I'm Santana Lopez, sixteen, from District 12, or as most people called it, the Seam.

I am not very thin, unlike other people from our district. I'm slim, but still bigger than my neighbors. I'm not rich. I just know how to hunt and kill, so I don't go hungry. My family won't survive without me, and I can't even imagine if that happens...

Good thing a lot of people love my sister Annie. She's a sweet girl, and she's healed a lot of people. She can survive. She's actually the only person I consider as my family nowadays.

My mother and father died just recently, and my abuela bailed on me, now living in a better house with better food. She actually has a lot of rich friends. She can influence even the president of Panem, but she's too afraid to. She has an effect on everyone. But I hate her for using this skill to abandon us.

So actually Annie is the only person I'm worried about today. Why?

Well, today is the reaping day, and the odds are not in my favor. I have a lot of slips, twenty to be exact. If I die, who will take care of her? Finn, my annoyingly naive and sometimes clueless (but admittedly skilled in hunting) best guy friend? He's got a family. A whole lot of sisters and brothers. I wouldn't count on him to feed my sister, even if he is a caring guy.

He's just got too many mouths to feed.

But I wouldn't say that it would be easier if Finn got picked. He could survive, but maybe not against the Career Tributes, a bunch of well-trained killing machines from the wealthy districts. I don't know what hurts me more if he doesn't make it: the fact he's dead or the fact I relied on his hunting skills a lot to survive.

It's not impossible. He's sixteen like me too, but he has thirty-seven slips, because he has two brothers and one sister. He needs the tesserae, something worth a good supply of grain and oil. You can get some if you enter more times. That's why instead of just five, both of us let them put more slips with our names.

Emma Trinket, a woman with pink paint all over herself, a slight obsession with manners and cleanliness and a mental disorder I cannot remember, smiles and brightly announces, "Happy Hunger Games! May the odds be ever in your favor." I listen to this, but I stop caring about the rest of the nonsense and fluff she talks about later on.

"Okay, ladies first," she says in her trademark squeaky voice. I expect it to be me.

But it's not me.

It's Annie.

I run. "No! I volunteer!"

Everybody's surprised. They hadn't had a volunteer since ages.

Annie cries, but I ignore it. I get a little angry at her. She's so weak, I keep thinking. Her eyes make me feel terrible. I did this for her and she's like that? Of course she didn't do anything wrong. I just feel nothing positive about my situation right now my mind starts to blame even her.

"I volunteer as tribute."

There was silence, a very long, rare silence, which meant that they thought this was wrong. Emma keeps talking in a very bubbly tone it's irritating. But I'm Santana. I never cry, even in this situation.

Actually I'm at the danger of bursting into tears, but I'm strong enough to stop them from flowing.

I expect some form of sympathetic salute to me, but then again, I'm Santana, a girl who never tries to be polite or look pretty. I look pretty filthy each day, and act as if I couldn't care less, which is true, because there's not much reason for me to. I fight anyone who provokes me. I'm not exactly lovable.

But as this thought crosses my mind they all suddenly give me a three-finger salute, which means that I actually matter. I smile instead of crying. Crying makes you look weak. I'm on TV. If even a single tear trickles down my face, the other tributes will assume I'm a weakling. Even if I prove them wrong, I hate it when people underestimate me. I'm barely 5'5 and scrawnier than most tributes. I get it, I'm not really big. But I can hurt them if I wanted to and I assure you I will even if I don't win.

The drama is over after a few minutes, when Emma babbles about some protocols and fluff. Then, the boys are up. Please don't be Finn. I could not imagine killing him, even trying. He's my friend. Or my brother. Friend just doesn't sound enough.

It's not him. It's Sebastian Smythe, a baker's son who once gave me bread and saved us from dying of hunger. He looks at me with the intensity of a thousand suns. He remembers me, maybe.

But I look away. I don't want to remember what he did. The last thing I need is a soft spot for him. I don't want to be swayed by his puppy dog eyes. He won't go down with a fight, I know that, even if he looks so harmless and even charmingly sweet. As will I. After a week of preparation I will try to kill him, or die trying.