If Lucy Gray had won over the Grandma’am, Coriolanus felt the rest of the nation could only fall in step. If no one else seemed to be bothered by her questionable past, why should he be?
He got a glass of buttermilk, changed into his father’s silk robe, and settled down to write about everything he loved about the war. He began with As they say, war is misery, but it’s not without its charms. It seemed a clever intro to him, but it led nowhere, and half an hour later he’d made no headway. It was, as Festus had suggested, destined to be a very short assignment. But he knew that would not satisfy Dr. Gaul, and a halfhearted effort would only bring him unwanted attention.
When Tigris came in to say good night, he bounced the topic off her. “Can you remember anything at all we liked?”
She sat on the end of his bed and thought it over. “I liked some of the uniforms. Not the ones they wear now. Do you remember the red jackets with the gold piping?”
“In the parades?” He felt a bit of a rush as he remembered hanging from the window with the soldiers and bands marching by. “Did I like the parades?”
“You loved them. You’d be so excited that we couldn’t get you to eat your breakfast,” said Tigris. “We always had a gathering on parade days.”
“Front-row seats.” Coriolanus jotted the words uniforms and parades on a scrap of paper, then added fireworks. “Any sort of spectacle appealed to me when I was little, I suppose.”
“Remember the turkey?” Tigris said suddenly.
It had been the last year of the war, when the siege had reduced the Capitol to cannibalism and despair. Even the lima beans were running low, and it had been months since anything resembling meat had made its way to their table. In an attempt to raise morale, the Capitol had proclaimed December 15th National Heroes Day. They put together a television special and honored a dozen or so citizens who’d lost their lives in defense of the Capitol, with Coriolanus’s father, General Crassus Snow, among them. The electricity came on in time for the broadcast, but it had been off — and with it the heat — for a solid day before. They’d been huddled together on the Grandma’am’s boat of a bed, and so they remained to watch their heroes honored. Even then, Coriolanus’s memory of his father had faded, and while he knew his face from photos, he was startled by the man’s deep voice and uncompromising words against the districts. After the anthem played, a knock on the front door roused them from the bed, and they found a trio of young soldiers in dress uniforms delivering a commemorative plaque and a basket with a twenty-pound frozen turkey, compliments of the state. In an apparent attempt at the Capitol’s former luxury, the basket also included a dusty jar of mint jelly, a can of salmon, three cracked sticks of pineapple candy, a loofah sponge, and a flowery-scented candle. The soldiers set the basket on a table in the foyer, read a statement of thanks, and bid them good night. Tigris burst into tears, and the Grandma’am had to sit down, but the first thing Coriolanus did was run and make sure the door was locked to protect their newfound riches.
They’d eaten salmon on toast and it was decided Tigris would stay home from school the next day to figure out how to cook the bird. Coriolanus delivered a dinner invitation on the Snows’ engraved stationery to Pluribus, and he came bearing posca and a dented can of apricots. With the help of one of Cook’s old recipe books, Tigris had outdone herself, and they’d feasted on jelly-glazed turkey with bread and cabbage stuffing. Nothing had ever, before or since, tasted so good.
“Still one of the best days of my life.” He wasn’t sure how to phrase it but finally added relief from deprivation to the list. “You were a wonder, the way you cooked that turkey. At the time you seemed so old to me, but you were really just a little girl,” said Coriolanus.
Tigris smiled. “And you. With your victory garden on the roof.”
“If you liked parsley, I was your man!” He laughed. But he’d taken pride in his parsley. It had livened up the soup, and sometimes he could trade it for other things. Resourcefulness, he put on the list.
So he wrote his assignment, recounting these childish delights, but in the end he did not feel satisfied. He thought about the last couple of weeks, with the bombing in the arena, losing his classmates, Marcus’s escape, and how it all had revived the terror he’d felt when the Capitol had been under siege. What had mattered then, what mattered still, was living without that fear. So he added a paragraph about his deep relief on winning the war, and the grim satisfaction of seeing the Capitol’s enemies, who’d treated him so cruelly, who’d cost his family so much, brought to their knees. Hobbled. Impotent. Unable to hurt him anymore. He’d loved the unfamiliar sense of safety that their defeat had brought. The security that could only come with power. The ability to control things. Yes, that was what he’d loved best of all.
The next morning, as the remaining mentors straggled in for the Sunday meeting, Coriolanus tried to imagine who they would’ve been had no war occurred. Barely more than toddlers when it started, they’d all been about eight when it ended. Although the hardships had eased, he and his classmates were still far removed from the opulent life they’d been born into, and the rebuilding of their world had been slow and disheartening. If he could erase the rationing and the bombings, the hunger and the fear, and replace it with the rosy lives promised to them at birth, would he even recognize his friends?
Coriolanus felt a twinge of guilt when his thoughts landed on Clemensia. He hadn’t been to see her yet, between recovering and homework and readying Lucy Gray for the Games. It wasn’t just a time issue, though. He had no desire to return to the hospital and see what state she was in. What if the doctor had been lying, and the scales were spreading to cover her entire body? What if she’d transformed into a snake entirely? That was silliness, but Dr. Gaul’s lab had been so sinister that his mind went to extremes. A paranoid thought nibbled at him. What if Dr. Gaul’s people were only waiting for him to visit so they could imprison him as well? It didn’t make sense. If they’d wanted to hold him, his hospitalization would’ve been the time. The whole thing was ridiculous, he concluded. He’d go to see her at the first opportunity.
Dr. Gaul, clearly a morning person, and Dean Highbottom, clearly not, reviewed the previous night’s performances. Coriolanus and Lucy Gray had obliterated the field, although points were given to those who’d at least managed to get their tributes to the interview stage. On Capitol TV, Lucky Flickerman was providing updates on the betting scene from the main post office, and while people were favoring Tanner and Jessup to win, Lucy Gray had racked up three times as many gifts as her nearest competitor.
“Look at all these people,” said Dr. Gaul. “Sending bread to a slip of a girl with a broken heart, even though they don’t believe she can win. What’s the lesson there?”
“At the dogfights, I’ve seen people back mutts that can barely stand,” Festus told her. “People love a long shot.”
“People love a good love song, more like,” said Persephone, showing her dimples.
“People are fools,” sneered Livia. “She doesn’t stand a chance.”
“But there are a lot of romantics.” Pup batted his eyes at her and made sloppy kissing sounds.
“Yes, romantic notions, idealistic notions, can be very attractive. Which seems like a good segue into your essays.” Dr. Gaul settled herself on a lab stool. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”
Rather than collect their essays, Dr. Gaul had them read bits and pieces of them aloud. Coriolanus’s classmates had touched on many points that hadn’t crossed his mind. Some had been drawn to the courage of the soldiers, the chance to maybe one day be heroic themselves. Others mentioned the bond that formed between soldiers who fought together, or the nobility of defending the Capitol.
“It felt like we were all part of something bigger,” said Domitia. She nodded solemnly, causing the ponytail on the top of her head to bob. “Something important. We all made sacrifices, but it was to save our co
untry.”
Coriolanus felt disconnected from their “romantic notions,” as he didn’t share a romanticized view of the war. Courage in battle was often necessary because of someone else’s poor planning. He had no idea if he would take a bullet for Festus and had no interest in finding out. As to the noble ideas of the Capitol, did they really believe that? What he desired had little to do with nobility and everything to do with being in control. Not that he didn’t have a strong moral code; certainly he did. But almost everything in war, between its declaration and the victory parades, seemed a waste of resources. He kept one eye on the clock while pretending to be engaged in the conversation, willing time to pass so he wouldn’t have to read anything. The parades seemed shallow, the appeal of power still true but heartless compared to the ramblings of his classmates. And he wished he hadn’t even written the bit about growing the parsley; it just sounded puerile now.
The best he could do, when his time came, was to read the story about the turkey. Domitia told him it was touching, Livia rolled her eyes, and Dr. Gaul raised her eyebrows and asked did he have more to share? He did not.
“Mr. Plinth?” said Dr. Gaul.
Sejanus had been silent and subdued through the entire class. He flipped a sheet of paper over and read, “‘The only thing I loved about the war was the fact that I still lived at home.’ If you’re asking me if it had any value beyond that, I would say that it was an opportunity to right some wrongs.”
“And did it?” asked Dr. Gaul.
“Not at all. Things in the districts are worse than ever,” said Sejanus.
Objections came from around the room.
“Whoa!”
“He did not just say that.”
“Go back to Two, then! Who’d miss you?”
He’s really pushing it now, thought Coriolanus. But he was angry, too. It took two parties to make a war. A war that, by the way, the rebels had started. A war that had left him an orphan.
But Sejanus ignored his classmates, staying focused on the Head Gamemaker. “May I ask, what did you love about the war, Dr. Gaul?”
She looked at him for a long moment, then smiled. “I loved how it proved me right.”
Dean Highbottom announced the lunch break before anyone ventured to ask how, and they all filed out, leaving their essays behind.
They were given a half hour to eat, but Coriolanus had forgotten to bring any food, and none was provided because it was Sunday. He spent the time stretched out in a shaded area of the front steps, resting his head while Festus and Hilarius Heavensbee, who was mentoring the District 8 girl, discussed strategies for female tributes. He vaguely remembered Hilarius’s tribute from the train station, wearing a striped dress and red scarf, but mostly because she’d been with Bobbin.
“The trouble with girls is, they’re not used to fighting the same way boys are,” said Hilarius. The Heavensbees were ultrarich, the way the Snows had been before the war. But no matter his advantages, Hilarius always seemed to feel oppressed.
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Festus. “I think my Coral could give any of those guys a run for their money.”
“Mine’s a runt.” Hilarius picked at his steak sandwich with his manicured nails. “Wovey, she calls herself. Well, I tried to train old Wovey for the interview, but zero personality. No one’s backed her, so I can’t feed her, even if she can avoid the others.”
“If she stays alive, she’ll get backers,” said Festus.
“Are you even listening to me? She can’t fight, and I’ve no money to work with since my family can’t bet,” Hilarius whined. “I’m just hoping she lasts until the final twelve so I can face my parents. They’re embarrassed that a Heavensbee’s making such a poor showing.”
After lunch, Satyria took the mentors over to the Capitol News station so they could become acquainted with the behind-the-scenes machinery of the Hunger Games. The Gamemakers worked out of a handful of shabby offices, and while the control room assigned to them was sufficient, it seemed a little small for the annual event. Coriolanus found the whole thing a bit disappointing — he’d imagined something flashier — but the Gamemakers were excited about the new elements of this year’s Games and chattered on about mentor commentary and sponsor participation. The booth was abuzz as they checked the remote-operated cameras that had been fixtures back in the sports arena days. Half a dozen Gamemakers were busy testing the toy drones designated to deliver the sponsors’ gifts. The drones found their recipients by facial recognition and could carry just one item at a time.
Lucky Flickerman, fresh off his interview success, had been tapped to host, backed up by a handful of Capitol News reporters. Coriolanus got a thrill when he saw himself slotted in at 8:15 the following morning, until Lucky said, “We wanted to make sure to get you in early. You know, before your girl buys it.”
He felt as though someone had punched him in the gut. Livia was bitter and Dr. Gaul insane, so he’d been able to ignore their certainty that Lucy Gray wasn’t a contender. But somehow goofy Lucky Flickerman’s words hit home in a way theirs could not. As he walked back to the apartment to prepare for his final meeting with Lucy Gray, he ruminated over the likelihood that she’d be dead by the same time tomorrow. The previous night’s jealousy over her loser of a boyfriend and the way her star quality sometimes outshone his own evaporated. He felt remarkably close to her, this girl who’d dropped into his life so unexpectedly and with such style. And it wasn’t just about the accolades she’d brought him. He was genuinely fond of her, far more than he was of most of the girls he knew in the Capitol. If she could survive — oh, sweet only if — how could they help but have a lifelong connection? But for all his positive talk, he knew the odds were not in her favor, and a heavy melancholy descended upon him.
At home, he lay on his bed, dreading having to say good-bye. He wished he could give Lucy Gray something beautiful that would really show his thanks for what she’d given him. A renewed sense of his worth. An opportunity to shine. A prize in the bag. And, of course, his life. It would have to be something very special. Precious. Something of his own, not like the roses, which were really the Grandma’am’s. Something that, if things went badly in the arena, she could wrap her fingers around as a reminder that he was with her, and find comfort in the fact that she was not dying alone. There was a silk scarf dyed a luscious deep orange that she could probably use in her hair. A gold pin he’d won for academic excellence, engraved with his name. Maybe a lock of his hair tied in a ribbon? What could be more personal than that?
Suddenly, he felt a surge of anger. What good were any of these unless she could use them to defend herself? What was he doing but dressing her up to be a pretty corpse? Perhaps she could strangle someone with the scarf, or stab them with the pin? But there was no shortage of weaponry in the arena, if that were the issue.
He was still trying to figure out a gift when Tigris called him to the table. She had bought a pound of chopped beef and fried up four patties. Hers was considerably smaller, which he would’ve objected to if he didn’t know she always nibbled on the uncooked meat while she prepared the meal. Tigris craved it and would have eaten her whole portion raw if the Grandma’am hadn’t forbidden it. One of the patties was reserved for Lucy Gray, layered with toppings and nestled in a large bun. Tigris also made fried potatoes and creamed cabbage slaw, and Coriolanus selected the finest fruits and sweets from the gift basket from the hospital. Tigris laid a linen napkin in a small cardboard box decorated with brightly plumed birds and arranged the feast, topping the snowy white fabric with one final rosebud from the Grandma’am. Coriolanus had chosen a rich shade of peach tinged with crimson, because the Covey loved color, and Lucy Gray more than most.
“Tell her,” said Tigris, “that I am rooting for her.”
“Tell her,” the Grandma’am added, “that we are all so sorry she has to die.”
After the soft, sun-warmed evening air, the
chill of Heavensbee Hall reminded Coriolanus of the Snow family mausoleum, where his parents had been laid to rest. Empty of students and their bustle, everything from footsteps to sighs echoed loudly, giving an otherworldly feeling to an already gloomy meeting. No lights had been turned on, the late rays that slipped through the windows being thought sufficient, but that contrasted sharply with the brightness of their earlier meetings. As the remaining mentors gathered on the balcony and surveyed their counterparts down below, a hush fell over them.
“The thing is,” Lysistrata whispered to Coriolanus, “I’ve become rather attached to Jessup.” She paused a moment, arranging the wrapping on a chunk of baked noodles and cheese. “He did save my life.” Coriolanus wondered what Lysistrata, who had been closer to him than anyone else in the arena, had seen when the bombs went off. Had she seen Lucy Gray save him? Was she hinting at that?
As they wove their way to their respective tables, Coriolanus forced himself to think positively. There was no profit in spending their last ten minutes together weeping when they could devote it to a winning strategy. It helped quite a bit that Lucy Gray looked better than in previous meetings in the hall. Clean and groomed, her dress still fresh in the shadowy light, you’d think she’d readied herself for a party and not a slaughter. Her eyes lit on the box.
Coriolanus presented it with a small bow. “I come bearing gifts.”
Lucy Gray lifted the rose daintily and inhaled its fragrance. She plucked a petal and slipped it between her lips. “It tastes like bedtime,” she said with a sad smile. “What a pretty box.”
“Tigris was saving it for something special,” he said. “Go ahead and eat if you’re hungry. It’s still warm.”
“I think I will. Eat one last meal like a civilized person.” She pulled open the napkin and admired the contents of the box. “Oh, this looks prime.”
The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes Page 17
