“What Peeta can do so much better than the rest of us. He can use words. He obliterated the rest of the field at both interviews. And maybe it’s because of that underlying goodness that he can move a crowd – no, a country – to his side with the turn of a simple sentence. ”
doin a group project like
“No one really needs me,” he says, and there’s no self pity in his voice. It’s true his family doesn’t need him. They will mourn him, as will a handful of friends. But they will get on. Even Haymitch, with the help of a lot of white liquor, will get on. I realize only one person will be damaged beyond repair if Peeta dies. Me.”
"Isn’t it strange that I know you’d risk your life to save mine… but I don’t know what your favorite color is?" he says. A smile creeps onto my lips. "Green. What’s yours?" "Orange," he says. "Orange? Like Effie’s hair?" I say. "A bit more muted," he says.
More like … s u n s e t .
"Your favorite color…it’s green?" "That’s right." Then I think of something to add. "And yours is orange." "Orange?" He seems unconvinced. Not bright orange.
But soft. Like the s u n s e t.
”At least, that’s what you told me once.”
Stupid people are dangerous.