【饥饿游戏】17

By morning, I’ll be able to wash the damage done by the tears 
from my face. But no tears come. I’m too tired or too numb 1 to 
cry. The only thing I feel is a desire to be somewhere else. So I 
let the train rock me into oblivion.
Gray light is leaking through the curtains when the rapping
rouses me. I hear Effie Trinket’s voice, calling me to rise. “Up,
up, up! It’s going to be a big, big, big day!” I try and imagine,
for a moment, what it must be like inside that woman’s head.
What thoughts fill her waking hours? What dreams come to
her at night? I have no idea.
I put the green outfit 2 back on since it’s not really dirty, just
slightly crumpled 3 from spending the night on the floor. My
fingers trace the circle around the little gold mockingjay and I
think of the woods, and of my father, and of my mother and
Prim 4 waking up, having to get on with things.
I slept in the elaborate braided hair my mother did for the
reaping and it doesn’t look too bad, so I just leave it up. It
doesn’t matter. We can’t be far from the Capitol now. And
once we reach the city, my stylist will dictate 5 my look for the
opening ceremonies tonight anyway. I just hope I get one who
doesn’t think nudity is the last word in fashion.
As I enter the dining car, Effie Trinket brushes by me with a
cup of black coffee. She’s muttering obscenities under her
breath. Haymitch, his face puffy and red from the previous
day’s indulgences, is chuckling 6. Peeta holds a roll and looks
somewhat embarrassed.
“Sit down! Sit down!” says Haymitch, waving me over. The
moment I slide into my chair I’m served an enormous platter
of food. Eggs, ham, piles of fried potatoes. A tureen of fruit sits
in ice to keep it chilled. The basket of rolls they set before me
would keep my family going for a week. There’s an elegant
glass of orange juice. At least, I think it’s orange juice. I’ve only
even tasted an orange once, at New Year’s when my father
bought one as a special treat. A cup of coffee. My mother
adores coffee, which we could almost never afford, but it only
tastes bitter and thin to me. A rich brown cup of something
I’ve never seen.
“They call it hot chocolate,” says Peeta. “It’s good.”
I take a sip 7 of the hot, sweet, creamy liquid and a shudder 8
runs through me. Even though the rest of the meal beckons 9, I
ignore it until I’ve drained my cup. Then I stuff down every
mouthful I can hold, which is a substantial amount, being careful
to not overdo 10 it on the richest stuff. One time, my mother
told me that I always eat like I’ll never see food again. And I
said, “I won’t unless I bring it home.” That shut her up.
When my stomach feels like it’s about to split open, I lean
back and take in my breakfast companions. Peeta is still eating,
breaking off bits of roll and dipping them in hot chocolate.
Haymitch hasn’t paid much attention to his platter, but he’s
knocking back a glass of red juice that he keeps thinning with
a clear liquid from a bottle. Judging by the fumes 11, it’s some
kind of spirit. I don’t know Haymitch, but I’ve seen him often
enough in the Hob, tossing handfuls of money on the counter
of the woman who sells white liquor. He’ll be incoherent by
the time we reach the Capitol.
I realize I detest 12 Haymitch. No wonder the District 12 tributes
never stand a chance. It isn’t just that we’ve been underfed
and lack training. Some of our tributes have still been
strong enough to make a go of it. But we rarely get sponsors
and he’s a big part of the reason why. The rich people who
back tributes — either because they’re betting on them or
simply for the bragging 13 rights of picking a winner — expect
someone classier than Haymitch to deal with.
“So, you’re supposed to give us advice,” I say to Haymitch.
“Here’s some advice. Stay alive,” says Haymitch, and then
bursts out laughing. I exchange a look with Peeta before I remember
I’m having nothing more to do with him. I’m surprised
to see the hardness in his eyes. He generally seems so
mild.
“That’s very funny,” says Peeta. Suddenly he lashes 14 out at
the glass in Haymitch’s hand. It shatters on the floor, sending
the bloodred liquid running toward the back of the train. “Only
not to us.”
Haymitch considers this a moment, then punches Peeta in
the jaw 15, knocking him from his chair. When he turns back to
reach for the spirits, I drive my knife into the table between
his hand and the bottle, barely missing his fingers. I brace 16 myself
to deflect 17 his hit, but it doesn’t come. Instead he sits back
and squints 18 at us.
“Well, what’s this?” says Haymitch. “Did I actually get a pair
of fighters this year?”
Peeta rises from the floor and scoops 19 up a handful of ice
from under the fruit tureen. He starts to raise it to the red
mark on his jaw.
“No,” says Haymitch, stopping him. “Let the bruise 20 show.
The audience will think you’ve mixed it up with another tribute
before you’ve even made it to the arena 21.”
“That’s against the rules,” says Peeta.