When I open the heavy, wooden door to the gym, I try to make as insignificant an entrance as possible. Unfortunately, that's not possible with a trainer like Basia.
"There she is! My little champion!" booms a large woman—Basia—as she strides over to me, making no less than twenty other people in the gym turn towards us. With Basia, everything is over the top. She doesn't walk—she strides. She doesn't yell—she bellows. If you told her to dress formally for an event, she would show up in an outrageous costume. Basia is also about two meters tall and as muscular as an ox. But I've learned to deal with her eccentricities after five years of training with her.
Basia puts an arm over my shoulders (making it hard to breathe) and herds me over to our usual training area. I'm her only student. Many trainers have multiple trainees—usually one from each age group—but not Basia. She gets to put all of her effort into making a great spear-thrower out of me. I suspect this is one of the perks of being the headmaster's daughter. Ari had a personal trainer, too.
"We're not going to do much today," says Basia. "Don't want to put too much stress on your muscles or brain. Just do some easy throws, and we'll call it quits slightly early."
I nod and walk over to the throwing range. There is a rack full of different sizes and types of spears, all worn out from years of use. The ends are pretty blunt and the grips are ragged. I pick my favorite—a heavy thing of 180 centimeters with a rubber grip and detachable spearhead. I bounce it around in my throwing hand for a few seconds, trying to get the right balance. Then I take a running start (it took me years to get the footwork right) and hurl the spear as far as I can. It sticks in the turf floor of the range just past the thirty-meter mark.
Hearing the thwok sound the spear made, Basia looks up and complements me. "Good, good!" she says, and then comments to another trainer standing next to her, "We all have high hopes Aster will score well on the Exam. Did you know, when she first started training with me she couldn't do anything but trip over her own feet!" She lets out a big guffaw at this, but continues, "And now look at her!" Her friend nods and agrees.
It's true; I was almost a hopeless case when I started specialty training. The first day I walked into the gym to start training, I was terrified and still angry at my father. I sulked into the gym along with all the other excited thirteens who had chosen spear throwing, and I was determined to fail horribly. We all made a circle in the center of the gym, and were introduced to the trainers. When it was time to get assigned, I heard a powerful voice say, "I want that one!"
My eyes were turned to the ground, so I didn't see Basia pointing at me until Vikki elbowed me, and, startled, I glanced up. "Me?" I squeaked.
"Yes, you!" Basia said enthusiastically to me, and then said to the other trainers, "I like the look of her—a very good build for spear throwing." So that was how Basia became to be my trainer. But for a very good portion on my first year learning the spear, she was very, very wrong about my skill level. I couldn't get the footwork correct, and if I performed it decently once, my arms would be out of sync. I was also too "afraid of my own strength," as Basia would say, and didn't break fifteen meters until everyone else was already at twenty. Often times, Basia would just make me sit out a practice and watch her throw. She may be heavy, but her feet are as quick as flash.
Sometimes, I would be so discouraged that I dreaded going to practice. But the thing about Basia is that she's so supportive—she makes everybody feel like a hero. "You have the best wrist flick I've ever seen," she'd say—completely ignoring the fact that I'd tripped over my own feet again.
Basia also told me stories of how she hadn't been picked to volunteer for the Hunger Games, because she was actually been very lazy as a child. She wouldn't come to practice no matter how much her trainer scolded her. In the end, even with all of her natural skill, she wasn't good enough to do well on the Exam. "That's why you'll do well," she always says to me. "You know the meaning of 'no free time.'"
Despite not having much talent at the beginning, Basia has really propelled me to the top of my age group. We just work well together. She enjoys giving almost impossible workouts, and I'll complete them with no complaints. Since we don't get to see our family except on holidays, Basia became like a second mother to me because of all the time we spent together. Eventually, Basia was right, I did become a really good spear thrower. Somewhere along the line, after many practices, something just "clicked" in me, and I finally understood completely Basia's advice and techniques on spear throwing. I surged forwards in skill, and soon surpassed all the other female spear throwers, and even some of the boys. I still don't love spear throwing, mainly because it wasn't even my choice, but Basia has made me great at it.
I take a few more throws, until Basia tells me to stop so I don't hurt my arm the day before the Exam. I jog a little bit around the track in the gym across the hall, and then it's already dinnertime. At breakfast and dinner we have to sit with our roommates (lunch is much more informal, and we don't have to, so that's why I can sit with August). Regina is literally bouncing up and down in her seat; she's so excited for the Exam. Vikki is sharing in her enthusiasm, as always. Ada is also eager and apprehensive, but looses interest in Regina's nonstop talking when food is served.
"When I go to the Capitol, I'm going get my unibrow fixed!" Regina is explaining. "They have all this technology that can just stop the hairs from ever growing back." She doesn't really have a unibrow—just slightly bushy eyebrows—but she's the type of person who is really self-conscious about her appearance.
"If you win," asks Vikki, "can you take me to the Capitol to visit?"
"Of course! That would be awesome," she says, and after a pause, she looks at me and Ada across the table and tells us, "You guys can come, too, if you want."
"Huh?" says Ada blankly as she looks up from the steak she has been busily sawing away at.
"Whatever," Regina says, brushing away her comment. "Anyway, I heard that you get your own stylist and makeup artists and everything in the Capitol!"
Vikki oohs in awe.
"I can't wait!" Regina is talking about going to the Capitol like she already won the Exam. Which she could very much do—but it's not a good thing to be too sure of yourself, no matter what the odds are.
After dinner and a special good luck speech to us eighteens, we file back to our rooms to get a good night's sleep before the Final Exam. Ada won't have to wake us up for breakfast because there is no designated wake-up time tomorrow. Since everyone takes the exam at different times of the day, you can wake up any time you like, as long as it's before your scheduled Exam time.
We change into our pajamas and exchange goodnights and good lucks.
"Gook luck, Regina. Good luck, Vikki. Good luck, Aster. Goodnight everybody," says Ada in her breathy voice. It was just so Ada-like for her to wish us all good luck personally.
"Good luck," says Regina to all of us, and we repeat her. I turn the light out and it's immediately pitch black in the room. Unlike all my other bunkmates, I feel apprehensive about the test. I know I can do well, maybe even score the highest and be chosen to volunteer. But do I really want to fight in the Hunger Games? That answer is a definite no. I know what happened to Victoria, and I don't like thinking about how she died. And if I refuse to volunteer, will my father disown me as a disgrace to his bloodline? That answer is a definite yes.
Finally, I'm able to fall asleep. But after what seems like only a few hours, I wake to a strange noise. It's still pitch black, the middle of the night, so I can't see any thing, but I do hear a distinctive sound. Someone is crying. They're trying to cover it up by using a pillow or something to muffle the sound, but it was loud enough to wake me up. Without sight, my sense of hearing has increased: the sobbing is coming from the bed directly opposite mine. It's Regina.
"Regina," I whisper, careful to not wake the others. The crying abruptly stops.
"What is it?" her strangled voice asks.
I almost ask if she's okay, but stop myself because I realize it's a stupid and unhelpful thing to say. Of course she's not okay—she's crying her eyes out!
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing."
"Regina," I plead. I'm so confused—just hours ago at dinner she was exhilarated. "I know there's something bothering you; I can tell. Maybe I can help."
There's a long pause from her end, and I begin to get afraid she's ignoring me. But then I hear an almost inaudible answer. "I'm scared."
So that's it. Talented, excited, Capitol-bound Regina is scared. "Don't worry," I answer. "If you know that you're scared about the Exam, you can guarantee that every other single girl is scared as well. It's a completely level playing field. Plus, you have an advantage because you can hide it."
She doesn't say anything, but I can tell she heard me. After a while, her sniffles get more and more irregular, until I can tell by her breathing pattern that she's asleep. I don't think I'll mention our conversation to the others in the morning—that wouldn't be fair to Regina.
Review? The next chapter will be about Victoria!
