Mocking Jay

sigh and lean back against the trunk. That's when the mockingjays begin their rendition of "The Hanging Tree." In
their mouths, it's quite beautiful. Conscious of being filmed, I stand quietly until I hear Cressida call, "Cut!"
Plutarch crosses to me, laughing. "Where do you come up with this stuff? No one would believe it if we
made it up!" He throws an arm around me and kisses me on the top of my head with a loud smack. "You're
golden!"
"I wasn't doing it for the cameras," I say.
"Lucky they were on, then," he says. "Come on, everybody, back to town!"
As we trudge back through the woods, we reach a boulder, and both Gale and I turn our heads in the same
direction, like a pair of dogs catching a scent on the wind. Cressida notices and asks what lies that way. We
admit, without acknowledging each other, it's our old hunting rendezvous place. She wants to see it, even after
we tell her it's nothing really.
Nothing but a place where I was happy, I think.
Our rock ledge overlooking the valley. Perhaps a little less green than usual, but the blackberry bushes
hang heavy with fruit. Here began countless days of hunting and snaring, fishing and gathering, roaming together
through the woods, unloading our thoughts while we filled our game bags. This was the doorway to both
sustenance and sanity. And we were each other's key.
There's no District 12 to escape from now, no Peacekeepers to trick, no hungry mouths to feed. The
Capitol took away all of that, and I'm on the verge of losing Gale as well. The glue of mutual need that bonded us
so tightly together for all those years is melting away. Dark patches, not light, show in the spaces between us.
How can it be that today, in the face of 12's horrible demise, we are too angry to even speak to each other?
Gale as good as lied to me. That was unacceptable, even if he was concerned about my well-being. His
apology seemed genuine, though. And I threw it back in his face with an insult to make sure it stung. What is
happening to us? Why are we always at odds now? It's all a muddle, but I somehow feel that if I went back to the
root of our troubles, my actions would be at the heart of it. Do I really want to drive him away?
My fingers encircle a blackberry and pluck it from its stem. I roll it gently between my thumb and forefinger.
Suddenly, I turn to him and toss it in his direction. "And may the odds--" I say. I throw it high so he has plenty of
time to decide whether to knock it aside or accept it.
Gale's eyes train on me, not the berry, but at the last moment, he opens his mouth and catches it. He
chews, swallows, and there's a long pause before he says "--be ever in your favor." But he does say it.
Cressida has us sit in the nook in the rocks, where it's impossible not to be touching, and coaxes us into
talking about hunting. What drove us out into the woods, how we met, favorite moments. We thaw, begin to laugh
a little, as we relate mishaps with bees and wild dogs and skunks. When the conversation turns to how it felt to
translate our skill with weapons to the bombing in 8, I stop talking. Gale just says, "Long overdue."
By the time we reach the town square, afternoon's sinking into evening. I take Cressida to the rubble of the
bakery and ask her to film something. The only emotion I can muster is exhaustion. "Peeta, this is your home.
None of your family has been heard of since the bombing. Twelve is gone. And you're calling for a cease-fire?" I
look across the emptiness. "There's no one left to hear you."
As we stand before the lump of metal that was the gallows, Cressida asks if either of us has ever been
tortured. In answer, Gale pulls off his shirt and turns his back to the camera. I stare at the lash marks, and again
hear the whistling of the whip, see his bloody figure hanging unconscious by his wrists.
"I'm done," I announce. "I'll meet you at the Victor's Village. Something for...my mother."
I guess I walked here, but the next thing I'm conscious of is sitting on the floor in front of the kitchen cabinets
of our house in the Victor's Village. Meticulously lining ceramic jars and glass bottles into a box. Placing clean
cotton bandages between them to prevent breaking. Wrapping bunches of dried flowers.
Suddenly, I remember the rose on my dresser. Was it real? If so, is it still up there? I have to resist the
temptation to check. If it's there, it will only frighten me all over again. I hurry with my packing.
When the cabinets are empty, I rise to find that Gale has materialized in my kitchen. It's disturbing how
soundlessly he can appear. He's leaning on the table, his fingers spread wide against the wood grain. I set the
box between us. "Remember?" he asks. "This is where you kissed me."
So the heavy dose of morphling administered after the whipping wasn't enough to erase that from his
consciousness. "I didn't think you'd remember that," I say.
"Have to be dead to forget. Maybe even not then," he tells me. "Maybe I'll be like that man in 'The Hanging
Tree.' Still waiting for an answer." Gale, who I have never seen cry, has tears in his eyes. To keep them from