Mocking Jay

17
Blindsided. That's how I feel when Haymitch tells me in the hospital. I fly down the steps to Command, mind
racing a mile a minute, and burst right into a war meeting.
"What do you mean, I'm not going to the Capitol? I have to go! I'm the Mockingjay!" I say.
Coin barely looks up from her screen. "And as the Mockingjay, your primary goal of unifying the districts
against the Capitol has been achieved. Don't worry--if it goes well, we'll fly you in for the surrender."
The surrender?
"That'll be too late! I'll miss all the fighting. You need me--I'm the best shot you've got!" I shout. I don't usually
brag about this, but it's got to be at least close to true. "Gale's going."
"Gale has shown up for training every day unless occupied with other approved duties. We feel confident
he can manage himself in the field," says Coin. "How many training sessions do you estimate you've attended?"
None. That's how many. "Well, sometimes I was hunting. And...I trained with Beetee down in Special
Weaponry."
"It's not the same, Katniss," says Boggs. "We all know you're smart and brave and a good shot. But we
need soldiers in the field. You don't know the first thing about executing orders, and you're not exactly at your
physical peak."
"That didn't bother you when I was in Eight. Or Two, for that matter," I counter.
"You weren't originally authorized for combat in either case," says Plutarch, shooting me a look that signals
I'm about to reveal too much.
No, the bomber battle in 8 and my intervention in 2 were spontaneous, rash, and definitely unauthorized.
"And both resulted in your injury," Boggs reminds me. Suddenly, I see myself through his eyes. A smallish
seventeen-year-old girl who can't quite catch her breath since her ribs haven't fully healed. Disheveled.
Undisciplined. Recuperating. Not a soldier, but someone who needs to be looked after.
"But I have to go," I say.
"Why?" asks Coin.
I can't very well say it's so I can carry out my own personal vendetta against Snow. Or that the idea of
remaining here in 13 with the latest version of Peeta while Gale goes off to fight is unbearable. But I have no
shortage of reasons to want to fight in the Capitol. "Because of Twelve. Because they destroyed my district."
The president thinks about this a moment. Considers me. "Well, you have three weeks. It's not long, but you
can begin training. If the Assignment Board deems you fit, possibly your case will be reviewed."
That's it. That's the most I can hope for. I guess it's my own fault. I did blow off my schedule every single day
unless something suited me. It didn't seem like much of a priority, jogging around a field with a gun with so many
other things going on. And now I'm paying for my negligence.
Back in the hospital, I find Johanna in the same circumstance and spitting mad. I tell her about what Coin
said. "Maybe you can train, too."
"Fine. I'll train. But I'm going to the stinking Capitol if I have to kill a crew and fly there myself," says
Johanna.
"Probably best not to bring that up in training," I say. "But it's nice to know I'll have a ride."
Johanna grins, and I feel a slight but significant shift in our relationship. I don't know that we're actually
friends, but possibly the word allies would be accurate. That's good. I'm going to need an ally.
The next morning, when we report for training at 7:30, reality slaps me in the face. We've been funneled into
a class of relative beginners, fourteen- or fifteen-year-olds, which seems a little insulting until it's obvious that
they're in far better condition than we are. Gale and the other people already chosen to go to the Capitol are in a
different, accelerated phase of training. After we stretch--which hurts--there's a couple of hours of strengthening
exercises--which hurt--and a five-mile run--which kills. Even with Johanna's motivational insults driving me on, I
have to drop out after a mile.
"It's my ribs," I explain to the trainer, a no-nonsense middle-aged woman we're supposed to address as
Soldier York. "They're still bruised."