Principal Snow strides into the library, his lips already creased in a preemptive sneer. Like he's expecting there to be trouble from at least one of these delinquents.
He took a glance at the attendance sheet in his office. Only five kids on the list this weekend, which is an unusually high number, because most of the students he has regular run-ins with know better than to tempt fate and end up in a Saturday morning detention.
Snow doesn't recognize a few of the names. He was surprised to see Annie Cresta on the slip of paper, the secretary of the National Honors Society and the captain of the mathematic decathlon squad. And Peeta Mellark, a varsity wrestler, and a genuinely stand-up kid.
But he was expecting Johanna Mason.
"Students," he barks, reveling in the way that his tone makes the newcomers sit up straight in their chairs like their spines have been replaced with steel rods. "Welcome to Saturday morning detention. Let's make sure that we're all where we should be, shall we?"
A hand shoots up in the air, but its owner doesn't wait for permission to speak. "Yeah, Mr. Snow?" The hand belongs to a vaguely familiar-looking kid with a shock of wavy golden hair, and sea-green eyes. "I know I'm supposed to be here, but I don't think that I'm supposed to be—here."
Snow almost snorts. The sense of entitlement that these selfish little pricks have. It's almost enough to make him want to retire early.
"Ms. Cresta?" he asks instead, reading off his copy of the attendance list. The slight, timid redhead raises her hand tentatively. "All right. Ms. Everdeen?" He glances up to see a fierce-looking girl chewing on the end of her braid, assumes that this is his mysterious new charge. "And, Ms. Mason. What a pleasure to have you back in detention," he remarks drily.
Johanna rolls her eyes. Actually rolls her eyes. "I'll bet," she scoffs. Snow refuses to take the bait, even though his blood is already boiling.
"Mr. Mellark." The wrestler gives him a grim, tight-lipped smile. "And, Mr. Odair." Snow is a little surprised by this name. From what he's observed in his daily jaunts around the hall, he's gathered that this golden-haired boy is somewhat of a prince in this school. The young women fall at his feet, the boys revere him like a god. No wonder he thinks that he deserves special treatment. In detention, no less.
It's time for a reality check.
"There will be no talking," Snow says, pacing the floor before the slack-jawed students. "There will be no moving from these seats. You will sit here and think about what you've done to deserve this punishment." Here he pauses, surveying the baleful eyes staring back at him. He savors the moment of anticipatory silence, before he drops the bomb. "And you will write a composition of no less than one thousand words reflecting on your misdemeanors."
A collective groan rises from the group. Snow smiles.
"You have eight hours. Use them well, or I will see you all next Saturday," he warns. And just as he's about to walk out of the library, he hears Johanna Mason's voice echoing across the void.
"Fuck that."
Snow whirls around. The girl has her boots propped up on the table, and she's smirking at him. Not the least bit ashamed of herself, or the least bit terrified of the consequences awaiting her. Almost shaking with anger, he storms across the room to where she sits.
"Would you care to repeat yourself, Ms. Mason?" he asks, practically spitting the words out. A cruel smile flits across her lips.
"Fuck." Her eyes flash dangerously. "That."
He's seething now. The other kids are wide-eyed, staring at their classmate in horror. Or, quite possibly, admiration.
"You've just earned yourself another detention," Snow hisses.
"Boo frickin' hoo."
"Two detentions."
"Ah, shit, is that two weeks from now? Because I'm taking a Girl Scout troupe on a camping trip that weekend, and I'd just die if I had to miss it." Johanna smirks.
"Watch yourself, Ms. Mason," Snow warns. "One more word, and that'll be another detention."
Johanna stretches her arms over her head, yawning. "Color me terrified."
"Are you quite finished?"
She blinks at him.
Snow takes a deep breath and commands himself to stay calm. He's so close to losing his shit, it's not even funny. So he wields his trusty weapon: unnecessary cruelty.
"Students, you can all thank Ms. Mason," Snow says, curling his lips evilly. "She's just added an additional one thousand words to your essays."
He turns on his heel and stalks into his office, calling over his shoulder that he'll be watching them from across the hall, ignoring the cries of indignation trailing behind him.