Suzanne Collins owns everything, obviously. I hope you all enjoy!
No. There has to be a way around this. I cannot go to the games this year. I'm 17! This isn't my year! This is surely a mistake. The tribute selector must have confused me with one of the 18-year-olds. I want to open my mouth to protest, but I'm frozen and at a loss for words.
Lawrence speaks for me though. "Oh, no." I hear him tell the man, "That girl isn't in the running this year. She's 17, we were hoping to use her for the quarter quell next year..." I thank Lawrence in my head for speaking up for me, but before I even begin to regain some hope, the tribute selector crushes it, stating, "Well 17 or not, this girl will last much longer than any of the 18-year-olds will." "But-" Lawrence rebuts, "My decision is made. This young lady is the best chance we have of bringing home the win again this year. She lasted longer against that boy than any of the 18-year-old males did. My job is to select the boy and girl with the most promise, and these two are the best hope. Surely they both feel honored knowing they get to represent our great district this year. What are your names?" He asks, "Clove Tenea," I reply, surprising myself at how confident I sound. The tribute selector gives a firm nod of acknowledgement and turns towards Cato as he says, "Cato Woods, sir." in a winning fashion. "Excellent. I shall see you both at the reaping tomorrow. Don't forget a district token." and with that the tribute selector exits the training center.
I remain standing in the center of the gym as the other kids congratulate me on my selection and file out as well. Lawrence is the last to leave and gives me what I think is a sympathetic smile. I always wondered whether or not he knew about Cato and me... but then again, maybe he just pities me, knowing there is no way I will be able to beat Cato.
I slump down against the pole. Too upset to look at Cato. It's my own damn fault that I am in this situation. Out of all the times I choose to fight Cato, I pick the one when the tribute selector is present. Why couldn't I have just congratulated him like any sane girlfriend would do? I hear Cato take a step towards me and he sits down next to me on the cold ground of the gym. We sit there in silence for some amount of time. Maybe a few seconds, or maybe more than 20 minutes. Time is relative at this point.
Then as Cato reaches over and puts a big, comforting hand on my thigh, the true meaning and impact of the situation hits me for the first time. Only one of us can come out alive. I throw my arms around Cato and the look of hopelessness on his face is heartbreaking. He wraps his arms around me and, for maybe only the 7th or 8th time in my life, I begin to cry.
I may be tough, but I'm not unbreakable. Although I'm a career, I'm still a person with feelings.
Cato grips me tighter, as if scared to let go for fear of losing me. Which of course, he will in a few weeks. His left hand strokes my hair, and I'm wishing desperately that he will comfort me, saying everything is alright. But it won't be alright. There is nothing for him to say. No way out. This is the second time that Cato has seen me break down, and if the upcoming weeks promise to be as awful as every tribute claims, it won't be the last.
I think about the incident that occurred a mere three months earlier. Cato had walked into my room as I sat on the edge of my bathtub in my bathroom. Holding a pregnancy test in my hands, my eyes glued shut. Not daring to see the results. I heard him call out my name, a slight note of panic in his voice, wondering where I was. It was only his voice that could have given me the strength to open my eyes. And so with that I glanced down to find a negative sign staring up at me. Relief flooded through my body, and while my plan was to walk out and pretend nothing had happened, I couldn't. Instead I found myself sobbing causing Cato to barge through the door. Once he realized what I was holding in my hands, his expression became panicked, fearful even. I bit my lip and shaked my head. He took me into a warm, strong embrace and told me everything would be fine. That he was sorry, that we would be more careful. It calmed me down but I couldn't shake the thought of what could have been if a plus sign had appeared instead.
But that was different.
As I sat here crying in Cato's arms I knew there was no escape this time. No stick with a negative symbol could get me out of this. I feel Cato bring his lips towards my ear, and whisper, "I'm sorry."
Confused, I lift my head form his shoulder and look him in the eyes, What is he apologizing for? "I'm sorry that I couldn't protect you from this." he finishes, answering the question I had been thinking. Then he kisses my lips, tenderly, and with care. We have never kissed like this, not with so much feeling. Usually, it was rushed, powerful and brought on by teenage hormones.
I notice tears beginning to form in his wet eyes and lift my right hand to brush them away. He cannot start crying. If he does, I will lose it completely and probably be a blubbering mess until the reaping. "There was nothing you could have done." I say sadly, and we both know this much is true.
"Clove," he continues, "I can't lose you." A pause. I feel like I know what is coming, "I l-..." No. He cannot do this to me. If he drops the 'love' word right now, I don't even know how I will handle things.
In other districts people might find it weird that we have been dating for almost two years and the "I love you" statement has never been said, but here that's normal. Love isn't a word often mentioned in district 2, where marriages are arranged and families are often cold and distant from one another. In fact the 'love' word is only a step or two from an actual proposal. So before he can finish the statement that will ruin me for good, I cut him off trying to lighten the mood.
"I guess its too much to hope that someone else will volunteer," I say with a half-smile. I expect Cato to give a sad chuckle, but instead I see an idea forming in his mind. "Clove..." he says quietly, "That's it. We just need someone else who will get to the stage before you do." I look over at him confused, but then I understand what he means. There is never a shortage of girls willing to volunteer in the district. And the 18-year-olds stand closest to the stage, even closer than the tribute selector stands with the chosen volunteers. "Come on," he says, picking me up off the ground.
We exit the building hand-in-hand, no longer afraid that neighbors will see and learn of our relationship. Other things are more important now. "Where are we going?" I ask him. "Saylee's house." He responds, and we head off in that direction.
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