that girl is a problem [priscilla/ivy]

No way she can keep this up. I know her. Sure, it's been a couple years, but how much could she have changed—really? I grew up with her, a soft, gentle, smiley girl with bright eyes and a head so full of dreams that she couldn't keep her mind focused on just one at a single time. Jumping from one place to another, content to simply stare at the stars and listen to me talk about things she couldn't quite understand. No way she has the stomach for whatever she's playing at. She'll cave. And I'll go back to living my life without her.

Though I'll admit the change of outfit certainly could be convincing to the untrained eye. The leggings, the jacket, the crop top, the dark colors—she's got it all right. But it's just a costume. Tear it all away and I'm sure I'll find the same bubbly, soft, sweet, small girl hiding underneath. The girl who I'd let lace flowers in my hair and who'd lay her head on my shoulder and watch the sunset. She can flash skin and coat her smile with oversaturated sweetness all she wants. She's not fooling me; I know her.

I glance at Suvi who is laying at her feet. She seems like the happiest little fox in the world right now. I remember when Ivy first brought her back to the barn, hands trembling but eyes focused as she stitched the poor creature back together. I'd helped put a splint on her leg, watching closely as the weeks passed and she still kept on managing to cling to life. It's strange, remembering all that now. Leaves a bittersweet taste in my mouth, makes it difficult for my mouth to form words.

I shift on my feet as she takes off her jacket, folds it over her arm. My eyes dart away from Suvi and back to Ivy. Her voice—"Why thank you, hun."—is an even more syrupy, sugary sweet than my own. I furrow my brow, frown. Not because I can't handle it and not because I actually find her threatening, but because of how my heart twists and my stomach clenches. Ugh. I blink slowly, roll my eyes and look away from her. Come on, Priscilla. What'd you expect? Stupid. So stupid, underestimating my enemy.

"I was bored, figured it'd be nice to social climb a rung or two in my last year a' school."

I glance back at her, the flash of surprise no doubt showing pretty obviously on my face. But her smile is smug, her lips pulling her soft features too tight and her voice hiding the hissing sound of a snake waiting to bit. It's unnerving and so far from what I had expected from her. And her words certainly don't make much sense either. She's never cared for popularity contests or beauty pageants or social climbing--

"Been so long since we last talked, you got any plans for after we graduate?"

And that's when I realize that she's lying. This has nothing to do with getting to the top of a ladder or wearing a crown or becoming the most popular girl in all of District 10. This is about getting to the rung wear my fingers are clinging tight and breaking them, slowly, one by one, until I fall. She doesn't care about being at the top. She just wants me to be battered and broken at the bottom.

And I probably should've seen it coming and prepared a steely exterior, but it's like she's reached out and slapped me across the cheek—"I was thinkin' of becoming a neurosurgeon, or something of the sorts."—when she says it. I feel my cheeks burning, my eyes becoming glassy in the firelight as the force of her words radiates through my cheek, my eyes, my jaw, my neck. I'm thankful for the darkness, thankful that my features are only visible in the moments when the fire flickers just a little bit brighter.

And I want so badly just to spit in her face and lash out with a tongue sharp as a knife, but I'm choking on memories. And I want to hate her as I meet her gaze, but all I can think about is sitting in my bed at three in the morning beneath my bed sheet with a flashlight held between my shoulder and my cheek, a science textbook sprawled open in front of me, eyes bloodshot and begging for sleep, but I just want to finish this chapter.

Right hand poised and ready to turn to the next page as soon as I finished the page, left hand pressed gently to Ivy's hairline, her breath warm and steady against my thigh as she slept curled up next to me. Fingers dancing in an involuntary rhythm where her hair met her scalp, pausing in my reading only when she fidgeted through a dream, closing my book only when she wrapped her arms around my waist.

The girl in front of me isn't that same girl, even though her hairline looks just as soft and her arms look like they'd fit perfectly around my waist. Even though I can still feel her fingers weaving flowers into my hair and hear her laughing as we sprint through the rows of sunflowers. But I made a mistake in thinking that this costume would be as easy as tearing off a mask. And I made a mistake in thinking that this girl was the same one I knew a few years ago.

But even still I can't shake the memory from my mind. My smile of ill intent is forced,my steps are far less confident as I take a few steps towards her, words—"Seems a bit unrealistic."—falling less maliciously than I mean them to as I remember being a child and dreaming that dream.

But if she's going to fight, then so am I. And if she thinks that I can't and that she's already won, well--

Then she's the one who has misjudged and I'm ahead in this game.

"You drinking that?" I ask, not bothering to wait for her answer before swiping the bottle from her hand and replacing the empty space in Ivy's hand with a cup of something far stronger and much more disgusting. I bring the bottle to my lips, thankful for the warmth spreading through me, the burn in my throat, the promise of being too damn drunk to be worrying about whatever the hell Ivy plans on doing while she's here.

"Thanks, hun," I say, tossing aside the now empty bottle and gesturing to the cup in her hand.

"Go on, darling," I press my fingers to the bottom of her cup, lifting it toward her lips. "Your turn. It's like, popular girl rule number one. You gotta get trashed at these things."

It's a lie. Obviously. But the drunker she gets the more likely it is she'll make a mistake. And then this act will be over and things will go back to how they were.

And I can go back to reminiscing in the safety of my own home.

She takes a sip and pulls a pout onto her lips. Pretty sure it isn't real. None of this feels real. Part of me thinks it has to be a dream. Or a nightmare. I don't know. I haven't quite decided yet. She's here and in front of me and I hate it. I hate it so much and yet when she shifts from one heel to the other and folds her arms over her chest I find myself hoping she'll take another step closer. Or maybe that pout will turn into a smile. Or maybe she'll say something hurtful to make this easier for me.

And I swear I can hear it coming—"I've had more than enough, Scilla."—something laced with just enough poison to make me want to fight back. Or at least something that'll snap me out of remembering the way her nose crinkled when she smiled really big. Or how her eyes would light up brighter than the stars—"Get me drunk, then what?"—when she was smiling, happy. Her brows are furrowed as she speaks, something that always used to happen when she couldn't quite figure out what one of her little animals needed.

And when she says it I nod because, yes, that was exactly what the plan was. But hearing it on her lips and seeing that register in her features suddenly makes the idea seem so much worse than I'd intended. I just want her to go away. Just leave before she screws up everything I made and everything I've become. And she is. She is and I hate her so much for the way my heart is skipping beats and my stomach is tossing.

Why is she even here? What does she want? What is here at this stupid popularity contest that she could ever possibly want?

"There's absolutely nothing I'd put past Priscilla Fraiser."

And it doesn't bite. I'm not even sure it's supposed to. She knows that, I know that. I think everyone here knows that. I've done anything and everything to get to where I am. I need to get somewhere and she's so damn right—I will do anything to get to the top and to sit on the throne. Step on anyone, use anyone, do anything... or anyone. Maybe it's dirty and maybe it's cruel, but it's worked hasn't it? I'm finally getting somewhere. I'm finally not stuck.

Why can't she just understand that I'm not content living in the same place my whole life? I don't want to be a housewife for some cowboy, I don't want to live milking cows, I don't want to live in District 10, I don't want to do anything here. I don't even want to live here. Why can't she just leave me alone? Why can't she just understand I will never be happy here?

"I'm not here for you. You're not worth my time."

And it's as long as I can hold my tongue. Voice hushed—"Then why are you here?"—but harsh all the same. My crossed arms shoot down to my sides, hands balled up into fists. And I'm so close to her now that I know if I hadn't been drinking so much I might be able to smell her perfume or soap. But all I smell and taste is the alcohol on my breath. It's tasting sweeter and sweeter with every passing second.

"'N it's funny 'cause all this time I was tryin' to get your attention I never realized you didn't fuckin' deserve mine."

I've never been much of 'feelings' sort of person. Ivy was always compensated for that part of me. I'd feel the pain through her tears and the joy through her laughter. Where here heart was on her sleeve, mine was tucked away beneath my ribs like it was supposed to be. I've always prided myself for it—or at least I've always been grateful for it. Panem is a heartless world. Show it too often and it'll get torn to shreds by people looking to get ahead. People like me.

I've never been much of a 'feelings' sort of person. And Ivy always has. But I think when Ivy showed up here tonight my heart sewed it self to my sleeve, all bright and shiny and looking like new. And now I feel like she's holding it in her hand. The only thing telling me where her heart is at, is the curse word that fell from her lips. I've never heard her curse in my entire life.

She's pissed. At me. For real.

I don't know how long I just stand there looking at her in the lowlight. Maybe a second, maybe all night. I really couldn't tell you. But it feels like an eternity of just being lost in her gaze. Every bit of anger I should be feeling just washes away. My features soften, my muscles grow weak, and all I have to offer her is a few rhythmic blinks and a few more inches of space as I take a step back.

I can only manage to mouth the words. And even then I'm not sure they even really existed as a full thought. I think it was more of a trick, a spell. She got me all trapped in her eyes and now my mouth is just moving to form words I'm not sure I even mean.

"I'm sorry."

Phantom words. Phantom thought. No one heard them and no one could see my lips moving in the dark. Just a split second of complete loss of all control.

I grasp desperately at control. I find it in anger. I decide to use it. Even if only to get away from here. From her.

"You know what, Ivy," I say, taking an aggressive step towards her with my voice lowered to a growl.

And I meant to say something clever. Something that would feel like salt in open wounds or a knife twisting deeper in her stomach, but all I can come up with is—"Whatever."

I quickly replace the words and lapse of judgment with a cup. I tilt back the cup until its contents are gone, throat burning and eyes watering as I choke down whatever nasty concoction was stirred up in there. I needed something to bring me to my senses. And though I know exactly what alcohol does to the mind, I decide it's worth it.

I shove through the crowd of sneering, jeering people with my head held high, yanking a cup from more than one kids hand and tossing back the contents until I'm far enough away that the light of the fire doesn't reach me. I feel warm, the fiery liquid in my stomach leaching into my blood and setting me ablaze until I'm laughing.

I am such an idiot.

It's hilarious.

I tell myself I hate her, but all I'm hoping is that she follows me out here. Aren't I just fucking pathetic?