Mocking Jay

Peeta's propo would make you sick," he says.
"They were right. It did. But not quite as sick as you lying to me for Coin." At that moment, his communicuff
starts beeping. "There she is. Better run. You have things to tell her."
For a moment, real hurt registers on his face. Then cold anger replaces it. He turns on his heel and goes.
Maybe I have been too spiteful, not given him enough time to explain. Maybe everyone is just trying to protect me
by lying to me. I don't care. I'm sick of people lying to me for my own good. Because really it's mostly for their own
good. Lie to Katniss about the rebellion so she doesn't do anything crazy. Send her into the arena without a clue
so we can fish her out. Don't tell her about Peeta's propo because it might make her sick, and it's hard enough to
get a decent performance out of her as it is.
I do feel sick. Heartsick. And too tired for a day of production. But I'm already at Remake, so I go in. Today, I
discover, we will be returning to District 12. Cressida wants to do unscripted interviews with Gale and me
throwing light on our demolished city.
"If you're both up for that," says Cressida, looking closely at my face.
"Count me in," I say. I stand, uncommunicative and stiff, a mannequin, as my prep team dresses me, does
my hair, and dabs makeup on my face. Not enough to show, only enough to take the edge off the circles under
my sleepless eyes.
Boggs escorts me down to the Hangar, but we don't talk beyond a preliminary greeting. I'm grateful to be
spared another exchange about my disobedience in 8, especially since his mask looks so uncomfortable.
At the last moment, I remember to send a message to my mother about my leaving 13, and stress that it
won't be dangerous. We board a hovercraft for the short ride to 12 and I'm directed to a seat at a table where
Plutarch, Gale, and Cressida are poring over a map. Plutarch's brimming with satisfaction as he shows me the
before/after effects of the first couple of propos. The rebels, who were barely maintaining a foothold in several
districts, have rallied. They have actually taken 3 and 11--the latter so crucial since it's Panem's main food
supplier--and have made inroads in several other districts as well.
"Hopeful. Very hopeful indeed," says Plutarch. "Fulvia's going to have the first round of We Remember
spots ready tonight, so we can target the individual districts with their dead. Finnick's absolutely marvelous."
"It's painful to watch, actually," says Cressida. "He knew so many of them personally."
"That's what makes it so effective," says Plutarch. "Straight from the heart. You're all doing beautifully. Coin
could not be more pleased."
Gale didn't tell them, then. About my pretending not to see Peeta and my anger at their cover-up. But I
guess it's too little, too late, because I still can't let it go. It doesn't matter. He's not speaking to me, either.
It's not until we land in the Meadow that I realize Haymitch isn't among our company. When I ask Plutarch
about his absence, he just shakes his head and says, "He couldn't face it."
"Haymitch? Not able to face something? Wanted a day off, more likely," I say.
"I think his actual words were 'I couldn't face it without a bottle,'" says Plutarch.
I roll my eyes, long out of patience with my mentor, his weakness for drink, and what he can or can't
confront. But about five minutes after my return to 12, I'm wishing I had a bottle myself. I thought I'd come to terms
with 12's demise--heard of it, seen it from the air, and wandered through its ashes. So why does everything bring
on a fresh pang of grief? Was I simply too out of it before to fully register the loss of my world? Or is it the look on
Gale's face as he takes in the destruction on foot that makes the atrocity feel brand-new?
Cressida directs the team to start with me at my old house. I ask her what she wants me to do. "Whatever
you feel like," she says. Standing back in my kitchen, I don't feel like doing anything. In fact, I find myself focusing
up at the sky--the only roof left--because too many memories are drowning me. After a while, Cressida says,
"That's fine, Katniss. Let's move on."
Gale doesn't get off so easily at his old address. Cressida films him in silence for a few minutes, but just as
he pulls the one remnant of his previous life from the ashes--a twisted metal poker--she starts to question him
about his family, his job, life in the Seam. She makes him go back to the night of the firebombing and reenact it,
starting at his house, working his way down across the Meadow and through the woods to the lake. I straggle
behind the film crew and the bodyguards, feeling their presence to be a violation of my beloved woods. This is a
private place, a sanctuary, already corrupted by the Capitol's evil. Even after we've left behind the charred
stumps near the fence, we're still tripping over decomposing bodies. Do we have to record it for everyone to
see?
By the time we reach the lake, Gale seems to have lost his ability to speak. Everyone's dripping in sweat--
especially Castor and Pollux in their insect shells--and Cressida calls for a break. I scoop up handfuls of water