Careers Don't Love

Chapter Ten

Katniss POV

Cinna is a genius.

The other tributes are dressed in varying levels of finery, but I have to admit, he was right when he said my dress would make me utterly unforgettable. In a room of blues and greens and blacks, I am a glowing ember. A leaping, dancing flame all on my own.

I haven't worn a dress since I was five, maybe six years old. My fingers keep smoothing down the silk nervously, sliding over the smooth fabric that molds to all the dips and curves of my body - nonexistent as they may be.

It's a good thing Cinna is this good at designing dresses. Maybe I can rely on his fashion skills to get me through this interview, since apparently I'm such a dull and uninteresting human being no one could be bothered to pay any attention to me - or so is Haymitch's view.

This interview is my only chance to get people to like me, to know me. The only friend I've had is Gale - and that was a friendship sprung out of mutual desperation and a need to survive. I've never been able to make a friend on my own. I don't have Peeta's self-deprecating charm, or Delly's natural friendliness.

And now I have to pretend to a roomful of people who I hate most in the world that I'm excited to take part in their sadistic entertainment. That they should support me, love me, root for me.

I wonder if I've ever felt this nervous in my life.

Peeta is over in the corner of the room, looking intently at a painting on a wall. I make my way over to him and look up at the large canvas.

It's a drawing of a serene night on a boat. The sea is calm and still, the dark sky overhead flecked with stars and crystal clear. Two small figures lay in the centre of the boat, perhaps sleeping or star-gazing - I'm not entirely sure which. Regardless, they look relaxed and completely at peace, exactly the opposite of how I feel right now.

I have to admit the painting is beautiful, but Peeta is gazing at it like a starving man might look at a piece of bread in a bakery window, knowing he'll never be able to have it.

"What is it?"

He tears his gaze away from the painting to meet my eyes. I've never seen him like this before - clad in a blue tux that brings out the color of his eyes, his hair gelled and styled. It's almost impossible to remember him as the boy who tossed me the bread that day in the rain.

But neither do I look like the starving and destitute girl who had been so close to giving up.

"What's what?" Peeta replies.

"What is it about this painting?" I wave my hand at the canvas in front of us. "You look at it like...like there's something there the rest of us can't see."

Peeta smiles wryly, and looks back at the painting. "I was just admiring the artist's style. I would tell you, but somehow I don't think you're very interested."

He's right - I've never been interested in art, and probably never will be. I look at it too, and the words slip out of my mouth before I can stop them. "I was thinking about the people in the painting."

Peeta's clear blue eyes look back at me, questioning, and I can't help but compare them to Cato's. Peeta's eyes are open, unshadowed and honest. There's nothing hidden there, no secrets lurking below the surface. I remember Cato's icy gaze, the mysteries concealed in those dark eyes, so walled up and protected that I doubt anyone could ever find out.