Amaris da Costa, District Four, 17

I love lifting. I'm good at it. I can barely make it through a set without stopping to admire all the weight on the barbell and thinking about how amazing I am.

I set the bar on the pins and sit up just in time to see Lowen try to clean a stupidly heavy bar, fail, stumble backwards, and almost drop it on herself.

"Wow," I comment. "Careful there."

"Shut up."

"And you're supposed to be volunteering today? That's stupid. I could kill you with my eyes closed."

Usually I'm not quite so openly aggressive, but here in the "specialty gym", with Lowen, I've got nothing to hide.

She rolls her eyes. "Try it."

"You're not worth prison."

"You mean you don't want to die," she snaps back.

I consider that. "You know? I don't like you."

"Good."

"I wasn't finished."

"I don't care."

"I'm volunteering."

She freezes. "What?"

"I. Am. Volunteering."

"You better not."

"And I'm closer to the stage," I say cheerfully. "So guess who's gonna get there first? Me. Tough luck. Shouldn't have been a bitch."

"Amaris," she says in disbelief. "I've been training since I was twelve."

"Me too."

"Volunteer next year!"

"Mmm… no."

"Amaris," she pleads. It's fake. She knows the best-case scenario of fighting me is injuries bad enough to take her out of the Games anyway, so she'll sacrifice her pride before turning to violence.

"Still no."

Lowen's face snaps back to its usual glare. She's so ugly. "Last chance," she hisses.

"Nope, sorry."

"Fine."

And just like that, we're fighting. She dives for me. I jump backwards onto the bench and shoot a kick at her solar plexus, sending her stumbling backwards into the dumbbell rack. She grabs one and swings at my head with it. I feel the breeze as it misses my forehead by an inch, noting that she just tried to kill me. Rude.

She tries to take me by surprise with a backhand, but I'm smarter; I catch her arm and twist it, dragging her off-balance and forcing her to let go of the weight so it doesn't break her wrist. It shatters the mirror. I crouch and twist her arm more, lifting her clear off the ground and flipping her over my shoulder. She lands on her side, and I've still got her arm; I follow her to the ground and put her in an arm bar. She taps out reflexively. Ha. I break her arm anyway.

To her credit, Lowen doesn't react aside from a sharp intake of breath. She closes her eyes for a second, then opens them to glare at me. "You bitch," she snarls. "What the fuck did you-?"

I twist her arm to the side, shattering her elbow beyond repair. Looks like she'll have to get a desk job. What a shame. Except, oops, that was her right arm, so she'll have to learn to live as a leftie too.

I can see it in her eyes as she gives up completely. It makes sense; I just destroyed all her hopes and dreams. Well, that's what you get.

"I hope you die," she says, her voice more a sigh than a snarl.

"Shut up or you will die."

"Fuck you. I don't care."

I consider my options. This whole complex is reserved for Careers and their trainers, sprawling along the clifftops overlooking the ocean. Lots of windows. The view is beautiful as I shatter her arm just a bit more, because I can.

I could kill her. But I might strain my back hiding her body; she's got to be pushing two hundred pounds. And where would I hide her? There are all sorts of weird nooks and crannies around here, but every twelve-year-old newbie has nothing better to do than explore them, convincing themselves they're the first one to ever have the brilliant idea of, say, opening a door. And everyone's here today. It's a miracle we're alone in the weight room.

I stand up with a grumpy sigh, stomping on Lowen's ribs for good measure. "Too much work," I decide. "Come up with a story. Maybe you fell down the stairs?"

"Maybe a crazy bitch picked a fight with me when I was tired from lifting."

"Oh, uh-uh. No slander. You'll regret it."

"What're you gonna do, break more bones?" she grits out, dragging herself to her feet. "You think I haven't lost track of the bones I've broken by now?"

"No. But if you do anything to piss me off, then when I come back–"

"You're not coming back," she cuts me off.

"When I come back, I'll ruin the lives of everyone you care about. You know I can. I'll be a Victor. You're nothing."

Her eyes narrow at the accusation, because she knows it's true. She didn't even go to normal school. All she's good for is fighting. Too bad she's not even good enough at that. "I don't care about anyone enough to lie about this," she says.

"Aw, c'mon, Lo-lo," I tease. "You've got a family. Don't be a brat."

There's no fire in the look she gives me. Suddenly she seems so much older than me, and I don't know why, and it pisses me off.

"So do you want a fucking war or not?" I hiss in her face. "If you tell anyone what happened to you, I promise you'll regret it."

She gives me that same calm look. "I'll think about it. Shouldn't you go get dolled up for your big moment?"

I gasp. "You're right! Thanks for reminding me! And remember, keep your mouth shut or I'll murder your little sister!" I yell over my shoulder. I might just do it anyway. Little sisters are the worst people in the world.

The run home is an interesting one. I have to keep adjusting my face from Extremely Aggressive Ragebeast Mode to Sweet Nice Girl. I've got appearances to keep up. Maybe a lost cause, since I'll be killing people in a week, but it's a habit. I'm fucking charming.

My bedroom door is closed when I get home, but Amani is in there. I can feel it in the floorboards, feel her body heat through the door, hear her breathing… I'm not sure exactly how I know, but I know.

I throw the door open. She sits bolt upright in my desk chair, my jewelry box in her lap.

My bracelets. She touched my bracelets.

"You little bitch," I hiss.

"No, Amaris, I was just–"

I cross the room in three strides and tear the box from her hands. "You are so lucky I don't–"

"I wasn't taking your things! I just lost my earrings and I thought maybe–"

"Don't interrupt!" I yell at her. "It's rude!"

"… Sorry," she squeaks.

Ugh. Whatever. Anyway, as much as I hate her, I could use an audience right now. "Guess what?"

"What?" she said cautiously, backing toward the door.

"I'm volunteering."

"I… yeah, I know."

"Today."

She blinks. "Really?"

"Really really!" I say brightly. "Excited?"

"Yeah."

My cheerful expression snaps to a scowl. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"What? Nothing. I'm excited for you," she says with the least convincing endearing face I've seen in my life.

Ugh. Ugh. Can't I dial up the universe and see if I can murder Amani and get Mom back? Because that was not a fair trade the first time around. Amani is pathetic. She's worthless. At least if someone ever dies for me, they'll be dying for someone smart and strong and beautiful. Mom would be proud of me. I bet she'd have stopped the pregnancy if she knew how Amani was going to turn out.

Needless to say, I inform Amani of this regularly. The one thing I can't have is her daring to think she was worth it. Hell, maybe she'll get the point eventually and work on not being worthless. Try to be awesome like me. But I doubt it.

"Why aren't you leaving?" I snap.

Amani dithers around near my door. "So… you're sure?"

"Yep." I mean it.

She nods. "Okay."

"Out."

She leaves. Finally.

Now to important things: my dress, shoes, and jewelry. Red dress. Short. Tight. Black heels, because no one should be looking at my feet when they could be looking at the rest of me. A necklace. Bracelets. I love bracelets. And oh, look, there are Amani's favorite earrings, right at the bottom of my jewelry box. I honestly don't know how they got there—Dad must've found them and assumed they were mine—but I shrug and put them on. If I do die in the Arena, I'll have the small comfort that Amani will never see them again.

And off to the Reapings I go.

It's a glamorous affair. We're spread out over miles and miles of coastline. People have to travel from the farthest reaches of District Four. Good thing being a Career gets me and my family a house within walking distance of the stage. The crowd is thickest here, where you can actually see what's going on without having to watch the viewscreens stretching off down the shoreline, but people get out of my way.

Well, most of them. Some of them, the ones I've been nice to, smile and wave but stay in my way. But, to my eternal delight, I don't have to be nice anymore, so I can send them scattering, leaving a trail of bruises and hurt feelings in my wake. No one fights back, so I don't care. Want me to stop? Then stop me. Can't? Tough.

I plant myself smack in front of the stage in the Seventeens row, shoulder to shoulder with every other girl my age in the District. The boys are behind us, and the Eighteens behind them, thousands and thousands of each lined up in a single row.

No sign of Lowen. There fucking better not be.

But oh, wait, speak of the devil. There she is. Arm in a sling. Chopped-off hair still dirty. Slinking into the Eighteens line. There's a collective alarmed rustle at the sight of her so beaten up, because oh my gracious goodness heavens, if Lowen isn't volunteering, who's to save the dear sweet innocent children?

Everyone arrives at the same conclusion at once and starts sneaking glances at my "friend" Jaida as the other eighteen-year-old trained female. Jaida laughs and shakes her head to tell them tough luck, sorry, no. She trains for fun. No intention of saving anyone.

A few glance at me. I keep my face neutral. Nervous, even. Let them wonder.

But then I notice something terrible.

It's Lowen's little sister. And her parents. Shoving through the crowd to get to her. They probably haven't seen her in years; I'm pretty sure she sleeps at the Training Center. They're hugging her, touching her hurt arm gently. I can't hear what they're saying, but I can imagine. We're so happy you're not volunteering. Forget it. Come home.

Lowen hesitates, then wraps her good arm around her sister. I think she's crying.

Ugh. I might throw up. I am definitely making things unpleasant for the lot of them when I come back, and Lowen better know it.

At last Eliseo Hazen takes the stage. I barely have the self-control not to run up there right now, but I hold back, letting the tension build as he pulls a slip.

"Glashe Stranner!"

The cameras find her in seconds, giant screens zooming in on her. Average-looking fourteen-year-old. Oh look, she's crying too.

I clench my fists theatrically. Determined face. Dammit, I'm a martyr.

"I volunteer!" I yell.

Eliseo jumps around in a flurry of turquoise and green. "Ooooh, District Four never disappoints! Come up here! Come on up!"

I do, nodding gravely. Warrior face. Brave and strong. Fuck yeah.

I wait to be handed the microphone. This is my moment. But he just returns to the Reaping Ball, leaving me standing there with my arm half-extended.

Well. Fine. Okay. Apparently they changed the rules. Well, there's still the interviews for Panem to learn that I'm not only brave and beautiful, but also brilliant.

"And the boys… Cor–"

"I volunteer!" Riley says, almost offhandedly, ambling toward the stage.

Eliseo smiles and nods. Then he stops smiling and holds a hand to his ear.

Riley makes it to the stage and frowns. He's at least two feet taller than Eliseo. "Something wrong?" he growls.

"Er," Eliseo says nervously. "You, er… you weren't the first volunteer."

The crowd gasps. So do I. This is interesting.

"Sorry," Eliseo squeaks.

Riley stares at him in disbelief. For a moment I think he's going to pick the escort out and toss him into the crowd. To my immense disappointment, he just takes a deep breath, grits his teeth, nods, and leaves the stage. But I know someone will pay the price for this, probably his girlfriend.

Eliseo breathes a sigh of relief. "Now, if we could see…?"

I can't help twisting around to the screens to see who my darkhorse partner will be.

Ooh.

I can work with this.

He's tall. A little too skinny, but with messy dark hair, dark eyes… even I'm impressed with his eyebrow game, and needless to say, my eyebrows are perfect. The black eye and streaks of blood on his clothes mar it slightly, but whatever. The look on his face says he's doing this to spite someone. Maybe everyone. Well, I'll find out.

We are going to be glamorous.

So uh just curious, is anyone actually reading this?