"Annabel Doyle!"
Annabel Doyle. Is that really my name? Is that really the name that that horrible capital fruit basket just called? Is this a dream?
Yes, my name is Annabel Lee Doyle. Yes, Hommel Lofenas just called my name. But no, this is definitely not a dream. It's a living nightmare.
I, Annabel Doyle, am a tribute in the 52nd annual hunger games.
I am numb and only vaguely aware of people whispering and gently nudging me forward.
"Come on up Annabel!" Hommel calls out.
I snap back to reality and tensely walk towards the stage. Relax, I tell myself. I need sponsors to survive. Keep it together.
I relax my steps into long, powerful strides, while trying to remain as graceful as possible. I take the steps up to the stage two at a time and take my own sweet time crossing the stage to the podium. Once I get to my designated spot, I assume a defiant position: right leg locked, hand on hip, left leg bent slightly to the side.
Nobody needs to know how scared I really am; not my family, not the population of district 10, not my friends, not my mentor, and definitely not the mutated freaks of the capital.
"Are there any volunteers?" Hommel asks. It's a rhetorical question, of course. Nobody in their right mind would ever volunteer to die. Although, I still send up a silent prayer that someone will speak up. Dead silence. Awesome.
My death is now almost official. There is only a four percent chance that I will make it out of that arena alive. At least, it would be if all tributes had equal training, body weight, and height. So in all actuality, factoring in the giants volunteering, the trained killers jumping at this wonderful opportunity at fame and fortune, the random weaklings plucked from the poorer districts, and my severe lack of training and body weight, I figure I have about a one percent chance of living. How's that for statistics?
Allow me to introduce myself. Annabel's the name, freak's the game. I'm 5 foot 9 and still growing. This leaves me at a significant disadvantage when it comes to boys. I'm taller than most of them and they don't seem to believe in their own public humiliation to spare the feelings of a fellow human being. Of course, it doesn't help that I'm nicknamed "the human calculator." Sometimes I wish I would fail a test or a pop quiz just to show them that I was normal.
But I have much bigger problems to worry about now, like, oh, I don't know, leaving behind everyone I've ever loved and dying on live television. It's really amazing how fast you grow up once you realize that your life won't last forever and the clock is ticking.
"And now for the boy tribute!" Hommel calls into the microphone. He proceeds to rummage through the slips of paper that will determine one boy's future. He then decides on one and slowly pulls it out for dramatic effect. "Matthew Duncan!"
A tiny kid from school emerges from the thirteen-year-old's section. He tries to act tough, but it's all too easy to see through his façade. He is scared out of his little, brown boots. Am I that readable? I sure hope not, or I am doomed to die in the first 24 hours of the arena. His tough guy persona melts away all together when he trips on the stairs. He begins to cry and pitifully call out to his mother for help. Peacekeepers appear immediately and lift the panic-stricken little guy onto the stage.
"Okay. Any volunteers? No? Alrightly then." Hommel chokes out almost in one long string. "Your District tributes are Annabel and Matthew!" He then starts making a choking noise that sounds almost like a dying animal and I realize that he's about to start crying too. This is pathetic.
Thankfully, Annie and Nick, our mentors, appear to usher us all back towards the Justice Building. I don't know exactly where we're going, but I do know that I don't like it. I need to see my family! I need to say good bye!
A peacekeeper shoves me into a small room. It only contains a bench, a small window, and bare gray walls. Is this what they usually do to tributes? Because this doesn't feel right at all. This tiny room screams hatred and uncertainty.
I allow myself something rare. A slip up in my façade. Forbidden to prying cameras and possibly deadly if I allowed the sponsors to see me.
I give myself up to my swelling emotions. I give myself, for the first time since my mother's funeral, permission to cry.