Chapter 3
The door closed behind me and I was alone. I didn't sit down for fear that I wouldn't be able to get back up again.
With the Worm Girl's sadistic grin still burned on my brain, I finally began to realise the full extent of what had just happened to me.
I was going into the Hunger Games.
I pinched my arm.
Nope, not a dream. I wasn't that lucky.
I was going to die.
I was shaking terribly, and I pressed my hand over my mouth as the hyperventilating began. I fell into a chair.
In a matter of days I would be going into an arena to fight for my life with twenty-three other teenagers. Inclusive to that was a girl who seemed to find the prospect of murdering me rather amusing. Fantastic. Crazy bitch. She was the type I would need to watch out for.
Oh God, I was already thinking up a game plan! This was actually happening! But I guess it was never too early to start, right? I would need all the time in the world to come up with a way to get out of this in one piece …
Oh, who was I kidding? I had no chance at all. None. I was a dead man. Dead like Boy #2 and Sparks33 alike.
My facial muscles began to twitch as my eyes pricked and stung with tears.
And just then, the door opened and my parents rushed in.
I stood up quickly. My mom ran at me and buried herself in my shirt, which only this morning she was giving out to me for not tucking a napkin into at breakfast. Now she appeared to be using it as a tissue as she sobbed hysterically. It was awful. I just hugged her and looked over her head at my dad, whose eyes were wet too. But he pressed his lips together bravely and put his hand on my shoulder.
I don't think I had ever been serious about anything in my life. I usually found a way to turn everything into a joke so I wouldn't have to deal with shit. But now, for the first time, I didn't make any insensitive joke or even attempt to lighten the mood.
The most I could do for my parents now was not to cry.
And as I hugged her tightly, my mom whispered, "Such strong arms. When did you get to be so strong?"
"Definitely all those video games," I said lightly. "They're a real thumb-workout, I'm telling ya."
OK, so I couldn't help one joke. And it was funny because whether or not it did anything for my thumbs, all the sword fighting most definitely did a little something for my biceps. I had always been skinny, scrawny almost, but recently I had become a hell of a lot leaner. Not that it made a difference now.
My dad opened his mouth to speak but I said, "Can we just not talk about it? I'm so sorry."
"It's not fair," choked Mom. And I agreed with her, in some ways. Someone had to go, but I felt at full liberty to be pissed off that it had to be me. Why me? Why not … anyone else but me? I knew plenty of wankers in school that deserved this more than I did. I rather liked me. I was rather attached to my life. I didn't want to die.
And that wasn't a completely selfish thought. My parents were going from two kids to none in the space of three years.
What would my parents even do without me now? I was literally all they had. My mom was basically catatonic as it was, and what would Dad do with her when I wasn't around as a reliable source of comedy and tension diffusion? Their worlds revolved around me, no point denying it.
The three of us stood there in an awkward, dysfunctional group hug for the duration of our allotted 'so long farewell please don't become a cannibal' time. It seemed as if it was as soon as the Peacekeepers came to throw my parents out, that I suddenly found the words. Or some words, at least.
Mom screamed and hit my chest, and I just held her away from me and looked firmly at my dad. "Dad, Atticus is going to come by. Let him take whatever from my room."
Dad nodded. "Of course."
Mom was pulling herself from my arms, grabbing my face in both her hands, looking wild and desperate with her face all shining and wet.
I swallowed and forced myself to look at her. "Just … don't be disappointed with me," I got out.
She met my eyes. People always told me I had her eyes. They just looked like regular brown ones to me. "You'll do your best," she said firmly. And right then, the way she said it, it sounded more like an order.
Tears were rolling slowly down Dad's face. "We are so proud of you, Kale."
"Thanks, Dad."
They told me they loved me as the Peacekeepers ripped their arms from me and hauled them out of the room. My last words to them were,
"Thanks for being my parents." Because I didn't know what else to say.
I went to the window and hunched over, my head in my hands, and screwed my face up. I didn't know if this was a panic attack or I was simply about to burst into a girlish fit of tears, and I never actually found out. Because at that moment the door opened again, and I looked up to see Atticus standing in the doorway. His face was still frozen in the same expression of pure disbelief.
"Sparky," he said.
Something about seeing my best friend suddenly woke me out of the hopelessness left behind by my parents, and allowed me to blurt out the one thing I was freaking out about more than anything.
"Att, that girl is A TOTAL INSANE PSYCHO!"
Atticus blinked and shook his head at me. "What?"
"Worm Girl!" I yelled, pointing energetically at the door. And I didn't exactly know why this girl was the first thing on my mind in a situation like this. But hey, I was a dying man. I could do whatever the hell I wanted. "She's mental! I swear, she's gonna kill me in my sleep before we even get to the Games! No – wait – she'll kill the driver and crash the train! I wouldn't put it past her! Honest to God, she's CRAAAAZY!"
Atticus had closed the door behind him because I was shouting ever so slightly and my voice tended to carry, even when I wasn't trying. He looked at me seriously, pushing his glasses up on his nose. "Who – you mean Annelida?"
"Yeah," I said impatiently. "Sorry, she told me she's a worm – I'm telling you, she's out of her mind. Where the hell did that girl come from anyway?"
Atticus looked at me, wrinkling his brow like he thought I was joking. "Dude, she sits beside you in Post-Modern Physics!"
"WHAT?" I bellowed.
And Atticus grinned. Was this a time for grinning? Hm, oh that's right – NO IT DAMN WELL WASN'T! "What the hell is wrong with you? Remember I had to do my project with her after Mr Hutzler said the two of us couldn't be partners any more?"
"But – She should be in a mental institution!" I proclaimed. "You saw her sadistic grin out there. She thinks the idea of murdering me is hilarious!"
"Annelida?" he replied. "No way. She's a sweet girl, Sparky. She's got a wicked sense of humour, too -"
"I'M GOING OFF TO MY DEATH AND YOU'RE ONLY TALKING ABOUT THIS RANDOM INSANE GIRL WHO WANTS ME DEAD? WHAT THE HELL KIND OF FRIEND ARE YOU ANYWAY?"
"You're the one who brought her up!" Atticus said loudly. Not angrily, just forcefully enough to shut me up instantly. He had a sage-like calmness, young Atticus. I scowled, and he shook his fair hair out of his eyes.
I plopped myself back into the room's only seat. "I just thought … I never thought we'd get picked. Either of us. I don't know why, but I did."
"Me too," said Atticus.
We were quiet for a moment. Thinking about my death. Thinking about leaving Atticus and my parents with nobody. No more Sparky lovin' to give once I was gone. How tragic it was.
"I'm going to die a virgin," I realised aloud.
Atticus laughed at me. It wasn't funny, but I appreciated it. And I felt slightly better knowing I could still joke about this. Like I wasn't actually about to die a virgin. Which … truth be told … I was.
(You tell anyone, I slit your freaking throat.)
"Hang on, who says you're gonna die?" the doof comes out with.
"Oh right! I keep getting this mixed up with the Satiety Games, where nobody dies and we're all granted eternal life. Wow, what a stroke of luck I got picked!"
Atticus glared at me.
I thumped myself in the head and sighed. "It's the Hunger Games, Att, dying is kinda the entire point."
"No," he said. I goggled at him. It seemed like everyone was becoming a lunatic today. Maybe I should give it a try. He met my eyes seriously. "You're not dying, not if I can help it. And, look, we're wasting time here! We need to sort out your game plan. What-"
"Game plan? GAME PLAN? Dude, it's past that! I'm out like the natural look in the Capitol. I'm dead like dork in a pack of wild Careers! On second thought, that's not even a metaphor. I literally am a dork in a pack of wild Careers."
"That was a simile, not a metaphor."
I stared at him, and cocked my head. "I'm not going to miss that."
He grinned goofily. "Sparky, you're missing the big picture! Can't you see? You've had more training than anyone going into that arena, even the Careers!"
I rolled my eyes to show I wasn't amused, but I was actually refraining from getting up and kicking the shit out of the nearest soft object (which probably would have been Atticus, if I'm being honest). I couldn't believe this was the last conversation I was ever going to have with my best friend. And only friend, for that matter. And so it was only natural that I began to get narky. "Your dumb game isn't training, and please don't patronise me. I'm about to die and I'm not very happy about it."
I crossed my arms and looked away.
Then Atticus slapped me in the face.
"What the hell, man?" I yelled, cupping my stinging cheek in my hands.
Atticus was all up in my grill, hands on either arm of my seat. "No," he said quietly. (Quietly, but with dead seriousness.) His clear blue eyes were magnified behind his glasses. "You're not giving up. What'll I do without you, huh? What about your parents? Who's going to pop Melissa May Hutcherson's cherry?"
"Uh, I dunno. Maybe her boyfriend."
Atticus poked a finger into my chest. "Come back a victor – You will be her boyfriend."
I stared at the wall and felt my eyes widen. "So what's this game plan you were shitting on about?" I asked hastily. Before he could say anything I was already having second thoughts. Or third thoughts, as the case was. "Hang on – I can't tell the mentors about the Game! It's illegal!"
Suddenly I was thinking about the mentors, who had been mysteriously absent from the reaping ceremony. And panic was just beginning to set in before I realised that Wiress, being the youngest victor from our district, would be the one mentoring. Not Beetee. I relaxed considerably at that thought. But there was still the issue of giving away my game plan. Getting Atticus into trouble. And getting myself into trouble, if there wasn't the large probability that I wouldn't be coming back from this ordeal alive.
"This is life or death, you thick shit!" Atticus said loudly. "I don't care! You're gonna go in there and tell them you've got the sword skills of a samurai. That you can use a bow and arrows. That you already know how to deal with any combination of tributes around you. That you know how to handle every terrain they've thrown into the arena since the very First Hunger Games!"
He was bonkers. "First problem: I can't run! I've never held a real sword in my life. I've never aimed an arrow-"
"So that's what the training is for! You have three days. You go in there, pick up a sword in your hands. Get a feel for it. The skills are there, you just need to break them in!"
I breathed in heavily through my nose. "Second problem: I can't predict the actions of twenty-three fully conscious, non-pixelated Tributes."
"Nobody can. But you've got as good a chance as any of them do. Better, I'd wager."
"THIRD PROBLEM," I said, gritting my teeth. I couldn't bring myself to say anything for a moment. Then I burst out, "I can't kill a real person!"
Atticus glared at me. He fixed his glasses solemnly.
"This isn't a game, dude," I said, my courage forced. I hoped he didn't notice my voice squeaking up a little at the end. Just a little.
He met my eyes and shook his head sadly. "Is it really so different, Sparky?"
I didn't know if he meant that about the game or about the killing. Both, I guess.
"The Game is sound," he said. "Remember how much research we put into it?"
I did remember that. The old tapes of every past Hunger Games were still stashed away under my bed. Notebooks full of personalities and skills and strategies. Even more full of our own game plans once development was finished and we began to play. Turns out it was easier to programme an infinite list of characters with different skills and levels and tactics than it was to make up your own way of beating them.
Suddenly I was thinking of the hundreds of games plans I had carried out over the years. I was pretty much the master of the Game. That's why I had a Master's sword. But no - this was crazy. The video Games couldn't help me.
"I've never won it," I said, my voice quiet for once.
"You've come pretty damn close," he replied.
I couldn't think what else to say. Was there really a chance? My heart was suddenly beating hard in my chest, my mind setting on a course of action. This was the same thing I did daily. I knew better than anyone how to play the Hunger Games. So my chances weren't guaranteed, but who cares? I had a chance at least! I could still try. "Just … don't be disappointed with me if I can't do it, okay?"
I vaguely realised that it was much the same thing I had told my mother. Don't be disappointed if I'm dead in an hour.
"As long as you haven't given up hope, I won't."
I stood up and faced my friend, standing inches above the top of his blonde head. I placed my hand on his shoulder. He could have possibly just given me the key to my survival in the arena. "Atticus-"
"We've got no time," he interrupted. "Here – I dunno if you've got any token you want to wear from the district." I blinked at him, a token being the last thing on my mind. He nodded, reading my face easily. "Then I want you to wear your buddy band, okay?"
The band was already on my wrist. It was just a black leather bracelet, a simple plait with a silver disc intertwined between the straps. Atticus had a similar one, but brown and thick and carved instead of plaited. They were NOT friendship bracelets or buddy bands because that is gay (and he knew I HATED it when he called them that!). But still, I had been wearing it constantly for years. I still remember the day we got them, back when we were kids exploring the market that springs up in town every summer. We saw them and thought of something cool. I can't even remember what. Maybe pirates. Or barbarians. But we had to have them. We spent our ice-cream money on them.
I was glad to have that as my token in the Games. Not just to remind me of my district. But to remind me of my best friend. To remind me of myself.
At least I thought that was what Atticus meant when he looked seriously into my face and said, "Never forget yourself in there, Sparky."
I really didn't know what that was supposed to mean, but it made an image prop up in my mind. Me, in the Hunger Games. Me, with my average height, my average build, my hair which would surely turn into a complete jew fro if the humidity wasn't right in whatever arena was awaiting me. I swallowed. This was one of the first times I began thinking of myself as physically in the arena. Fighting for my life. Fighting to kill.
I was a tribute.
But I was no longer a limp corpse lying silent on the ground. I had a chance. I was going to fight.
We knew instinctively that our time was almost up. Most kids, I thought, would tell their friends to always remember them. Maybe to fix one thing, to tie one loose end. Some kids might have to instruct their friends how to take care of themselves, how to take care of their families.
My version of this was slightly different.
"Porn under my mattress," I began, my words slurring with the speed of my panic as we edged reluctantly to the door. "Can of spray-paint behind the books on the corner shelf. Half-bottle whiskey there, too. Strategy notebooks in a shoebox under my bed. Condoms in my bottom drawer – And take whatever you like from my comics and collectors' stuff – OH, and the TV's switched off but the Game's still on pause. So don't turn it off. Maybe I'll be back to finish it soon enough," I concluded, shooting him a grin.
He grinned widely back and punched my arm. "I knew you hadn't given up!"
The door opened and it was time for him to go.
We stared at each other, realising that this could well be it.
"I love you, Sparky," he said.
"Don't be a fag."
And then he was gone, and I was alone once more.
