Just throwing this out here, another possible theme song for Jeanette is "Tomorrow" from Annie.

Jeanette Walters, 13, District 9

I don't even realise I'm going about my normal morning routine until I find myself sitting in the breakfast car, box of cereal in one hand, hot chocolate in the other, facing the window and watching the sun rise.

There's something comforting in that. Sure, the food may be different, the chair may be cozier, but the sky is turning the same masterpiece of colours I see every morning. Such a sight has always reassured me, whether it was my first sunrise in 1, or in 9, or on this Capitol train. It lets me know that, no matter how much my life has changed, the world is still the same, and it will continue to be the same. I am merely one tiny cog in an endless machine.

A feeling of peace washes over me, and I resolve not to cry today. I did last night, for hours on end, until somehow I fell asleep on my tear-stained pillow. Understandable, of course, but I can't put myself through that again. It made me feel awful, and I don't like feeling awful. I want to be happy, even if that's nearly impossible for my situation.

No, I shouldn't think like that. Nothing's impossible. I just have to remember my mother's last words to me. "Believe," she'd said, "Believe this will all work out."

I do, now. Whether it's because the Capitol's not serious about the Hunger Games, or because we'll be rescued by rebels beforehand, somehow, things will turn out for the best. The only thing that's impossible to imagine is a future where me and twenty-three other kids are thrown into an arena and forced to kill each other.

Things will work out. No matter what happens, there will always be another sunrise tomorrow.

I keep watching the window long after the sun leaves the horizon. My escort Candi said we'd be arriving in the Capitol at some point this morning, and as nervous as I may be, I also can't contain my excitement at finally seeing Panem's wealthiest and prettiest city. It appears I'm the only eager one, however. Maybe Candi and Stanley just aren't morning people.

As if on cue, the door to the breakfast car slides open, and in stumbles my district partner. He's in nothing but a pair of PJ pants, hair a rat's nest and grey eyes clouded with sleep. I don't think he even sees me; he staggers right by, heading straight for the coffee pot.

I can't help but smile as he blindly fills the nearest mug. It reminds me so much of my older sister; Lauren's only sixteen, but she has the exact same coffee habits. Lots of people drink it in 9, considering they grow the beans as well as normal grain, and while it's nowhere near the calibre of this finely-ground, flavoured Capitol stuff, it's certainly strong enough to get people hooked.

Stanley finishes pouring and raises the mug to his lips, not seeming to care it's steaming hot. He takes a big gulp, and I giggle out loud at the long sigh he lets out after swallowing.

Now apparently alert enough to register my presence, he turns to face me and leans back against the table.

"Hey, Shortstuff. You're up early."

I set down my hot chocolate and cereal to cross my arms, though I'm still grinning. "I'm 5'10". You're just abnormally tall."

"Thirteen and 5'10" and I'm the one who's abnormal?" He laughs and ducks as I chuck a piece of cereal his way. "All right, all right. What name would you prefer? Giraffe?"

"How about Sauroposeidon?"

"Beg pardon?"

"Tallest dinosaur ever. Way taller than giraffes. Do you research."

He puts up his hands in mock surrender. "Well, excuse me. I forgot I was dealing with a nerd from Three."

"I was one when my family left Three."

"Sadly, you are still a nerd at heart."

"So what does that make you at heart? A grain enthusiast?"

He holds up his mug and grins. "A coffee addict."

"Just make sure you leave some for Candi. She didn't strike me as a morning person."

"Oh God, can you imagine? She was a tyrant last night, and that was her wide awake."

He makes a face, and I nod sympathetically. Sure, Candi insulted my appearance on more than one occasion, but Stanley couldn't do a thing without earning a lecture from her. You're supposed to pull the chairs out for the ladies first! That's the dessert fork, don't touch it now! How DARE you put your feet on the table!

"Well," I say, grinning slyly at Stanley. "I guess she's not as sweet as her name suggests."

I crack up laughing, more because of his expression than my horrendous joke.

"And just when I thought you were cool." He groans, putting a hand to his forehead. "Nope, that's it. Sorry, kid, but I'm going to have to kill you now."

The joke falls flat when he freezes, realising what he's just said. For a moment, an expression flashes over his face, one I've only seen one other time since I met him. It's the same look he wore after he got over the shock of being reaped. Shrewd, calculating—the face of a manipulator trying to decide if he screwed up and what his next move should be.

Lauren always calls me naïve, but I don't think I am, at least where Stanley is concerned. I get that this light-hearted, mischievous jokester is only one part of his personality. For all his country-bumpkin mannerisms, he's pretty smart. He thinks the Hunger Games are really going to happen, so he's trying to make friends with me.

I'd like to think this is so I don't kill him. Not so my guard is low enough for him to kill me.

But I also get that there's more to him than he thinks. When Candi called me a frizzy-haired beaver last night, Stanley jumped to my defence, a reaction I think was a reflex, not a carefully-calculated act of friendship. Deep down, past the happy-go-lucky exterior and the layers of cool, selfish interior, he cares. Maybe not enough to put his life on the line for me, but why should that be the standard for selflessness? I have an older sister who could have volunteered for me, kind of like what that boy from 6 did, but she didn't. Not because she doesn't love me, but because humans are naturally self-preserving. I get that.

But I've always been an anomaly, no matter where we lived. Jeanette Walters, with her knobbly knees and fiery hair, not pretty enough for 1. Jeanette Walters, with her dreamy attitude and wild imagination, not normal enough for 9.

So, Jeanette Walters, with her childish naiveté and over-the-top optimism, not selfish enough for the Hunger Games?

You won't have to find out. It's not going to happen. Just remember what Mom said. Believe everything will turn out for the best.

"Oi, brats!"

Stanley jumps, spilling coffee all over his chair as the car door slides open once more to admit our escort.

My district partner utters some colourful swear words, and even I can't help but gasp. Candi looks . . . um, well, I don't mean to be rude, but kind of like she's walked straight out of a horror movie. Her pitch black hair hangs dank and damp down her back, so different from the curly updo she wore yesterday. Without makeup, her eyes and lips seem so much smaller, and her face is covered in this bright red cream that sort of looks like blood smeared across her cheeks.

I've lived in three different districts during my life, two that I can remember, and yes, fashion and style definitely varied from 1 to 9. But the Capitol, they're on a whole different level.

"Holy fuck," Stanley grumbles. Looks like Candi's startling appearance made him spill the rest of his coffee. "What the hell are you trying to do, give us heart attacks?"

"If only I could," she snaps back. "And if that was the last cup of coffee, I swear, I don't care what the rules of the Games are, you won't make it to that arena alive."

"Bitch."

"Street rat."

"Slut."

"Vermin."

So, round two has begun; they were doing this last night as well. I should help Stanley, especially since he defended me last night, but I just don't know what to say. Besides, Candi's rage is kind of warranted, I suppose. After all, the districts did put the Capitol through hell, and vice versa.

The thing people don't seem to get, though, is if they keep being mean in response to the other side's meanness, no one will ever get anywhere.

It's pointless to try and reason with them when they're like this, though. So I guess I'll just keep twiddling my thumbs until they run out of insults.

Their vocabularies are much more extensive this time—something tells me they were both lying awake last night preparing for this—but eventually, Candi finishes with, "Good-for-nothing criminal urchin infatuated with a girl who couldn't care less."

I'd been trying not to pay attention, but I suck in a sharp breath at that. The look on Stanley's face . . . Candi crossed a line.

He has to take a moment to compose himself. Then, in a deadly-quiet voice, he says, "Excuse me? First of all, how the fuck do you—?"

"There are cameras all over the Justice Building, obviously. What did you think I was doing while you crybabies were saying your goodbyes?"

I'd seen Stanley mad last night when Candi was yelling about his table manners. But that, that was nothing compared to how he looks now. This is pure fury etched into every line of his face. He may just be a scrawny guy in nothing but pajama bottoms, but right now, I'm more than a little frightened.

Candi, however, is still wearing her humourless smirk. "Careful," she chides. "Don't want to get in trouble for hurting me now, do you? I know the rules say you have to go into that arena alive, but as for the requirements besides a beating heart, well, the rules are a little less clear there. And I know a number of Peacekeepers with a lot of pent-up rage and a grudge against the districts. You want to give them a reason to punish you?"

Her words only seem to anger him more, and for a second, I'm scared he actually will attack her. Already, I'm standing to interfere—I don't want him to get hurt.

But before I can say anything, he storms over to Candi, getting right in her face, and snarls, "I am not infatuated. It's just sex. So shut the fuck up."

He storms right past her and out the door after that, though not fast enough to escape her patronising, "Sure it is, honey."

Our bedrooms are a few cars away from the one where we dine, but I swear I can hear Stanley's door slam shut.

Well, that was . . . I don't even know, I just feel uncomfortable and sad and a million other things right now. Poor Stanley.

However, I realise I may be in even more immediate danger as Candi turns her cruel gaze on me. Please don't say anything mean, please don't say anything mean. I didn't want to cry today. I wanted to be happy.

I guess that dream's already gone out the window.

Fortunately, Candi seems to have taken all her immediate rage at the districts out on Stanley, and all she barks at me is, "We'll be arriving soon. Get out of your damn PJs and put something presentable on."

I nod and immediately sprint off towards my bedroom, nightgown flapping wildly in my haste to escape Candi's glare. Oh man, how are we going to spend the rest of the week with her? I don't like to use the word "hate", even for the worst of people, but . . . well, I'd really rather not spend any more time around Candi than I have to. Hopefully this week will go by fast.

And then the Hunger Games will begin. You really want that to come sooner?

"Not going to happen," I mumble to myself, entering the bedrooms car. "Believe it will all work out."

Mine and Stanley's rooms are in the same car, our doors directly across from each other. I debate checking on him to see how he's doing, but from the sounds I can hear through the wall, I think he's throwing stuff. Maybe I should leave him be for now.

I enter my room and automatically breathe a sigh of relief, knowing this is my territory and Candi is unlikely to stray here, unless provoked. Which means I should probably do as she says and get dressed.

My wardrobe is enormous, filled with Capitol clothes that are, creepily, all my size. It was a small comfort to me last night, when I was picking out my frilly and flowery nightgown. I'd never worn anything so beautiful, especially not for my PJs. You have to look for the little miracles, especially in the darkest of situations—another one of my mother's mottos.

However, none of the elegant dresses catch my eye today, even if I'd normally be overjoyed with the chance to try them on. Instead, I make straight for my night table, on which lies my dress from the reapings, carefully folded with the purple sash piled on top.

I pull off the nightgown and wriggle into my dress without a second thought. The material is a lot scratchier than anything from the Capitol, and the white material has yellowed over the years, but I love it because it smells like home. Like wood fires and weak coffee, burnt cookies and Dad's beer, the dress is everything I want with me right now.

But instead, all I have with me is this mass of polka-dotted material with a purple sash and my mother's old high heels.

Don't cry. Not today. You said you didn't want to feel bad anymore.

Yes, I did. But that doesn't stop the tears from rolling down my cheeks as I remember putting this dress on yesterday, how Mom did up the buttons at the back and Lauren tied my sash while my youngest sister, Eileen, wouldn't stop poking all the polka-dots. Suddenly, I have no desire to see the Capitol anymore, no matter how beautiful it's rumoured to be.

I just want to go home.