I'm going to die.
It's my first thought once my training score pops up on the screen. There must be a mistake; this has to be a fluke. No Career in 65 Hunger Games has ever received a score as low as mine. Already, I can feel my sponsors turning away with disgust, my family back home saying they were right about me all along. My training was a waste! I've brought shame to my district. Even Euripides won't spare a glance at me. His face has turned to stone, body unmoving, as if he cannot believe it himself.
Five. The Gamemakers gave me a five.
Orion, my male counterpart, receives a 10. The tributes from two get a 9 and an 8. Both tributes from District Three received 4's, as to be expected. They barely moved during training. Four, Five, Six, Eight, Nine, Ten, Eleven and Twelve pass without my notice. I'd kick myself for it later. It's never a good idea to zone out during the training scores. I can only hope Quinn Winthrop, the horrendous woman that'll be interviewing each tribute, re-mentions them later. Thatcher receives an 8, his female counterpart a 6. I can't believe it. An outer-district lumberjack scored higher than a CAREER. I can't stand to watch the rest of this, I can't bear the shame. The Gamemakers gave me a five…
Yyvvaine, my stylist, smiles at me with pity while repositioning my hair. It waves teasingly, framing my face well.
"You look simply dashing, darling." She coos, planting a sticky, clear lip-glossed kiss on my cheek. I try my best to return her smile, but my face won't obey. Come to think of it, my entire body seemed locked in place, each joint fighting to remain frighteningly still as if it'd make me disappear. If I disappeared, I wouldn't have to face the games. Instantly, I'm angry with myself. I am a Career. A District One Career, and I am ready for this. I'm ready for this.
"Let's make way for Wren Livingston, District One's beautiful female tribute!" Ceasar Flickerman's voice trills through the air as I'm pushed forward by Euripides. He does not speak to me; he hasn't since my horrible training score was announced. I gracefully glide across the stage to shake Ceasar's hand, poised on the balls of my feet with my unused arm slightly extended as if I mean to fly right off the stage. He smiles encouragingly at me, bemused by my expressionless face.
"Please, darling," Ceaser gestures to one of two soft chairs on the stage with a pale hand, "sit." I regard his invitation with mild interest and accept, plastering a plastic smile on my mouth. The tone of his skin worries me; everyone knows Ceaser's appearance has something to do with the arena every year. "So, how about that five? It's a strange score for a Career…unless you aren't one." I know Ceasar does not mean to be taunting, but the simple implication that I am not worthy to be a Career within his words immediately strikes a fire within me. It blazes behind my eyes, causing Ceasar to lean back, a wary smile playing across his ruined mouth.
"I don't know how I received such a low score," my voice is silky and undeniably smooth. Euripides, Eveevee and Yyvvaine decided my angle was 'charming', since I am too hostile and boring to pull off dangerous or sexy. "All I know is it has nothing to do with my performance in the arena. Make no mistake; your winner will be from District One this year." I smile teasingly at the audience, winking my left eye in a flirtatious manner that comes across as awkward and unplanned. Their pleased laughter makes me want to leap off the stage and kill every single one of them. They came to watch me die, and are sure I will. No Career has ever gotten a five before. Ceasar claps my shoulder encouragingly, laughter booming from his mouth.
"Of course, my dear Wren. Tell me, is there a special man back home awaiting your return?" I must repress a snort of indignation. Of COURSE he asks about romance. He always does, year after year. It infuriates me. I want to kill him, too, in that moment, but in order to regain any sponsors and survive, I must play along.
I twirl a strand of reddish-brown hair around my finger, flashing a white toothed smile at the sickly pale man. "Of course, my dear Ceasar," I mimic, the audience whooping along as if I've included them in some private joke. "But there are too many to count! I could never pick just one handsome man out of that entire audience!" My right hand stretches out, pointing randomly into the audience. A young man with zebra striped skin and bright azure hair blushes deeply red, wiggling his fingers back at me. One sponsor down, many more to go. Ceasar's and my playful banter continues for the rest of my interview. He attempts to ask about home, and I cheekily avoid answering. The truth is, I seriously doubt I'll have a home to go back to. The buzzer sounds, and Ceasar kisses my cheek. From the expressions on Euripides' and Eveevee's faces, I've done something right.
Thatcher's interview, with all his cheek and charm, is not nearly as successful as mine. The banter exchanged between himself and Ceaser is more awkward than my unplanned flirtation, and despite my pride and self control, I cannot resist a laugh. It's a high, mocking trill that can surely be heard from the stage. Every tribute around me is silent; my laughter becomes all the more taunting. Thatcher glares at me from the stage, only broadening my grin. My cocky smile only lasts for a moment because the next image shooting through my brain is a bloodied Thatcher with a spear embedded in his gut. Acid bubbles up my throat from my stomach and I fear I'll be sick.
"Excuse me, excuse me…" I mutter, desperately trying to push the tributes and peacekeepers out of my way. They do not budge, and I panic further. With anger that rives my outburst in the training room with Thatcher, I growl, clawing my way out of the tight circle of laughing eyes and rock-solid bodies. I barely make it to the bathroom outside the interview room before rich Capitol food wins the war with my determination. I'm curled around a toilet, clutching my middle, when I hear Ceaser calling the female tribute from 10. I've obviously been in here too long, bathing in my humiliation. No sponsors will want to support a tribute that throws up after an interview, ESPECIALLY a Career. I should know better, I should do and be better than this. Tears brim in my eyes, threatening to pool over as a sob hitches in my throat. I press both palms into my eyes, allowing the wetness to trickle down my cheek onto the long, forest green dress Yyvvaine placed me in. Surely, it will stain and she'll punish me for it. The thought of her cheeks red with anger over something as stupid as a DRESS makes me laugh, and I'm thanking anything anyone anywhere holds sacred that I am alone.
"I know you're in there, Wren." What the hell? I hiss inwardly, narrowing both eyes in the direction of Thatcher's voice. For one, this is a ladies room, for crying out loud! His tone is comforting, sickly comforting, as if he pities me for my…incident. The fiery anger resurfaces as I launch myself from the stall, firsts balled at my sides and shoulders hunched with the weight of my fury. Thatcher simply watches me, unaffected by the black anger rolling from my body in hot waves. Both of his hands remain in his pockets and he slouches in a casual manner.
"I just…I just wanted to check and see if you were okay." He seems reproachful, shy, even. Well he should be! He's in the bloody ladies room, and we have NO business talking to each other! Another sob threatens to rack through my chest and I curse quietly, resulting in one of Thatcher's eyebrows rising in surprise.
"Why do you even care, Thatch?" I sniff, anger gone. I don't even have a chance to wipe away the tears before he is near me. Correction, in front of me, his body so close I can feel his chest press up against mine. My mouth hangs open, lips pursed in a surprised O. His eyes flicker to my mouth, and I can see the hunger in them. The same hunger I've felt growing from the moment I saw the reaping. I think he's going to kiss me, and…I seriously doubt I'll stop him. He doesn't kiss me. Instead, his strong arms wrap around my upper body, holding me close. He whispers comforting words in my ear, breath tickling my neck. Both of my fists are curled at his chest, slightly taut as I resist the urge to…to what? Fight him? Push him away? Doubtful. If anything, I want him closer.
A breathy sigh finds its way out of my mouth, and Thatcher stiffens. Suddenly, he is gone. He left as quickly and quietly as he came, leaving me empty and sobbing, just as I was before.
He was right. I am going to die in the games.
