Friday, September 3rd, 7:55a.m, The Kentwells' Household-

Nope. It didn't happen. None of it did.

Not one single aspect of this complete and utter nonsense has actually, truly occurred, and I refuse to acknowledge the possibility that it did. These past five days were just some wild figment of my imagination. A particularly strange and lengthy dream, perhaps. No one really has any sense of time when they're asleep, after all. So that could very well explain everything. Because my mother didn't just pass up a perfectly good opportunity to provide one of her famous lectures on how you can only make one impression. Aria didn't completely let me off the hook for absolutely no good reason. Cato's number one goal in life is still to make mine miserable, and he certainly hasn't formulated any sort of extravagant scheme to end our rivalry, nor has he began to take habit of smiling like an idiot. And I wasn't even made a Finalist in the first place. With a bit of luck, I'll be chosen next year when I'll actually be prepared for this unhinged state of living.

All I can say is that this has got to be the most unorthodox dream I've ever had. Which is definitely what it was - one giant crazy dream.

My alarm goes off beeping loudly for the third time, as I'd put it on snooze twice before. It's been set for the wrong time for as long as I can remember and always wakes me up ten minutes early. The thing is so old that at this point there's no trying to fix it - not like anyone has that kind of time anyway. Now, however, it's really time to get up. I'm ten minutes late, in fact.

My head still resting on my pillow and my eyes only halfway open, I quickly feel around for the alarm on my bedside table and shut it off again. As if on cue, that's when I hear pounding on my bedroom door.

"Clove!" my mother's voice commands. "It's almost eight o'clock! You've got twenty minutes to get yourself downstairs if you don't want to be late!" Then I hear her mutter, "And considering your circumstances, I don't think you do."

Right. Because today is the first day of academy. It would have to be, since each and every one of those absurd events clearly never took place. And obviously no one wants to be late on their first day. That's what she meant by my "circumstances."

Yes. I'm going to wake up for my actual first day of the year and everything's going to be perfectly normal. Just the way it should be. Normal really is a wonderful word. I've taken it for granted in the past, but never will I make that mistake again. Maybe this wild dream was just trying to teach me a lesson, that's all. Well, I've definitely learned it and I'm ready to move on.

To normal. A beautiful state of ordinary, habitual normal. Where nobodies don't get chosen as Finalists and archenemies stay archenemies.

I eventually find the energy to kick my covers off and slowly bring myself to sit up in bed, my feet now hanging off the side and just barely touching the ground. I take a quick look around my small bedroom, which really has no distinguishing features, as far as bedrooms go. There's a tiny dresser that sits across from the bed, on top of which are a few miscellaneous papers and fliers I've collected from the academy over the years, and never really thought to do anything with. Above that hangs a rectangular mirror. There's the door to a little closet on the room's far side. On the wall I face now is a medium-sized glass window that looks out to our small excuse-of-a backyard.

Suddenly I hear the loud, obnoxious beeping of my alarm again. Tiredly muttering to myself in annoyance, I turn over to my bedside table and angrily slam it off with all my might, and for good this time. It nearly topples over before gradually wobbling back into place.

That's when I notice something - a single piece of paper sitting right there on the bedside table next to the clock. It's right in plain sight. In fact, it's a bit of a miracle I didn't notice it before. The words on it are formally typed up and I look to the top to realize it contains my name. It takes me a moment to realize it's the letter. The letter that started everything. The letter that put a sudden and decisive end to normal. But I have to read it anyway to make sure-

Miss Clove Kentwell,

We are pleased to inform you that you have been selected this year for the utmost honor of fighting among the students of the highest level training class in Travertine Village Training Academy, otherwise known as the Finalists. Term, as always, will begin on the 30th of August and Primary Assessments will take place on the 3rd of September…

Yes. That's definitely it. Which can only mean all of those things were real. It means my mother and Aria did both voluntarily avoid assigning a perfectly characteristic and well-deserved punishment. It means I really did make the stupid decision to go on that machine. It means Cato really has been hatching all those schemes. It means that through the past three days, I've somehow lost my ability to throw - the only thing I've ever really been able to do. But most of all, it means today isn't the first day of the academy term. That was four days ago. It's the day of Primary Assessments, where the trainers have each Finalist go in one by one and demonstrate their skill. And which two of us get chosen for the Games at the end of the year depends heavily on its result.

Ha! As if I have any skill to show at this point!

I tiredly collapse right back onto my bed, pulling my soft pillow over my head in some half-baked attempt to block out the world for all of a few seconds. Only then am I able to acquire the mental strength to sit up again and look at the alarm clock.

It's official. It reads Friday, September 3rd.

That, or I'm hallucinating. I hope I'm not hallucinating. I kind of hope I am.

Well, if there's one thing that's worse than royally bombing Assessments, it's royally bombing Assessments and being late. I think I heard at this level they deduct points for that. I'm not sure if it's true, but I surely can't afford to take any chances, considering I'll be lucky to hit a target. So I force myself out of bed and stumble over to the dresser. Making a solid effort not to dawdle around, I open up the top drawer and pull out the shirt and pants of the academy's crimson-red uniform and place them on top of the dresser.

I quickly catch a reflection of myself in the large, rectangular mirror, and notice I look like I got about five hours of sleep, which now that I think about it, I probably did. I remember it took me at least two hours to fall asleep last night (which would only further support the fact that all of this indeed did happen and wasn't just one long dream). I look nothing like someone in any condition to nail their Assessment.

I grab a hair tie lying on the top of the dresser and hurriedly pull my hair into a low ponytail before changing into my uniform. Then, I glance back over at the clock on my nightstand.

Shoot. Only two minutes until I'm supposed to be downstairs. Curse that stupid alarm clock for having a snooze button in the first place.

All else aside, what am I even going to do when they call me in today?

Surely everyone will have some sort of plan. Perhaps I should have put a bit more thought into this, because right now I have nothing close. Hey, maybe I'd do alright off of pure improvisation. After all, if I were to do it well enough, no one would ever know, which is pretty much the textbook definition of "improvisation." But realistically, the odds of me pulling that off, as of now, are ridiculously slim. Or maybe I could somehow muster up the ability to pull it together on will-power alone. I mean, anything's possible, right? Who knows?

Oh, who am I fooling? All I know is I think I might be doomed for real this time.


Friday, September 3rd, 9:15a.m, Travertine Village Training Academy, Top Floor-

I'm not fearfully avoiding anyone, alright?

I'm not one to "fearfully avoid" in the first place. I approach a problem by marching right up and facing it head-on. It's just what I do and what I've been trained to do. I like to think that even if I wasn't trained to do it, I'd do it anyway.

Just because I've sat down in the farthest corner of the empty girls' locker room and have strategically placed all of my things on both sides of me while making it a point to stare at my shoes does not mean I'm avoiding anyone or anything. If I were really and truly trying to avoid people altogether, I wouldn't even be in the locker rooms, as anyone in the female half of the Finalists' class could easily come bursting in at any moment. That's exactly ten people - enough to have a small full-on party if we wanted to. It's not my fault I'm the only one who's chosen to be in the locker room at this specific time.

In fact, if anything, I'm taking this period before class starts to try to come up with something of a plan, which might be a heck of a lot easier if perhaps I could actually throw at this point. The thing is, classes have held Assessments at least once a year since the beginners' class, but they've never actually counted for anything until now. I mean, back then some people didn't even take them seriously. Back in the intermediate class, it got taken to an extreme when a boy named Lance Larkin went in and, for the entire three minutes, belted out a song to the trainers he'd claimed to have rehearsed. In the end, it earned him a score of 1, but he insisted it was entirely worth it.

Of course, these aren't as big as the Final Assessments at the end of the year, but they're still more important than anything I've done so far.

It's really quite simple how they work. It's sort of like how you're given a training score in the Games. Correction - it's exactly like how you're given a training score in the Games, which I'm sure can't be a coincidence. Everyone is called in one by one into the training room, where all sorts of supplies, weapons, and targets have conveniently been set up, and they'll show off a series of their greatest skills and strengths. Each person gets exactly three minutes, and they can do whatever they want. The only thing that's different is the scoring. Here, we can only earn a 1 through 10, and the number can fall into the .5s in some cases.

But the other unique thing about Assessments here takes the form of a large, plexiglass window on the right side of every training room, next to which are a couple of benches and chairs always laid out where people can sit and see inside. Basically, this means that anyone who feels like it - namely the entire class, whom no matter how big, can always manage to tightly gather themselves into that small area - can watch everyone's Assessment. And believe me, not once over the years has anyone passed up that opportunity. And something tells me this year isn't going to be any different. So if I don't wish to make a royal fool of myself in front of all nineteen other Finalists, I'd better think fast.

Which reminds me - a plan. I've got to come up with something. Oh, and it'd be nice if that something could perhaps miraculously strike my mind at some point within the next half-hour.

Click.

The locker room door flies open.

Startled, I snap my head up to see Lena and Zoë, along with Brooke Mattingly - another female Finalist - waltzing into the locker rooms in mid-conversation. The moment I spot them, I pretend to get the instant compulsion to dig for an imaginary object buried in the depths of my duffel bag.

"So what do you think?" I hear Lena ask, loudly throwing her own bag down on one of the benches nearest to the door.

"Is it true he's going to try to take out twenty targets from thirty feet in one minute?" comes Zoë's voice.

I force myself to keep my head facing down so it's not too obvious I'm listening in.

"Who is?" Brooke quickly asks.

"Cato!" Zoë shouts in reply.

I suppose I just can't escape him, can I? Even here in the girls' locker rooms, some form of his presence still lingers through their conversation. Not like I'm avoiding him either or anything.

"Why do you think he told me he was?" Lena snaps, before leading them over to a tiny, oval-shaped mirror hanging on a nearby portion of the wall and taking a moment to examine herself in its reflection.

"Won't that be setting an academy record if he pulls it off?" Zoë inquires.

Lena narrows her eyes while straightening a hairpin in her perfectly round bun.

"No, the record's twenty-five," Brooke states, casually leaning against the wall.

"What are you? An encyclopedia?"

"Well, record or not, he's doing it," Lena declares sharply, finally turning away from the mirror to face the other two. "He told me," she says again.

"What's Blaze going to do?" Zoë asks.

"He's going to put on a one-man circus, what do you think he's doing, Zoë?" Lena snarls.

"Oh, right! Spears and targets. Of course."

"Didn't he say-"

"Look," Lena demands, cutting them off. She leads them over to a bench across from where their bags are stored. I have to awkwardly shift in my seat so I can both see them and still look like I'm searching through my bag. Lena sits down right in the middle of the bench, leaving room for the other two on both sides. "We came in here to talk about me, and what I'm doing."

"I thought we knew what you were doing," says Zoë, sitting down on the right side.

"But I can't decide what I should do first," Lena asserts. "I mean, I could easily start with the bow and arrow, but shouldn't I save that for last?"

Clang.

A large, metal water canteen suddenly tumbles out of my bag and onto the tiled floor, causing everyone to stare over. I grit my teeth in frustration as I hurry to pick it up before it rolls away. Then, I stuff it back in. After a few seconds, they all turn back to each other and Brooke makes a loud coughing noise.

"Oh!" Zoë exclaims quickly. "Oh, yes! You should certainly save that for last. It'll be the last thing in their minds!"

I give up digging through my bag and decide to focus on checking my watch every three seconds instead.

"So what should I start with, then?" Lena demands.

"You could start with spears," Brooke suggests.

"Honestly, do you two listen? We already decided I'm doing those for the second minute!"

"You were?" Zoë asks surprisedly. "Since when?"

"You two are no help," Lena grumbles, abruptly getting up from the bench and heading for the door. "I'm out of here."

Slam.

Silence.

I wonder if anyone would mind if I got out of here and started warming up in the training room. Surely they've unlocked the door by now.

"...So do you really think he's going to do it?" I hear Zoë's voice suddenly break the quietness.

"We've seen him in practice. He might," Brooke opines.

Wait. Hold on a moment.

"How's he going to do it with a sword?"

If Cato pulls this off and I bomb-

"He's not. He'll use a spear. And then he'll use a sword for the other two minutes."

No. That's not an option.

"But then there won't be anything left to hit!"

I promised myself I wouldn't allow anything of the sort.

"Dummies, Zoë! He'll use the dummies!"

Which can only mean-

"Ohhhh."

I have to figure something out. Now.