Enzo Charmont- District Twelve male (18)

Fireworks are mostly illegal in Twelve. Every year around Galba's birthday the Peacekeepers would bring in a few but that was it. That wasn't a problem for me, though. I preferred a homemade touch anyway.

It had just stopped raining a few hours ago- the perfect time for fire. I loved fire and explosions and all that, but I wasn't a total maniac. I tried to keep it times when I wouldn't burn the whole District down. So far the only one I'd burned was myself. My mom wasn't so sure, but if you asked me, an eyebrow was a smile price to pay to be super cool.

The spray-paint can was almost empty. I wasn't sure what a full one would do, since I'd been too responsible to try it. Not very reponsible, as evidenced by me burning a mostly-empty paint can, but responsible enough I didn't go full crazy. Also the hardware store had started turning me away when I tried to buy things that could possibly explode. They couldn't really stop me on their own, since my family had a lot of pull in town, but they very much could call my parents, which would have the same outcome. So I followed around a construction crew and managed to sneak a paint can out of their dumpster.

If I threw a bunch in at once would they make a rainbow? The can I was using was plain black. Not the most dramatic firework but better than nothing. I held the can between my legs as I filed the top until it was too thin for me to dare go any further. I wasn't sure about the science but it seemed to me if the cans were thinner they would explode more quickly. That was good for my impatience but also good in that they would explode in a relatively smaller and cooler fire, hopefully making less dangerous an explosion. I enjoyed the musty smell of petrichor in the grass for the last few moments before acrid chemicals and smoke took it over.

It's harder than people think to build a fire. If you're using matches you really might run out before you get there. I used a lighter since I loved being able to flick it throughout the day. Even so, there was the problem of getting dry, brittle wood, and tinder, and kindling, and all that. I liked to use brittle pine needles since they had a lot of sap. I nested some down in a little hole in a tangle of twigs and flicked the lighter on. I held a pinch of needles and waited until they glowed and then started to crackle. I carefully laid them in the hole and started lightly breathing on them. It used to take me four or five false starts but I was constantly improving. The tinder caught and started to spread to the kindling around it in that agonizingly slow way fires went. This was the worst part. I always wanted to poke at it or help it along, but a fire at this point was like tissue paper- the slightest movement and it was gone.

Once the larger branches started to smoke I knew it was safe. I took another look around in case anyone was watching before I took out the can. I wasn't out past the fence, just in a secluded bunch of woods owned by who knows who. The fat raindrops still visible on the grass would mute the worst of the spread and I had water in a spray bottle, plus a bucket, to douse anything that looked dangerous. But first, the fun part. I laid the bottle on top of the larger sticks and bolted.

The cans never lit immediately. I only ran just in case. I made it behind the tree I'd picked and peered out between the branches. The branches were thin enough to see through but thick enough they would catch larger pieces of shrapnel. One of these days a smaller one would probably get through and get me right in the eye. Oh well, a life without risk is just wasted.

There was never any warning when the cans would explode. I wasn't close enough to hear them sizzle or see the label start to bubble and peel. It was just boring waiting and waiting and then

CRRSNAP!

It was never really a "bang". There wasn't enough pressure in a paint can. It was just a sudden rush of air and screech of metal and whooshing pop like a tiny rifle. A gout of flame shot out of both ends of the can and the stench of burnt chemicals flooded the air. I noted with some disappointment that I hadn't noticed the paint coming out at all. It had just looked like fire. Still pretty cool, though. I never could explain to my parents why I liked fire so much. Some of it was the danger, of course. I also liked how primal it was. It was uncontrollable, like a wild animal. You could put safety measures in place but it was always waiting for you. I could live my entire life with fire and if I made one wrong move it cared nothing for all those years. Also, it was just about the closest thing to a magic spell a person could make. I couldn't cast a fireball but I could make one.

Maybe if I use more cans the color will be clearer? Fuller cans? This called for more experiments. Mostly it called for more fun.

Josie Stone- District Twelve female (12)

There wasn't much at the general store. People in Twelve made as much as they could themselves instead of buying. Options for people like me were limited. There were the cosmetics, but storekeepers knew to keep an eye on them. The jewelry was mostly cheap fakes- no resell value. I'd been on my own a long time, though. I knew what to look for.

Everyone like me knew baby formula was a steady market. It was even more so in Twelve. There were a lot of women who needed to be in the mines all day and couldn't stay home with their babies, so they left them with siblings or grandparents. There were also a lot of women who stopped lactating due to our diet. Sometimes I thought it was a miracle any of our babies survived in the first place.

The giant canisters of formula were no good to me. There was no way for me to hide them. What I was looking for was the boxes of packets. I lurked around the aisle for a few minutes, pretending to look at the shampoo in the next aisle over, until a customer went up to the worker and asked a question. Once her attention was off the store I stood in front of a package of formula, blocking it from view with my body while I peeled the top open. I scooped out a handful of the flat rectangular single-serving packets and shoved them into the pocket I'd sewn under my jacket. Once the box was empty I tucked it behind another box so the open top wasn't visible.

With my haul under my shirt I headed for the grocery section. It always looked more believable if I bought something rather than just coming in and leaving. I noticed the same worker from before heading my direction as I walked.

"Finding everything all right?" the woman asked, coming up alongside me.

"Yeah, thanks," I said.

"Are you sure?" she asked.

I'd been afraid of it from the first greeting- workers didn't usually talk to lone children- but now I was sure. Whether or not she was certain, she was suspicious of me.

"Now that I think of it, do you have non-allergenic shampoo? I didn't see any when I looked," I said. The best lies have a kernel of truth. I'd been over by that section and she'd seen me there. It was a plausible lie.

"We should. Let's go look. Is your mom here?" the woman asked.

Shit. Plan B, then. I had a half-dozen ways to throw off attention when I'd been made. Since I was in a somewhat petty mood that day, I went with the nuclear option.

"Don't touch me there!"

My high, thin panicked cry reverberated throughout the small store. I backed away from the woman, hugging myself like a scared little kid who just wanted to disappear.

"I didn't-" the woman's expression was angry with the first word and scared with the second. She looked around to see if we'd attracted attention.

A man barreled across the store and put himself between me and the worker. He was red-faced as he shoved a finger at her. "What are you doing?!"

"I was just checking if-" the worker started.

I turned on the tears. "She touched me under my shirt!" I wailed, putting my fists to my eyes like a little kid.

"I didn't!" the woman yelped.

The man scowled at her again before turning back to me. "Are you okay?'

"I just want to go to my mom," I said, letting a whining tone into my voice. "She's waiting at home since Molly is sick and she couldn't come."

"Do you live far away?" the man asked.

"No, just up the road," I said. "I can find my way back."

"This really isn't-" the worker broke in.

"You go ahead and find your mom, okay?" the man said in that gentle condescending voice adults use with kids. He was even bending over, like it made us the same and didn't just look like a man calling more attention to how much taller he was. I nodded in a pathetic manner and ran off before the worker could explain the truth. I'd have to be careful to check next time I came in case she was working, but she hadn't gotten a picture. I was generic-looking enough I wouldn't stick out as long as I wore a hat over my red hair.

My face was dry before I was out of the building. I darted down the street in case the worker explained herself quicker than I might expect. I ran down an alley to get out of sight and waited until I was a few streets over to examine my haul.

Twelve packets. Enough for food for the week at the least. The best thing about selling formula was how very desperate the customers were. There were so many women who couldn't afford an entire box of formula. I could sell them six packets for more than half the price and they'd still take it because the only alternative was a starving baby. They'd take the six and hope and pray they could scrape together enough money for another few when they ran out. It wasn't a glamorous job but I'd never had a glamorous life. Even the babies whose mothers I was scalping to had a better life than me. At least they had parents. I'd never known anything but a soulless orphanage and then my own company. No one was buying anything for me. Everything I had I took for myself. If the mothers couldn't afford my prices, they were welcome to get formula using my method.