"Only twenty seconds to breathe and you dream of some epiphany." - Epiphany by Taylor Swift
A Song for Snakes and Rats
Training Scores & Prep Before Interviews
Male Tribute from District 2, Nile Shadid
Silently I sit there, listening to Medusa and Cassander talk about the coconut walnut cake they're eating. Rowena and I aren't allowed desert. Not yet, anyway. Ever so often, Rowena looks at me, frowning, after a whiff of the cake hits the air. Strangely, I don't mind it. Not having sweets, I mean. I've always preferred bitter tastes to something surgery. Of course, you like bitter things, says a familiar voice in my head.
"Okay, that's enough." Laughs Cassander. "Enough salt in the wound, Medusa." He gestures for the avox to come and collect the plates.
Medusa scoops up another large piece of cake and downs it, smirking, coconut on her full lips. It's suppose to annoy me, I think, but all I can focus on is the voice in my head that's telling me I'd probably love the pain that salt brings to a wound. I'd probably love it just as much as the burning. Who knows you might have to trade those smelly cigars for some salt one day. . .
I swallow down the spit building in my throat, hoping as it goes away so will the thoughts of the cigars. But unlike the saliva, the images of me burning myself don't leave. I'm there, speaking with my father while he's smoking a cigar. He puts it out when my mother calls for him to come set the table. Alone, I watch the faint smokes swirls to the sky. I wonder why my daddy loves them. Why he smokes so many of them. Why they calm him. Then I'm taking the cigar, putting it to my lips, just like daddy did. But there he comes, surprisingly walking back in. I panic. Bring down the cigar, landing it right into my thigh. Pain overtakes me, powerful. Everything in my body feels heightened. Magnified. Even more so than when I run or throw spears or do any sort combat.
The avoxes come and collect the plates. Cassander scoots closer to me, probably about to whisper something in my ear, so I adjust the collar of my shirt, hiding all the burn marks, all the little scars that could possibly peak out. Secretly, I think I want him to see, I think I want someone to ask about them, so I can just say aloud that I like pain. That I think that's abnormal. That I think there's something wrong with me because I'm excited to experience a blade grazing my skin just to see if it makes me feel more alive, more energized, more alert.
Evangeline enters the room followed by our stylists, Viper and Jester. I glance over at my stylist with his hideous white powered face and colorful makeup. Frankly, it looks like a washed up rainbow, the kind you can barely see through a hard downpour back home. I feel guilty for calling it hideous in my mind since I'm no one to judge about liking unusual things. Things others might very well shriek at.
"Scores!" Evangeline shouts. She flops down next to me, shuffling her shirt. I think she might expect me to look down the low cut, but I don't. I keep my eyes focused on the television. Orpah Livingston appears, wearing a see-through shimmering gown and a large bronze necklace.
"She thinks you're going to win!" Evangeline shouts. "She's betting on District Two this year!"
Jesper starts to clap frantically, while Viper just sits there, smiling with her tongue out like some snake. She's bizarre. Especially how she hisses some of her words.
"That's good news," says Cassander. He shoves my shoulder a little and I smirk. I glance over at Rowena, who doesn't seem all to convinced that we have this in the bag. Medusa doesn't seem confident, either. She isn't cheering or celebrating, but instead watching and waiting.
"Let's introduce District One!" says Orpah Livingston. She crosses her hands over each other. "Now, if he doesn't just ring your heart, I don't know what else will!" She laughs. "First up, we have Chime Chaminade with a score of eight!"
Medusa laughs out loud at his score. "Yes!" She makes a praying gesture, before flipping back her golden locks.
"Bloodbath!" Jester giggles.
Medusa rolls her eyes. Cassander just nudges me again. "That's good for you, Nile."
Avanelle Aran, 10.
"Seems her breasts gave her an edge after all," says Medusa.
Or she's just good with that axe. I've seen her more than once decapitate a dummy with one swing. She might be slightly unhinged, but she's definitely not the silly, flirtatious school girl she's playing herself up to be in the group or for the cameras. She's dangerous, I note.
"Seems like thhe kettle is calling that pot black," Cassander says to Medusa. He glances down at her own breasts, which aren't really covered by much, and Medusa's jaw tightens.
"Next we have our tall, dark, and handsome tribute from District Two!" Orpah says. "Here's Nile Shadid with a monstrous score of eleven!"
Cassander, Viper, Evangeline, and Jesper all shout! Cassander immediately calls for champagne. Jester gets up, dancing around, shaking his little colorful hat. I shrink back, thinking the early celebration is rude, if not disrespectful. Rowena still hasn't received her score, and even though we aren't going to both return, I'd prefer we both at least celebrate something together. Weakling, says that same voice.
"Not to be out shined!" says Orpah, smiling. "We have Rowena Austel who matches that score of eleven!"
Now, Medusa is the one demanding champagne and cake. "Let them have it! They've earned it!"
I glance over at Rowena, who is smiling, genuinely smiling at her score. It makes me smile, too, because I'm genuinely happy for her, genuinely glad that she didn't score low with an 8 or 9.
"Cake!" Evangeline screams. "Bring us cake!"
I turn my eyes back to the television and away from the celebration. It stills seems disrespectful to not at least pay attention to all the others tributes. They put forth just as much effort as we did. They just didn't have the skills or resources we did. But you knew that. You knew your competition would be like taking down some of the thirteen year olds back home. Easy. You knew their skill level was weak and you still volunteered. So get up. Eat some cake. Stop with the feeling bad for them or wanting to show them respect.
District 3 hits the screen. Kian Fawks, 5. Allegra Mulinari, 5.
"Wait!" Medusa yells. "District Four is up."
"And we have the grandson of recently deceased, Yor Questor." Orpah grabs a tissue, wiping away her tears. "Here to make his grandfather proud is Yorik Questor with an impressive score of eight!"
"Oh, District One is dead," Medusa says. "I bet Blest isn't smiling now."
I look over to Rowena, who is still sitting quiet, waiting. I know she's thinking of Nascha. The two are close. Closer than Rowena and I are really.
"And next we have the female from District 4, Nascha Marlett, with a flattering score of ten!"
Again, I look back over to Rowena, who is smiling now. We make brief eye contact before pieces of thick chocolate cate are stuffed in front of us on small shiny plates.
"Eat it!" Evangeline yells. "Eat it! You've earned it!"
But there's that voice again, the one that sounds so fatherly, saying, You've earned nothing. Yet.
Male Tribute from District Twelve, Viridian Ahane
Our mentor, Ruddie, glares at the screen as if that will lower the scores of the District 4 tributes. I slink back into the cushion, wondering if this is what dying will feel like. Sinking into some absorbing weight that will start out slowly, but then overtake me all at once.
"We need to hope the other alliance scores high, too," Ruddie says. She glances over at both McAfee and I. I keep my eyes on longer on McAfee then I probably should, but I'm determined for her not to think me some snake. Isn't that why I left Fransiska anyway? Because I knew she was trouble, knew she was a blade just waiting to stick me in the back? But she probably doesn't know that, probably doesn't think that I have some integrity left about me even if this game removes our morals by the end.
Jeriah Chern, 5. McAfee doesn't show if she's sad or approving or impressed. She's less reactionary than a concrete slab, I decide.
Fransiska Lunde, 7. I laugh. Somehow, she managed a decent score.
"Isn't that your ally?" Ruddie asks.
"No," I say.
"So you're alone now?" Ruddie asks. She stands up, taking a strand of hair between her hands, as she paces behind the couch. "Wonderful. Just wonderful. The one thing I told you not to do, and you do."
I know I should be concerned like Ruddie about going into the arena alone, but I'm not. I've been on my own before the arena, and if I somehow win this thing, I'm sure I'll be alone after.
District 6 appears on the screen next. The yellow skinned boy, Errol, is first. I can't help it, but I tell myself they're someone I could beat if it came down to us in the end. The boy seems half out of it, with the sweating and shiny skin. The girl, despite her volunteer status isn't much stronger when you look at her combat skils.
Errol Acosta, 5. Tressa Whitelock, 6.
"Why didn't you try to link with them?" Ruddie says. "The boy won't last long."
I don't say how they practically shrieked away from me. I don't say how they seemed to bright and fun than my taste, my own internal moodiness that tends to lurk right around the wrinkles in my lips. I like to think that I'm cheery enough, but Ruddie tells me to smile more. All the time, actually. She said something about showing teeth can be what saves your skin in the arena.
Ruddie stops pacing when Orpah starts with District 7.
"Here we go," she says. "Let's hope eight, nine, and ten do well."
Proteus Anche, 10.
Ruddie starts to clap.
Rahni Vohra, 8.
Ruddie claps louder. "This is good. Yes." She starts pacing again. "I can work with this."
I keep my eyes on the screen, desperately hoping that District 8 doesn't do as well as District 7 did. But when the boy's name and score appear, I feel more doomed. Feel myself already laying in some wooden box. I lean back into the cushion's deeper. The coolness wipes away the sweat, despite how much the cushions feel more like a tomb, closing in, burying me away.
Denim Lane, 9. Zenna Vicary, 5. Sesame Schild, 9. Tassia Morone, 4. Blair Cohen 5. Alys Tarwyck, 6.
"We can work with this," Ruddie repeats. "We just have to make sure the Careers target Seven, Eight, and Nine first." She turns and looks at me. "Don't go into the Cornucopia."
"Why not?" I ask. "I'll need supplies."
"You'll get killed trying."
"I'm fast," I say. Decent, I think. "Maybe I'll get something." I point at the screen. "Besides, they'll all be worried about each other." Ruddie stares at me. "And they said they weren't targeting us."
"Who said that?" Ruddie asks.
"The Anti-Careers," I say. "They said they were only targeting the Careers during the bloodbath."
"Ruddie," McAfee says. She points to the screen.
Lukas Brair's 5 is fading to reveal Dasenia's face on the screen.
"We have Dasenia Bartlet with a score of ten!" Orpah shouts.
"What?" I ask. "How?" I think back to my interactions with Dasenia. She was rude, keeping herself and her spacey district partner away from me. All I tried to do was befriend them, only for her to nearly slit my throat.
"Last but certainly not least, we have District Twelve!" Orpah says. "Our male tribute this year, Viridian Ahane, secures himself an impressive six!"
"We can work with that," Ruddie says. She looks around for our escort and stylist, as if they've finally decided to show up, but they're not here. They said they weren't bothering with us. It didn't help that I called them all monkeys. McAfee only smirked, but that was enough for them to rid us both off to our deaths.
"This year's female tribute, McAfee Sylvane, follows with her own matching six!" Orpah says. "Congrats, McAfee and Veridian for not bowing down!"
"Really?" I ask. "Congrats for not bowing down? Is this clown serious?"
"That clown can decide whether you come home or not," Ruddie says. "You know she changed her necklace out last year." Ruddie comes close. "Remember. She kept on diamonds and that girl, Blest, came home."
"That girl came home because she was skilled," McAfee says. "Because she was a Career."
"She came home because she was sponsored," Ruddie corrects. "And you'll both need them if you're going to join her. Or me again for that matter."
"You can win without sponsors," I say, just hoping to piss off Ruddie. But as I rack my mind, I can't think of a tribute who won on their own means. Whether I like it or not, sponsors play a part in the victory.
"Sure," Ruddie says. She stops pacing, glancing to me than back to McAfee. "You two really are in for an awakening." She shakes her head. "You're all above it now. But." She moves back over to the couch. "By the end." She laughs faintly. Her eyes look into my own, glaring. "If you make it, you'll be just like the rest of us. Watch."
Then she's turning and leaving the room, leaving McAfee and myself to deal with the fact that even our own mentor isn't really believing we're coming home. We sit there for a few more minutes, silent, before McAfee gets up. For a moment, I want to tell her to stay. I want to tell her that after Ruddie saying what she said that I'm terrified of what's going to happen in the arena in two days.
But I don't say anything.
It's only me and the avoxes in the room now. And despite the fact that they'll listen, I don't really know what to say, not now, not when I feel like the few words I have left could very well be my last.
Female Tribute from District Seven, Rahni Vohra
I stare out the window, watching the city's celebrations below, thinking of my score. An 8. I scored an 8. That's impressive. Shows I have the skills to back up the back talk. And they're celebrating it! They're celebrating me!
I know I should look away from the chaos, but I can't. I can't help but enjoy the fact that someone down there is shouting my name, rooting for me, choosing me as a favorite. Does that make me sick? I wonder. No, I don't think so. I think it makes me human. Who doesn't like to be loved after all? Or rooted for?
There's a sound behind me and I turn to see Proteus standing there, shirtless.
"Are you ever fully clothed?" I ask.
He glances down. "Oh." He does this thing where he tries to cover up by cupping his hands over his nipples. It's awkward, yet it ends up bringing a smile to my lips. "Sorry. It's how I sleep at home."
"I'm teasing you," I say. Proteus is a bit too kind and naive. Either way, he'll make for a good puppet, I think. A part of me says not to think like that, but if District 10 is attempting to do it, I'll have to beat her to the punch. I'll have to make sure Proteus is loyal to me. Then I'll have Yorik and him both to watch my back, because I still don't trust District 8 fully. Zenna and her 5 doesn't seem realistic. And Tassia with her 4, there's no way she wouldn't outscore Blair, although she did suck at knife throwing and she didn't even try hand to hand combat.
"What did you think of the scores?" I ask, testing Proteus' observation skills.
"I'm impressed," he says. "You did well."
"Not mine," I say. I glance back over to the street where there seems to be a parade of cars entering. "The others?"
"Denim and Sesame did good, too," he says. "I wish Alys would have scored better." I grind my teeth together at that sentence. I really hoped I wouldn't have to stoop to hand holding, but this is going to help me in the long run. It's going to keep him alive and out of the clutches of Miss Dimples, too. So in reality, we both win. I just go home.
"She's using you," I say. I don't have to see his body language to know that's he's stepping back, slouching. I take a deep breath, before continuing. "The flirting. The hair twirling. It's all strategy, Pro."
"We're friends," Proteus says.
"No, you're allies," I say. "And only one of us can come home."
"What are you trying to say?" he asks.
"I'm saying it needs to be one of us."
"I don't understand," he asks. "What's that got to do with Alys?"
"She's using you." I want to scream. "Like a puppet. A meat shield. You really think she's not going to step behind you the moment One and Two come running her way." I turn around. "Come on, Proteus. This alliance isn't going to last long. It's only existing to take down the Careers."
"And then we slash each other's throats," he says. "Just like that."
"If we have to," I say. My heart starts to pound, the frustration building. Is he really this stupid? Any of the others would kill us instantly if it meant getting them closer to home.
"Do you really think none of them won't hesitate to kill us?" I ask. "Alys. Denim. Blair. Zenna." I make sure to place names of people I don't fully trust, can't fully wrap my fingers around and control, into the sentence. "They'll kill you if they get the chance."
"What about Yorik?" he asks. "You're awfully close to him." Yes, I am. But it's more like how a Queen is to a King on a chess board.
"Because I'm using him," I say. I squint my eyes at him, careful not to come across too mocking. "He's part of my plan."
"What plan?" he asks.
"To make sure you and me don't get killed by any of the other pairs. Think about it, Yorik is on his own." I have to pause to think my way through the rest of the lie. "He's a free agent. And a possible third to any pair. Which would give us the advantage over Eight, Nine, and Ten."
"I don't understand why we're all acting like friends, though," says Proteus. "If we're just going to kill each other."
"Because this is a game," I say. "And everyone is playing it. Except you."
"I'm playing it," Proteus says. "It's just my way. With honor and integrity and less deceit." He takes a step back and I know I've gone too far, I've shared too much, or been too harsh.
"And I respect that," I say, attempting to do damage control. Proteus might be big, but he's fragile like a flower. "But I'm just saying. You have to be careful." He doesn't move, so I step closer, closing the gap between us. Delicately, I place a hand on his wrist. "Everyone here isn't who they say they are, okay?"
"Okay," he says.
"And I'm sorry if that upsets you," I continue, needing to seal the door, needing to convince him that I'm the one who has his best interest at heart. Because even though I am using him, I do want it to be him who comes home if I die. "But I just think you deserve to know."
"Thanks," he says. He looks over to the window. "I just think this is all overwhelming. The Games. The people." He gestures out with his hands. "The Capitol. I don't know what I'm doing half the time."
"None of us do," I lie.
Sadly, he seems to be one of the only tributes who isn't playing their own game.
"No, you do," he says. "I can see it in your eyes. You're thinking. Planning. Finding a way to get back home." The observation catches me off guard. "But I've never been like that. A planner. Someone who sits and thinks on things. I usually just wing it."
"Well, maybe it's time to start planning," I say.
"Yeah, maybe," he says.
"Because winging it this time might get you killed." He frowns a little at that, but it's the truth. And worse, it might get me killed. And that's one thing that I'm determined not to let happen. I'm not going to let my foolish district partner be the reason I end up in a coffin verses a welcome home stage.
Female Tribute from District Five, Fransiska Lunde
"Up, up, up!"
I awake to the voice of Gabby Goldenberg. The pillow isn't thick enough despite my efforts to shove it over my head, attempting to block out her excessive knocking.
"Frannie! Wake up! Today's a big, big day!"
She doesn't give me time to answer, doesn't even give me time to get out of bed before the troll is barging into the room and snatching the covers off of me.
"Up, up, up!"
The cool air brings a chill to my legs. I wish I still had some hair there, just to keep them warm. But I'm plucked clean, like some bird they're getting ready to roast. Groaning, I pull myself out of bed and walk over to the dresser. I slip on the first thing I pull out, knowing they'll change me into something else today, probably a gown and heels, or some fancy bright colored pantsuit.
Gabby claps frantically when I put on my shoes. She reminds me of the parents in Five when they see their toddler walk for the first time. I never really understood the excitement, the clapping, when they did something for the first time that'll soon enough be mundane.
I follow Gabby down the hallway, entering into the room for breakfast. Jeriah, Jacqueline, and Brites are already there, eating. I don't bother to look at any of them. Ever since I told them about joining the Careers, they've said very little to me, especially Jacqueline. Jeriah was never really someone who spoke much to me anyway, the little weakling. Brites victory was a fluke, anyhow. And Jacqueline, she nearly sucked the tit of the Capitol until it went dry to secure her win.
They're all irrelevant. At this point, I'm better off doing what I've been doing. Strategizing. Thinking for myself. Making my own plans. Going into the Careers to sabotage them from the inside. Because let's be honest, the little anti career alliance isn't going to last. They'll all be dead come day two.
"Good Morning!" Gabby says. She dashes over to an avox, who hands her a cup of coffee. I sit down at the table, taking my time to put on the fluffy eggs and juicy sausage. "So, today we're going to work on presentation." She makes a point to look at me. "Smiling. Walking in a dress. All things extravagant and exciting!"
"So, hurry up and eat," says Jacqueline.
I glare at her. "I'm in no hurry." I take up the sausage and bite into it, letting the grease run down my chin. Gabby frowns when I look at her. Brites simply rolls his eyes, before looking over to Jeriah.
"We're going to get started," says Brites. "Jeriah."
He and Jeriah get up from the room, leaving me alone with Jacqueline and Gabby. I'd much rather take a class on wiring manipulation than sitting here and listening to the two of them talk about posture and jewels and fancy clothes.
"Let's get started," says Jacqueline. She stands up, looks back at me. "Wipe the grease from your chin, will you."
I smile. "Pull the stick out your-"
"Language!" Gabby interrupts.
I shove eggs into my mouth and smile. "My apologies."
Gabby almost loses her coffee and that only encourages me more. Jacqueline doesn't really say anything. She just looks bored.
"Are you done?" Jacqueline asks.
"If I said no?"
"Then I'm leaving without you," says Jacqueline.
"Is that allowed?" I ask. I look at Gabby, who seems confused, so instead takes a sip of coffee.
"If you're not going to take this serious," Jacqueline continues. "What's the point?"
"I am taking this serious," I say.
"Could've fooled me," says Jacqueline.
"Seems you're easily fool than," I spit.
"Not sure if that makes sense," Jacqueline says, attempting to belittle me. "But very well. You win. You're witty."
"Finally." I stand up, pushing out my chair. "You admit it."
Jacqueline turns and walks out the room. I follow her, despite wanting to smash my face into the plate instead.
As I walk down the hallway, I decide what will get me through this day is the fact that I'll be a way better mentor for the females to come. After all, whose to say more victors won't follow when I win. I could be the catalyst that District 5 needs.
We enter a room with two velvet chairs. Jacqueline flops down into the one that has a small table sitting next to it. On top of it sits a cup of smoldering coffee, a wisp of steam circling the air above.
"Let's decide your angle," she says.
"Wit," I say. It's a natural for me.
"Are you taking input?" she asks. She takes a sip from the coffee cup.
"No, not really," I say. This is my interview. I should get to decide the angle, of how I'm going to be portrayed to the audience.
She sits down the cup. "I can help if you let me."
"I'm letting you," I say. But then I think about how she discouraged me from joining the Careers, even after I told her my plans, about how I strategically placed myself next to Chime, the little prince who needed a peasant, a pawn he thought he could control. I want to gag. I want to roll my eyes at the thought of Chime really thinking he's the mastermind in this creation of the alliance, as if I didn't know he wouldn't say yes. As if I hadn't been watching him. As if I didn't notice how the rest of his alliance doesn't really do anything with him. He's the odd man out. With the girls linked up and Nile the little puppy dog that follows their skirts. Chime needs me, not the other way around.
"No, you're not," she says.
"Yes, I am," I say. "You just want more control."
"I'm your mentor!" she spits. "I've earned that control!"
Now, I laugh. "You've earned nothing." I sit down in the chair. "Give me a crown and we'll revisit this conversation. But until then, I'm calling the shots. We're doing wit."
Jacqueline tightens her jaw. I lean back further in my chair, knowing she's played a hard game, but I've won.
"Fine," she finally says. "We'll have it your way."
"Excellent," I say. "Now, should we try on heels?"
"Of course," she says. "Let me call some." She takes a sip from the coffee again. "After all, we'd hate to have you fall."
We make eye contact and she smiles, large, wide, like a wolf. It catches me off guard. Her exposed teeth, gleaming. So much so that I look down, slightly confused. She's never looked like that before. Hostile. Conniving. It hits me then that the woman in front of me is a murderer. That she's actually played and won the game I'm in currently.
That thought humbles me. A lot.
And when I look back up, Jacqueline's smile is only wider.
Female Tribute from District One, Avanelle Aran
When I look at Blest, I do not see the girl with cookies smeared around her lips. I do not see the wild animal. Not like I think so many do back at the training academy. They used to whisper about her, too, before she entered into the games. About how she loved herself and all the secrets. How she loved her little viewing parties where they made fun of pathetic outer district tributes or weakling tributes that barely made it into the pack—they'll definitely be laughing at Chime and his 8.
"Avanelle," Blest says.
I uncross my legs, fighting the urge to slouch, to sit comfortably.
"Are you sure you're okay with it being see-through?" Blest gives me concerned eyes. As if what she says to my stylist could stop anything. I'll wear what she puts me in. Same as Blest did.
"Yes," I say. I look down at the silk. I think of the curtains in my room. I think of the sheets. I think of the rats who ate it all to shreds and have to swallow down the anger that comes with just the image of them. My father's face comes with the rats. I don't know who disgusts me more. Him or the animals we learned to live with because of his gambling, because he didn't know when to say no.
Father like daughter. I cringe a little at that thought. But perhaps it's true. Our drive. Our seclusiveness. Our need to keep striving, keep achieving. We're risks takers, too. I squirm a little at the epiphany that we're very similar.
"Can I ask you a question?" asks Blest
"Only one," I say.
She smiles. "Who are you?"
I laugh outwardly, but my mind spins, panicking. "I'm Avanelle Aran." I say aloud, but truthfully I don't know who I am. I just know what I'm supposed to be. Flirty. Unhinged. Promiscuous. Bloodthirsty. I've watched enough games to know the part I play in these games. It's the same role Blest did only the story is slightly different.
Blest laughs. "Weird question, I know. But no one asked me that last year." She looks down, fluttering her eyelids, blinking back what I don't know. Maybe it's memories or tears or both. "And I didn't know. I didn't know who I was."
I know who I am. A hero. An escapist. Someone who is going to get my little sister out of the slums of District 1. Yet, I'm also a protector, a fluke, a rebel. I'm a chameleon. I'm a fraud. I'm a disgrace. I guess I'm many things.
"I've been asked weirder," I say. And there it is again, this respect, this softness that comes out of me when talking with Blest. I find it harder to turn on the snark, to make our little encounters into games. I mean, she's had enough of those, and despite the makeup they've plastered on her face, I can see it. The weight her features wear now. I wonder if my eyes and nose and lips will change with the crown. Then I tell myself that I don't care. Let all of me grow old. Let my breasts sag or my eye bags droop, I don't care. I only want the title. I only want the house. The redemption. The respect. The out. Let me stay alone with my mother and sister. Let me stay inside the house with knitting needles or books or whatever talent keeps me out of the way of people. Maybe I'll paint or bake or design dresses or create floral arrangements. I don't care. But it'll be something less flashy. Something to separate the real me from the one I'm playing for the cameras.
"I bet," Blest says. "The stylists here know little boundaries." I appreciate her changing the subject once I don't answer. "So, have you walked in heels before?"
"When I was little," I say. Before my mother sold all hers. I remember tottering around the house. I remember how much she cried when she had to sell a pair that were red. She'd called them her lucky slippers. I remember trying to steal them for her. I remember hiding them under my dress only for my father to pull them out. I cried with my mother when the lady took away the shoes. I wish that was the last time I cried because of my father's stupidity and impulsiveness, but it wasn't.
Anyway, I like to think it was his weakness that made the rest of us women strong. I like to think those tears started it all. This road to redemption.
"Well, I'm sure you'll be natural," says Blest. She slides on a black pair, before pushing over a taller silver pair. "Just don't overthink it." We stand up together. She does it with ease. I struggle to gain my footing. You would think the extra inches would be nothing for my balance, but I feel off. I feel even more of a character rather than I person. I look down at the heels. A tightness pinches my toes and I want to curl them inward, hoping that'll help with the pain. But I can't. They're too tight to even wiggle.
The Ava back home would never wear these type of shoes. But Avanelle does. Just like Avanelle doesn't wear underwear at the reaping. . .I take a deep breath. It's all but part of the Games. None of this will be real by the end. But if it keeps me alive, I don't care. I'll be a fraud that's free.
Blest walks across the room. "Okay, follow me."
I follow after her, stumbling with each step.
"Just relax," she says.
I laugh. "I am."
"Your face says otherwise," she says.
"How is it that walking in heels is harder than swinging an axe?" I don't mean to say it aloud. It's just one of those questions that demands escapism.
"It's not," says Blest. "You're just more comfortable with the axe."
"True," I say. I walk back over to the chairs, stumbling less this time. I feel more confident doing it a second time. By a third, I'm walking in the heels with ease. I even manage to hold up my dress at the right length, right above the ankle, but not too high where it's hovering beneath the knee.
To take a break from the walking, I stop in front of the mirror. I look over myself. Take in the curls that still haven't fallen since my prep team curled them. I look at my face, taking in the smoothness and hairlessness of it. I've got no blonde hair above my lips anymore. It's strange that I thought the hair normal until one of my prep team shrieked at it. Referring to it as the "Beast that breathes."
"You're beautiful," says Blest, as if reading my mind.
I turn away from the mirror, looking at her. "Am I?"
"You don't think you are?" she asks.
"I don't know," I say truthfully. I should say of course I know I'm beautiful. But for some reason, I find myself just being real in these four walls with my mentor. With Blest, I find myself more human than I've been in days. "I haven't really thought enough about it."
"What did you think about then?" she asks.
"Getting out," I say. "Improving my aim. Adapting to every scenario. Smiling more than I frown."
"Getting out?" Blest asks. "You're talking about the slums, right?"
"Yes," I say. I look back over to the mirror. I practice the smile I'll give tomorrow. I practice widening my eyes. I even practice telling myself that I'm not just brave, but beautiful.
"I hope you don't have to return," she says.
"Oh, I'm never returning to that place," I say. I brush back a lengthy golden curl. "But I appreciate the hoping." The last part comes out with snark, and despite how much I don't want to be, I'm back in my role. Back playing the little game of Avanelle Aran.
Blest comes up behind me, smiling. She places a hand on my shoulder. We make eye contact. I think about her question from before. Who am I? I'm Avanelle Aran for now.
Male Tribute from District Nine, Sesame Schild
My stylist, Hecubi, enters into the room. She's holding a black suit bag.
"What's in the bag?" I ask. "A dead body."
"Your suit," she says. She doesn't smile, which I think is strange given the amount of wrinkles that circulate around her lips.
She unzips the bag and the scent of honey floods the room. It reminds me of the baked sweet honey bread we have back home. Right before my mother died, I had it. II think I was ten then.
Octagonia tried buying it once. Even had the nerve to bring it over to our house while the dirt was still settling on my mother's grave. I wanted to shove the bread down her throat. I wanted to tell her that she's the reason why my mother isn't here to eat bread with us anymore. But I only stormed out. I couldn't hit her. Couldn't do anything to her since she's the law. The life and death back in District 9. And despite my mother not wanting to live, I wanted to. I wanted to see if this life would get worse or better. So far, it's been worse. But there's a part of me that's hopeful, that's stupidly optimistic that my life isn't going to go down an even deeper hell hole.
And seeing my score, seeing the "9" last night under my face, I really think I could win this, that I might stand a chance in coming home, that I might be an anomaly in a game that's rigged from the start. But there's also the fact that so many people think that right now, with returning, with believing they have an opportunity in actually winning this. But they don't ever return. They die. So I remind myself of the reality, that with even having a decent score, I'm still unlikely to see District 9 again.
But I still have to try because I want to live. I really want to live. My mother at least taught me that, even if she took her own life.
Hecubi pulls out an ivory tux.
"Why does it smell like that?" I ask, staring it down.
"Like honey?" she asks.
"Yeah," I say.
"I did some research," she says. "Found out that honey baked bread is something you all love in District Nine." She smiles at me now, although her tongue catches on the world District. "And I thought, well, I thought you deserved to be reminded of home." I just stare at her, not understanding why she'd do this. Capitol people aren't nice. They're sick. They're evil. But yet she continues to look at me, smiling, showing her teeth. "I just wanted to help." She looks down. I notice the wrinkles on her wrist. "I mean, we're not all cruel." She swallows. "I tried with that little boy last year. Bryn." She swallows again, harder. I remember our tribute last year. He was a kid, barely twelve years old, who didn't even make it past the bloodbath. Talk about the odds never being in his favor. . .
"I remember him," I say. "He was just a kid. Never even had a chance."
Hecubi walks in closer to the room. "If you need privacy, I can leave and come back." I laugh at her saying she'll leave, because I really don't believe she's going to.
"No," I say. "It's fine." I remove the thin gown and get dressed into the tux she's set out for me. After I've secured the jacket in place, Hecubi walks over to me.
"I agree with you," she says when she's close to my ear. "It wasn't fair. He was a child."
I don't know what to think about her agreeing with me. It catches me off guard and the first thing I feel is just anger. Anger that she thinks we're the same, anger that she thinks she's somehow allowed to feel bad for Bryn and his chances, as if she knew him but for a week.
"So," I say. I turn on her. "So what if you agree?" Hecubi shrinks back. And my heart is pounding, hard, and I'm yelling. I'm snapping. Unfolding. Triggered. "That doesn't mean anything. It doesn't stop the Hunger Games. It doesn't stop me from dying. It doesn't stop Bryn from being dead." Hecubi shivers like some rat caught in a cage. She looks smaller now. She looks scared. It should stop me. But my hands are shaking and everything, all my anger for getting reaped, for constantly living in fear, for hating the Capitol and Panem; it all comes out, boiling, skewing over this woman. "You're no different from them." I spit. "Just because you disagree. You're no better. You still killed him. And you're still going to kill me, too."
Hecubi cries now. The tears come fast, rolling down her face, smearing the freshly set powder. "I'm sorry," she says. "I'm so unbelievably sorry. How awful I must seem to you." After that, she turns the door knob behind her and exits the room.
I stand there in my tux, smelling the honey, wishing I could rip the cloth off of me. It hits me that I could walk out there naked. It hits me that I could shed my clothes right during the interview. I could make a stance that way. I could call them out for this—this murdering of us that they attempt to disguise as a pageant.
The door opens again and I expect a fragile Hecubi to come back in, but instead it's three peacekeepers. They look at me.
"Can't you just shut your mouth, boy," says one, the largest of them all.
I stare at him, eyeing him up. They can't do anything to me. They can't beat me like they would at home. They can't steal my shoes and give them to their own children. They can't force us into worshiping the very ground they walk on. Like they're some gods. Like they're some lifeline that if we serve or love enough they'll send down bread and fruit and rice from the sky. No, the peacekeepers are just as much prisoners to Panem like the rest of us. They just get to carry guns.
"No," I say. "I can't." I give a mock frown. "Sorry."
"Ungrateful," says another, a woman's voice.
"Ungrateful?" I turn on her. My hands tighten into fists and my heart leaps, actually feels like it might jump out my chest. And the anger is coming back, all at once, past the jokes, past the anti-career alliance, past everything I've done since I've got here to stop it from ruining my chances of going home. If I keep screaming, if I shouting, they'll find some way to kill me in the Games. I know it. Everyone does. But my hands are shaking, my voice is tightening, and my tongue rolls out the words before my brain can tell my teeth to shut them down. "Really? I'm ungrateful. Because I won't shut up. Because I won't bow down to the very people who probably are going to handle my coffin in two or so days." I step forward. "I'm ungrateful because what. I want kiss your boots. I want eat the cake and shout about how wonderful it tastes." I'm inches away from her helmet now. "Oh, I'm ungrateful because I still have my tongue, is that it? Are you going to take that next? If I come home?" I wish I could punch them. I wish I could drive a tray into their throats. I wish this was the Hunger Games. Right now, and the killing of them wasn't punishable by death, but cheered and allowed and planned. "Is that going to be the new thing?" I spit. "Ripping out the tongues of victors? We'll be just fancier avoxes for the Capitol." I glance down at the hand of the peacekeeper. She's moving it near the holster and I know I shouldn't, but I test her. I test her like I've tested the system every second of every day without really meaning to.
My mother would frown. She'd want me to choose life in this moment. But I don't. I can't. Existing isn't what I want either. I want to live. Actually live for once.
"Go head," I say. "Shoot me. I dare you."
I smirk. And that's when something sharp, something flat hits the side of my temple and I'm on my knees. I look up, seeing the other Peacekeeper holding a stick. I taste something metallic in my mouth. I must have bite my tongue. Great.
"Know your place, boy," he says.
"No," I somehow mouth. And that's when the stick comes down again, hard, making my eyes roll back.
The door opens again and I'm dizzy. I see two of Hecubi when she enters. She screams, demanding they get out.
Both Hecubis run towards me. I hear her screaming for the prep team to come in. When she gets to me, she grabs my face, attempting to hold me up. Everything seems to spin then, when her hands are pressing my cheeks.
"They weren't supposed to," she starts. "They heard you yelling and came."
I don't say anything back. I just slip into blackness.
A/N: Sorry, two weeks until an update instead of one. I'm going to try and make this my updating day. But we'll see, eh. I hope everyone is staying safe, staying six feet apart, wearing masks. Praying for protection over your families and peace for those who might be anxious.
Questions:
1) Out of these six, thoughts on bloodbaths?
2) At this point, who would you bet on if you could?
3) Any scores surprise you?
4) Overall view of the chapter?
Side note: I really enjoyed writing these second POVs. The first for each sort of felt like running for the first time. I didn't hate it. It was just hard. Now, I feel like I'm finally capturing some of them like I planned. We're two chapters from the arena. Arena chapters will be exactly like they were last story.
Blog has been updated. See the odds. The scores. The alliances.
Also, I'm doing the same thing I did last time. I'll ask for a mutt submission. Use it. At the top ten, I'll ask that you pick a number. If you guess your tributes number, they'll get a gift, which could shift my whole outline like last time did. But hey, I like a challenge.
Read and Review!