1

The knife lands deep in the red bull's eye with a resounding thwack, which I can hear even from my sixty-five feet away. I straighten, dropping my outstretched arm, and a small grin spreads on my face. That's got to be a record.

"Did you see that?" I ask my trainer eagerly, turning around.

Zephyr squints in the late afternoon sun before giving a curt nod. "Acceptable," he comments.

That's Zephyr for you. He never gives you a straight compliment. Never lets his guard down. Never softens for you. Always remains aloof. Silent, almost. It's a dead useful strategy for a survivor. If you want to stay alive you've got to stick to yourself. Don't get attached because those people will die. And I know I'm going to need to use it if I'm going to with the Hunger Games.

I sigh and begin to pull out another knife from my weapons belt, but Zephyr holds up his hand, checking his watch. "That's enough for today. It's almost two. You'd better get home."

I nod. Today is our last day of ever training. I only realize that now. I'm not going to see Zephyr for a while. Today is the reaping day. Today one girl's name in the entire population of District 2 is going to be read out before everyone. It may be mine, though I have very few entries. It doesn't matter. I'm going to volunteer anyway. I've been training for seven years for this. I don't easily pass this up. Anyway, I'd much rather volunteer than get reaped. It's a bold sign, a sign of toughness. It says that you're going in because you want to, not because it's the rules. And I want to go in.

I unbuckle my weapons belt, from which hangs an array knives of various sizes, from small thin silver ones, to wide blades with rough wooden handles.

Knives are my specialty. I've tried many weapons, including spears, javelins, slingshots, tomahawks, and bows and arrows but I found my true talent in knives. They're small, easy to hide, and are deadly accurate. And that plus my extreme precision is almost a guaranteed death from a distance. I can even fight in hand to hand combat with them. Zephyr insisted I know this. Sure, swords are better for this, they're longer and easier to aim with, but I find them bulky and annoying. With knives you can flit this way and that. You can use two if you want (and boy can I use two). Two means twice the aim. Twice the accuracy. Twice the deadliness. Twice the guarantee of death. Twice the blood.

Blood isn't a problem for me. Many think it is for a pale girl of fourteen, but I've been raised watching past Games on tapes. I know it can't be avoided. So you just have to accept it. The goriness doesn't matter to me. As long as I've killed the person, instead of them killing me. And very rarely does that person get to me. No one gets the better of Clove Coltello. I don't fail at all. I'm not an overachiever but I work hard for the things I want. That's why I'm going to win the 74th Hunger Games.

Maybe it's in my blood. The house of Coltello has produced many children who grew to be victors in previous generations. My own Aunt Eureka had been in the Games herself. In fact, that's why I'm doing this. Why I'm training to be in the Games. She inspired me. She had only been thirteen—and she had been reaped. No one had volunteered for her, an amazing feat in District 2. No one needed to. They'd seen her with a javelin. She was unstoppable. And she would've won too. She was one of the last standing. It had been her and three boys. She'd killed off one, but before she could get to the second, the third one had caught her from behind. He'd mauled her with a spiked club. I had been seven when I first watched the scene on tape. The blood was nothing. The fact that Aunt Eureka had gone down with a fight was good enough for me. As her coal black hair, so much like mine, strewed across the dusty ground, slick with blood, I vowed I would become a Career and win a Games in her honor.

So I set to work training. My parents found Zephyr, an acclaimed Career trainer in District 2. I wasn't the only child doing this. It's common for kids in 1, 2, and 4. It's almost an honor. Many kids eventually dropped out, however. The training is intense and difficult. We run miles of laps, do an infinite number of push ups and sit ups just as exercise. Then Zephyr gets to work with you. He teaches you survival skills, how to climb trees, scale walls, start fires, and most importantly, how to fight with any type of weapon. Then he duels you. And it's not easy. Each day is a different weapon. But I became very versatile that way.

"Clove," says Zephyr, his voice breaking through my thoughts. He waves a tanned hand in front of my face. I look at him. "Good luck out there today."

I grin, flashing white teeth that match my skin. "You know I won't need it."

"I know." He smiles back. He looks almost like family. He's middle aged, although very built, and he has the same dark hair and eyes as most Coltellos do. The only difference is his much tanned skin, brown from years of training under the sun.

I hang up my weapons belt in the shed in his backyard, knowing I probably won't see it for a while. I sigh a little, feeling the soft supple leather of the belt, before I'm off, running across the yard, waving goodbye to Zephyr and slipping through his side gate. I'll be seeing him soon at the town square.

The reaping begins at three o' clock. I have to get home and get ready.

It's a short jog from Zephyr's home to mine. Although District 2's huge, everything in my region seems to be within walking distance. I pass the square on my way home. It's mostly empty. Still an hour before the reaping. However it's spick and span, shining in the afternoon sun. The workers of the town hall have been cleaning for two days. We want to make a good impression. We always do.

I reach my house in minutes. It's a large gray single-family home with a shingled roof and spacious green yard. We live in a high class neighborhood. Many of the families here are large, prosperous, and wealthy. The parents often are Peacekeepers, work in the Justice Building, or are high up in the mining and weapons industry, our district's main export.

The front hall inside my home is cool and empty. "I'm home!" I call, my voice echoing.

"Your clothes are laid out in your room," responds my mother, her voice drifting from the kitchen.

I scale the smooth wooden stairs and rush into the bathroom, feeling sweaty and disgusting from my training. I turn on the shower. Although it's only early May and still breezy, I take a freezing shower to alert myself. Plus, Zephyr recommends it. I get out, wrapping myself in a warm fluffy towel, and catch sight of myself in the mirror.

I am not beautiful. I know that. I never thought I was. But I've been complimented before. It's only my face that isn't particularly stunning. Maybe the dark freckles I have do something to it. But my long black hair has received its fair share of compliments. I'm rather average height for my age, 5 foot, five inches. My face is round with a narrow jaw, and I have dark eyes like my family. My arms and legs are very long. Perfect for throwing knives and running swiftly. I'm a born survivor.

I slip into my bedroom and find on my bed my mother has laid out one of my dresses. I have more than I can count, and I love them all, but there's a certain style to what you wear to reapings. Plain, but clean. Usually blues and whites. Whites always seem to flatter my hair. The one my mother has set out is a flowy springtime dress, of eyelet lace and a sweetheart neckline. Its straps are thin, so she has laid aside a pale blue cashmere sweater to don over it.

I've always loved nice clothes, but I can hardly think about my becoming outfit as I slip into the dress and pull on a nice pair of shoes. I dry my hair, and leave it down. It'll make people remember me more easily on the TV. The girl who volunteered. The young girl with the coal-black hair. With the hard face and dark eyes. They won't forget me.

I take a deep breath and head back out into the hallway. My little brother meets me there. He's only eleven, so he isn't entered in the reaping. But next year . . . .

I love Jaynn to death. He's getting older, but nothing will mask his sweet, innocent face, framed by little glasses that he's worn for two years. He's always been short. No one knows why, since all the Coltellos are tall and stately. He wears a simple crisp blue shirt and slacks, his dark hair scruffy in the back.

"Ready?" I ask, ruffling his hair.

He gives me a weird look. Boys. When they grow older, they don't want to be seen being kissed by their mothers or hugged by their sisters. Oh well. It was bound to happen sometime.

We arrive at the square exactly twenty minutes before the reaping. Because of such a big population, it's hard to get good seats for the adults. Of course, the children are just placed in their age groups standing and facing the stage. Nothing fancy.

The square is already quite crowded. A large stage has been erected in front of the Justice Building, a big squarish structure made of huge gray slabs of stone. It's the only ugly thing in the square. Standing on the stage is a microphone, a long row of spindly silver chairs, and standing on either side two huge glass balls with slips of paper inside. A big golden plaque on the left one reads girls and the other one reads boys. There are three slips of paper with Clove Coltello written on them in the girls' bowl. The odds of my getting picked are pretty slim, compared to people who are older or who've entered extra times for the fun of it. Or maybe they're poorer and had to. But hardly anyone's poor in District 2. We're so close to the Capitol.

A Peacekeeper escort dressed in an outlandish white uniform ushers me to the roped-off fourteen-year-old section. It's mixed with girls and boys. Most I recognize from school. Some I'm pretty close to (we exchange curt nods). Others I have never seen before. Probably from different farther regions. My region happens to be the one right next to the town square.

I see my parents and Jaynn finding seats off to the left on the other side of the square. They're sitting on the edge of their seats. They know this is my year. They know I want to do it now. I don't want to volunteer when I'm old, at seventeen or eighteen. That's too clichéd. I want to do it when I'm young, but not too young. Fourteen is just the right age. And people know me. They know how I am with knives. There won't be other volunteers.

For the next several minutes more and more families are ushered in. More fourteen year olds join my group. In front of us, two groups down, are the sixteens. They already tower over most of us, looking brooding and strong. Even though all of them aren't Careers, you can tell by their stature, how they're well fed, stocky in build, and not overweight. They could win a Games if they tried hard.

Soon, the ceremonies begin. The mayor of 2, Ursula Quintonby clicks onto the stage in her teetering five-inch heels. Being this close to the Capitol, many citizens of our district often follow the fashion trends. The mayor is no exception. She wears a well-tailored suit of a steely metallic gray that seems to shimmer as she moves. Her blonde hair is curled tightly in ringlets, piled on top of her head in a twist, adorned with red feathers, real or artificial, I can't tell. Her wrists jangle from the gold bangles round them.

She smiles warmly to the crowd, welcoming them to the reaping of the 74th annual Hunger Games. Then she introduces the previous victors of the Hunger Games. There's a whole list of them. Most are dead, having won their Games decades ago. However, a good handful are present. She reads off the names and they walk across the stage amidst the applause and take the seats set aside for them. I watch them carefully. Two of them will be my mentors for the Games. One man, one woman.

Now the mayor is launching into a boring tale of the history of the country Panem, the Dark Days, how the Games work, blah, blah blah.

I've heard it too many times in my life to care. I practically have it memorized. Instead, I scan the crowd as her voice drifts away. I take in the boys. Mostly because any one of them could be the one going to the Capitol with me. I don't take notice of the girls because, obviously, I'm going to be the one this year.

My eyes happen to pass over Mariana Xavier, a girl the same age as mine. Her long brown hair is pulled into a rigid stiff bun at the top of her head, practically pulling the skin on her face upward. Her eyes are slanted and she wears a permanent scowl on her face. She's much taller than me, but even taller today in the heels that seem to glow a hue of blue. Probably straight from the Capitol. Made for reaping occasions. Must have cost a fortune—a District 2 fortune.

She must have sensed my eyes on her, because she turns her head slightly and catches my gaze, holding it. Mariana and I have hated each other from the first day of school. She's always been in my classes. We're both mediocre students, but she has her talents, just like I do. She's not a Career—she didn't choose that path. I don't know why we both hate each other, but something led to something, and now it's tradition from me to spit an insult at her each time I pass her. Today will be no exception.

"Twit," I mouth at her.

She merely smirks. Maybe the reaping has her in high spirits. I know it's probably terrible for me to think, but I secretly wish each year she'll get picked—and that nobody volunteers. She's not a fighter at all. Her hands are soft and have no calluses in any way. I know that from the lame slaps she gives me occasionally. She wouldn't last a minute in the arena. It would be lovely to see someone knife her to death. Of course, she's just a child. But so is everyone else who gets pummeled in there.

I break her gaze and keep scanning for boys. I stay mostly in the sixteen-to-eighteen regions, because that's where most Careers are from. They'll most likely volunteer. Who will be my partner and competitor . . . .?

My eyes stop in the sixteen section. Someone is looking at me. A tall, muscular, broad boy with light blonde hair. He has an angular face and square jaw. His eyes, even from this distance, I can see are blue, though they have a dark determined stare to them. He's wearing plain reaping clothes, but I can still see he's strong, powerful, and could easily just snap a kid into pieces.

I hold his gaze, staring back just as darkly, with a smirk on my face. I know this boy. I've seen him at the training centers around my region. He doesn't live far from Zephyr. Plus he goes to my school, though he's several grades up. His name is Cato. I can't recall his last name . . . .Tylum? Telum! That's it. Cato Telum. He's been a Career for ages. Probably waiting for a good year to volunteer. He's amazing with a spear, I think, almost admiringly.

Cato winks at me from across the crowded square and then turns to watch the mayor again. I blink. Did he just wink at me? Did he? I give a soft snort. The nerve of him. I hope he doesn't volunteer. Though he probably will. It'll be his last year next year. He'll want to get in a Games sometime soon.

I lift my head high, keeping a smooth haughty look on my face, and turn to listen to the last of Mayor Quintonby's speech.

She finishes. Applause. I clap along robotically. Let's get a move on.

The mayor steps aside as the all-time favorite District 2 escort bounds up the side steps onto the stage: Wilcorn Buffet. A squat portly man who sports a wild bowler cap of a vivid green. He wears a bright yellow suit with a lapel two inches wide. His patent leather shoes are so shiny my eyes hurt from looking at them. They're a neon purple. That's Capitol fashion for you. He's been here every year. His round face, funny demeanor, and way of making jokes out of everything always produces much fun for the audience.

"Well, well, well," he says in the high-pitched Capitol accent. He bounces on the balls of his feet like a young schoolboy, ready to read out who has just won a prize. Of course, to us, it is a prize. But I've seen other Districts on television. They think the Games are terrible. A brutal way to manipulate the people, forcing their children to fight to the death. They hate it; their reapings are boring, solemn gray events where the parents of the chosen children often burst into tears, clinging to them as they are pulled away. Such fragile brats. They can't take anything.

Here in 2, people love the reapings. They plan everything out excitedly. Everyone attends (not because it's the law) but they love seeing who gets picked. Even we children think it's an excitement.

"Another wonderful year of Hunger Games!" squeals Wilcorn. "Let's get a move on, then!"

Yes, please, I think impatiently. I stare at the bowl of girls' names intently.

"Ladies first, of course," says Wilcorn, reaching a stubby hand into the girls' bowl. I notice his nails are painted a glittering pink. He leafs around for a second, while the crowd holds its breath.

Then he pulls out a slip of paper. He walks back over to the podium, while I pray it's not my name so I can volunteer. He unfolds it, and reads in a clear voice—

"Maya Xavier."

A hushed silence.

Then thundering applause.

I am stunned.

Maya Xavier is Mariana Xavier's younger sister. She's thirteen. Just like Aunt Eureka was when she was picked. I catch a glimpse of Mariana through the crowd. She's as shocked as I am. Her face is deathly pale. Her hands are trembling. I realize she might faint.

Maya Xavier stumbles up onto the stage, dressed in a little yellow sundress, her hair braided down her back. She looks a bit nervous, maybe frightened. But she knows it's an honor.

I can barely hear the crowd, or Wilcorn Buffet introducing her, his hands on her shoulders. All I see is Mariana, swaying unsteadily. This would kill her. She knows Maya can't survive the Hunger Games. She knows she can't herself.

Now Wilcorn is asking for volunteers. I glance from Wilcorn to Mariana blindly. Volunteering would be doing her a favor. But that's something I never wanted to do to Mariana Xavier. The girl who stole my clothes in gym when I was twelve. The girl who used to tug my braids back in the first grade.

But maybe this will be some of a in-the-face slap to her anyway. I am volunteering for her little sister. She'll never be able to repay me. And if I die, she'll have to live with that. But I'm not going to die. I'll come back and be a local celebrity. I'll have a fancy house. And she won't. Maybe it'll all work out.

I push myself out of the group of fourteens, and walk up calmly and confidently to the stage, head held high, ignoring Cato Telum's gaze that I can feel on me as I pass the sixteens.

"I volunteer!" I say in a strong voice. "I volunteer for her."

"Excellent!" cries Wilcorn Buffet, grabbing my arm and pulling me up to the stage, his long fingernails digging into my skin. He drags me to the podium as a Peacekeeper escorts Maya off. She's trembling and she's about to burst into tears. I don't know why though. She must not understand the full concept of Careers. Maybe it's practically an unknown thing to her and her family.

"Now, tell me your name," says Wilcorn eagerly.

"Clove." I say into the microphone. I hear my voice echo across the square. I see my face on the screens that hang from either side. I look calm, almost arrogant and cold. I like it. "Clove Coltello. I'm fourteen."

"Fourteen? You don't say. You're only a year older than that little Maya!" says Wilcorn, gesturing animatedly as he speaks. "How did you know her? You can't possibly be related."

I glance at him, then face the crowd. "I don't know her. I know her sister," I say loudly. I look at Mariana for a split second, then find my parents and Jaynn. My mother has tears of happiness streaming down her face. Jaynn looks a bit stricken, but he's trying to look glad for me. My father merely looks proud. Proud that his young daughter volunteered. And then I see Zephyr. He's proud too. He's satisfied with me. He gives me a thumbs up.

"Well, then, there you have it!" announces Wilcorn into the microphone. "Your District 2 female tribute: Clove Coltello!" he grasps my hand and waves it wildly in the air. His palms are slippery with sweat.

"Boys next!" Wilcorn skitters across the stage to the boys' glass ball, while I station myself by the chairs of victors, next to the oldest one, an elderly white haired main: Leroy Tillihue. He must be ninety.

Wilcorn's now got a slip of paper and is headed back to the microphone. He unfolds it and reads the name. I hold my breath.

Prufan Zain.

I have never heard of him before. He's apparently fifteen. He's skinny, a little sickly, and wears glasses almost too big for him.

He's barely halfway to the stage before a familiar blonde person dashes up to Wilcorn, shouting, "I volunteer!" keenly, a maniacal grin on his face. Cato Telum.

I groan inwardly.

"I volunteer as tribute!" says Cato eagerly.

But Wilcorn allows Prufan up onto the stage for a brief moment of applause before he's ushered away and Cato takes his place, towering over both me and Wilcorn.

"What's your name, son?" asks Wilcorn, quite pleased at the spectacle. Two volunteers this year, both very eager (though I didn't look it).

"I'm Cato Telum, I'm sixteen."

"Wonderful, wonderful," gushes Wilcorn. "There you have it, everyone Your District 2 male tribute! Cato Telum!"

The crowd bursts into wild applause, many girls screaming hysterically, giggling over Cato from down below. I roll my eyes.

Wilcorn pulls me over to his other side. He grips me and Cato's hands. "Ladies and gentlemen, may I present your District 2 tributes, Cato Telum and Clove Coltello!"

The applause is now deafening. My parents and Zephyr have joined in enthusiastically. Maya Xavier gazes at me white-faced from the other side of the square, clinging to her mother's dress. Mariana Xavier, down in the fourteens section, has a face of stone. She's still pale and shaking, but she gazes at me unblinkingly. She knows what I've done. I smirk a little at her. This will be fun..

"The 74th Hunger Games have begun," I mutter to myself.