【饥饿游戏】18

“Only if they catch you. That bruise 1 will say you fought, you
weren’t caught, even better,” says Haymitch. He turns to me.
“Can you hit anything with that knife besides a table?”
The bow and arrow is my weapon. But I’ve spent a fair
amount of time throwing knives as well. Sometimes, if I’ve
wounded an animal with an arrow, it’s better to get a knife into
it, too, before I approach it. I realize that if I want Haymitch’s
attention, this is my moment to make an impression. I
yank the knife out of the table, get a grip on the blade, and
then throw it into the wall across the room. I was actually just
hoping to get a good solid stick, but it lodges 2 in the seam between
two panels, making me look a lot better than I am.
“Stand over here. Both of you,” says Haymitch, nodding to
the middle of the room. We obey and he circles us, prodding 3
us like animals at times, checking our muscles, examining our
faces. “Well, you’re not entirely 4 hopeless. Seem fit. And once
the stylists get hold of you, you’ll be attractive enough.”
Peeta and I don’t question this. The Hunger Games aren’t a
beauty contest, but the best-looking tributes always seem to
pull more sponsors.
“All right, I’ll make a deal with you. You don’t interfere 5 with
my drinking, and I’ll stay sober enough to help you,” says
Haymitch. “But you have to do exactly what I say.”
It’s not much of a deal but still a giant step forward from
ten minutes ago when we had no guide at all.
“Fine,” says Peeta.
“So help us,” I say. “When we get to the arena 6, what’s the
best strategy at the Cornucopia 7 for someone —”
“One thing at a time. In a few minutes, we’ll be pulling into
the station. You’ll be put in the hands of your stylists. You’re
not going to like what they do to you. But no matter what it is,
don’t resist,” says Haymitch.
“But —” I begin.
“No buts. Don’t resist,” says Haymitch. He takes the bottle
of spirits from the table and leaves the car. As the door swings
shut behind him, the car goes dark. There are still a few lights
inside, but outside it’s as if night has fallen again. I realize we
must be in the tunnel that runs up through the mountains into
the Capitol. The mountains form a natural barrier between the
Capitol and the eastern districts. It is almost impossible to enter
from the east except through the tunnels. This geographical 8
advantage was a major factor in the districts losing the war
that led to my being a tribute today. Since the rebels had to
scale the mountains, they were easy targets for the Capitol’s
air forces.
Peeta Mellark and I stand in silence as the train speeds
along. The tunnel goes on and on and I think of the tons of
rock separating me from the sky, and my chest tightens 9. I hate
being encased in stone this way. It reminds me of the mines
and my father, trapped, unable to reach sunlight, buried forever
in the darkness.
The train finally begins to slow and suddenly bright light
floods the compartment 10. We can’t help it. Both Peeta and I run
to the window to see what we’ve only seen on television, the
Capitol, the ruling city of Panem. The cameras haven’t lied
about its grandeur 11. If anything, they have not quite captured
the magnificence of the glistening 12 buildings in a rainbow of
hues 13 that tower into the air, the shiny cars that roll down the
wide paved streets, the oddly dressed people with bizarre hair
and painted faces who have never missed a meal. All the colors
seem artificial, the pinks too deep, the greens too bright,
the yellows painful to the eyes, like the flat round disks of
hard candy we can never afford to buy at the tiny sweet shop
in District 12.
The people begin to point at us eagerly as they recognize a
tribute train rolling into the city. I step away from the window, 
sickened by their excitement, knowing they can’t wait to 
watch us die. But Peeta holds his ground, actually waving and
smiling at the gawking crowd. He only stops when the train
pulls into the station, blocking us from their view.
He sees me staring at him and shrugs 14. “Who knows?” he
says. “One of them may be rich.”
I have misjudged him. I think of his actions since the reaping
began. The friendly squeeze of my hand. His father showing
up with the cookies and promising 15 to feed Prim 16 . . . did
Peeta put him up to that? His tears at the station. Volunteering
to wash Haymitch but then challenging him this morning
when apparently 17 the nice-guy approach had failed. And now
the waving at the window, already trying to win the crowd.
All of the pieces are still fitting together, but I sense he has
a plan forming. He hasn’t accepted his death. He is already
fighting hard to stay alive. Which also means that kind Peeta
Mellark, the boy who gave me the bread, is fighting hard to kill
me.