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the hunger games-饥饿游戏(英文版)-第4部分
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tulate me。 ¨Look at her。 Look at this one！〃 he hollers； throwing an arm around my shoulders。 Heˇs surprisingly strong for such a wreck。 ¨I like her！〃 His breath reeks of liquor and itˇs been a long time since heˇs bathed。 ¨Lots of 。 。 。 ¨ He canˇt think of the word for a while。 ¨Spunk！〃 he says triumphantly。 ¨More than you！〃 he releases me and starts for the front of the stage。 ¨More than you！〃 he shouts； pointing directly into a camera。
Is he addressing the audience or is he so drunk he might actually be taunting the Capitol？ Iˇll never know because just as heˇs opening his mouth to continue； Haymitch plummets off the stage and knocks himself unconscious。
Heˇs disgusting； but Iˇm grateful。 With every camera gleefully trained on him； I have just enough time to release the small； choked sound in my throat and pose myself。 I put my hands behind my back and stare into the distance。
I can see the hills I climbed this morning with Gale。 For a moment； I yearn for something 。 。 。 the idea of us leaving the district 。 。 。 making our way in the woods 。 。 。 but I know I was right about not running off。 Because who else would have volunteered for Prim？
Haymitch is whisked away on a stretcher； and Effie Trinket is trying to get the ball rolling again。 ¨What an exciting day！〃 she warbles as she attempts to straighten her wig； which has listed severely to the right。 ¨But more excitement to e！ Itˇs time to choose our boy tribute！〃 Clearly hoping to contain her tenuous hair situation； she plants one hand on her head as she crosses to the ball that contains the boysˇ names and grabs the first slip she encounters。 She zips back to the podium； and I donˇt even have time to wish for Galeˇs safety when sheˇs reading the name。 ¨Peeta Mellark。〃
Peeta Mellark！
Oh； no； I think。 Not him。 Because I recognize this name； although I have never spoken directly to its owner。 Peeta Mellark。
No； the odds are not in my favor today。 I watch him as he makes his way toward the stage。 Medium height； stocky build； ashy blond hair that falls in waves over his forehead。 The shock of the moment is registering on his face； you can see his struggle to remain emotionless； but his blue eyes show the alarm Iˇve seen so often in prey。 Yet he climbs steadily onto the stage and takes his place。
Effie Trinket asks for volunteers； but no one steps forward。 He has two older brothers； I know； Iˇve seen them in the bakery； but one is probably too old now to volunteer and the other wonˇt。 This is standard。 Family devotion only goes so far for most people on reaping day。 What I did was the radical thing。
The mayor begins to read the long； dull Treaty of Treason as he does every year at this point itˇs required but Iˇm not listening to a word。
Why him？ I think。 Then I try to convince myself it doesnˇt matter。 Peeta Mellark and I are not friends。 Not even neighbors。 We donˇt speak。 Our only real interaction happened years ago。 Heˇs probably forgotten it。 But I havenˇt and I know I never will。 。 。 。
It was during the worst time。 My father had been killed in the mine accident three months earlier in the bitterest January anyone could remember。 The numbness of his loss had passed； and the pain would hit me out of nowhere； doubling me over； racking my body with sobs。 Where are you？ I would cry out in my mind。 Where have you gone？ Of course； there was never any answer。
The district had given us a small amount of money as pensation for his death； enough to cover one month of grieving at which time my mother would be expected to get a job。 Only she didnˇt。 She didnˇt do anything but sit propped up in a chair or； more often； huddled under the blankets on her bed； eyes fixed on some point in the distance。 Once in a while； sheˇd stir； get up as if moved by some urgent purpose； only to then collapse back into stillness。 No amount of pleading from Prim seemed to affect her。
I was terrified。 I suppose now that my mother was locked in some dark world of sadness； but at the time； all I knew was that I had lost not only a father； but a mother as well。 At eleven years old； with Prim just seven； I took over as head of the family。 There was no choice。 I bought our food at the market and cooked it as best I could and tried to keep Prim and myself looking presentable。 Because if it had bee known that my mother could no longer care for us； the district would have taken us away from her and placed us in the munity home。 Iˇd grown up seeing those home kids at school。 The sadness； the marks of angry hands on their faces； the hopelessness
that curled their shoulders forward。 I could never let that happen to Prim。 Sweet； tiny Prim who cried when I cried before she even knew the reason； who brushed and plaited my motherˇs hair before we left for school； who still polished my fatherˇs shaving mirror each night because heˇd hated the layer of coal dust that settled on everything in the Seam。 The munity home would crush her like a bug。 So I kept our predicament a secret。
But the money ran out and we were slowly starving to death。 Thereˇs no other way to put it。 I kept telling myself if I could only hold out until May； just May 8th； I would turn twelve and be able to sign up for the tesserae and get that precious grain and oil to feed us。 Only there were still several weeks to go。 We could well be dead by then。
Starvationˇs not an unmon fate in District 12。 Who hasnˇt seen the victims？ Older people who canˇt work。 Children from a family with too many to feed。 Those injured in the mines。 Straggling through the streets。 And one day； you e upon them sitting motionless against a wall or lying in the Meadow； you hear the wails from a house； and the Peacekeepers are called in to retrieve the body。 Starvation is never the cause of death officially。 Itˇs always the flu； or exposure； or pneumonia。 But that fools no one。
On the afternoon of my encounter with Peeta Mellark； the rain was falling in relentless icy sheets。 I had been in town； trying to trade some threadbare old baby clothes of Primˇs in the public market； but there were no takers。 Although I had been to the Hob on several occasions with my father； I was too frightened to venture into that rough； gritty place alone。 The rain had soaked through my fatherˇs hunting jacket； leaving me chilled to the bone。 For three days； weˇd had nothing but boiled water with some old dried mint leaves Iˇd found in the back of a cupboard。 By the time the market closed； I was shaking so hard I dropped my bundle of baby clothes in a mud puddle。 I didnˇt pick it up for fear I would keel over and be unable to regain my feet。 Besides； no one wanted those clothes。
I couldnˇt go home。 Because at home was my mother with her dead eyes and my little sister； with her hollow cheeks and cracked lips。 I couldnˇt walk into that room with the smoky fire from the damp branches I had scavenged at the edge of the woods after the coal had run out； my bands empty of any hope。
I found myself stumbling along a muddy lane behind the shops that serve the wealthiest townspeople。 The merchants live above their businesses； so I was essentially in their backyards。 I remember the outlines of garden beds not yet planted for the spring； a goat or two in a pen； one sodden dog tied to a post； hunched defeated in the muck。
All forms of stealing are forbidden in District 12。 Punishable by death。 But it crossed my mind that there might be something in the trash bins； and those were fair game。 Perhaps a bone at the butcherˇs or rotted vegetables at the grocerˇs； something no one but my family was desperate enough to eat。 Unfortunately； the bins had just been emptied。
When I passed the bakerˇs； the smell of fresh bread was so overwhelming I felt dizzy。 The ovens were in the back； and a golden glow spilled out the open kitchen door。 I stood mesmerized by the heat and the luscious scent until the rain interfered； running its icy fingers down my back； forcing me back to life。 I lifted the lid to the bakerˇs trash bin and found it spotlessly； heartlessly bare。
Suddenly a voice was screaming at me and I looked up to see the bakerˇs wife； telling me to move on and did I want her to call the Peacekeepers and how sick she was of having those brats from the Seam pawing through her trash。 The words were ugly and I had no defense。 As I carefully replaced the lid and backed away； I noticed him； a boy with blond hair peering out from behind his motherˇs back。 Iˇd seen him at school。 He was in my year； but I didnˇt know his name。 He stuck with the town kids； so how would I？ His mother went back into the bakery； grumbling； but he must have been watching me as I made my way behind the pen that held their pig and leaned against the far side of an old apple tree。 The realization that Iˇd have nothing to take home had finally sunk in。 My knees buckled and I slid down the tree trunk to its roots。 It was too much。 I was too sick and weak and tired； oh； so tired。 Let them call the Peacekeepers and take us to the munity home； I thought。 Or better yet； let me die right here in the rain。
There was a clatter in the bakery and I heard the woman screaming again and the sound of a blow； and I vaguely wondered what was going on。 Feet sloshed toward me through the mud and I thought； Itˇs her。 Sheˇs ing to drive me away with a stick。 But it wasnˇt her。 It was the boy。 In his arms； he carried two large loaves of bread that must have fallen into the fire because the crusts were scorched black。
His mother was yelling； ¨Feed it to the pig； you stupid creature！ Why not？ No one decent will buy burned bread！〃
He began to tear off chunks from the burned parts and toss them into the trough； and the front bakery bell rung and the mother disappeared to help a customer。
The boy never even glanced my way； but I was watching him。 Because of the bread； because of the red weal that stood out on his cheekbone。 What had she hit him with？
My parents never hit us。 I couldnˇt even imagine it。 The boy took one look back to the bakery as if checking that the coast was clear； then； his attention back on the pig； he threw a loaf of bread in my direction。 The second quickly followed； and he sloshed back to the bakery； closing the kitchen door tightly behind him。
I stared at the loaves in disbelief。 They were fine； perfect really； except for the burned areas。 Did he mean for me to have them？ He must have。 Because there they were at my feet。 Before anyone could witness what had happened I shoved the loaves up under my shirt； wrapped the hunting jacket tightly about me； and walked swiftly away。 The heat of the bread burned into my skin； but I clutched it tighter； clinging to life。
By the time I reached home； the loaves had cooled somewhat； but the insides were still warm。 When I dropped them on the table； Primˇs hands reached to tear off a chunk； but I made her sit； forced my mother to join us at the table； and poured warm tea。 I scraped off the black stuff and sliced the bread。 We ate an entire loaf； slice by slice。 It was good hearty bread； filled with raisins and nuts。
I put my clothes to dry at the fire； crawled into bed； and fell into a dreamless sleep。 It didnˇt occur to me until the next morning that the boy might have burned the bread on purpose。 Might have dropped the loaves into the
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