Jeopardy: The Fourth Quarter Quell

Taboo - Adrienne

Adrienne

"Yeah, you're the next Finnick Odair."

As soon as I say it, I know it’s wrong. I can practically hear the horrified gasps back in the Capitol. I’m not drifting in the sparkling water, listening to Crispin trying to wind me up. I’m in the arena, the eyes of Panem on me. I should have known better.

And even then, at home, you have to be careful. My mind throws up a picture of a neat little sculler bobbing in the reaping day traffic, the boats all coming home for the compulsory ceremony. Huge grey liners hug the horizon, unloading their men onto yachts with grimy sails, and motor-powered boats waft the scent of fish over the scene. Peacekeeper jets weave between them. In the sculler is a man with bad teeth and an irritating and familiar grin, ready to welcome me on board his Annie-Rae. At the time I’d said it was a dangerous name, pre-Mockingjay or not. He should have changed it.

But here my mind has slipped. I should have known better, should have stopped myself. It’s such a small thing, just a name, but as my father always said as he sat by the fire and rubbed a palm over his old helmet, small crimes lead to big ones, Ade, so be careful. What can seem insignificant to you could be seen as the tip of the iceberg. So don’t let me catch you and Crispin singing that song again.

I’ve never been able to sing, anyway.

Crispin’s eyes are focused on mine, very wide and alight with worry. I’ve never been able to decide if his eyes are blue or green; it usually depends on the light. In the gentle orange morning, brushed with quiet, they’re closer to blue and flecked with what I can only describe as gold. Not that it matters anyway. There are bigger issues at hand here.

I should say something, apologise profusely to the Capitol for my oversight, but insolence is welling up inside me. It’s just a name and if they think it means something, that’s their problem. Just like just now, this thought almost spills out of its own accord. But I rein my tongue in just in time.

Crispin has no idea what to do, that’s obvious. There’s only one real option left; take the conversation back to where it was, pretend I never said it and hope that it’ll be okay. Which it will, I remind myself, because the Capitol love us. We’ve got the joint top training score and some of the really hopelessly romantic ones probably still think there’s something more than friendship between us. They’ll be disappointed, I’m sure.

Right, so, back to where we were. I sniff the air, making sure to pull a face with it, inhaling soft damp woods and the familiar tang of sweat. “Besides,” I tell him, glad to hear my usual tone, “Your charm stinks. Literally.”

He breathes a soft sigh of relief, barely audible over the returned sound of our footsteps. Though it sounds like only one set; we’re completely in sync. I’d never noticed before.

“You’re hardly fresh out of the harbour yourself!” he jokes. At least, I think he’s joking. He’s doing his favourite mischievous grin again, the infectious kind. When he smiles like this he looks as if he’s never grown up, only grown taller. He could be seven years old again.

“Remember when you told me you wanted to be a fisherman? Sorry, woman!” he exclaims, adding the last bit in response to my glare. Why should we use the male word for the sake of saving a syllable or two? Admittedly, I’ve seen the few women who work with the fishermen – actually on the sea, not in the back rooms – and it is sometimes hard to tell the difference. It doesn’t make them any less admirable.

Crispin has heard all this before, though, and he’ll groan if I start the rant again. It would still be worth it to have the districts hear what I’ve got to say, but my instinct says the Capitol will probably cut me out. So instead I cast my mind back, trying to remember. All that his question invokes is the twinge of salt that is missing here, one of the fitness benches and the slightly cloying taste of icing, sticking to my teeth. Fragments of a memory.