When The Canary Sings

Melodies in the Wind

First Person: Becca Blue:

I am then taken to the President's Mansion for a lavish party. Once I am there, I immediately try and make a beeline for the food table, but the amount of people losing their minds to stand next to me stopped me.

Throughout the night, at least fifty people came up to me to either touch my crown, or help me fix it. It was slightly too big, as it kept falling over my eyes, blocking my view of the people around me. Something I think was maybe done on purpose.

"Say it again!" One woman laughed, drinking a bright pink drink, "again!" She clapped her hands. Luckily, I was standing at the bar, meaning Haymitch was watching. He wasn't next to me, but he was close. I could feel his eyes darting around.

"Say what?" I asked, and the woman, along with the many people around us laughed.

"Oh! That accent! I just love it!" She praised, "and when you sing! The accent, oh, how lovely it is!" She says, "it's like you're a–" She pauses, her drunk brain fizzed out to even think. Once again, I am reminded of the district 12 accent, but everyone else has one too. I wondered if when Finnick won they praised his accent.

"Like she's a kid from 12," Haymitch says, walking up next to me, and I resist the temptation to just disappear behind his frame. Instead, I stood up straighter and continued to look at the people.

Haymitch's hand grabbed the crown and moved it to the crown of my head, because once again, it was falling over my eyes.

"Well, your accent sounds much different!" The woman said again.

"Maybe all that alcohol is washing it away!" Another man laughed, and Haymitch scoffed and rolled his eyes, and laughed a very dry laugh.

"You know," The same man said, "you're unlike any twelve tribute. You don't look like any of them." He said, reaching his hand out. I was afraid he was going to grab my breasts or hook his arm around my waist, but he just pet my hair. I felt Haymitch tense behind me, and I fought the urge to swat his hand away.

"This red hair," he said, "no one in 12 has this, I bet." I chuckled uncomfortably as more people reached out to my hair. "And the pale skin and freckles. You look like you belong somewhere else. Maybe four?"

"Well, District Twelve is my home, wouldn't have it any other way." I said, and they laughed at my accent once again. "Not many have the red hair in Twelve, When I was little, I thought it was just me and my mama."

"Is your mother back in Twelve? I'm sure she's excited to see you!" Another woman added, she had pale blue skin and a long, skin tight white dress on. Stars were painted on her cheeks, and she had midnight blue hair.

"My mama?" I said, and then laughed. "Why, yeah, she's back in Twelve, but only what's left of 'er.' I said, "her 'n' her pearly white bones," I smile, looking around.

"Are you planning on singing, my dear?" A man with a golden mustache says, strumming my guitar carelessly. I turned so the guitar was facing Haymitch.

"Ain't no stage, can't sing without a stage." I say, but the man points to a stage, the one President Snow usually stands on when he makes his speeches.

"I don't think I can go up there, but don't you worry, I'll be singing plenty tomorrow on air." They all laugh like hyenas, and we go back to our meaningless conversations. Haymitch stands directly behind me, barely drinking, and also watching the people like a hawk, but not without offering some rude but hilarious remarks.

I space out again, and I come back to someone handing me a drink and waiting to ask me a question. Most of the men have wandered away, and I am mostly surrounded by the women. It makes me feel a little bit safer, although they do reach out and touch my hair, or strum the guitar. I realized Haymitch was a little further away, but still close. Still keeping a watchful eye.