They Don't Own Me. If I'm Gonna

It’s The Final Word In Camouflage. Forget Chucking Weights Around. Peeta Should Have Gone Into His Private Session With The Gamemakers And Painted Himself Into A Tree. Or A Boulder. Or A Muddy Bank Full Of Weeds.

It's Lovely. If Only You Could Frost Someone To Death.

The Eleventh Plague Hits Disturbingly Close To Home An Excellent, Taut Debut Novel.

Your Favorite Colour . . . 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 Sunset," I Say. "at Least, That's What You Told Me Once." "oh." He Closes His Eyes Briefly, Maybe Trying To Conjure Up That Sunset, Then Nods His Head. "thank You." But More Words Tumble Out. "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.

Peeta, You Were Supposed To Wake Me After A Couple Of Hours," I Say. "for What? Nothing's Going On Here," He Says. "besides, I Like Watching You Sleep. You Don't Scowl. Improves Your Looks A Lot." This, Of Course, Brings On A Scowl That Makes Him Grin.