Gunther makes a noise like somebody punched him in the gut. He curls in on himself because he knows he can't stop what's happening. I walk to the stage. I climb the steps. I turn to face the crowd. Then I see it. Then I hear it. They aren't silent for me. They aren't stoic for the thirteen-year-old boy. The adults are a cacophony of "No, no, no," and the kids are screaming things I can't understand. What the hell? They're acting like this is District 11 or 12, not 4. I see Wilhelm struggling with Otto. Otto has his hand over his mouth. I think Wil tried to volunteer for me. The moron. We agreed he wouldn't do that to me. Gun at least keeps his promise. I can't see Dad, or Ingle, or Hans.

Why is everyone so pissed off? I'm just another tribute, aren't I?

"Looks like Mr. Hayden will be competing a little earlier than we all hoped, wish him luck," the mayor says.

Oh. That's right, I forgot. Our family has good genes, we look good and we're athletic. And I'm the blonde one. Instant fan-favorite. If I were sixteen instead of thirteen.

"May the odds be ever in your favor."

I don't care who said that. Odds aren't worth calculating. Chance isn't freaking predictable.

The peacekeepers lead me and what's-her-name into the Justice Building. I've been in here once. I wanted to know if I could get my name changed. They said no.

We get to say goodbye to our families before we get on the train. I wonder if the girl has someone to say goodbye to. Didn't sound like it in the square.

Wilhelm and Otto don't cry. Ingle and Hans won't stop crying. Gunther just hugs me. He doesn't let go until the peacekeepers pry him off. I'm so glad he doesn't try to kill the guy.

Dad isn't happy.

"Timing," he murmurs. I expected him to raise his voice. Maybe scream at me for being reckless or intentionally getting my name put in so many times. He stays quiet.

"Timing is everything," I say back.

Oh, now he's crying.

"When you get back, I expect you to be able to pay for Ingle's speech therapy."

"Of course, can't have him sounding like an idiot his whole life."

He doesn't hug me. That's good. He'd never let go if he did. Unlike Gunther, he definitely would have killed a peacekeeper. I get my temper from him.

I don't want to take in anything else once I leave the room. We have to get on the train. I don't like the train.

Well, I don't like the train until it starts moving.

It goes so fast! I want to ride on the top and feel the wind this speed creates. My excitement must show on my face because the girl scoffs.

"Seriously?" she gives me a look, "What's got you in such a good mood?"

I turn to her, ready for a fight. Being on my best behavior gives me a need to vent. But when I see her face, she isn't being judgmental. She's scared and she's taking it out on me.

"I've never gone this fast," I tell her much more politely than I was going to, "Besides, I'd rather have a good time while I still can. What's your name again?"

She blinks. Her eyes are sky blue. She is very pretty.

"Layla," she says flatly. I think she might be glaring. She's got her chin down, so it's hard to tell if her eyebrows are drawn down in anger or just down.

"I'm Berlyn," I hold out my hand to her. She takes it and I suddenly realize how deep in the mud I really am. Her hand is twice the size of mine. She's a girl. Girls have smaller hands than guys. And she's twice my size.

"Isn't that a girl's name?" Layla asks.

"Uh, yeah," I try to recover from that stark reality check, "My Dad has all sons. I think he wishes he had at least one daughter. Believe me, I've tried to change my name."

She smiles a little. At least she relaxed a little bit.

"How many brothers do you have?"

"Five,"

"Five of you altogether, or five brothers?"

"Five brothers, there are six of us. We're all twins."

"You mean sextuplets?"

"No, three sets of twins. My two older brothers, me and my twin, and our two younger brothers."

"Wow, that must be rough for your parents."

"...yeah," is all I can say. Parents in the plural hasn't been a thing for a long time. Dad never told us how she died. Change the subject! "What about you? Do you have siblings?"

Layla hesitates. I don't think she realizes how open-book she is.

"No," I answer for her, mostly to let her know she's easy to read.

She looks surprised at first, then nods sadly, "My parents wanted more kids, but they could barely handle me."

I note the past tense. I'm not planning to interrupt if she's willing to talk. It'll make her easier to get along with if I know her. We're going to be on this train for a long time. And then we'll be sharing an apartment in the Capitol. And our mentor will probably want us to be allies.

Speaking of, where is he?

Oh, Layla's decided to start talking again.

"They were killed in last summer's tsunami."

"That was a bad one," I remember thinking we were going to get washed out to sea during that massive wave.

"Yeah, I had to start taking tessare and working on the docks," Layla explains, "I wish I could have made more money."

"Hey," yes, I know I'm a freaking hypocrite, "It doesn't matter, Layla. Odds don't matter because they're just that: odds. They're number on a page that don't have any effect on real life. I'm thirteen. Do you really think my name was in the boys' bowl more than yours was in the girls'?"

She gives me a hard look. That may have been an unsupportable lie. I have a reputation in my part of the district.

"I guess not," she agrees to my logic. My made-up logic that's meant to soothe over her nerves and make her loosen up. Gunther's right about me being a jerk.

We don't meet our mentor until we get to the Capitol. Layla is fascinated by the buildings and all the people. I feel disgusted, so I focus on the sky. There's a thump behind us and we both whirl around to see out mentor wrestling with a door.

"Good afternoon!" he flings himself through the door and grins ear-to-ear at us. He looks like he's trying hard to mask disappointment. I know what disappointment looks like, no matter what mask someone tries to hide it with.

"You can drop the act," I tell him.

He zeroes in on me, "Alright, that makes it easier," he stops smiling so broadly, "You weren't supposed to be here for another three years."

"That's not creepy at all," I like sarcasm. It's just friendly enough that I can use it without getting in trouble.

"I'm serious, Berlyn," the old guy says (no, I don't remember his name. He won forever ago when I didn't exist and the Games were never interesting enough for me to learn his name. Yes, I know he was on the stage and he spoke every year and they said his name over and over. Mock me, I wasn't freaking paying attention.), "You are an instant favorite."

"What do you mean? How long have you weirdoes been interested in me?"

"The Capitol has always combed through District 4. We have better genetics. Your family has some of the best. Your complexion, your eyes, your hair color, it's all Capitol bait."

"You do have pretty eyes," Layla comments.

I didn't expect her to say anything. I feel like a clothing item in a fashion show. I can understand the value of beauty. I don't like applying it to myself. Weird. Freaking weird. Gross.

"You just wish I were sixteen," I want to change the subject, "What's the strategy for interviews?"

Whatever our mentor's name is, he doesn't like me. I don't think he was expecting me to be such a brat. Or maybe he was expecting more of a brat and less of a spaz.

"You and Layla don't know each other, do you?" he asks. I realize he has make up on his face. It's sparkly. I have the sudden impulse to poke him on the nose. I don't do it.

"No," Layla answers, "We just met today."

"Right, Layla, I think you need to go for self-sufficient, grown-up and mature," he turns to me, "Berlyn, you should try to appear as young as possible. Maybe we can work in a mother hen for Layla and loyal son figure for you."

No, absolutely not. That made me angry, "I don't want to do that."

"It's not up to you," he snaps at me.

"Isn't it?" I hate people acting like they can control other people. You know, control over your own life is an illusion, what makes them think they can control anyone else's? (Wow, that was deep. I must be losing my mind.)

Ha! He doesn't know what to do with that. Apparently, none of my predecessors have challenged his authority. He just sort of sputters and blinks at me. Now I can really see his eye shadow. Layla is silent now. No comments about my "pretty eyes." Yeah, she pissed me off with that. I'll get over it for her sake, but I'm mad for right now.

"You can't make me say anything I don't want to say, can you? Once I get in front of a camera, you have no control," I point this out to our mentor.

He clenches his jaw. There's the victor of some olden days Hunger Games. That's who I want teaching me.

"Berlyn, you're a cocky little bastard, aren't you?" he nearly growls at me, "But you're right. I can't control everything you do. That being said, if you're just going to make your own decisions despite my advice, how about you be straight with me?"

Yes, I'm a jerk.

"Okay, I think I should act older than I am. I think Layla should be independent, but she should be cold, heartless," she gives me a shocked frown, "I can hold my own. I won't get sponsors if they think I'm gonna die in the first two days."

"That all makes sense," our mentor agrees, "Good luck getting your stylists to agree."

Oh no, I have to convince some pansy babies to do what I want. What a challenge.