Day three of training brings its own take on horror. It's not the clash of tributes or the presentation in front of the Capitol and the nation that bothers me this time, however. It's the waiting.
My foot taps nervously on steel floor panels, jumping and bouncing to its own spasmodic beat. It's a hair too cold in this waiting room of metal walls and sterile white lights where the last seven of us tributes sit. Seventeen metal chairs to my left seat only air and empty space, their occupants already having passed before the Gamesmakers who await in the gymnasium that lies beyond a sealed black door. Only one boy still sits to my life – Durum, my ally from District 9. Thorne's to my right, his arms crossed over his chest and his face full of smugness, with the two from District 11, Lily, and Lily's district partner, Ash, to his right.
Durum hasn't said as much as a word since the Gamesmakers called his sister into the gym to show off her skills privately before their judging eyes. Teff's been gone at least five minutes, so whatever my red-headed ally's doing, it must be working.
Finally he looks my way, nods to my tapping feet, and says with a sarcastic grin, "Your plan's to serenade them into giving you a high score?"
I look down at my feet and bring them under control, muttering, "Sorry."
"Nuthin' to be sorry about," he sighs, looking up at the ceiling lights. It's perhaps the first serious comment I've heard out of Durum's mouth since meeting him yesterday. "I think everyone's jumpy at this part. Everyone but Ladon and Vespasian, at least."
"I'm not jumpy," I say defensively, trying not to look weak in front of my ally – although with his wiry, skinny frame, he's hardly the type of tough-looking kid that Acton and Vespasian are. "I'm just…bouncy."
Durum laughs weakly, "Whole lot of difference there, huh?"
"What's your plan when they call you?"
"Plan? Pff," he waves his hand in the air aimlessly. "I got no plan. Don't think I ever really had one."
"You don't even have a plan for this?" I say in shock. "Durum, they're gonna call you in minutes!"
"Not for this. For the Games," he says with a half-smile. "Shoot, Summer. I guess I'm just in it to keep my sister safe. I dunno. When they called us both back home at the Reaping…I stopped caring too much about the future. Why bother, right? Only one of us gets home, if either of us do. Figured at that point I'd just wing it and care about the here and now. When you can't count on tomorrow, why sweat it?"
I gaze at him with furrowed brow. It's strange logic: If he wants to look after Teff, why not try for the best score possible? Why not impress the audience? Why not do everything you can to survive?
"A good score'd help her, too," I say in protest.
"Does it?" Durum says, a look of resignation settling in over his face. It's so starkly different from his usual comical, bemused expression that I can't help but look away. "I don't even know if we can regroup in the arena. If we can, who says she and I both can? And even if that happens, a few sponsor gifts don't help out when someone else decides the arena's getting boring. What do you really learn in two-and-a-half days of training? I figure if you try and over-think this stuff, it's just going to end worse for you – and for anyone you're trying to help."
Silence settles in after Durum's last words. On one hand, I do understand. I understand that I'm not Vespasian, nor Ladon, nor any of the other trainees. I don't have their expertise or their skill, and Durum's right: A few days of preparation won't turn me into the forged blade that Vespasian is.
Still, a sponsor gift could be everything in the arena, even if what my mentors said is true about the Capitol hating deaths by starvation, dehydration, or the like. A knife, or even a rock, could be a handy tool in a fight to the death. There's no room for arguing against help when the Games are underway.
The Gamesmakers call Durum's name in another two minutes, and as he gets up with a sigh, I say softly, "Good luck."
He turns, looks back at me, smirks, and says, "Yeah, yeah I guess so. You too, ally."
My gut rolls like the waves of the fabled oceans as I sit in our floor's den hours later. I'm not confident in my performance in front of the Gamesmakers, especially since I'm only proficient in weapons thanks to Vespasian's ad-hoc training yesterday at the spears station. Survival aptitude only goes so far with a Capitol audience that wants blood and combat, not kids running around showing how to tie knots and lasso dummies.
"You don't gotta be that worried," Austin says, walking by me with a drink in his hand. He presses his hand down on my jittering knee and slumps onto the couch beside me. "It's just a score."
"It's sponsors or no sponsors," I moan into my wrist as I lean my head against my arms.
Austin sniffs and rubs his hand against a long, red mark on his forehead: "Not every sponsor looks at Caesar's numbers."
The cut hasn't healed from when I first saw him re-enter the floor bleeding two nights ago. What did he have to do to get sponsors that involved bleeding?
For his sake, I hope I can at least manage a decent score.
Thorne slumps down in a chair alongside the window. He doesn't look happy – when does he ever? – and I can only imagine that he can't be feeling too good about his private session, either. I haven't paid any attention to him around the gym during the training sessions, but what could he really have gotten good at in the Meatpacking Quarter? It's hard to wield a weapon inside of a cannery, and the slaughterhouses aren't exactly gladiatorial arenas.
"Hey Cesara," Austin says loudly as soon as our escort enters. "Why don'tcha get me another drink?"
She lowers her head and goes him a look of absolute distaste: "Why don't you leap out the window?"
"Yeah, you wish. You'd cry if I was gone, woman."
"Tears of joy, sure."
I almost think Austin and Cesara would be good for each other. Their snarky insults and ability to deflect each other's criticisms with ease is an all-too-perfect fit. That is, if they didn't kill each other if they spent more than a month under the same roof.
Austin leans over to me, belches, and says, "That's the district in her coming out. Don't listen to that harpy."
Cesara stares at him open-mouthed, her eyes flicking back and forth between Austin and I. Finally, she says, "Have you been drinking all day? Did you really say anything to her about –"
Before she can finish her sentence, Cal walks in and cuts her off: "Pipe down, you two. Show's 'bout to start."
Cesara shuts up but casts a dark look my direction. I feel a burst of heat shoot up through my cheeks. Stupid Austin! I didn't do anything but listen to him, and now his rambling has left Cesara mad at me. The last thing I need right now is for one of the only people who can help me from outside of the arena to have a grudge against me.
The pre-broadcast show off in the Capitol's entertainment district ends and Caesar Flickerman's shining face fills the screen. Claudius Templesmith looks particularly limp next to Caesar, whose flashy pale blue suit and bright red bow tie manage to overcome ridiculous fashion with sheer extravagance.
"Ladies and gentlemen, I hope you haven't gone anywhere!" Caesar booms from the outdoor podium that hosts Claudius and him. A wide outdoor forum full of tens of thousands of screaming people seems alive behind the two announcers, like a sea of snakes fluttering up and down to some ecstatic beat. "What a show we've had so far, but the show's only getting started. You know what we're here for! The tributes! The scores! I love it! Let's not waste any time – Claudius, let's kick things off with our illustrious first district and their male tribute, Hector!'
An image of Hector fills the screen in a dangerous, simulated pose, placed like he's on a rotating turntable surrounded by his vital statistics. I've barely paid any attention to the two from District 1, but I should: Hector's part of Ladon's band of four trainees, while district partner Myrina's with Vespasian. They'll be dangerous, and they're a huge obstacle in my way.
"Big tribute, highly skilled at the weapons, this is what you want in a top candidate as this year's victor," Claudius gushes. "I want to draw a comparison between Hector here and a tribute we had just a few years ago, one Finnick Odair from District 4. Let's get the highlights to show just what I mean."
Cesara sits forward and laughs: "I do like this show."
"Psh, you're way too old for him," Austin snorts, downing the remnants of his drink.
"Like that's stopped Finnick in the past," Cesara grumbles.
Claudius and Caesar show highlights back from a game I can still remember well – the 65th Hunger Games just four years ago. In the clips, bronze-skinned, tall, handsome Finnick wields his trident with ease, running, jumping, fighting – it's all easy to him. Claudius and Caesar gush, and every comparison they make between Hector and Finnick sends one more nervous spark of anxiety coursing through my guts.
"But ladies and gentlemen, that's not all," Caesar points to the camera with a stern expression. "Before we reveal Hector's score, we've got a special treat for your viewing tonight – Mr. Capitol Heartthrob himself, Finnick Odair!"
Cal makes a noise that sounds like a vomiting pig as Finnick takes the stage and shakes hands with Caesar. My mentor wasn't kidding about his dislike of the Capitol's favorite son.
"Hope you're not trying to replace me already with a new tribute, Claudius," Finnick says with a dashing smile as he shakes Templesmith's hand.
"Wouldn't dream of it, my boy," Claudius answers. "But District 1's going to give you plenty of competition, I think."
"Now, Finnick," Caesar says. "Before we get your opinion on the tribute field so far, let's get our score up for our first tribute. Hector Ramos, from District 1…leading off our ranks this year with a nine!"
And so it begins. Finnick trades barbs and good-natured jabs with Caesar and Claudius as the two hosts run down the list of my fellow tributes, their potential strengths and weaknesses, comparisons to past tributes over the last dozen or so Games, and finally, their scores. Admittedly, the show's darn good entertainment. I can see how the Capitol loves Caesar and this event so much – Flickerman can turn a battle to the death into a highly competitive sport, full of good fun and in-depth analysis. He's as good as it gets at presentation.
Cesara gets up to use the restroom when Caesar presents District 2's scores, and she misses perhaps the best ranking of the night. Erinye, the deadly-looking girl, picks up a ten, while Vespasian blows away even Finnick with an eleven. Finnick proves to be a good sport about it – especially when his Raidne and Ladon score an eight and a ten, respectively – but I can't help but be suspicious of him. It's not just that Cal detests District 4, or that Ladon's the nastiest and most arrogant tribute in this year's field – it's Finnick's silky words, his too-smooth face, his muscles chiseled to perfection. He doesn't look like a person. He looks like a machine, more a mutt than a victor now. Even his words sound too good to be true.
The scores aren't entirely predictable, despite the high marks from the trainees. Thorne's strange, silent ally, Morse from District 3, pulls in a surprising eight. I'm more surprised than I should be when Acton matches his score, and fellow District 7 ally Acacia manages a seven as well. Durum and Teff only take home a pair of sixes, but I'm not shocked. I doubt District 9 has many opportunities to gain combat skill. Frankly, I'm more surprised that Durum still managed a six despite his lack of preparation for the private training session.
My foot's tapping again as Teff's presentation comes to an end and Caesar moves on to Thorne. My district partner looks bored in his seat, as if this whole show is beneath him. I've given up on him.
Finnick expresses something close to boredom at Thorne's performance so far, provoking a long and overdramatic sigh from Cal. I'm surprised my mentors and Cesara have managed to stay quiet for most of the Games, but, like me, they're probably making mental notes about who to watch and who looks like the odds-on favorites at this point. Right now, it's not looking good for our contingent in District 10 – especially when Thorne only pulls a six. It's acceptable, but not anything special.
There's no way I did worse than him.
"Well…we can work with that," Cesara says only half-convincingly.
"Hey, s'not bad, kid," Cal adds reassuringly, still trying to get Thorne on the same page. By the way the boy looks at my mentor, however, I don't think that's going to happen.
Cesara turns towards Thorne and holds a finger out towards him, her expression grim: "Just make sure you don't let up in the interview two days from now. That's gonna make or break you with the audience, boy."
Cal's sympathetic look makes it seem as if he wants to say something, but he stops short of rebuking Cesara. I'm not sure if it's because he doesn't want to make a scene, or it's because – like me – he agrees with her.
Austin pours himself another drink, which I believe is his eighth of the night, as Caesar says, "Modest showing for District 10 so far. Before we get on to the second half of the ranching district, let me ask you, Finnick – what's your opinion on how District 10 stands up in the Games?"
"Well, they've been on a dry streak," Finnick says with a grin. "It's a bit of a step up from herding cows to winning in the Games, Caesar."
"Oh, do tell!"
"Seventeen years, is it?" Finnick says, looking at a sheet of paper in front of him. "You have to sympathize somewhat with the district's two victors, Cal and Austin –"
Austin says something I can't repeat as Finnick goes on, "-but it's gonna be hard for them to break that streak this year. Lotta tough tributes, Caesar, and only one goes home."
He flashes a winning grin at his last sentence, and Caesar, on cue, asks, "You wouldn't be campaigning to sponsors for your own two tributes right there, would you?"
"Caesar!" Finnick exclaims, playfully looking hurt. "I wouldn't dream of being so blatant on air! I'm a…neutral party. At least until later tonight."
"You dirty boy. I'd show you a real party," Cesara mutters with a smile, eliciting a loud gagging noise from Austin.
"I can hear a thousand Capitol ladies fainting from that one," Caesar laughs to Finnick's remark. "But on to our next tribute."
My heart races like a stampede as Claudius cuts in, "We've got 10's girl up next, Caesar, with Miss Summer Glenn. Fifteen, five-seven, a hundred-fifteen pounds on the spot. Maybe not dominant stats, but she's a healthy change of pace from a lot of the smaller, underweight tributes from the peripheral districts."
Finnick leans back in his chair right before they cut away to an image of me and my vitals. He looks bored, like I'm not worth his time. My dislike of him grows stronger.
"Before we get to the score, is any recent comparison tribute coming to mind for you, Claudius?" Caesar asks. "It's tough with the tributes with less of a chance in the Games. Early lines on Summer have her at seventeen-to-one odds."
"Well, tough to call odds before we get into the meat of scoring and interviewing," Claudius replies. "But if you're feeling confident, go ahead. We did have a boy from District 10 about seven years ago. Ranching family, good health, not bad overall on the first look – Conroe, that was his name."
Austin makes a retching noise next to me and shakes his head: "That's just a freakin' terrible comparison. Idiot."
I don't want to ask, but I do: "What happened to him?"
"He ended up a mess," Cal says with a sigh. "Died the second day in. Enobaria from District 2 skewered him while he was fetching water. Then she went on to win, so at least he had that goin' for him."
"Try not to follow Claudius's piss-poor comparison," Austin grunts. "The guy's gettin' senile in his old age."
"Thoughts on her before we show the score, Finnick?" Caesar says and turns to his guest.
"Well, she's got some tough odds," Finnick remarks as if he's waiting for this whole show to be over. "District 10's an outdoor district, so maybe that'll help, but we'll really have to see her score on this one."
"Let's bring it up, then!" Caesar says quickly. "And for Summer Glenn, District 10…a score of…five!"
Oh no. No, no, no. No, it wasn't supposed to be like this. I know I'm not much with weapons, but my survival skills and ability with a rope could only get me a five? A five? That's signing a death warrant with sponsors. No one will sponsor a girl from District 10 who scores a five. I've failed training. I'm a nobody to the Capitol now.
I don't wait to see how Caesar, Claudius, and Finnick react. I don't even wait to see how my mentors and Cesara react. Instead I choke back a sob, stand up with a start, and rush out of the room.
I don't know where I'm going or what I'm doing, so I sprint down the hall to my bedroom and throw my face into my pillows. All I can do is cry. Will Acton and Lily and the others even want me now? Why would they want a girl who can only manage a five in training as part of their alliance? Heck, will Austin and Cal even want me at this point? They've seen enough kids die. What kind of chance does your run-of-the-mill girl like me have?
Dammit Summer, I scream inside my head as tears stain my pillow with hot, salty raindrops. Dammit. You can't do anything right. You're pathetic. You idiot girl, you probably won't last a day in the arena. Everyone at home probably thinks you're a lost cause.
A knock on the door disrupts me from my crying. "Go away," I shout into my pillow.
"Don't do this to yourself, Summer," Cal says softly from somewhere behind me.
"Go away!" I scream louder, my voice still muffled by bed sheets.
Cal doesn't go away. He walks over and sits down on the bed beside me, prying me off of my stomach and hoisting me up into a hug. I let him. I don't have the strength to resist right now, and I let my head loll onto his shoulder like I'm a limp doll.
"Don't cry, girl," Cal says quietly. His voice is little more than the whispering wind in my ear. "Don't let them make you cry."
"Why d'you care?" I ask spitefully, spitting into his shoulder. "Why don't you just let me die like whatever that other boy's name was who died seven years ago."
"You're not him," Cal says without giving me a chance to go on. "You're a tough girl, Summer. Maybe you got a bad score tonight, but you got a heart and a head. I don't care what Caesar says. I don't give up on any of my kids."
"Then you're stupid," I say, my voice full of self-hatred. "I'm just gonna let you down again."
"No you won't."
"I got a five. Even that Finnick guy thought I was a joke."
"You are not a joke," Cal says, running a hand through my hair. "You're a fighter. You're ten times the tribute I was, and I'm still standing here today."
I scoff and let out a half-cry, half-laugh: "Do you say that every year?"
"Yeah. But one year I'll be right, and it'll be this year. Besides, Austin's a terrible neighbor in the Victor's Village. I'll be a lot happier when you move in."
I fall away from his hug and collapse on the bed, my head drooping off to the side on my pillow. Cal says, "I know it's hard, Summer, but it's just a number. Austin and I will find you sponsors, however we have to do it. Don't you worry about anything but what you have to do. Just keep walking forward, girl."
"Plus," he adds, pushing a piece of hair out of my face. "You're too pretty for Caesar and Claudius to keep you down."
I snort at that, but I hide a hint of a smile in my pillow. As horrible as I'm feeling, at least there's someone left to comfort me in the darkness.
Cal picks up a blanket I shoved to the floor and pulls it up over my shoulders: "Get some sleep, girl. Dream of open fields and blue skies and horses. Dream of somewhere you'll go back to when this is all over."
