Jayce Dotter, 18

"I'll do whatever it takes to achieve greatness...whatever it takes."

(Two Years Before the Reapings)

Jayce doesn't really worry for herself. Sure, she's heard some horror stories about District 6. She's heard of murder and gang violence and the works.

But no. What she really worries about is Ishtar.

Jayce knows firsthand how clingy Ishtar is. After all, they've been dating for a year now. Of course, that relationship has now come to an end. Jayce is on her way to a brand-new life in District 6. It's a strange thought. District 12 is all she has ever known, and now she is leaving it behind.

And she loves Ishtar, she really does. But sometimes, even Jayce just can't handle Ishtar's constant need for attention. Dating Ishtar Marmaduke is a twenty-four hour a day job.

But when Jayce and Ishtar would kiss, it would be like the world stopped spinning for them. It felt as if time just paused until they were ready to pull away. When their lips met, Jayce could see herself spending her whole life with Ishtar Marmaduke. Sure, Ishtar could be kind of clingy and demanding, but that didn't mean Jayce didn't love her. After all, everyone has their flaws! Jayce prides herself on being able to look past those flaws and see the goodness in someone. And besides, people can change! If Jayce and Ishtar were to get married one day, surely Jayce could help Ishtar change. It's just because of Ishtar's upbringing. At least, that is what Jayce has convinced herself of.

Still, Jayce has to wonder how far her love will go. After all, love can only get you so far, and what Ishtar had proposed to her seemed…risky, at best.

Jayce is someone to always be looking to the future. Maybe it seemed like a good idea in the heat of the moment, but now Jayce is wondering what kind of trouble she could find herself wading through. The Hunger Games are no laughing matter. They are no way for a pair of lovebirds to reunite. No matter how many sponsors it could gain them, that would only work if it were not by choice.

Maybe she'll change her mind when it actually comes down it. Maybe she'll make good on her promise to Ishtar in two years. Maybe Jayce will decide it's okay to risk it all for the sake of love. But she has her doubts. After all, a lot can happen in two years.

And Ishtar has no idea how easy it is for someone to fall out of love.

(One Year Before the Reapings)

"Vote for Jayce Dotter!" Her posters, hung up all around school, scream to her peers. "She's the best for the job!"

Most people agree with that statement. Jayce refuses to let herself get cocky, but she would be lying if she were to say she doesn't think she'll win. Besides, she's going up against Romeo Renault, and only Romeo Renault. Everyone else who was considering running decided against it when they found out Jayce is also on the ballot.

It's…well, insanely flattering? It's not as if it's surprising or anything, it just feels good to be validated by her peers. It feels extremely good to know that her hard work is finally paying off, and that she has most of the student body on her side.

"Another one ripped down?" Jayce says aloud as she looks at the shredded remains of one of her posters. Romeo and his supporters keep ripping her posters off the walls—but Jayce does have around seven-hundred, thirty-nine ones in a box back home—in some sort of attempt to stop Jayce's campaign from gaining momentum. Of course, they are a little bit late for that. Jayce is practically already student-body president. She's well on her way to becoming the valedictorian, maybe even getting to attend one of the universities in District 3. It's something very few people from any district aside from 3 itself actually get to attend. People don't just move districts every day, after all.

"Really?" Drew says, sounding annoyed. "Do you have any more on you?"

"No," Jayce answers, kicking herself for it. She should have expected that Romeo would rip down more of her posters! She should have brought more with her today. It just slipped her mind, and that shouldn't happen! She was the organized one, she always had everything in order. She should have been able to tell that she would need more posters today. "I'll bring one…one in tomorrow."

"You know, Jayce…just 'cause you don't have a poster on you right now doesn't mean you're awful," Drew says, looking at Jayce oddly.

Jayce laughs. "You read me like a book."

"Well, books aren't really my thing but…" Drew trails off, a bright, beautiful smile on her face. In that moment, Jayce really, really wants to kiss her. Not only is she insanely attractive, but her excitement for life is just infectious. She is good at bringing out the best in Jayce…she can really see herself spending the rest of her life with Drew. "You are."

Those two words are like a passionate confession of love when it comes to Drew. Jayce steps closer to her, staring deeply into those intelligent, excited eyes she so adores. She really, really, really wants to kiss her.

"Get a fucking room," a voice says behind her, ruining the moment.

Jayce whirls around to find herself face-to-face with Romeo Renault, who has become her bitter enemy as of late. No one doubts that Jayce is going to beat him, yet he still is convinced he can win. Jayce doesn't really get why, but she can't help but admire his dedication.

"What do you want, Romeo?" Drew snaps, stepping away from Jayce.

"Just wanted to update you on my plans for the school once I win the presidency," Romeo answers tersely.

Jayce stares at the ground for a moment, heaving a long-suffering sigh. "Student-body presidents really don't have that much power."

"Then why are you bothering to run, since you are so power hungry?" Romeo snarks. He reaches up and rips the remains of Jayce's campaign poster off the wall.

"I don't care for the little amount of power it will give to me," Jayce replies calmly. "I simply feel that I can do the best for my peers in a position with little to give back to me."

It's almost like it takes Romeo a moment to process everything Jayce just said. "Yeah, well…I don't care about the small amount of power I'll have…"

"Sure," Drew mutters bitterly behind Jayce's back.

Jayce steps back, puts a hand on Drew's shoulder, and continues. "It's clear to see that you do, in fact, care for power. I just want to do and be the best that I can be."

"Yeah, and plump up your resume so you can get out of this hellhole and go to school in 3," Romeo says. "I see through you. I can read you like a fucking book, Jayce Dotter. You're just some power-hungry maniac who doesn't care about anyone else…"

Jayce shakes her head slightly and meets Romeo's fiery eyes. "I don't take kindly to being insulted outright, Romeo. I do believe this conversation is supposed to be civil, and no argument ever gets anywhere if one side falls to insulting their opposer." Jayce grabs Drew's hand and starts walking down the hallway, leaving Romeo fuming.

"Yeah, yeah, walk away, you coward! Because you've just always got to have the last word, is that it?"

Jayce tightens her grip on Drew's hand, but keeps walking.

(Three Months Before the Reapings)

Drew leans forward and presses her lips against Jayce's one final time before they both pull away. "I'm sorry to cut this short," Drew says. "but, I have to get home to help with dinner." She kisses Jayce on the nose. "Love you."

"Love you too," Jayce calls after her. She dusts off her pant legs and takes a seat at her desk, ready to knock out that essay that's due in two months. It feels so good to have something done, even if she doesn't need it for months.

On the wall above her desk is one of her old vote for Jayce Dotter posters. Drew jokingly hung it there a few months ago, and Jayce doesn't have the heart to take it down.

At least her campaign turned out well. Romeo threw a (expected) temper tantrum when Jayce won with a commanding eighty-seven percent of the votes, but Jayce still won. There was nothing Romeo Renault could do about it.

If having her homework done two months early feels go, being student body president is fucking addictive. It feels amazing to have her hard work pay off. When she graduates in July, she'll be valedictorian as well. With any luck, her application to the universities in District 3 will be accepted, and she'll get her chance to really, truly do something with her life.

Of course, when she goes to District 3, she'll miss Drew like hell. On her finger sits a simple golden band; a promise ring. She and Drew have promised themselves to each other. If they get married before Jayce goes to 3, then Drew can tag along. They can make a new life for themselves in a new place, without anything from 6 holding them down.

Her pencil scratches furiously along the paper as she thinks to the future. The future for Jayce Dotter and Drew Huck is so, so bright. It's going to be glorious, and Jayce will finally see everything she has so determinedly worked for come to fruition.

Suddenly the tip of her pencil snaps. She sighs in frustration before setting the broken pencil in her writing utensil mug. Only as she slides the pencil back into the mug does she realize that every pencil inside is broken or too dull to write with. And, she can't write with a pen. Then the entire page will be covered in inked out words when she thinks of a better way to word a sentence!

Jayce opens the bottom drawer on her desk, sifting through the various disorganized items for a sharpened pencil. She kicks herself for letting this drawer get so chaotic; it's a mess! She can't find anything in here…

Her hand brushes against the cold metal of a picture frame, shoved at the bottom of the drawer. Likely so she would never have to look at it again.

Curiosity gets the better of Jayce, and she pulls out the picture frame, essay completely forgotten.

The picture shows two people, one of which is Jayce. The other is a person Jayce has hardly given second thought to for two years; Ishtar Marmaduke.

Just the sight of Ishtar makes several feelings explode in Jayce's mind; guilt, longing, love, annoyance, adoration, just to name a few. Here Jayce is, wearing a promise ring for another girl, and Ishtar is back home, planning to volunteer for the Hunger Games for her…

Jayce stares at the picture for a good few minutes. God, she and Ishtar were such fools. They were so childish, thinking any of this would ever work out.

But Jayce is happier here in 6; everything is so much brighter. Drew loves her, and isn't nearly as demanding as Ishtar was. Jayce actually has a future of being somebody, instead of just the wife of Ishtar Marmaduke, the strange rich girl from District 12. Jayce is going to be someone, someone to be remembered, in fact.

She shakes her head as she sets the picture frame back in the drawer and pushes it closed. Oh, Ishtar. You have no idea how easy it is to fall out of love.

Tamarah 'Tam' Colt, 16

"When it rains, it pours. Suck it up, 'cause it ain't going to last long."

(Two Years Before the Reapings)

"So…I was wondering if you would…go out with me?"

Tam shakes her head, berating herself over and over. "No, no, no! I can't ask her out like that! That sounds way too…way too…ugh! This is never going to work."

She sits on the ground like that, notepad in hand, muttering to herself, for a long while before she decides that alcohol will help her. Alcohol always makes things better. Even just a few sips from a drink can change everything. Who knows, maybe it will even give her the confidence to go ask Fawn after a drink or two.

Besides, Tamarah is no stranger to raiding the alcohol cabinet. It's noticeably smaller than it used to be, back when Tam was just eight. But back then, she didn't drink. She only started around four years ago. Her dad was always happy when he drank some of that stuff, so why wouldn't Tam be as well?

And she totally is. As soon as a few gulps of that beautiful amber liquid has gone down her throat, she feels more alive. It's like a drug, except there are no consequences! (Well, Tam knows that is not strictly true, but whatever. It makes her feel good.)

To top it all off, no one else is home right now. Virgil is at work. Mom and Marrah are out shopping. Tam has the whole house to herself, which is why it's okay to talk to herself in the middle of the living room.

Once she has a bottle of gin secured in her hand, she returns to her spot in the living room with a shot glass. She'll only have one. That should open her up enough to come up with a way to ask Fawn out without making her completely loopy. Tam is experienced in how much alcohol she can handle. She knows that she'll be blackout drunk after…well, some amount of shots. By that point, she's kind of done counting how many she has had.

Tam carefully pours one, toasts the air, and downs it all in one gulp.

"Ah," sighs Tam as she sets down the shot glass and leans back against the rough carpet. "Yeeeeaaaah, this exactly what I needed."

She stares happily at the ceiling for a long while, time just passing by without her notice or permission. Eventually she sits up and grabs her notepad. She sits with her pencil poised over the paper for around thirty seconds before she decides she should have another shot. That will make the words flow more easily. Surely. That's how alcohol works, you know.

Tam pours herself another shot and gulps it down. "Damn, does alcohol feels good…" she mumbles, once again picking up her notepad and pencil. She starts scribbling out shaky words before she pauses. "Just one more shot."

Three shots later, Tam is struck with an idea. "Why am I wastin' time here writin' a speech when I could just ask her now?" It's such a fantastic idea she can't tell why she didn't see it before. She doesn't need to have some pre-written speech for Fawn; all she needs to do is go ask! Of course Fawn will say yes; they're best friends, and Tam has seen the way Fawn looks at her when she thinks Tam isn't paying attention. It's meant to be.

Excited, she hops to her feet, finding her movement to be a little shaky. She grimaces, takes one last swig of gin, and heads for the door.

The sun is barely peeking over the horizon in the distance, showering Tam with the last rays of light for the evening. She ignores the fabulous sunset and marches on to Fawn's house.

When she arrives to Fawn's, the redhead in question is halfway out the front door. "Oh! Tam! Hi," Fawn exclaims, seemingly surprised to see Tam on her doorstep.

"Hey, Fawn," Tam greets excitedly in a slightly slurred voice.

"Are you…are you okay?" Fawn asks uncertainly, looking Tam up and down as if she expects to find a stab wound on her torso or a bullet hole on her collarbone.

"'m fine," Tam assures her. "I was just comin' ta ask if you'd…you'd wanna go out with me?"

"Go out…with you?" Fawn asks, sounding disgusted.

Tam smiles bigger, hoping she is mistaking the emotions behind Fawn's voice. "Yeah…ta like, dinner, or somethin'?"

"That's…no! Gross," Fawn says, shaking her head vehemently. "You thought…you thought that I liked girls? That's…just, ew. No!"

"Oh…I…I uh…I didn' mean…to offend you or anythin'," Tam stammers, shocked.

"And are you…drunk?" Fawn exclaims, horrified. She shoves past Tam and stalks quickly down the street, disappearing into the growing darkness.

See, that's the good thing about alcohol. It dampens emotions. It pushes away the horror that Tam knows she probably Tam doesn't really feel anything. She just stands there, staring at the shadows that slowly crawl toward her.

The sun is completely gone from view by the time Tam turns and runs home, trying to fight the tears that are suddenly pricking at her eyes.

(Three Months Before the Reapings)

"I got the booze!" Boone cries as he walks into the old barn, holding three bottles of whiskey in his arms. "One for each o' us!"

Tam lethargically reaches for one of the bottles from her spot on a pile of hay. "Good. I'm actually gettin' sober for once."

"That's a first," Flynn remarks, handing Boone a bottle opener. "Remind me where you get this stuff again?"

Boone pops open one of the bottles and hands it to Tam, who gratefully takes a long swig. "Got it from a bartender, down town. Odessa Flaherty."

"I've been to her place," Tam says, punctuating her sentence with another drink. The whiskey burns it way down her throat in a surprisingly pleasant fashion. "It's grungy. Dirty. A lot of old, freaky men gettin' drunk. So, all in all, a pretty cool place. And it's fun ta drink with other like-minded people. I've even seen Celinda Oxford there before."

"Damn, Cel Oxford?" Boone says cheerfully, swinging his whiskey bottle around wildly. A small amount of the whiskey spills from the glass and splashes on the ground. Tam stares at it for a moment, thinking of how much of a waste that was. Those few little drops of alcohol could have given her a buzz later…

"Yeah. Cel Oxford," Tam answers. "I talked ta her once or twice, even. She's cool. Rude drunk, though."

"Isn't everyone?" Flynn asks between swigs.

"Nah, I'm a happy drunk," Tam explains. "I just get…floaty, ya know?"

"When you drink, you feel like you're doing drugs?" Boone asks incredulously, giving Tam an odd look.

"No!" Tam exclaims. "Not high…just happy." She tucks her free hand behind her head and shifts to a more comfortable position. "Isn't this livin'?"

"Suuuure," Flynn murmurs. "You don' happen to have anymore of that stuff, do ya, Boone?"

"Nah, that's all Odessa gave ta me," Boone says, albeit regretfully. "I can try ta get more tomorrow, if that'll make ya two happy."

"Yeah, and I'll be sober-er than shit by that time," Tam groans. "Being sober sucks."

"Amen to that!" Flynn cries, lifting his bottle of whiskey drunkenly into the air.

"A toast," Tam declares, lifting her bottle as well.

"To what?" asks Boone.

"I dunno," Tam admits. "Whatever."

Boone looks skeptical, but they toast to whatever anyway. Tam takes possibly the longest swig any of them have taken tonight, which leaves her head spinning and her vision slightly blurry. "Ahhhhhh…that hits the spot," she murmurs, shutting her eyes for a few moments. "Doesn't it feel good? To just…not have to think?"

"Oh, yeah," Flynn agrees.

Tam watches as Boone turns his bottle upside down and finds that he's drank all of it. "Ah, fuck," Boone growls. "Shouldn't've drank so fast…" His face suddenly lights up with an idea. "Hey, there's a fancy bar a few blocks away…we could go 'round back and grab some o' the booze…"

"Nah," Flynn says. "We'll just survive sober…don' need to get whipped tonight."

"Yeah," Tam agrees. Just this morning, she saw a girl younger than she is tied to the whipping post in the town square, covered in blood. Tam certainly doesn't need to find herself there. Then she would probably prefer to be sober. "I don' wanna get whipped. Don' need any more scars, ya know?"

"Mm," Boone hums, clearly not agreeing with them.

"Don' go get yourself killed," Tam warns. "Then where would Flynn and I get our booze?"

Boone bursts out laughing at that remark.

"Here," Tam says, passing her bottle to him. "We can share."

In lieu of an answer, Boone takes a long drink from Tam's bottle. "Thanks, Tammy."

"Any time," Tam slurs as she takes the bottle back from him. "We gonna sleep here tonight? I don' wanna go home; Mom won' be happy and Virgil has this look of disappointment he gives me when I come home drunk so I think I'd rather sleep here in the hay."

"Yeah, we can stay here," Flynn agrees. "Sound good ta you, Boone?"

Boone doesn't answer; he's already fallen asleep.

"A whole bottle of whiskey will do that ta ya," Tam mumbles, at last draining her bottle of every last drop in the glass. "G'night…"

The world is an awful place; Tam knows firsthand. But, when you just let yourself drift away from that with the aid of alcohol…well, existence is almost tolerable.

Ainsley Platte, 14

"I'm really weird and I hate myself but you're not weird enough and I hate you more."

(Seven Months Before the Reapings)

If there is one thing that Ainsley Platte is sure of, it's that there is a big, big difference between learning and going to school. She doesn't learn anything of use at school. All they tell her is about harvesting grain, how to bake grain into bread, how to plant grain, what kind of grain is best to plant in what season…it's all grain, grain, grain. Like, Ainsley knows that District 9's industry is grain, but would it kill them to teach some sort of math, or maybe even history?

They stopped teaching math when Ainsley was seven. Most of the kids around her only know how to add and subtract. Some of them don't even know that. Reading went out the window around the same time as math did. History is revisited for one week a year—the same week that the Capitol finally triumphed over the rebels in the rebellion—to force feed the students of District 9 Capitol propaganda. It's not exactly the most stimulating syllabus Ainsley has ever seen.

And thus, Ainsley has perfected the art of appearing like she's listening, but is in fact worlds away. Her younger brothers, Travis and Dylan, call it "sleeping with her eyes open". Her teachers, however, call it "insolence" and give her detention.

Which is the reason that Ainsley is sitting here, right now, staring off into space in Mrs. Emmerson's near-empty classroom long after school has concluded.

Joke's on them, Ainsley thinks, carefully scratching the words "fuck this hellhole" into her desk with her fingernails. I can daydream here just as well as I can in the classroom. Maybe even easier, since there's no useless teacher droning on in the background about grain.

She continues scratching her inappropriate message into the wood, noticing that the desk is already littered with notes. F + I Forever. Rylan was here. Help me, please! I hate school. Fuck the Capitol! She catches Mrs. Emmerson pointedly glancing at her out of the corner of her eye, but shrugs it off and continues scrapping away.

"Ahem, Miss Platte?"

The next thing she knows, Mrs. Emmerson is looming over her desk with her hands on her hips. The first thing that comes to mind is how much she resembles what Ainsley imagines that one character from that one book she read last week about the girl who got trapped in a mirror dimension where everyone was out to kill her…

"What exactly are you doing?" Mrs. Emmerson asks sharply, bringing Ainsley back to reality.

"Nothing," Ainsley answers casually, shrugging but continuing to scratch her fingernails into the wood.

"That is Capitol property, Miss Platte," Mrs. Emmerson growls. Ainsley still doesn't look up, but she can practically taste Mrs. Emmerson's anger. It's an oddly funny thought, and Ainsley has to choke down her laugh. Mrs. Emmerson thinks she's so scary

"Cool. You want an award or something?" Ainsley says nonchalantly, digging her fingernail through a particularly tough piece of the desk.

"I could have you arrested and whipped for that," Mrs. Emmerson threatens.

"I don't care," Ainsley answers, finishing carving her message with a flourish. "Look, it says 'fuck this hellhole'."

"Come with me, Miss Platte," says Mrs. Emmerson, grabbing Ainsley roughly by the arm and dragging her out of her chair.

"Let me go!" Ainsley cries, pulling her arm out of Mrs. Emmerson's grasp. It's not that she doesn't like being touched—in fact, physical contact is one of Ainsley's favorite things—it's that Mrs. Emmerson just—grabbed her! She just grabbed her and tried to drag her somewhere and that's not okay! Teachers can't just do that!

Anger filling her vision and veins, Ainsley throws her desk onto its side and bolts from the classroom. Her feet slap against the floor as she charges blindly through the nearly-empty school, echoing loudly through the previously-silent hallways. She bursts through the back doors and sprints through the grain fields out back, not caring for the stalks of wheat that she knocks over. Wheat can be replanted. Ainsley cannot.

At last, she reaches a spot deep in the endless fields of wheat and sits down. She brushes loose pieces of wheat off her clothing and lays back, not caring for the stalks that she crushes. It's not her wheat. Not her wheat, not her problem.

She can't believe that Mrs. Emmerson just…did that! She hopes that woman gets fired. She tried to have Ainsley whipped, for carving a harmless message into a desk! Was anyone ever going to care that she scratched stuff into the wood? No! No one cares. No one cares, and nor will they ever.

Aside from, of course, Mrs. Emmerson. Figures.

Ainsley takes a deep breath, staring up at the sky without really seeing it. And she's supposed to go back to that hellhole tomorrow! To learn about grain and bread and harvests! It's such a waste of her time. There are so many better things she could do than sit in a desk and be told what wheat is for the seventh time.

After all, there are books to be read, worlds to be created, places to be seen, people to met! Ainsley has no good reason to sit there in that desk, staring blankly off into space and waiting for her teachers to scream at her for so-called "insolence". Even just showing up to school is completely pointless; they don't learn anything of use. When in life will someone walk up to her, ask her when she can plant wheat, and stab her if she doesn't know? Never! People don't do that. When she grows up and starts working in the fields, they'll give her seeds, tell them to plant them, and then tell her to harvest them. She doesn't need to know what she's planting, nor when to harvest it.

Ainsley clenches her fists and sits up. She doesn't want to spend the rest of her life planting and harvesting grain. Unfortunately, there isn't much she can do about that.

(Six Months and Twenty-Three Days before the Reapings)

"So, Ainsley, I'm sure you know why I've asked you here."

"Yeah, whatever," Ainsley mutters, staring down at her lap. "I get it, I get it. I'm such an issue and you want to just talk it out, and somehow that's just going to fix everything. We've been here before, Mr. Calhoun."

The counselor in question purses his lips and folds his hands on the desk between them. "Ainsley, I know you don't think anything you learn here is worth your while—"

"If you really knew that, we wouldn't be here," Ainsley growls. "I would have already dropped out of this hellhole."

Mr. Calhoun powers on as if he never heard her. "So, Ainsley, not only did you damage Capitol property but you stopped a teacher from disciplining you for that previous offense. Normally, this would warrant Peacekeeper involvement, but judging by your record—" He hands Ainsley a manila folder. "—we're going to be doing these sessions once a week for the next few months. As long as you show up and cooperate, this incident will stay between you, me and Mrs. Emmerson, alright?"

Ainsley grumbles some sort of unintelligible agreement. She may hate it here, but she would really hope to not find herself tied to the whipping post in the town square. That is one staple of District 9 that Ainsley definitely wants no part in.

"Ainsley, can you tell me why you hate school so much?" Mr. Calhoun requests. Ainsley glares at him. Of course he's going to word like Ainsley has a choice in how she answers.

"We learn nothing of value," Ainsley says with a shrug.

"Why do you say that?"

"Because I don't give a fuck about grain!" Ainsley yells.

Mr. Calhoun heaves a long-suffering sigh. "Cooperate, remember, cooperate."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever."

"So is that why you don't pay attention in class? Because you feel that you aren't learning anything important?" Mr. Calhoun asks, unfolding his hands and starting to write in the manila folder.

"I'm not learning anything important," Ainsley responds curtly. "You've heard about one type of grain, you've heard of them all."

"Be that as it may, you still are required to pay some semblance of attention in class," Mr. Calhoun says. "Your grades matter, Ainsley. If you really hate it here so much, those grades could be your ticket out of here. So why don't you pay more attention?"

"I'm not gonna go to university," Ainsley says.

"Then what are you going to do with your life, if you so refuse to work in the fields?"

"I thought this was a counseling session, not a shared existential crisis," growls Ainsley. She goes to stand. "So, if you're not going to help, I'll just head back to class now—"

"Remember the deal, Ainsley," Mr. Calhoun says pointedly.

Right, Ainsley thinks. "Fine. Whatever."

"Since we're both a little bit worked up at the moment, maybe we can try to pick this up tomorrow?" Mr. Calhoun phrases it like a question, but Ainsley knows it's an order. It makes Ainsley's blood boil. She hates being told what to do.

"Sounds wonderful to me," Ainsley says sarcastically.

"I'll see you tomorrow, Ainsley. Please try to behave in the meantime," Mr. Calhoun says pointedly.

"I'll count the seconds," Ainsley mutters as she walks out of his office.

Like she needs counseling. She's clearly not the problem! It's Mrs. Emmerson, Mr. Calhoun, everybody else who is the problem! Ainsley would know if she were the issue, and she's not! She's just doing what's right, and no one else understands! And now they're trying to fix her, because they don't want to be responsible for her being messed up! They think all of their problems will go away with a few poorly done counseling sessions!

They have no idea just how wrong they are! They're delusional, that's what they are!

Ainsley glares at the floor and clenches her fists at her sides. Oh, she will show them who's the problem, and it sure as hell isn't her.

A/N: It has been a hot second since I updated this, but in my defense, I just got a new computer so that's been taking some adapting. But I am back and ready to get back into it!

And my birthday is on the thirteenth! There probably won't be another chapter until then, since I'm going to Chicago to see Hamilton and won't have much time to write.

1. Thoughts on Jayce?

2. Thoughts on Tamarah?

3. Thoughts on Ainsley?

4. Which of these three is your favorite?

Random Question of the Chapter: which one of these three seems most like a Victor?

So, next up is Scoria, Afandina and Navarro.

-Amanda