I don’t remember anyone getting a one before. Ever. In fact, I’m hard- pressed to remember a two. Even threes are rare and reserved for extreme long shots like Lou Lou. How will the audience interpret this? That I’m
weak? Friendless? A coward? Any way you slice it, it will not result in my getting sponsors. I’m going to be entirely on my own in the arena when it comes to supplies.
“You must have gotten to them,” Maysilee says with satisfaction. “Between the reaping and Louella and spitting on the crowd. You really caught their attention.”
“Well, that’s a sunny interpretation,” I reply.
“Perhaps she’s right,” says Mags. “If nothing else, it’s distinctive.
People will be gossiping about it. With forty-eight tributes, just becoming
recognizable is a plus.”
Wyatt shakes his head. “I don’t even know how to factor that into your odds. What’d you do anyway?”
Good question. “I guess . . . not in so many words but . . . I accused them of murdering us.”
“Yes!” says Lou Lou, her eyes boring through me. Then she winces and swipes at her ear. We can hear a faint but piercing tone that must be deafening in her head. When it eases, tears stream from her eyes and she’s gasping. Wyatt presses his finger against his lips and then hugs her tightly.
I take the first watch again at bedtime, my mind swimming with strategy. The Gamemakers, no doubt under Snow’s direction, have made an example of me, and that displeasure could follow me into the arena. I may have doomed myself to a gory opening death. My hand seeks my flint striker for comfort, but finds only bare skin. They couldn’t even leave me that last token of Lenore Dove’s love. What did she think when they announced my score tonight? Since she didn’t get to witness all my reckless behavior here, she probably blames herself for me getting called out in the reaping. But how will she ever know that was only a teaspoon of trouble in my river of wrong?
I feel like I’m a big risk now to the plot to disable the arena, but I’m sure Beetee’s figured that out. I stay awake through three watches, thinking
he might pay me another visit. Eventually, my eyelids get so heavy I wake Wyatt to take over.
Our mentors let us sleep in late, and I feel better when I find my
precious necklace awaiting me at the kitchen table. All four of our tokens cleared, and we reach for them with eager hands.
“Can I see yours now? Since it’s already off?” Maysilee asks me.
What can I say? No, because my girlfriend hates you? We’re supposed to act like allies now, and I figure Lenore Dove will never know, so I pass over my token.
Maysilee studies it meticulously, going over every bit of engraving and reading the inscription, which does not escape her notice as it did mine. “Well, the Covey have an eye for beauty, that’s for sure.”
“Heard you have one of Tam Amber’s pins,” I say.
She wrinkles her nose. “Oh, that. It’s well made, but I don’t care much for mockingjays. Something unnatural about a bird that’s half-mutt.”
Never thought of it that way. “Some people think that’s a victory in itself. Way they escaped the Capitol and survived.”
“Do they?” says Maysilee. “Well, if I escape the Capitol and survive, maybe I’ll give that pin a second chance.”
“If you don’t, I’m sure Lenore Dove would be happy to take it off your hands,” I say.
“Lenore Dove . . .” Maysilee gives me a knowing smile. “She doesn’t like me, your girlfriend. And it’s not because of any pin.”
“Because you’re so mean, you think?” I ask innocently.
Maysilee laughs. “Partly, maybe. But mostly because I know her secret and she hates being at my mercy.”
Her secret? “What’s that mean?”
“It means how come she’s got orange paint on her fingernails when she shows up to play for the mayor’s birthday party?” She hands me back the token. “You ask her that if you get home.”
I look down at the necklace in confusion. There’s orange on some of
the feathers. She was probably just helping Tam Amber. Or maybe she tried painting them to match her lipstick. I guess Maysilee made some crack about Lenore Dove having ugly nails. But why is that a secret that would put her at Maysilee’s mercy? Nail polish is pricey — is Maysilee suggesting Lenore Dove stole it?
“Tell me now,” I say.
“I told you, it’s a secret. Those should be respected.” Maysilee carefully arranges her necklaces — apparently, the Gamemakers viewed her collection as a single token — and hooks the purple and yellow flowers around Lou Lou’s neck. “Unless, of course, you’ve got one to trade? Then we’d have something to talk about.”
“Some girl thing,” Wyatt comments as he puts on his token. “They never make sense.”
“You said a mouthful,” I agree. The scrip coin Maysilee wove into Wyatt’s cord distracts me. She designed it so it’s easy to pop the coin in and out of the weave because flipping it through his fingers helps Wyatt think.
“Hey, what’s that coin made of? Nickel?” I ask. “Zinc, I think,” says Wyatt.
“Potato battery,” I remind him. “Keep an eye out for copper.”
Maysilee fishes the flower medallion from the display at her neck. “Already on it.”
“Of course you are, Miss Donner,” I say. “If the Gamemakers cleared those, maybe they’re hoping you’ll use them.”
Just then, Drusilla shows up and calls us into the living room so she can help with our interview prep. After the reaping and chariot fiascos, she’s feeling some heat. Our training numbers aren’t doing her any favors either. This is her last big event for the Quell and she needs it to go well.
“Listen, you lot, there are always softhearted dolts who will send
supplies to losers like you, if they can find some way to relate to you. The only one who’s got any name recognition right now is Haymitch, because
people are trying to figure out why his score’s so abysmal. He also got some attention for his appalling behavior toward the audience at the parade. But
the rest of you are basically nonexistent. This interview will be your last
chance to make some sort of impression before the Games begin. Anything that makes you stand out is a plus. Make me remember you. So, who are
you? Why should I want to lay my money on you? What are you selling?”
With an audience of Drusilla, Mags, Wiress, and ourselves we clear a space and try to simulate our upcoming interviews. Drusilla plays Caesar Flickerman, the smooth-talking host of the event. She loses patience with Lou Lou almost immediately, given that the child can’t do much more than repeat, “My name is Louella McCoy. I’m from District Twelve.”
“That’s absolutely dreadful,” says Drusilla. “Flickerman will eat you alive. What’s wrong with you anyway? Snap out of it!” She gives Lou Lou a shake by the shoulders.
The contact triggers something in Lou Lou, who begins to scream, “You’re murdering us! You’re murdering us!”
Drusilla gasps and raises her hand to slap Lou Lou, but the rest of us intervene, and Mags takes Lou Lou into the bedroom.
“That isn’t Louella McCoy,” Maysilee tells Drusilla. “She’s dead.
That’s a body double. Some little girl the Capitol has tortured until she can’t even remember her real name. But even she can see the obvious. You’re murdering us.”
Drusilla looks around for backup, but the Peacekeepers remained downstairs and Wiress isn’t giving any. So there’s just her and us district
piglets, including Maysilee, who slaps back. She composes herself. “That’s not my department. Your interviews are.” She points to Wyatt. “You’re up.” After they exchange niceties, she asks Wyatt what makes him special.
“I’m an oddsmaker,” he says without hesitation. “An oddsmaker? What’s that?”
“I set the odds for gambling events back in Twelve. I give odds on who will win the Hunger Games.”
“You do?” asks Drusilla skeptically. “I do.”
“So, who do you recommend our audience bet on?”
Wyatt takes a deep breath and rattles off his projections. “Well, it’s tempting to go for the low-hanging fruit. The odds will always look good for most of the Careers. Like Panache from District One, the largest tribute, trained, high score, I’d give him eleven-to-five odds, which means he has a thirty-one-point-two-five percent chance of winning. Or Maritte from Four, she’s obviously a contender, with her physique and an eleven from the Game-makers, probably an indication that she’s exceptional with a trident. I’d say six to one, or a fourteen-point-two-nine percent.”
“Hmph. Fancy math, but nothing new there,” says Drusilla. “Everybody knows the Careers are a good bet.”
“Obviously,” returns Wyatt. “But what’s made these Games a novelty is that all forty-eight tributes have locked into alliances before the start.
Nothing like this has ever happened before. The Careers are powerful, yes, but the Newcomers outnumber them two to one. If I was betting, sure, I’d take a look at the Careers, but if the alliances really hold, if the tributes really defend each other to the death, anyone has a shot. And if you’re not afraid of some risk, it’s better bang for your buck if you back a more
obscure Newcomer because the odds are not in their favor, so they’ll pay off higher in the end.”
“Give me a name,” says Drusilla. “Haymitch Abernathy,” says Wyatt. “He scored a one.”
“Exactly. With no apparent handicaps. He’s physically fit and his behavior suggests a boldness that disturbs the Gamemakers.”
Thrown, I interject, “You don’t have to do that, Wyatt.”
“I’m not doing anything, Haymitch. This is my honest assessment of your chances. Maysilee’s not a bad bet either.”
“What about yourself?” asks Drusilla.
“Oh, I wouldn’t bet on me,” admits Wyatt. “I simply —”
“No!” cuts in Wiress. “Don’t underrate yourself, Wyatt. No other tribute can do what you just did. Play up how intelligence matters.
Reference me. Say Wiress won the Games last year without shedding a drop of blood. Brains matter.”
Wyatt thinks this over a moment, then turns to Drusilla. “Here’s the thing. At any given moment in the Hunger Games, I will know everybody’s odds, how they stack up against each other, and how likely they are to
receive gifts. It should keep me from making a lot of stupid mistakes. That’s my advantage. It’s up to you if you’re smart enough to see it.”
“Good,” says Wiress. “Yes. Position yourself as the smart choice for bettors. People who pride themselves on being smart will respond to that.”
When it’s Maysilee’s turn, she and Drusilla stare daggers at each other, but refrain from exchanging blows.
“So, Miss Donner, what do you think of the Capitol?”
“I think I can’t believe people with so much money have such bad taste. Here you are with mountains of cash, and this is where you wound
up?” She gives Drusilla’s outfit — a red-and-white-striped jumpsuit with a matching beanie — the once-over. “You look like you jumped right off our candy counter back home. Just a peppermint-stick nightmare, you are.”
Drusilla’s hand goes to her collar. “You’re not going to make any friends with this approach, you little shrew.”
“Who said I wanted friends? I’m here to make people remember me, ’member? It’s not just you, it’s everyone I saw from the chariot. Garish color, unflattering lines. And there are some fashion choices you people are going to regret. Why you’d want to resemble a barnyard animal is beyond me, but I hope those goat horns are removable. And to the woman with the diamonds implanted along her teeth? People age, there’s no shame in that, but I think those stones are going to make eating a trial when those gums
recede.”
“So, we should be emulating what — District Twelve?” sputters Drusilla.
“Heavens, no. People who don’t have two cents to rub together can hardly be expected to dress well. Although there’s not a miner in Twelve who doesn’t have a better physique than the people I witnessed in that crowd. All the surgery in the world won’t change that.”
“What —?”
“And all the money in the world won’t buy good taste. Clearly. Some people in Twelve have a lot more than what I’m witnessing here.”
“Are you done?” Drusilla says. “Honestly, I have barely warmed up.” “Sit down.”
It’s Wiress who concludes, “It’s a risky strategy, but yes, they’ll remember you.”
Mags comes back, holding a handkerchief dotted in blood. “She’s drifted off. I don’t know what they’ve got in her ear, but it’s starting to bleed.”
Drusilla waves her off. “Again, not my department. You’re up, Abernanny. So, Twelve has a lunatic, a computer, and a shrew.What are you?”
“Bad news, apparently,” I say. “Else how’d I get a one in training?” Mags coaches me. “Yes, that’s good, highlight it immediately. Own
it.”
“Well, how did you?” asks Drusilla.
“Earned it. The Gamemakers don’t like me. It probably started when I
messed with a Peacekeeper during the reaping.”
“You can’t say that!” Drusilla protests. “You’ll spoil the brilliant work I did covering up the riot!”
“What riot? Woodbine ran and your people shot him.”
“I know a riot when I see it! Never mind. That’s forbidden. It won’t win you any points with the audience anyway. They’ll respond to a bad boy, not a rebel. You need to be naughty, not dangerous. For instance, last winter,
one of the University students dyed all the fountains pink when there was a face cream shortage. So saucy! Everyone loved it!”
I sense she’s actually trying to help, but . . . “Yeah, okay. But I’m going into the Hunger Games. I don’t think a face cream statement is going to cut it. Can I talk about spitting on the crowd?”
“Absolutely not! What will people do with that?”
“Well, if I can’t do the reaping, and I can’t do the spitting, what am I supposed to talk about?”
Drusilla thinks a moment. “You must be mysterious. Allude to radical behavior without being specific. The ones who witnessed the opening ceremony have already been gossiping. Let the audience use its
imagination.”
“Naughty, not dangerous,” I repeat.
“That’s it. Be a rascal. A charming, naughty rascal.”
A rascal. That’s what Mamaw used to call a squirrel who’d sneak up on the porch to steal nuts she was shelling. Right from under her nose. Bold as a stump, but funny, too. “Well, I can try.”
I don’t get a chance, though, because right then, Proserpina and Vitus burst into the apartment in a state of agitation.
“It’s Magno. We went to his apartment to see the interview costumes so we can plan tonight’s makeup and hair —” begins Proserpina.
“We’re allowed to do that. Required to, actually, on our syllabus. So it’s not like we’re brownnosing or anything —” interjects Vitus.
“And the door to his apartment was wide open and he’s reeling around, he’s sick —”
“He’s puking all over the place and talking like a crazy person and —”
“We think the toad venom rumors might be true!” Proserpina claps her hands over her mouth as if she’s let some monster cat out of the bag. “Rumors?” rants Drusilla. “That man’s been licking toads since the
war. I can’t believe that even he would risk it during the Games. Oh, what am I saying? Of course I can. If for no other reason than to end my career!”
“Why would he lick toads?” asks Wyatt.
“Because he’s a reptilian freak! And he’ll do anything to take me down.”
“They say some kinds make you hallucinate or something. If they don’t kill you,” explains Vitus. “Some people do it for fun, but ugh, nasty.”
“I’m going to issue a formal complaint with the Gamemakers!”
Drusilla grabs her handbag and storms out, effectively ending my interview practice.
“Do you two, perhaps, have any black clothing they could wear?” Wiress asks our prep team.
“Us?” asks Vitus in disbelief. “We don’t wear black!”
“It’s too depressing!” Proserpina bursts into tears, her magenta hair puffs bobbing wildly. “I need to call my sister.” She throws herself into a chair next to a table holding a burnt orange telephone, presses some buttons, and begins to wail into the receiver, “I’m going to fail! I’m going to fail!”
Mags corrals the rest of us, including Vitus, into the kitchen to eat bowls of strawberry ice cream.
After a few minutes, Proserpina joins us. “My sister says it isn’t our fault and to just do the best prep we can.” She slurps a big spoonful of ice cream, a last trickle of tears sliding down her flushed cheeks. “She says if they try to fail us, we can appeal to the University Board. My sister knows everybody on the University Board on account of how she used to be the student social planner and had to get everything approved.”
“Her sister’s amazing,” says Vitus.
“She is,” says Proserpina. “She was the president of the Capitol Cohorts Chapters. And she basically created the Spring Saturnalia her freshman year.”
“It’s the best party of the year,” Vitus tells us. “So much better than that tired old fling.”
“So much better,” echoes Proserpina. “Anyway, she thinks we’re going to be all right. Like she says, a positive attitude is ninety-seven percent of the battle.”
It’s so astonishingly self-absorbed, in the face of our impending deaths, that I don’t even know how to respond.
Maysilee, on the other hand, doesn’t miss a beat. “I’ll try to keep that in mind in the arena. More ice cream?”
Mags catches my eye, her smile barely suppressed.
Proserpina just holds out her bowl, oblivious. “I really think it will help you.”
Maysilee, Lou Lou, and Wyatt’s prep teams arrive, and we take turns in the bathrooms and bedrooms being groomed. I try to negotiate a few
extra minutes floating in the tub so I can work out how I might come across as a rascal, but all I can think about is stealing nuts. I have a bad feeling I’m just going to come off as annoying.
Since they’re not trying to counteract the insecticides from the gym shower, the prep teams get better results with less effort, but they can’t
compensate for our clothes. We were given a few changes of socks and underwear, but aside from that, we’ve been wearing our training outfits for three days straight. Lou Lou’s is as wrinkled as a raisin from her napping in it, Wyatt spilled mashed potatoes on his and scraping it off made it look
worse, and I have a tear at my shoulder from when Panache attacked me.
Even Maysilee, who looks the least crumpled, has a spattering of her
homemade glue from working with tokens. On top of that, the cheap fabric really holds the smell of fear sweat that we’ve been pumping out, and that’s demoralizing even if the cameras won’t pick it up.
I try to keep a positive attitude, since that’s ninety-seven percent of
the battle, reminding myself that at least we have black clothing that fits us and we have our tokens. But the truth can’t be denied. We look like what we are: neglected, no-account, not-worth-a-professional-stylist long shots from District 12. Who’s going to sponsor that?
On top of this, we have eight prep team members, half of them in tears, totally preoccupied with how this will affect their grades and, consequently, their future job prospects. Drusilla returns, pissed because she was unable to file a complaint until after the Games. As an afterthought, she went to see if she could rouse Magno, but he didn’t answer his door and she thinks he might be dead, which is the only thing that’s keeping her going.
Except maybe that quart bottle of rum she’s knocking back in the kitchen. Wiress and Mags try to focus our minds on our interviews, but the general commotion makes that impossible.
The noise drowns out the ping of the arriving elevator, so she seems to appear out of thin air. A young woman with lavender hair, a dress like a
grape gumball, and green checked stockings. Four black hats stacked on her head, clothes bags draped over her arms, she wheels a cart of spiky shoes into the center of the living room and announces, “Who’s ready for a big, big, big day!”
