It takes about ten minutes in the motor-car to reach the train station. It's musty and velvet-lined and very, very loud. Nothing like a cart or a horse. I'm grateful for the two Peacekeepers by my side, because the moment I get out I'm swarmed by journalists. Cameras are fixed on my face, microphones shoved under my nose. I get the peculiar urge to swat them all away like flies.
We eventually push far enough through the crowd to board the train, where the Peacekeepers retreat to their carriage, or something. I've never been on a train before—hardly ever even seen one, though I've crossed their dusty rails many a-time on cattle drives and roundups. Swinnart's already sitting at a table with the two mentors. Blaustein is nowhere to be seen. The table, spread with steaming delicacies, immediately catches my eye—roast duck, beef and pork; mashed and boiled and fried potatoes; steamed corn and carrots and a green tree-looking vegetable I've seen before at the markets; a billowing cloud of pastry they call "Yorkshire pudding"; aromatic sourdough; miniature pies; and little porcelain pots of salt and pepper and butter and mint jelly. There's even a whole leg of lamb in the center. Though I suspect that might be decorative. An early dinner, I guess. Maybe so we can get an early night.
Timothy Waxler nods at me. "Jackie Spidell. Take a seat." Hesitantly, I do as he says, drawing up a chair next to Swinnart. He seems to absorbed in it all to notice me. "What's-a-matter, rich girl? Filled up on breakfast?" sneers Musketta Holmes when I leave my plate untouched. The truth is, with the heat and exhaustion all, I should be starving by now, especially having hardly touched the slightly damp sandwich handed to me during our brief pit stop on the way to the reaping. But nerves have always spoiled my appetite. I needn't wonder why she referred to me that way— 'rich girl'. Though I'm far from it, next to my fellow tribute's tattered rags, my silly little outfit must look glamorous.
"I ain't rich," I respond self-consciously.
"Oh, please," she scoffs, "try tellin' that to the boy." She takes his arm and holds it up, just like Kelly did to me. And I hate to admit it, but she's right: he's skin and bones. I try to avoid his gaze, though I can see him looking around the table anxiously out of the corner of my eye. The rest of us—including Timothy Waxler—are visibly uncomfortable, but if Holmes notices she doesn't seem care.
"This young man was just tellin' me," she continues, "that he works as a Cleaner on a chicken battfarm up in The Roosts. Ain't that right, boy?" He nods sheepishly. I wince: that makes sense. Battfarms are terrible—that is, battery farms, the dark, dirty places where thousands of sickly animals are crammed into rusty wire cages too small for them to turn around in. They're stuffed to the brim with low-quality grain and slaughtered en masse. The workers get paid next to nothing, and Cleaner? Why, that must be the lowest position in the place. Even if he was a Slaughterer, slitting the throat of a chicken of all things would be nothing like taking the life of a human being.
And The Roosts—the giant sprawling mess of slums and broken-down factories, infamous for its poverty (and poultry)? No wonder Wyatt called him a fool: the poor boy would never have gotten an education.
"And what about you, babyface? D'you come from a family of vets?"
That's a cliche of sorts in district ten— 'vets', as in veterinarians, have always been paid ridiculously high, so people use it to mean, well, a rich person.
"We have property," I say quietly, all too aware of Swinnart's wide-eyed gaze on me.
"Ohh, so you're a cowgirl."
"I guess so. I take care of the horses, mainly." Musketta makes a sort of smirking face that I can't read. She leans in, dropping her voice. I understand why they call her Musky: the scent of her perfume is overwhelming.
"You ever killed?"
Usually, during drives, most of the killing is left to Mama, Bonnie and Dalton, but I have done it before. The first time was when I was twelve. Noah had decided she wanted a go at slaughter since she was so grown up now. Being her rival and shadow, I of course insisted on doing the same. I still remember the terrified bleats of the animals, the twitching of one as it bled out into my hands, the way its eyes glazed over when it died. I don't think I'll ever be able to fully wash its blood from my hands, or the blood of every one after that I killed—when the others couldn't do it and they needed me, like when half the family went down with swine flu. I never got used to it, the killing. I'm decent at it though.
"A couple times."
For the first time, Musketta looks satisfied with me. She leans back in her chair.
"There, see? Well, at least one of you has half a chance."
Clang!
Swinnart reaches under the table to retrieve his dropped fork, hands trembling.
"Musketta…" Timothy Waxler cautions grimly.
"Yes, Timothy?" But she leaves it at that.
Timothy clears his throat. Gently but firmly, he says, "Jackie, I know you may be used to nice food, but you have to eat. You've got some long days ahead of you, you'll need all the strength you can get. Drink water, too, and sleep—both of you."
"I—" I want to correct him, insist that it's not like I live in some fantasy world where I never have to go hungry. But I don't want to sound insensitive, so I load my plate and simply say, "thank you, Mr. Waxler."
"That's quite alright. And—you can call me Tim."
"And call me Musky," Musketta butts in through a mouthful of corned beef. I can't tell it she's joking or not, so I shoot her a timid smile that she doesn't see and decide to avoid referring to her at all. There's silence around the table for a bit as we chew.
"So, are you all Slaughterers?" I ask the mentors.
"Me, Musketta and the late Penny Tompkins, yes. Only one who weren't is old Wyatt Kennedy, and everyone knows he was the mayor's son when he got reaped. Had some fat on him and there's speculation his games were rigged, anyway."
I curse my luck—of course Wyatt, the only mentor whose situation was remotely similar to mine, is the one who stayed at home this year. Well, at least now I know why Musketta's so mean. Slaughterers aren't always bullies, but bullies are almost always Slaughterers. Something about the job title seems to get to their heads, and they're callous people by nature. I wonder at there not having been any Hunter victors. Unlike Slaughterers, Hunters are semi-nomadic and work for themselves, roaming around the district and shooting game both to sell to the Capitol and keep pest numbers low. Sometimes groups stop by our ranch for a season or two to work as cowhands. Then again, their numbers are so small that it's decently likely that none of them have ever been reaped at all.
"Wyatt came to visit me," announces Swinnart suddenly. Perhaps it's an attempt to soothe the tension that's heavy in the silence. Well, I appreciate his trying. Or maybe he wants to impress Musketta, turn her attention back to him. If so, it doesn't work—she makes no reaction at all.
"Ah—that's nice. What did he say?" Timothy responds politely, reaching for the water pitcher. Swinnart just shrugs.
"Can I have the water?" Timothy hands the jug to him.
I wonder if Wyatt was as cryptic with Swinnart as he was with me. Probably was, considering that uncertain response. A shrug of the shoulders is a perfect reaction to Kennedy's riddles. I contemplate mentioning that he'd also spoken with me. But what's the point? Then I remember that thing he'd said.
"He visited me, too," I say after a pause. Swinnart immediately whips around to face me. There's no mistaking that look: disappointment. Had he really thought he was special for having Kennedy visit him? Poor thing. I wouldn't have said nothing if it weren't for that little phrase I was told to pass on.
"He told me to tell you something. Well, to tell…Musky something." I look to her, but she still seems wholly preoccupied. "Yes?" prompts Tim.
"He said, uh… he said to tell you that, 'something's fishy'." At that, Musketta snorts and mutters something under her breath. I look from her to Tim, but neither offers me an explanation.
These people really are strange. Stranger than I thought. I'm glad, now, that Kennedy hadn't come—if Musketta on her own seems odd, he and her together would be raving mad.
We eat the rest of the meal in silence. When Musketta and Swinnart both finish—it almost seems like they're competing over whoever can down the most—the two mentors exchange a few quiet words before explaining to us that we're going to watch the recaps of the reapings in the next cart down.
"One of you go get Blaustein, please. His office is just down there, second carriage from here, I think."
Since I'm the closest, I go to fetch him. When I enter, I see him slumped in a chair, facing away from me. "Mr. Blaustein?" No response. Slightly alarmed, I walk around so I can see his face. His eyes are closed, a string of slobber dangling from his gaping mouth. "Mr. Blaustein?" I repeat slightly louder. he jolts awake with an indecorous gasp. "Oh, dear. Dear, dear, dear—must have dozed off—just checking the schedule, see"—he delicately wipes his mouth with a pearly white napkin— "organizing, you know. Terribly sorry."
"That's okay. Uhh, I was just asked to come fetch you—we're watching the recaps."
"Oh, of course. Thank you, darling."
As usual, the reaping starts in district 12, the first of the day. Their one mentor—I've forgotten his name, but I recognize him—falls asleep in his chair and starts shouting at everyone when he wakes up during the Treaty of Treason. As usual, the commentators—Claudius Templesmith and Caesar Flickerman—relentlessly mock him.
"I feel so bad for him," I whisper to no one in particular.
District 11 passes by without much going on, and before I know it Swinnart Williams is on the stage. On the recordings with the high-tech mics, it's easier to hear what was yelled—and much more obvious that it was no volunteer, based on the fragments of curse words I catch. "Well, someone's eager! I just love the enthusiasm—it's not often that you get this sort of thing from the outer districts!" exclaims Claudius. He really does have a talent for making the direst situations seem entertaining. I try not to think too hard about Jesse.
And then I hear my name called, and I can't help shivering—especially when, after a few moments of stillness, he repeats it. I cringe at Templesmith's cheerful remark about how he may have "spoken too soon for district ten!" How funny. Now all of Panem thinks I'm a letdown before I've even stepped foot in the Capitol.
"Ah, there she is!" exclaims television Blaustein. I look so stupid. So weak, eyes glazed over as I fidget nervously. The memory of all those faces staring up at me is sickening.
"District ten, can I get a round of applause for your chosen tributes!" There's a pathetic smattering of it, not nearly loud enough to drown the quiet. I think I actually see a tumbleweed blow by in the corner of the frame.
"Very well, very well." Oswald clears his throat. "Ladies and Gentlemen, I am pleased to announce the mentors for this year: Musketta Holmes and Timothy Waxler!" He gestures towards them, and they courteously stand and bow. "And now, I'll hand back over to Mayor Cleaver to read the Treaty of Treason! Very important document, that one is!" The mayor takes the stage and begins another monotone monologue, and before long I'm crying.
I turn to Musketta on the lounge next to me. "I'm sorry," I whisper. "I didn't mean to—" She interrupts me with a finger to my lips.
A haunted wail erupts from the television. Startled, I turn back to face it. Who'd done that? I don't remember hearing it at the reaping. Then I realize that it's coming from my own mouth. I cringe as I watch myself shaking and shrieking and beating my hands on the floor. Funny that I don't remember doing any of that. I guess I was just so caught up in my emotions. Too overwhelmed and in shock to notice.
It's so loud you can hardly even hear the mayor. There's a cut in the middle of the treaty—they wouldn't want to bore the Capitol audience—and the next shot of the stage I'm actually curled up in a ball on the ground, trembling and groaning, racked with violent, seizing sobs. Oswald, awkwardly grinning at the crowd, practically drags me into a somewhat sitting position, and Swinnart and I are made to shake hands.
"Happy Hunger Games, and may the odds be ever in your favor!"
Then Peacekeepers come and literally carry me away, leading a shell-shocked Swinnart right behind.
Despite my best efforts, I can't bring myself to pay much attention to the rest of the recaps. I watch dazedly as kids from Nine, Eight, Seven all the way down to One are called up. There are more tears—a girl from Six with a huge statement bracelet, a twelve-year-old from Three whose name sticks in my head as Diode—but only one other person actually cries: a scrawny, dark-haired boy from Eight. Even then, it's not nearly as badly as I was.
Musketta switches off the TV. I look at her apologetically, opening my mouth to give some frantic explanation, but before I can speak, she says, "I can work with that."
Well, that's not what I expected. Not what I expected at all.