Chapter 20 - Sixteen

                                    

                                          
Cato: 
Sixteen years is a lot of time watching someone grow up. I'd been graciously gifted that much time to watch Willow grow up, and as I stand here and watch her finish up her first day of training, her life flashes before my eyes. When she was born, her first day home with mom and dad, her first steps, her first words, her first day of school, her first friends... and now her first day of training. I hadn't been watching for very long and was shocked to even be allowed to, but I guess that's a perk of the job I'd held for so long here.
I had never seen Willow train with anyone outside of me, and it was a sight for sure. I can say that I have never been prouder to be her dad and watch her represent me so powerfully. It was as if being in the training center with the other Tributes turned her from the shy, goofy girl to a fierce force. The fear in her eyes from this morning was gone, instead replaced with a calculated, innocently venomous gaze at any opponent that dared try to intimidate her. It reminds me of myself when I was here seventeen years ago, though I also remember that only lasting the first day. (I'd already softened by day two because of my girl.)
The Tributes surrounding Willow are nothing short of serious competition, a sight that almost scares the shit out of me. Most are big and strong, and the ones who aren't replace this flaw with their body language, making sure to stand up straight and paint a don't fuck with me scowl on their faces. They all move with powerful, vengeful force, thrusting their anger and patriotism for Panem developed from the torturous training they've endured into every move. 
Willow, though... Willow stands among them and you can't even tell that she doesn't belong. She keeps her shoulders back and tall, her face set into that determined look with the light scrunch in her nose she got from Rose. She spends most of the time waiting her turn surveying her competition. I know that she is doing what I've taught her: assess your prey, learn their body language, try to gain insight into their minds and weaknesses so that you can better prepare yourself against them. She seems to be paying particular attention to one of them, a boy. I'll have to ask her about this later. 
I wait patiently in my private observation room, a bouquet of flowers clenched tightly in my hands. I am here waiting for Willow to finish so that I can be the first to wish her a happy birthday. My little girl is sixteen years old today, an extension of me so carefully and beautifully grown and gifted to me on my birthday by the love of my life. Willow has grown to be incredibly funny, incredibly smart, and incredibly sweet and strong. She loves to read, history books mostly, she loves the piano, though she never practiced enough, and she loves us, her family. 
I'm interrupted by a knock on the door. I had been distractedly watching the tributes, all lined up waiting for a last chance to get in target practice with knives. They were lined up in order, the boy from District 11 taking his turn. Willow is next up.
Seneca comes in, frowning in question at the flowers in my hand.
"She's sixteen today," I say, looking back at my girl.
Seneca nods. "Send her my wishes," he responds, glancing at the screen as Willow takes her stance on the pedestal. We both focus on the screen, wanting to see what she does here. We've done this exercise many times before, but not in the past few months. She'd taken more of a liking to axe throwing than knives, claiming that the knives are smaller and therefore harder to throw when her palms get sweaty.
As if on cue, Willow wipes her hands on the legs of her training suit. She takes a breath, rubs her hands on her pants again, and grabs the knives. Her cheeks go pink.. shit, she looks nervous. She can't look nervous or these fuckers will eat her up and spit her out. 
Willow sucks in her bottom lip, turns to anchor herself diagonally, and whips the knives out of her hand faster than light. They each hit the wood panel with satisfying little thuds, perfectly lodging in the middle area of the target. Willow wipes her hands on her pants again as she steps down, brows furrowed. The Tributes around her all glance around at one another, seeming thrown and (hopefully) impressed.