Fun Fact of the Chapter: The name "Jace" means "healer." It's also an acronym for Java Application Control Engine, Joint Assessment of Catastrophic Events, and Joint Air Coordination Element. And, of course, it's a nickname for this lovely tribute.

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Jacy Faith Latone, District Nine

I don't talk much. Probably because I'm told not to. Darian—that's my dad, in case you didn't know—has always told me that "if you don't have anything nice to say, don't say it at all." And then he reminds me of my mother, who got her tongue cut out because of something she said, and I lose all desire to say whatever not-nice thing I was going to point out about the authority figures in my life.

I'm very bitter, with a lot of bad thoughts and emotions. But if there's one thing Darian taught me, it's how to hide it all. How to wear a mask, so that nobody knows anything. We're very secretive people, Darian and I. I guess it's a result of our circumstances.

Anyway, on the morning of the reaping I wake up, eat breakfast, and get dressed. You know how it is, all that reaping preamble stuff. Apparently other people make a big deal out of it, wearing their nicest clothes and doing their hair and makeup for hours, just in case they go to the Capitol. Honestly, I think it's ridiculous and that they're just deluding themselves into being excited so that they won't have to be petrified to death.

Me, I just cut right to the chase. I'm petrified to death.

Whatever. This is my fifth year in the reaping, so it's not like I'm not used to it or anything. In fact, I'm pretty resigned to the fact that I might go into the Games sometime soon. I'll be scared, but I'll make it work. I always have.

"Hey, Jace, you ready?"

"Coming," I mutter, slipping on a jacket as I walk into the kitchen, where Darian is quietly sitting, reading. He looks up, nods at me and stands, and we head out into the busy street. Teenagers and their families everywhere, rushing down the sidewalks to get to the reaping at a reasonable time. Darian and I join the crowd, and I'm spotted by some of the kids I babysit.

"Jace! Jace!"

"Hi," I say quietly, nodding. Then the crowds press in, and I, thankfully, disappear with them. I've lost track of Darian, but I'm pretty sure he knows I can find my own way. It takes forever to sign in, mostly because of the line—Nine's one of the bigger districts—and I don't have many friends, so it's a lonely wait, but I manage to get in and make it to the 16-year-olds section just before the mayor's speech. Other kids are not so lucky, and they keep signing in through the mayor's long speech. Thankfully, the noise of the crowd drowns him out. Good. I was getting tired of hearing about how great Panem is for the forty-third time this week.

Once all the crowds are settled, out escort—a narcissist with commitment issues, as he never fails to remind us, named Bobby—walks out onto the stage. "Happy Hunger Games, District Nine," he says flatly, almost rolling his eyes. "And may the odds be ever in your favor... I stood it," he whispers to himself sarcastically, leaning into the microphone so that everybody can hear. Even though he's Capitol and I hate their guts, I have to admire his sarcastic, almost rebellious approach to life. As well as envy the fact that he can say whatever he wants and nobody minds.

"So... yeah. Ladies first." He walks over to the first of two glass bowls and plucks a slip from the middle. "Jacy Latone."

Oh, cr—that's me.

Did I mention I was petrified today?

As quickly as I can I hide the fear from my face and walk up there with the most bitterly blasé look on my face that I have ever pulled in my life. Of course, it's all just an act. But they don't have to know that.

"Any volunteers?" As if.

"Well, then. Jacy Latone, District Nine tribute." Bobby heads over to the second glass bowl on the other side of the stage and pulls a name. "Noaa Carpenter!"

I know Noaa, though not well. He's in my class at school. Generally a nice, easygoing guy with a fondness for poetry. And some mild anger issues, but those are easy to forget. Tall, lightly tanned skin, brown hair, brown eyes.

Noaa doesn't seem to be taking this whole reaping thing well. He walks up from the back of the crowd, fists clenched, face red and trying desperately to calm down. Needless to say, he fails, and he looks like he's about to burst out screaming when nobody volunteers for him.

"Jacy Latone and Noaa Carpenter, District Nine tributes." Bobby's mood has changed from sarcastic to just plain uninterested, which works well enough for me, I guess. I wonder how he got into the escorting job in the first place.

The mayor reads off the Treaty of Treason, which I have the misfortune of actually having to listen to this time. It's just a bunch of more rules for us. Oh, how I would love to break each one of them and watch their reactions. But I don't. I don't say anything.

Goodbye hour comes next, and my only visitor is my dad. Essentially Darian just says, "You're strong. You can make it. If you don't say anything incriminating," and I nod without smiling. Oh, and at the end of the time slot he says, "Love you, Jace," and hugs me. That, in itself, is a small miracle.

We're not very big communicators, in case you didn't catch on.

Bobby leads Noaa and me out onto the train. I continue my "cool and collected" mask for the cameras, and hey, maybe by the end of the week I'll have molded to the mask. That would be handy. Noaa looks considerably less angry and seems to be whispering poetry to himself. I wonder what the spectators'll think of that.

Once the doors close and we roll out of the station, Bobby informs us, "Today's my 35th birthday. And whatever your question is, the answer is yes, we are serious."

"Nice to know," I mutter back.