Sweat beaded on my forehead. My arms hurt from exertion, my ears from my father's incessant shouting. Couldn't he see I was trying my hardest?
"Fight like this in the arena and yours'll be the first cannon fired!" my dad yelled. I screamed in frustration and reduced the next dummy to little rubber scraps. I blew some black hair out of my face. It was the last one. My father stopped the stopwatch and wrote something on his clipboard.
"Only four seconds faster than last time," my father said disappointedly. "And your style was dreadful. When that—"
"Four seconds faster?" I exclaimed. "I went through the whole course and destroyed all twelve of those in nineteen seconds and you're criticizing me?"
"Jumping over puddles and slicing up rubber mannequins is no grand feat," my father said. "In the arena—"
I groaned and turned away. Ever since I turned twelve, that's all my parents wanted from me. The arena. It didn't matter how much I reminded them of my brother—they were obsessed with me becoming a skillful tribute.
I stalked over to the exit of the training room. My father yelled at me to come back and do it again (with feeling this time!) but I ignored him and slammed the door behind me.
My name is Diamond Coroll and I'm fourteen years old. I live with my parents in District 1. My mother's cousin was a tribute in the Hunger Games years ago, and I suppose that partially accounts for my parents' obsession. There's also the fact that here in District 1, everyone is obsessed with the Games. Everyone, that is, except me. And that's my brother's fault.
"Diamond, get back out here!" shouted my father.
I stuck out my tongue at the closed doors—frightfully immature, I know—and trudged up to my bedroom. The one place I could have some peace to think about things other than the Games. But, of course, trying not to think about the Hunger Games only made me think about it more.
XIXIXIX
The earrings my mother had insisted that I wear were too heavy. The dress was too long and itchy. The makeup felt stiff and sticky. The curling iron burned my neck. The shoes were too small and gave me blisters. Basically, I was thinking up every excuse I could to postpone my presence at the reaping.
"Hands off the curls," my mother ordered, slapping my hand away from my hair.
"My head hurts," I complained. "You're pulling too tight."
"Don't whine. Now stand up and let me see you."
I stood up from the plain chair had been sitting in for the past half hour and turned towards my mother. My black hair was curled and done up in a bun on top of my head, with two springy strands hanging on either side of my face. I was wearing a sleeveless, silvery dress with a long asymmetrical skirt. My shoes were high-heeled and sparkly. The jewelry I had on—bracelet, earrings, and necklace—was all studded and decorated with the gems I was named for. My mother squealed and clapped her hands.
"You look gorgeous!" she exclaimed. "Twirl for me."
I complied. The skirt twinkled and fluttered as I spun. My mother squealed again. I resisted rolling my eyes.
The phone rang. My mother picked it up and almost immediately handed it to me.
"Hello?"
"Hi, Diamond! Are you excited for the reaping?"
It was Gemma, a girl in my year at school and quite possibly the only friend who stuck around after my parents decided I had to be the best fighter in Panem.
"Excited to be done with it," I said. My mother gave me a dark look, and I returned it with a scowl.
"My parents bought me a new dress. It looks absolutely amazing! It's greenish-blue with a really ruffly layered skirt and my mom got a really pretty white sweater to go with it. So who do you think is gonna get picked? If it's me, will you root for me? If I do get picked, I hope I get some good stylists. Not like the one that the District 12 tributes got last year. Now that was just awful. Is there anyone you want to get picked?"
"Not really," I said. "I just hope whoever it is doesn't get killed."
"Well, yeah," Gemma said, with a tone that implied I was stating the obvious. "But chances are they probably will be. But who knows? The Games are never very predictable."
"Mm-hm."
"Well, my dad says it's time to go. See you at the reaping! Oh, and Happy Hunger Games!"
She hung up, and I gave the phone back to my mother.
XIXIXIXIX
"Our boy tribute…Alton Telmack!"
Shouts and cheers erupted across the crowd as Alton, a tall seventeen-year-old with shaggy brown hair and dark brown eyes, made his way up to the platform. He was fit and muscled, and eight years of Hunger Games training had taught me to infer that this young man was born for physical combat. A good tribute. Dozens of hands reached up to give him a high-five, which he all accepted.
"He's hot," Gemma whispered in my ear.
I shrugged. "Sure, I guess."
Samuel Rictorvale, our escort from the Capitol, shook hands with Alton. "Do we have any volunteers for Mr. Telmack's place as tribute?"
Several hands shot up in the air. I counted at least thirteen. About half of them pushed to the front of the crowd to reach the stage. One boy actually climbed onto the platform, but was pulled down by a few other volunteers.
"Calm down, boys," hollered Mayor Horne. Her hair was almost the same color as mine, with a slight green tint and dark green at the ends. Her elegant gown matched her hair. "Volunteers ages twelve through fourteen, move to this side. Fifteen through eighteen, over here."
The lines were almost equal, with just barely more twelve-through-fourteen boys. Samuel Rictorvale randomly chose two boys from each line and lined them up according to height. I didn't really pay attention to the next part because Gemma was whispering something to me about how tacky Velvetina Camden's hair looked (pigtails are so last month), but both of us were paying attention enough to learn that our new boy tribute was Lexus Pecuniam, a fifteen-year-old with a dark blonde crew cut and weird (but not unattractive—Gemma called them alluring and exotic) golden eyes. By his slight figure and energetic gaze roving over the crowd, I guessed that he was agile, quick, observant, and strategic.
"And the ladies." Samuel Rictorvale reached into the other glass ball, shuffling around the tens of thousands of small slips of paper. Gemma grabbed my hand, and we crossed our fingers as Samuel pulled out a piece of paper.
"Diamond Coroll."
Oh, no.
Gemma squealed and nudged me. "Diamond, you won! Go up there!"
No, no, no! I did not want to go in the Hunger Games! Make it a mistake! Somebody volunteer!
My face remained stolid as I marched passively through the crowd to the platform. My brain was screaming at me to run away. But the sensible part of me reminded the crazy half that there were armed Peacekeepers keeping me from doing just that. Besides, my parents would be horrified.
"Do we have any volunteers for Miss Coroll's place as tribute?"
No. My parents had made sure of that—if I was called to be a tribute, I was a tribute. End of story.
"Congratulations to Lexus Pecuniam and Diamond Coroll, District 1's Hunger Games tributes!"
The crowd applauded. I pointed out my parents, who were nearly freaking out with excitement, and Gemma, who was bouncing and clapping and hooting and whistling. Lexus and I shook hands. His fingers were twitchy and long. My hand was sweating from anxiety, but Lexus took little notice, his rapid golden eyes darting across my face and body. I felt like he was inspecting me, dissecting me for weaknesses.
"May the best tribute win," he said with a sly grin and a cunning raise of the eyebrows.
I swallowed and nodded. And despite the cheers of my district and the reassurance of my parents, I could tell that things were not going to go very well for me for a while.