Suzanne Collins: Likeness

“You're a painter. You're a baker. You like to sleep with the windows open. You never take sugar in your tea. And you always double-knot your shoelaces.”

“No, it happened. And right when your song ended, I knew - just like your mother - I was a goner,' Peeta says.”

“Delly lost her temper at Peeta over how he treated you. She got very squeaky. It was like someone stabbing a mouse with a fork repeatedly.”

“You're not afraid I'll kill you tonight?"
"Like I couldn't take you.”

“You're alive," I whisper, pressing my palms against my cheeks, feeling the smile that's so wide it must look like a grimace. Peeta's alive.”

“If I feel ragged, my prep team seems in worse condition, knocking back coffee and sharing brightly colored little pills. As far as I can tell, they never get up before noon unless there's some sort of national emergency, like my leg hair.”

“Not like this. He wanted it to be real.”

“Even though I don't ask, Plutarch gives me cheerful updates on the phone like "Good news, Katniss! I think we've almost got him convinced you're not a mutt!" Or "Today he was allowed to feed himself pudding!”

“Maybe I'll be like the man in the Hanging Tree still waiting for an answer.' Gale who I have never seen cry has tears in his eyes. To keep them from spilling over. I reach forward and press my lips against his. We taste of heat, ashes and misery.”

“Yeah, about that,” says Peeta, entwining his fingers in mine. “Don’t try something like that again.” “Or what?” I ask. “Or… or…” He can’t think of anything good. “Just give me a minute.”

“They more than do their work, they take pride in it. Like Cinna.”

“Well, I can't leave Mags behind," says Finnick. "She's one of the few people who actually likes me.”

“I thought he wanted it, anyway," I say.
"Not like this," Haymitch says. "He wanted it to be real.”

“Don't want that, do they?” She throws back her head and shouts, “Whole country in rebellion? Wouldn't want anything like that!”

“Underground. Which I hate. Like mines and tunnels and 13. Underground, where I dread dying, which is stupid because even if I die aboveground, the next thing they'll do is bury me underground anyway.”

“Orange? Like Effie's hair?" I say.
"A bit more muted," he says. "More like sunset.”

“She's really gone, then. The little girl with the back of her shirt sticking out like a duck tail”

“Let them go, I tell myself. Say good-bye and forget them. I do my best, thinking of them one by one, releasing them like birds from the protective cages inside me, locking the doors against their return.”

“Maybe I'll be like that man in "The Hanging Tree'. Still waiting for an answer.”