The Hunger Games. Pretty much the only thing that's ever on TV that's worth watching. Twenty four kids. Twenty three of them die. Dramatic. Suspenseful. Brilliant.
I never bother to watch the reapings. That way it's more fun when the games actually start. This year my girlfriend, Jilli, came over to watch it with me. As soon as we saw the tributes we started guessing which ones would go first. I said the girl from 11, then the boy from 10, but she disagreed. She said the boy from 3, then the girl from 6.
Whoever was wrong had to pay for our next date.
The arena was a forest one this year. There was a field of grass off to one side, but I thought most–if not all of them–wood make for the trees. When the gong sounded, I watched the girl from 11, hoping she would die first, just so I could have the satisfaction of being right. To my dismay, the first to die is the girl from 7, then the girl from 6. I lost. Jilli looked at me smugly, then back at the screen. I tell myself it doesn't really matter, and it doesn't. They're just district kids. Uncivilized, barely human. And the date shouldn't be too expensive.
Next year I'll be right.