He was in the monkey house at the zoo.
He could not have felt more exposed had he been standing naked in the middle of the Corso. At least then he would’ve had the option to escape. Now he was trapped and on display, for the first time appreciating the animals’ inability to hide. Children had begun to chatter excitedly and point at his school uniform, drawing the attention of the adults. Faces were filling all the available space between the bars. But the real horror was a pair of cameras positioned at either end of the visitors.
Capitol News. With their omnipresent coverage and their saucy slogan, “If you didn’t see it here, it didn’t happen.”
Oh, it was happening. To him. Now.
He could feel his image going live all over the Capitol. Fortunately, shock rooted him to the spot, because the only thing worse than him standing among the district riffraff in the zoo would be him running around like a fool trying to escape. There was no easy way out. It was built for wild animals. Attempting to hide would be even more pathetic. Imagine how delicious that footage would be for Capitol News. They would play it ad nauseam. Add silly music and captions. Snow’s meltdown! Make it part of the weather report. Too hot for Snow! They would rerun it as long as he lived. His disgrace would be complete.
What option did that leave him? Only to stand his ground, looking the cameras dead in the eye, until he was rescued.
He straightened up to his full height, subtly shifted back his shoulders, and attempted to look bored. The audience began to call out to him — first the high-pitched children’s voices, then the adults joining in, asking what he was doing, why was he in the cage, did he need help? Someone recognized him, and his name spread like wildfire through the crowd, which was becoming deeper by the minute.
“It’s the Snow boy!”
“Who’s that again?”
“You know, the ones with the roses on their roof!”
Who were all these people hanging around on a weekday at the zoo? Didn’t they have jobs? Shouldn’t the children be in school? No wonder the country was such a mess.
The district tributes began to circle, taunting him. There was the pair from District 11, and the vicious little boy who had called for his death, and several new ones, too. He remembered the hatred in the truck and wondered what would happen if they attacked him as a pack. Perhaps the audience would only cheer them on.
Coriolanus tried not to panic, but he could feel sweat running down his sides. All the faces — of the nearby tributes, of the crowd at the bars — began to blur. Their features became indistinct, leaving only dark and light patches of skin broken by the pinkish red of their open mouths. His limbs felt numb, his lungs starved for air. He was beginning to consider making a break for the chute and attempting to climb it when a voice behind him softly said, “Own it.”
Without turning he knew it was the girl, his girl, and he felt immense relief that he was not entirely alone. He thought of how cleverly she had played the audience after the mayor’s assault, how she had won them all with her song. She was right, of course. He had to make this moment look intentional or it was all over.
He took a deep breath and turned to where she sat, casually fixing the white rose behind her ear. She always seemed to be improving her appearance. Arranging her ruffles in District 12, grooming her hair at the train station, and now adorning herself with the rose. He extended his hand to her as if she was the grandest lady in the Capitol.
The edges of Lucy Gray’s mouth curled up. As she took his hand, her touch sent a tiny electrical spark up his arm, and he felt as if a bit of her onstage charisma had been transferred to him. He made a small bow as she stood with exaggerated elegance.
She’s onstage. You’re onstage. This is the show, he thought. He lifted his head and asked, “Would you care to meet a few of my neighbors?”
“I would be delighted,” she said as if they were at an afternoon tea. “My left side is better,” she murmured, lightly brushing her cheek. He wasn’t sure what to do with the information, so he started to guide her to the left. Lucy Gray gave the spectators a big smile, seemingly pleased to be there, but as he led her to the bars he could feel her fingers clenching his like a vise.
A shallow moat that ran between the rocky structures and the bars of the monkey house had once formed a watery barrier between the animals and the visitors, but it was bone-dry now. They descended three steps, crossed the moat, and climbed back up to a shelf that ran around the enclosure, putting them eye-to-eye with the patrons. Coriolanus chose a spot several yards from one of the cameras — let it come to him — where a gaggle of small children stood in a cluster. The bars were spaced about four inches apart — not enough room to slide a whole body between, but ample if you wanted to reach your hand through. The children fell silent as they approached, pressing back into their parents’ legs.
Coriolanus thought the afternoon tea image was as good as any, so he continued to treat the situation with the same lightness. “How do you do?” he said, leaning over to the children. “I brought along a friend of mine today. Would you like to meet her?”
The children shifted around, and there were a few giggles. Then one little boy shouted, “Yes!” He slapped the bars with his hands a few times, then shoved them in his pockets uncertainly. “We saw her on the television.”
Coriolanus led Lucy Gray right up to the bars. “May I present Miss Lucy Gray Baird?”
The audience had fallen silent now, nervous at her proximity to the children but eager to hear what the strange tribute was going to say. Lucy Gray went down on one knee about a foot from the bars. “Hi there. I’m Lucy Gray. What’s your name?”
“Pontius,” the boy said, glancing up to his mother for reassurance. She looked warily at Lucy Gray, but the girl ignored her.
“How do you do, Pontius?” she said.
Like any well-bred Capitol lad, the boy thrust his hand out to shake. Lucy Gray raised her hand to meet his but refrained from sticking it through the bars, which might have appeared threatening. As a result, it was the boy who reached into the cage to make contact. She squeezed his little hand warmly.
“So nice to meet you. Is this your sister?” Lucy Gray nodded to the little girl next to him. She stood saucer-eyed as she sucked on a finger.
“That’s Venus,” he said. “She’s only four.”
“Well, I think four is a very smart age to be,” said Lucy Gray. “Nice to meet you, Venus.”
“I liked your song,” whispered Venus.
“You did?” said Lucy Gray. “That’s so sweet. Well, you keep watching, Precious, and I’ll try to sing you another. Okay?”
Venus nodded and then buried her face in her mother’s skirt, bringing laughter and a few aws from the crowd.
Lucy Gray began to sidestep her way along the fence, engaging the children as she went. Coriolanus hung back a bit to give her space.
“Did you bring your snake?” a girl clutching a dripping strawberry ice pop asked hopefully.
“I sure wish I could have. That snake was a particular friend of mine,” Lucy Gray told her. “Do you have a pet?”
“I have a fish,” said the girl. She leaned into the bars. “His name is Bub.” She transferred her treat to her other hand and reached through the bars for Lucy Gray. “Can I touch your dress?” Streaks of ruby syrup ran from her fist to her elbow, but Lucy Gray just laughed and offered up a bit of her skirt. The girl ran a tentative finger over the ruffles. “It’s pretty.”