Maxwell Hoover Demonico – District 3

"Maxwell Hoover Demonico!" My mother's shouts resonate throughout our small home. "Get your worthless ass down here! You're going to miss the damn Reaping!" What a gift it would be not to go to the Reaping and not to be picked to go to the Hunger Games. I wish it was like that, but it's not.

I set down my invention that I'd been working on and put away some of my books. They're old and ripped, but in good enough condition to read. I tug on a dark blue polo shirt and a pair of khaki pants.

"Maxwell!"

I sigh, trying to finish cleaning my room a little. Suddenly, my door bursts open. "You better get downstairs, boy! Right now. And don't even think of getting breakfast. Go straight to the District Square." She shoves me out the door. She hasn't even shut it yet and I can hear her mumbling to herself. "I hope that piece of crap goes to the Games. Take a burden off my hands."

I shove my hands in my pockets, walking down the street over to Puckee's home. He is what other people call my "fellow dork." But, Puckee's more than that. He's a good friend that listens to my problems and helps me invent new things. They don't always go as planned, but that's the fun of it.

"Hey, Max," Puckee says, wrapping his tie around his neck. We head over to the District Square and prepare for the Reaping. Last year, the girl tribute was killed by muttations. The boy was killed by a Career. The year before that, we had siblings go into the Games and neither made it out. I'm curious to know who this year's tributes will be.

"So, I was talking with my mom and she said that maybe you could move in with us for a while. I know that your mom's a little…you know," Puckee tells me. We don't really talk about my mom. She's cruel and abusive.

"That'd be great," I reply, smiling. I'd do anything to get away from my mom. As we enter the square, I bump into a small girl. She gazes at me with her almond color eyes with a hand in her thick, frizzy, locks of hair. She doesn't look more than ten years old. What's she doing here? You need to be at least twelve to be in this section of the square. "Sorry," I murmur.

"N—no problem." The girl sends me a nervous look, backs up, and eventually runs away from me. Literally.

As we continue walking, I trip over something, stumbling and falling to the cold ground. I glance up and see an older boy laughing at me. "What a loser," he says to his friends. The others laugh, pointing, then march off to their section.

Puckee frowns, helping me up. My pants are ripped at the knees. Great. "Ignore them," Puckee whispers. The only problem is that I can't ignore it. Bullies will always be bullies and they will always bully me. He tries to tell me some math and science related jokes to cheer me up. It works, somewhat.

"Isn't that Cinda?" Puckee asks, pointing to a girl with copper curls in a periwinkle dress. Cinda may be the mayor's daughter, but she's still subject to the Reapings. She's lucky though, because she doesn't need to sign up for tesserae. "Go and talk to her." He pushes me forward. He knows that I have the biggest crush on her, but I try to deny it. With him, he sees right though my denial.

"Okay, fine. I'll talk to her, today," I say. I walk up to Cinda as Puckee blends in with the crowd, eavesdropping. I smile, looking up to her. Cinda is already a few inches taller than me and her high heels add extra height to her frame.

"Hi. You look nice today," I tell her. "Oh! I mean, you look nice every day. You're a beautiful girl. Woman. No, lady. How's it going?" Whenever I get nervous, I start to slur some of my words.

"Um…who are you again?" she asks me. She cocks her head to the side, studying me. Her eyes land on my face, then my ripped pants, and back to my face. I admit it, I'm not the most attractive guy, but maybe there are some girls that go for personality and not looks.

"Me. I'm uh, Maxwell. MaxwellHooverDemonico." My name comes out in a blur; I'm not even sure she got the rest of my name. At least she'd know my first name. But, she'll probably never remember it. I put on an awkward grin. "How is it in your wonderful life? You don't have to sign up for tesserae, do you?"

"You have no idea how to talk to girls, do you?"

"I think this is the longest a girl had a conversation with me. If you count the girl that bumped into me. Well, I bumped into her. But, I—I apologized," I ramble.

"Nice to eh…see you then. Maxwell Hoover Demonico." She gives me an uncertain smile and walks away to join the rest of her pretty friends. She hugs a guy, planting a kiss on her cheek. They move to the sixteen year old section, holding hands. I sigh, feeling like I'm at a complete loss. Cinda has a boyfriend. There goes my chance with her.

Quietly, Puckee and I file into our section with the other sixteen year olds. Chrysanta Diamanto, our escort, glides across the stage in an elaborate maroon colored dress with a tall, ridiculous looking hat. "Welcome to the Reapings of District Three for the 35th annual Hunger Games," she announces gleefully.

Everyone shuts up as she begins telling us the history of Panem. Nothing has changed and nothing will change. "Let's change it up and do the boys first." She plasters a wide grin across her face, drawing a name out of the glass bowl. "Here's a mouth full!" My body freezes with fear. This name must be really long. And I think I know who's name is will be. Puckee Rapidus Metrio Liguritio. My best friend. My best friend, who is like a brother to me, will be sent to his death.

"Maxwell Hoover Demonico!"

"No," Puckee breathes. He stares at me in horror and I stare back, afraid. That's not what I expected. It was going to be Puckee. He has a name longer than mine. I don't want him to go to the Games, but I honestly thought it'd be him. Why me? Is there some sort of mathematical explanation for this?

I slowly saunter towards the stage. Chrysanta beckons me to the stage and my gaze meets our last victor, Devon Reperio. He looks like he hasn't slept in days. I turn around, facing the crowd, practically collapsing into the seat. I glance at the cameras, remembering all of Panem will see this.

"Now, the girlies," Chrysanta giggles. Seconds later, she reads a name. "Pietta Carmelle!"

The small girl I'd bumped into comes out from the fourteen year old crowd. I would have never guessed that she was fourteen. If she wasn't ten, I would have estimated her age being around twelve. The girl's curls bounce on her head as she comes to the stage. She doesn't shake my hand like she's supposed to. Instead she stares at my hand like it has some sort of infection.

Happy Hunger Games to us…