Trainer Flavius' insult is doubly demeaning.

He has spit on me, which is cruel in and of itself, but he only does that to those from whom he expects the most. I have no doubt that had Enobaria lost our duel, he would have done the same thing to her. He might have even killed her, or selected her to be in the first threshing brawl. Of course, for Enobaria the latter would be an honor, but for everyone else it would mean suicide. I shut my eyes tight and try not to think about that. Only after the encompassing blackness behind my eyelids returns to a normal gray do I try to stand. My legs shake, but they seem to contain bones now instead of quivering masses of slime. Sparkle walks over to me, her eyes gleaming and her expression haughty. "How's it feel to lose, huh?" I sparred with her during a match last week, and I'd defeated the blonde Career princess in three minutes.

"Wonderful, considering what it feels like to die." I remember how hard Enobaria had clamped my throat.

"You look alive to me, you whiny whore. Why don't you stuff Sulla's hand in your mouth to feel better?"

"No, thank you. I prefer your brother by far." I grin mischievously, knowing that this is a lie in order to make Sparkle lose her cool. It works, but all she does is grunt through clenched teeth like a bull about to charge. Sulla isn't around at the moment, and I'm glad of that. If he heard what Sparkle said, he'd tell me that her idea was a good one. He's always hitting on me. I'm a Career, not a baby-making Mundane! Besides, Sulla's not my type - too angry. Flavius pumps him full of highly-concentrated hormones and steroids of all kinds every day. He's the only one who stands a chance against Enobaria, and I don't like that. A brute can fight to the death, but what good is one if, in the heat of battle, he can't tell his allies from his foes? I'm afraid that if he gets chosen to volunteer for the 62nd Hunger Games, he'll kill his fellow Careers before the weaker tributes. What good will that do, at least for the districts of One, Two and Four? I know three things for sure: I'll be Enobaria's servant, I'm out of the volunteer lists, and the threshing brawls start tomorrow.

As if those misfortunes weren't bad enough, combined with my broken nose, I don't even get to watch the rest of the sparring matches. That's a routine punishment for the losers of fights. Instead of continuing to watch and learn from my fellow Careers-in-training, I'm ordered to wash dirty uniforms and undergarments with the Equipment Managers instead. They're not Avoxes, but they might as well be. They're Mundanes - people who aren't Careers - of low status here in District Two. Still, being an Equipment Manager is far better than being a quarry worker. Even then, you have to have a perfect resume and flawless references. After some Injury Specialists set my nose back in place and splint it, I'm sent to the laundry room. A fresh and pungent pile of sweaty underwear awaits me, and I begin to dump it in one of the washing machines. "Ah-ah-ah," an Equipment Manager chides. "You lost a sparring match today, so do those by hand." I could make his nose match mine, but I won't. Such a thing would be a waste of time, and I don't want to follow Flavius' example. Thus, I take my penalty in stride, and many of my fellow tributes soon join me.

At dinnertime Cornelia, the fastest sprinter out of all of us, points at me and giggles. "Oh, look, an Avox."

"Civis Panema sum," I retort. "I am a citizen of Panem." Yes, Panema: 'Panem' after the preposition 'of'.

"What did you say? I can't hear you!" She draws out the word hear so that it's four syllables long, and her high, wheedling voice nearly shatters my eardrums. What's strange is that even though everyone else despises her, they follow her lead. No one speaks to me through the entire meal, staring through me as if I'm invisible. It's not just because I was beaten, or even beaten by Enobaria, but that Flavius spit on me. If he does that, then you're marked as a failure and given the silent treatment until he decides to speak to you again. Until then he'll simply point at you, and then at what he wants you to do, or where he wants you to go. All that I can hope for is that he forgives me enough to address me before I fight a threshing brawl. After my performance today, I might not even be chosen for that honor. You're only put on the lists if there is a nearly foolproof chance you'll be picked to volunteer for the Hunger Games. My chance is now slim.

The other Careers-in-training continue to chat and chew, tease and titter. I'm not fooled one bit. We all act like we're the best of friends at mealtime, under normal circumstances, but it's all a charade. The only real friendship I ever had, if you could call it that, was with a male tribute named Lucian who volunteered for last year's Games. We'd been like brother and sister throughout our training, but now my brother is dead.