“Not just a Booker Boy, but an eavesdropper,” says Louella. “I’m not a Booker Boy,” Wyatt replies. “I’m an oddsmaker. I
determine the odds on an event people are betting on. That’s all. My family are the Booker Boys — they take the bets.”
“That sounds just as bad. And you’re still an eavesdropper, either way,” says Louella.
“Where did you expect us to go, Louella?” says Maysilee, indicating that she overheard our conversation as well. “Maybe Wyatt and I don’t want to be your allies either. Thought of that?”
“Then we don’t have a problem,” Louella says.
Plutarch beckons us from the door. “All right, kids, we’re out of here.”
Although the train has not exactly been homey, climbing down into
the glaring station makes me feel small and vulnerable. The four of us move closer together, even though we’re far from friendly. The Peacekeepers cuff us again and I wait for a chain to link us together, but when it’s produced,
the officer in charge waves it away, saying, “Don’t bother.” “Long shots,” Wyatt murmurs.
It reinforces what I already know, that we are not victor material. On the other hand, this could be an opportunity to run. But where can an escaped tribute find protection in the Capitol? I think of the smoky mist in my mountains, Lenore Dove’s friend of the condemned, and see no equivalent here.
So I just stand there like the puny long shot I am, taking in the banners that deck the station. NO PEACE, NO PROSPERITY! NO
HUNGER GAMES, NO PEACE! It’s the same campaign they used on our square back in District 12, but with slogans geared to the Capitol residents. Seems the Capitol has to convince its own citizens, too.
Drusilla clatters down the steps in platform boots and a skintight jumpsuit emblazoned with the flag of Panem. Her hat, a two-foot pillar of red fur, jauntily tilts over one eye. A smear of yellow frosting trails out of the side of her mouth. Someone had no problem celebrating my birthday.
inch.
“Enjoy the cake?” asks Maysilee. The girl has not backed down an
Drusilla looks confused until Plutarch taps his face. “A little
something right here.” For lack of a mirror, Drusilla checks her reflection in the train window and cleans off the frosting with her tongue. Her cheek,
where Maysilee struck her, looks slightly bruised under her thick layer of makeup.
“You’re beautiful,” says Plutarch. I guess she’s just another plaything he has to handle, only what controls her are compliments.
“All right, you lot, let’s go,” Drusilla says before striding down the platform.
Outside, we get about thirty seconds of fresh air before we’re loaded into a windowless Peacekeepers van. I’ve only ever been in an automobile a handful of times, in the car to the train station yesterday and on a truck for a couple of school trips to the mines. Never when I couldn’t see out. Never when I was being taken to die. No light, no air. Like they buried me already.
Louella presses against my shoulder and it steadies me. I sense that she’s how I’m going to get through the nightmare of the next few days.
Looking after her will give me a reason to keep going; her looking after me will stave off the terror of facing death alone. I can only hope we leave the world together.
“Doing all right, sweetheart?” I ask. “I’ve been better,” she responds.
“We’ll just stick together, okay?” “Okay.”
When the van doors swing open, I’m temporarily thrown by the light again. The dryness of the air makes me crave the cold mountain creek water Hattie has me draw buckets of. What will she do now that I’m gone? Get another mule, I guess. A luckier one.
Drusilla and Plutarch are nowhere to be seen. Peacekeepers order us out of the van. My old boots look peculiar on the white marble paving
stones of the walkway. It branches out to a wide expanse of imposing
buildings filled with people who point and stare at us from a distance. Not grown-ups. People our age, dressed in matching uniforms. School kids.
I feel like a wild animal on display, cuffed and mute, dragged in from the hills for their fun. All of us shrink a bit. Maysilee keeps her head up, but her cheeks burn with embarrassment.
“Still don’t think it’s a good idea to bring them to the Academy,” one of the Peacekeepers mutters.
“This gymnasium’s been empty for close to forty years,” says another. “Might as well get some use out of it.”
“Ought to tear it down,” says the first. “It’s an eyesore.”
The van pulls away, revealing the gymnasium, a looming, dilapidated structure with a banner over the entrance that reads TRIBUTE CENTER in metallic gold letters. The Peacekeepers hold the cracked glass doors open and the smell of floor cleaner and mildew hits us.
We’re the last tributes to arrive. Our competitors sit around the room in bunches of four at stations marked with their district numbers. The
Peacekeepers herd us to the 12 sign at the far end of the gym, amidst catcalls and taunts. They’re a mouthy bunch, this year’s Careers.
Each station consists of four padded tables separated by flimsy curtains. Pairs of white-coated assistants flank the tables, wearing utility belts filled with grooming equipment: scissors and razors and such.
The Peacekeepers direct the boy tributes to one locker room, the girls to another. I don’t like leaving Louella, but there’s no choice. Maybe in a pinch, Maysilee will protect her. She looks like trouble, with her welts and her scowl. Like someone who’d hit back, which it turns out she is.
At the locker room door, they line up the boys by district number, so Wyatt and I don’t have to watch our backs, just the muscular ones of the District 11 tributes ahead of us. They’re a sullen pair, though, uninterested in their surroundings.
Inside we’re told to strip, which is easy from the waist down but
undoable above the belt with our cuffed hands. Peacekeepers come around
and cut away our shirts with knives. If anyone objects, they laugh and say it’s all the same to the incinerator. It hurts watching them slice through Ma’s careful stitches. I remember her painstakingly laying out those
handkerchiefs to make every inch of material count. Now it sits in shreds at my feet.
A Peacekeeper taps his knifepoint against my flint striker. “This your token?”
My token? Then I remember that tributes are allowed to take one item from home into the arena with them, as long as it’s not a weapon. My flint striker could be viewed as an unfair advantage, but I’m not giving them any help with that.
“Yes, it’s a necklace,” I say.
The Peacekeeper rubs the metal between his fingers and admits grudgingly, “It’s nice. They’ll take it later for evaluation.” I nod. Even if they examine it, they might not recognize its potential. Here, where there are ample matches and lighters and no one needs a spark to make a fire.
We’re marched into a large, open room with blue tiles on the floor and showerheads spaced around the walls. I’m no prude — I’ve skinny-dipped plenty out at the lake with Burdock — but I’m not used to standing around naked eyeballing twenty-three other guys. At first, I just stare at a drain on
the floor, then I realize there’s no better place to size up the competition, so
I do. The half dozen Careers look like they spend their spare time posing for statues. Another dozen of us might stand a chance if we’re handy with an ax. And the remaining half dozen are pitiful, all hollow rib cages and matchstick bones.
Panache, who I recognize from the train, struts around thrusting his privates at people and grunting, much to the amusement of the other Careers. He makes the mistake of trying this on one of the District 11
tributes and winds up with a swift kick in the gut. Panache’s about to retaliate when the showerheads come to life, soaking us with scalding water.
We all dodge around, trying to evade the streams. Things go from bad to worse when the water’s replaced by a noxious soapy spray that triggers my gag reflex and burns my eyes like pepper dust. The water returns, but
this time we’re fighting for it as we try to get the soap off. When the
showers turn to drips, I still feel covered in a stinging slime from head to toe.
A towel might help, but instead a blast of hot air follows, which adds to the misery and bakes the slime into my skin, making it itch like crazy.
Whatever fight any of us had in us has been squelched. We’re just a scratching, sniveling bunch of kids with runny eyes and spiked hair. Back in the locker room, we’re each given a sheet of crepe paper to wrap around
ourselves for modesty’s sake and directed back to our district areas in the gym.
I hope Louella has been spared this, but when I see her braids sticking out like a broken weather vane, I know she’s been through the wringer, too. It must have been agony for Maysilee, with all those welts. We’re each directed to a table, ordered to sit, and this time, like the Careers’, our cuffs are fastened to chains.
That’s all I see of the other tributes for a while, as the Peacekeepers shut off my cubicle with the white curtains. A girl with puffballs of magenta hair and a guy with metal apples studding his cheeks approach nervously.
Neither of them looks much older than me.
“Hi, Haymitch,” says the girl breathlessly. “I’m Proserpina, and this is Vitus. We’re your prep team, and we’re here to make you gorgeous!”
“Yes! Yes!” says Vitus. “Gorgeous, but fierce!” He bares his teeth and growls. “To scare the others off!”
“And get you lots of sponsors!” Proserpina’s voice drops to a whisper. “We can’t send you things, of course, since we’re part of your team. But my great-aunt already said she’ll sponsor you. And not just to help my grade.”
Her grade? “You’re students? At this school?”
“Oh, no, we’re University students, not Academy. I mean, we’re not seniors or anything,” says Vitus. “They all wanted better districts.”
“But we really like you. You’re cute!” Proserpina assures me. “And anyway, we have two more years to move up.”
So, my team consists of Drusilla, who hates me, a mentor rooting for another tribute, a couple of underclassmen, and . . . “Who’s my stylist?”
Their faces fall and they exchange a look. “District Twelve got Magno Stift again,” admits Vitus. “But he is NOT as bad as they say.”
I groan. Magno Stift’s the guy who’s been assigned to the District 12 tributes for as long as I can remember. And yes, he’s every bit as bad as they say. While the other stylists do new costumes each year for the parade and interviews that happen before the Games, he seems to have a limitless supply of the same crappy coal miner overalls in an array of sizes.
“He’s promised a shining new look for the Quarter Quell!” Proserpina reassures me.
“Which is good, because nobody’s going to sponsor you in that old stuff,” says Vitus.
“And we shouldn’t have any accidents today, because they’ve banned live-reptile fashion backstage,” adds Proserpina. “Not just Magno’s — everybody’s. Although he’s the only one who really wears it.”
“Last year his belt buckle fell off and bit Drusilla,” Vitus whispers. “It was this really angry turtle. And she got so mad she bit him back. Magno,
not the turtle. And we saw the whole thing but we’re not supposed to talk about it, even though everybody —”
“Well, we won’t have a repeat of that!” interjects Proserpina, shooting him a look. “Shall we start with your body hair? All the bugs gone?”
So that’s what the chemicals were. Insecticides. If I was going to be around long enough to worry about long-term effects, I might get angry.
“Wait!” yelps Vitus. “We need to do the before shots!”
Proserpina produces a tiny camera and they photograph me from head to toe. “That was a close one. We’d probably get an incomplete without the before shots.”
The prep team shaves off all my visible body hair with electric razors. I don’t have much facial hair, but they decide to take that off as well. I feel like a skinned squirrel, raw and exposed. Then they trim my nails, honoring my request to leave me enough to fight with because, as Proserpina says,
“You might need your claws.” I wonder if she thinks of my nose as a snout, my hair as fur, my feet as paws.
Vitus adds a handful of goo to my porcupine hair and massages it until it’s no longer in danger of snapping off. He’s pretty good with the hair, actually, reclaiming my curls and eliminating the itch. I talk him into letting me rub some of the goo over my body, and I can finally stop scratching.
I’m obliging with the after shots, given that my prep team has been responsive to my requests and I could use a friend or two here in the Capitol. I’m rewarded with a new sheet of paper and a linty peppermint
drop from Proserpina’s pocket that I’m not too proud to accept. It takes the insecticide taste from my mouth and reminds me of happier days. They run off then, because Proserpina’s sister wants to touch up her magenta hair
pom-poms in case she ends up on camera, and Vitus promised his mother he’d help her decorate for her Hunger Games party tonight.
I’m relieved they’re gone and welcome my white-curtained privacy. Everything seems surreal, like a terrible fever dream that just keeps going. The chemical shower, my bizarre prep team, looking at my bald legs as I await a man who secures his pants with a live reptile.
My fingers find the snake head at my neck and trace the scales transforming into feathers and then the bird’s pointed beak. I travel back to an overcast day, deep in the woods, a patch of trees we call ours, arms around Lenore Dove, night falling, neither of us caring. On a nearby branch perches a handsome blackbird.
“That’s a raven. The bird from my name poem,” she says softly. “It’s the biggest songbird there is.”
“He’s an impressive fellow,” I observe.
“She is. She’s smart as a whip, too. Did you know they use logic to solve things?”
“Got me beat there,” I have to admit.
“And nobody tells them what to say. That bird is who I want to be when I grow up. Someone who says whatever they think is right, no matter what.”
No matter what. That’s the part I’m worried about. That she might be saying something rash. Or even doing something beyond dangerous words. Something the Capitol won’t warn but whip her for. The year she turned twelve, she crossed that line twice.
First, on the night before they were to hang Clay Chance in the square, someone shinnied up the gallows and filed halfway through the rope. Next morning, in front of a crowd, the rope snapped and Clay fell to the ground, where a dozen Peacekeeper bullets took him out. As the night had been pitch-black and snowing, the security camera didn’t catch much, but someone in the town had spotted Lenore Dove leaving the square and
reported her. She was hauled into the base prison for questioning and would only say she hadn’t done anything wrong. The Peacekeepers didn’t know what to do with her. A little bit of a thing sitting there, her feet dangling
inches from the floor, her wrists too skinny for the cuffs. Then Clay’s sister, Binnie, who’d been on borrowed time for a year due to a bad heart,
confessed she’d done it. Three days later, Binnie died in her cell, and the
uncles were allowed to collect Lenore Dove, promising she’d stay home at night.
After that, Clerk Carmine kept her on a shorter leash. But the morning of the Forty-sixth Hunger Games, our first year in the reaping, smoke began seeping from beneath the temporary stage as we gathered. The
Peacekeepers pulled out a wad of smoking cloth that turned out to be the flag of Panem. Burning the flag gets you ten years in prison, or likely more if it’s broadcast across the nation, but all traces were removed before the
cameras rolled. The stage had been assembled only the evening before, and the Peacekeepers hadn’t thought to install security cameras beneath it.
Under the platform, a grate leading to utility pipes had been disturbed. Apparently, a candle, lit hours before, had burned down to ignite the kerosene-soaked flag. It could have been anyone. With no proof and no witnesses, they rounded up those with a history of suspicious behavior, and Lenore Dove was arrested again. She said she’d been home, writing her will in case her name got called in the reaping. Then she read them said document, seven pages in which most of her worldly belongings went to her geese. Maybe it was overkill, the way she’d prepared. Maybe the
Peacekeepers could sense they were being played. They let her go again, but this time with a strict warning that they had their eye on her.
It was her, though. Both times. I know it in my heart, even though she’s never quite admitted it to me or her uncles. She says all the Covey girls are a mystery, it’s half their charm. When I press her, she just laughs and says if it’s true, that information could put me in danger, and if it’s false, what does it matter? “Didn’t do much good anyway, did it? Clay’s dead and the reaping’s alive and well.”
Since that year, she’s had a clean record. Last New Year’s, the Covey even played at the base commander’s party, though Lenore Dove wasn’t thrilled about it. Clerk Carmine said a job’s a job, and music can be a bridge to better understanding between people because most everybody loves a good tune. Lenore Dove said most everybody loves breathing, too, and
where did that get us? Some loves don’t signify.
Comments like that make me feel like she’s still got the potential to make trouble, and that side of her is just laying low.
I’m not sure what I’d have done yesterday if the roles had been reversed. I’d have wanted to follow Lenore Dove, maybe stowed away on the train and helped her escape or died trying. Or at least burned the Peacekeepers’ base to the ground. But in reality, whatever plans I might
have concocted would’ve been kept in check by the thought of Ma and Sid trying to get by without me. I’d probably just have gone quietly insane. It’s
different for her. No one depends on Lenore Dove for their livelihood. She can run as wild as the wind.
After an hour or so, Peacekeepers drop off two nut butter sandwiches and my first banana. While I wouldn’t call it fruit — too starchy and
juiceless — it tastes pretty good. I wash it down with a bottle of water filled with bubbles, which seems like a stupid thing to do to water, since I just burp them all up anyway.
The Peacekeepers pull the curtains back and I can see everybody’s been given the same prep. Some of those Careers had full beards earlier, but they look younger and less scary clean-shaven. Losing the chest hair didn’t hurt either.
Juvenia arrives with a woman pushing a rack of fancy clothes, and the District 1 prep teams trot after them into the boys’ locker room to get ready for the chariot procession that’s the centerpiece of the opening ceremonies. The Peacekeepers unchain their tributes and take them in. In a few minutes, the same routine plays out with District 2 and the girls’ locker room. A half hour later, the District 1 tributes, looking almost Capitol in green ball
gowns and sparkling suits, parade across the gym.
As they pass us, Maysilee says loudly, “Looking good, Silka! I hope we all get to wear snot green!”
Laughter breaks out around the gym. Silka, who must have eight
inches and a hundred pounds on Maysilee, starts for her, only to get a swift baton to the ribs from a Peacekeeper. Silka looks at Maysilee and draws her finger across her throat.
Maysilee pouts back. “Now, pretty is as pretty does. How about a smile?”
Louella grins at me from her table. “They did not hit it off in the locker room.”
“Not a fan of One myself,” I admit, watching them head to their van as District 2 struts by in purple leather and studs.
“Where are they all going?” I hear someone ask.
“To their photo shoots,” a Peacekeeper answers. “Then the chariots.”
The teams for 3 and 4 appear next, and I know we’ll be last. The place slowly empties out. Proserpina, who’s sporting freshly dyed puffs, and Vitus, cranky because his mother’s turned his bedroom into a bar for the party, return. The District 11 tributes get whisked away by their stylist just
as Drusilla comes clacking across the gym floor in her platform boots, fur hat tucked under her arm.
“Where’s that idiot Magno?” she asks my team. They shrug helplessly. “He’s making us late for one of the biggest parties of the year!”
She’s all about the parties, our escort.
Another ten minutes pass. “I need to take a piss,” I say.
The Peacekeepers uncuff us and bring us into the girls’ locker room, where we get to relieve ourselves. Still no Magno. I sit next to Louella on a bench. They fixed up her braids and gave her dramatic eyebrows.
Maysilee’s blond locks are in a fountain of tight curls, which somehow suits her, and Wyatt looks exactly the same as before his prep.
“If he doesn’t come, do we get to skip the chariot part?” asks Louella. “Or do we just go wrapped up in paper?”
No one seems to have considered that. Suddenly, everybody panics, including me. As much as I reject all of this, I don’t want to make my big entrance in a paper sheet. If I’m to stand any kind of chance, if I’m to get sponsors, I can’t go out there with my rear end hanging in the breeze.
“Where’s the dress I came in?” demands Maysilee. “I can pin it back together.”
“Already burned,” says a Peacekeeper.
With the clock running out, Drusilla orders the prep teams to lend us pieces of their own outfits. I’m trying to squeeze into Vitus’s blue velvet
shorts when our stylist rolls in with a plastic bag slung over his shoulder.
Magno Stift’s sun-leathered skin has been tattooed with a snakeskin pattern. He wears a long shirt made of metal diamonds and no visible pants.
His sandals lace all the way up to his pelvis, and from each of his ears dangle tiny, living garter snakes that twist and turn in misery.
“You know those have been banned!” steams Drusilla. “I’ll report
you.”
“Oh, Drusie, they’ll be dead in a few hours anyway,” says Magno. He
dumps the contents of his bag on the floor, revealing a half dozen of the same costumes I’ve seen on District 12 tributes for as long as I can
remember. He lifts his arms in mock triumph. “Now, who’s ready to knock them dead?”
We’re all so stressed that even these hand-me-down outfits are snatched up, which I’m sure is how Magno planned it all along. I climb into a pair of smelly black miner overalls held together with safety pins and strap on a cheap plastic coal miner hat without complaint. The boots pinch my toes, but I lace them up, relieved to have any footwear at all.
Only Drusilla holds him to account. “What happened to their shining new look?”
With a flourish, Magno flips on the light in Maysilee’s hat. The weak beam barely registers. “Ta-da! I replaced the batteries.”
“And this is what you brought for the Quarter Quell? If this doesn’t get you axed, I don’t know what will,” Drusilla says with satisfaction.
Magno just laughs. “No one cares about Twelve. Especially you. Get these brats chained up and to the stables. My job here is done.”
We hightail it out of there and into the waiting van, which speeds through the Capitol streets, horn blaring. It’s not enough to drown out a booming version of the anthem, which they must be blasting out citywide. The Hunger Games opening ceremonies have begun without us. As the anthem ends, we screech to a halt and the van doors fly open, revealing the inside of a cavernous stable, its high roof supported by concrete pillars.
Handlers are trying to wrangle forty-eight costumed tributes into twelve chariots while harnessing the horses meant to pull us through the streets. Everybody’s shouting, and nobody’s listening.
Parade music begins, the grand stable doors open, and the District 1
tributes pose for photographers before rolling onto the avenue to the roar of the crowd. A photographer runs up and snaps our picture repeatedly, then vanishes. Was that our photo shoot? Us chained up in the van?
Drusilla appears to boss around the handlers. “Get District Twelve mounted!”
We’re unchained, freed of our cuffs, and hauled to a rickety chariot drawn by a quartet of skittish gray nags. My eyes sweep the stable, confirming my suspicions. Everybody looks better than us. The other
tributes have new district-themed costumes —sexy red cowboy suits for
District 10, shimmering deep sea–blue mermaid suits for District 4, iridescent gray coveralls with wheel-shaped crowns for District 6. Their chariots are tricked out, some menacing, others elegant, all of them eye- catching. Their glossy horses sport matching plumes and flowers, while ours are bareheaded.
The cart’s much too small for the four of us. The horses dance nervously, jerking it around, making it treacherous to climb on. As one of them rears, Louella stumbles backward.
“Easy there,” I say, catching her. “You got this.”
“I don’t think I do.” Her knees give way and she sinks to the floor. Drusilla yells at her. “On your feet, missy!”
I pull Louella up. “Look at me,” I say. “In every way, you are a thousand times better than anybody in the Capitol. You are loved better, raised better, and a whole lot better company. You are the best ally I could ever hope for. Okay, sweetheart?”
She nods and straightens up. “You and me to the end. Right, Hay?” “You and me to the end,” I promise.
“Girls in front!” directs Drusilla.
Maysilee and Louella climb in the chariot and grab hold of the front railing. Wyatt and I follow and brace ourselves on the sides. Presentation takes a back seat to preservation as we try to maintain our footing. One of
our horses bucks, banging a hoof into the cart and giving a shrill neigh. We’re supposed to be moving forward, but it’s all they can do to keep our team in check. The District 11 chariot disappears out the door before they finally release us.
We’re late, but what can we do? The horses are supposedly trained to cover the parade route at a stately pace without guidance. Ours head straight into the night air without pausing, bypassing our second photo op.
For the first hundred yards or so, the nags get their act together and trot along in time to the music. I look up at one of the giant screens above the packed stands lining the avenue and see myself in my crappy costume, hunched over the railing. Long shot, I think, and force myself to stand up straighter.
The crowd looks drunk to a person, hooting and hollering, red-faced and sweating. People chuck bottles and trash at us. Some puke over the
barricade set up along the parade route. For all their finery, the audience smells like the gang at the Hob on a rough Saturday night, a mix of perspiration, raw liquor, and vomit.
A guy trying to jab Maysilee with his cane face-plants onto the avenue and loses a front tooth. A near-naked woman makes lewd gestures at me.
It’s hard to ignore the mob, but District 12 is hanging in there until someone
launches a firework that spirals right in front of our chariot and explodes in a burst of blue.
Our horses lose it, plunging to the side and fighting to stay vertical. I’m knocked to my knees, but manage to keep hold of the railing as our team breaks into a run. The crowd’s going wild as we veer around the District 11 chariot and narrowly miss colliding with District 10, whose team also goes rogue. I want to protect Louella, but it’s all I can do to hang on as we go thundering down the avenue.
Everything’s a blur — the audience, the ground, the other chariots trying to clear out of our way. A siren wails, and I catch sight of red lights spinning, but all this seems to do is whip our team into a frenzy. I remember the parade ends at the circular drive that leads to President Snow’s mansion, so I know we can’t run forever, but how will we stop?
I look down as the spiked wheels of the District 6 chariot close in on ours, and I have my answer. I see the sparks, feel the axles shredding, and lunge for Louella, hoping to brace her. She’s reaching for me just as the wheel collapses and we’re catapulted into the air. Next thing I know, I’m lying on the ground, my hand in a puddle of blood as the lights of the Capitol flash like fireflies above me.
This is better, I tell myself. Better than dying in the arena. Better than weasels and starvation and swords.
I’m embracing that when I realize the blood isn’t mine. That fate isn’t mine. And the tribute who’s escaped the arena is Louella.
