Pizza joint. The greasier the better.
I will accept the Academy's offer of honorary professor to make sure every student passing through those hallowed halls knows how their beloved Dean Plutarch dared to look children in the eyes and lecture them on implicit submission while designing the very instruments of their grisly deaths.
And if you ever contact me or my family again–and I mean Haymitch, too–I will never stop until you are utterly ruined. Do you understand?”
I can hear Plutarch shifting uncomfortably. Then a series of fumbling half-apologies. But I'm not interested in platitudes.
“Do. You. Understand?” I repeat through gritted teeth.
I slam the receiver down and turn to what really matters. Katniss crumples against my shoulder and I put my arms around her.
“We said we'd never yell at them,” she mumbles into my shirt.
“You weren't yelling at them. You were surprised. There's a difference.”
“I scared them,” she says, her voice cracking.
“Shh, kids bounce, love. Daisy's already over there bossing Paw Paw around. And Aspen is terrorizing the geese. They're fine,” I assure her, rocking her back and forth. “I'm worried about you.”
Katniss gazes at me through disbelieving silver eyes, then holds up the doll. The plastic skin is suspiciously pale, the chest unnaturally full, just as the Capitol had wanted it if Haymitch hadn't stuck out his neck. I take the doll between my thumb and forefinger gingerly as if it is toxic waste and drop it into the waste sack. I’ll take it to the incinerator first thing tomorrow.
“I just…thought we had more time, Peeta. You know?” she whispers.
“But they'll start hearing things. In school. Or on the playground.”
“It's better they hear it from us.”
We stare at each other for a moment. A balmy spring breeze heavy with pollen sweeps in through the open window, rustling the fly-aways from her braid. The oven timer dings to signal that my hearty nut and fruit bread is fully proofed.
“That was kind of attractive,” Katniss admits, dipping her chin toward the phone as I take the book down from the top of the oaken bookshelf in the den.
My lips quirk. “Oh yeah?” I say, spinning her around so that I can wind my arms around her waist from behind. I kiss her neck where the burn scars swoop in shiny tendrils into her hair. “Should we dial him back? There's more where that came from.”
“Maybe later,” she laughs. “We should get the kids.”
I sigh. “Better get the grand mentor, too.”
We've been preparing the book for years. A kind of children's companion to the one we worked on after the games. I did the illustrations, Katniss did most of the writing, and Haymitch grunted out occasional input between trips to the kitchen to raid our pantry for snacks. It tells the story–our story–in digestible pieces. We'll talk through them as a family in installments as our babies grow and mature.
We'll tell them that not all games are fun, like hopscotch and broomball. That sometimes adults make bad decisions, very bad decisions, so we should all keep a watchful eye if we notice something unkind or scary.
They'll learn about the day mama and papa’s names came out of the reaping bowl. About how love saved us, but how it couldn't save them all. About the scars they can see and the ones that are buried too deep.
But today, cuddled up on the couch under a pile of fuzzy blankets, we’ll start at the beginning.
The day a little boy threw a little girl a loaf of bread.
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