Chapter Four

I'm still buzzing from my very first free training session as an official Potential Tribute. Since I'm only eleven – turning twelve soon! – I've only been allowed to have primary lessons. It kind of sucks because it's either both just me and the trainer, or with younger, stupid kids who can't hold a spear right. But I'm turning twelve in less than three months, and since my best friend, Lune, and I are the best in the class, we can go to the free training session!

In a nutshell, free training is mostly just developing your combat skills. They have everything from hand-to-hand combat to knot tying. There also used to be some sections for survival – like building shelters or making fires and such – but the Potential Tributes put them in the storage closet to make room for axe-throwing ranges. If you wanted to learn about survival, you'd have to go to the – ugh – library. I went to library when I had primary group lessons, because I already knew the basics before I knew the basics of math. But now that I'm allowed into the free training sessions, I don't think I'll never go to the library again.

In free training, only those on the stronger side of thirteen and over can participate. Anyone younger would be too intimidated to continue with training. But it was really just exhilarating. I've never seen so much power shown in one place. One older girl could shred a dummy with two daggers in her lightning quick hands. A short and stocky boy could release his arrow with so much force it went through three targets. I wanted to try my hand against all of them, in all the sections. But Lune forced me to train in my knives section as she went to her javelins.

In my frantic excitement to gush to my brothers – about how I was better than most of the older Potentials – that I forgot my sandals in my locker. The training center was open until ten at night, for if you want to get a jump on your competitors. No one usually stays after six on a Friday night, though, and it's almost nine now. I wouldn't take long; just take my sandals, probably take my new book Muttations of the Capitol and be out of there in less than ten minutes. But, while skipping down the hall with my sandals and book in my bag, I see the weight room's light on.

Some Potentials were so empty headed that they can't even remember to turn off a light. I shake my head and go to turn it off. Then I hear the clinking of metal against metal and the familiar sound of strained, rhythmic breathing. Quietly, I peer inside and see a lone person in the far end of the room lying on the bench of a lifting machine. He was taking it slow, but didn't appear to be stopping anytime soon. Usually, that wouldn't trouble me; I would just assume he was a hardworking person. What really caught my attention was how much he was lifting – it was much more than what is advised for any age.

I quickly go over to the Potential. "Hey," I say as I draw near. He doesn't acknowledge my existence. The bulging muscles and throbbing veins in the Potential's arms frighten me. I briskly go to the back of the machine and press the emergency hold button. Immediately, the weights in the machine freeze in place, making it impossible to lift. There's a confused grunt and the Potential bolts up.

"What the fuck?" he roars. I glance around the back of the machine and see Lune's older brother – about fifteen by now – tear off his mini speakers you can plug into your ears. He has the deepest scowl I've ever seen anyone have. He must have caught a glimpse of me, because he whips his head and directs that scowl at me. "What the fuck."

Lune's brother was named Cato. I've never really talked to him, or seen much of him. And I guess I know why now; he's always here. I've heard a few stories float around about Cato being the Potential to beat, even at his age. Apparently he was sparring with a boy in hand-to hand and, in the heat of the moment, snapped his neck and didn't blink twice. Some people are already terrified of him because of that, but the story was hushed up so parents would still send their children to the training center.

"It's dangerous to lift that much," I say calmly.

He wipes the sweat from his forehead. "Does it look like I care, stupid?" Yup, he was Lune's brother.

There's a towel on the rack next to me, and I toss it to him. His sweatiness was kind of gross. "You'll pull a muscle. You won't be in any condition to enter the Games like that, stupid."

Cato wipes off his face and lowers the towel. I lean against the machine next to me and, just as I was about to say something witty, he decides now was the time to take off his shirt. I feel my face heat and suddenly the floor is very interesting to look at. A mocking snicker is thrown at me. "Embarrassed, princess?"

My cheeks flush darker and I quickly shake my head. My breath gets caught in my throat and I can't speak. He laughs heartily and this time it's not mocking; a real laugh. He takes a moment to breath and I feel like the kid I've tried so hard not to be. "Is this your first time seeing a guy shirtless or something, kid?" Great, now he's even calling me a kid.

In an attempt to redeem my pride, I manage to muster, in a squeaky voice "N-no! I… I have older brothers… who don't like wearing clothes…" Even then, I still can't bring myself to look at him.

He chuckles again. "I meant a real guy," he says, as if my brothers weren't real people. "C'mon, kid. What if, in the arena, you get attacked by a naked guy who got his clothes stolen by some mutt. Are you just gonna close your eyes and hope he kills you quick?"

I keep my eyes shut, not sure if he was actually giving me some helpful advice or just mocking me again.

Suddenly, I feel my face being pulled up by his hand. Either his hand was huge, or my face was ridiculously small. But I squeeze my eyes shut as Cato holds my face. Even then, I'm completely aware of his proximity to me, so close I can feel his breath. This makes me want to keep my eyes shut all the more.

"I saw your fancy throwing today," Lune's brother says, his breath washing over me. "It was impressive. But it takes more than that to win. C'mon kid," he mutters, "show me what you got."

It's in my nature to never back down from a challenge. And also in my nature to get angry when someone underestimates me. So, slowly, I open my eyes to the sight of Cato with a small mischievous grin on his face. For a fraction of a second, I can't control myself and look down. Just as quickly, I look back up, my face on fire. Oh god, he was so hot. He must have seen that little relapse in focus – how could he not? – because his good-natured smile evolves into a smirk. But I won't close my eyes; I stare up at him with my red face and defiant expression.

He raises an eyebrow, seeing if my stare will break, but after a moment, he lets go of my face and lets out a laugh. His voice was already so deep. Cato pats my head and lies back onto the bench of the machine again. "Alright, kid, you're good. Now scram, it's passed your bedtime."

I frown at him. "You're going to go keep lifting."

Now, he decides that ignoring me is best. He puts his little ear speakers and I grab his arm. Cato gives me a look, his good humor already fading from his face. "What is it now?"

"You're gonna get hurt lifting so much," I say with a firm grip on his arm.

Cato rips off his ear speakers and gives me the famous Pitney Stare. "What does it matter? Either get hurt now or get killed later in the arena, right?"

"But if you get hurt now, you won't be able to win," I argue.

His scowl was so intense that the thought of the boy he accidentally killed flashed through my mind. I instantly let go of his forearm. But his eyes showed that it wasn't meant for me, that he was thinking of something else. "That's all I can do," he muttered.

"…Get hurt?"

"Win," Cato says shortly. When my eyebrows scrunch together in confusion, he sighs in frustration. "Winning is everything."

I nod, not sure if he was asking.

"Well," he runs his hand through his hair, not even acknowledging my nod. "What if it isn't?" He looks me directly in the eye, searching for my understanding.

"What if… it isn't?"

"You're a smart girl, kid, I'm sure you can make something outta yourself," Cato says, disregarding my question. He looks down at his hands. There's a long pause and I don't want to break the silence. He speaks slowly, as if letting his thoughts get in the way of his articulation. "This is all I am, all I've ever been. A Potential. But there's thousands of Potentials. Thousands of people like me. What'll become of us when the one going to the Capitol isn't us?"

Since, I was too caught up in his words to realize that's a rhetorical question, I say "A Peacekeeper."

He chuckles without humor and looks at me. "Yeah. Leave the district. That's what I'll do. If I can't go to the Games, I'll be too ashamed to do anything else. If I can't be in District 2 as a victor, I'll die somewhere else; either in the arena or someplace far away."

Those words sink in. These things he's saying have never crossed my mind. Cato's basically saying that our lives are only for the sake of the Games. And… in a way… he's right. But I was taught that the Games are meant to keep peace, and being a Peacekeeper doesn't sound too bad. Or a Career Trainer, like our parents. Why does it seem like Cato doesn't want any of this?

"I'm only worth as much as I can lift," he mutters, looking back at his hands. They turn into fists. "We weren't given a choice of how we'll live, if we wanted this. No, we were bred, not born. We've been bred as entertainers."

He doesn't want this. I was right. That's exactly what he's saying. Cato wants to be one of those mundane teenagers who only talk of the Games but don't have a hope of being in it. He wants to be a boring, normal guy with a boring, normal life with boring, normal friends. I don't know why, but that's what he wants. I've never wanted that. There's no purpose in just doing nothing with yourself. That's how most Potentials feel. I thought that's what all Potentials thought. But what doesn't make sense is why he says these things, but doesn't act upon it.

"Cato," I say quietly, afraid to butt into his monologue. He looks up at me, as if remembering I'm there. "Why… why do you keep training then? Why do you keep lifting if you don't want this?"

There's a look of relief that flashes across his face, as if someone finally acknowledging his aversion to being a Potential lifts weight off of him. "Because. If I'm born to be an entertainer, if I'm reaped, I may as well be the best damn entertainer Panem has ever seen."

I don't know why, really, but I feel pity for Cato. Awkwardly, I pat his arm. "There's thousands of Potentials, like you said. Unless you volunteer, there's not that much chance you'll get reaped. So… take it easy…" I look at the book on the ground that I didn't realize I dropped. "Plus, my brother told me that over-exercising when you're young makes your wiener small."

That makes him crack a smile. "Don't worry, kid. I don't have to worry about that." He winked at me and my now red face and I snatch my hand back from his arm. This makes him boom another laugh and thumps my back. "Ah, your expressions are priceless. Anyway, go home, it's late and your parents'll be worried."

I cross my arms to regain composure. "N-no! I'm responsible! A-and if I go, you'll go back to lifting again!"

He runs his hand through his hair and I can't help but notice how cute he looks with damp hair. "You caught me." I scowl at him and he smirks in return. "Okay, fine. How about you go home, and then I'll go home."

"No."

"Do you want to stay and watch me shower?"

I swear he's doing this just to destroy me.

"I thought not."

My scowl deepens and I think for a moment. How can I be sure he actually goes home? Then I have it. He looks at me as I try to mimic his intense stare. I hold out my hand. "Pinky swear."

For some reason, it looks like he's trying his hardest not to laugh, and failing horribly. "…You can't be serious." I stare him down and hold out my hand out to his face. "Really?"

"Pinky swears are on the same level as legal documents," I say. Jeez, didn't he know that? But… now that I think about it… it is kind of childish… Maybe he'll just brush me off and just go back to lifting, since I really can't do anything to stop him.

His pause makes my waver in faith in the sacred pinky swear even worse. I slowly start to lower my hand when his large pinky – the size of my pointer finger – engulfs mine. "Fine," he says with the hint of a smile playing at the edge of his lips.

I don't know why I decided to trust him right then and there for it, but I did. I pick up my sandals and my book and I quietly leave the weights room. But I hesitate beside the door for a moment, count to a minute, and glance back into the room. Cato's still there, not lifting, but looking as if in deep thought. I briefly wonder if his calming thoughts were the same with his swords as mine were with my knives. I wonder if he, too, imagines death for peace of mind. He quickly stands up and picks up his shirt. It was so abrupt that I'm startled and immediately sprint for the exit; I don't want him to see me still here.

After that night, I would always forget my sandals or my book or my shorts or something in my locker. I would do this because I used it as an excuse to check up on Cato. And he would always be there, always in the weights room, always pulling more than what he should. Sometimes I would have to yell his name for him to acknowledge me, or pull out his ear speakers. There were times when I had to push the emergency hold button again. But, mostly, Cato would know I would be coming. My footsteps would give me away and he would stop as I enter the room, as if I were his personal alarm clock.

But that only lasted about two months. Cato was reaped. I couldn't tell if he was scared or excited as he walked up onto the stage. And then someone volunteered to take his place. In his fit of rage, in front of all of District 2, in front of all of Panem, he punched the volunteer in the face and a brawl broke out. Everyone was so shocked that no one stepped in until Cato had the volunteer in his hands, ready to snap a neck. And that's when people started paying attention to him. He was submerged in a group of friends everywhere he went. His smile that I was greeted with turned into an arrogant smirk. Girls swarmed him like harmless tracker jackers. And, suddenly, the weights room became empty every night.

Sometime after the reaping and before the 72nd Hunger Games, our little hope of a friendship soured. That's the last thing I wanted, to not be friends with Cato, yet it happened. But maybe that can change. Maybe, one day, we'll be friends again.