So, that's the word I've been thinking of. 'Dystopian.' It felt… dystopian. As they'd recorded my anger for their entertainment. For the Capitol's entertainment. For people eager to watch kids die, and fund it, too. Well, there's nothing to be done, now.
I attempt to make the most of my free time. I hail down an avox in a hallway and request paper and a pen so I can revise. She just shakes her head and walks off, visibly wary.
I guess it makes sense. The Hunger Games isn't exactly renowned for spoiling the kids.
I then resolved to go over what I've learned in my mind, but my thoughts quickly begin to wander, so, increasingly agitated, I leave the inhospitable silence of my room.
There's no one outside. Which is a problem, 'cause I want to study with someone. I vaguely recollect that Tim and Oswald Blaustein are off in some other fancy building promoting their tributes to the elite Capitol audience. That leaves me with limited choice in study-buddies. Either Swinnart, to whom I'm hesitant to give too much of an advantage—this studying thing was my idea, I don't want anyone else to reap the benefits—or Musketta, who will probably end up biting my head off before dinner. I decide on the latter: at least she'll be competent.
Musketta, surprisingly, looks pleased—or at least approving-at my timid request for assistance. I guess it's because it makes me look like a fighter. I hope.
"It's been a minute since my games," she says as she pulls up a chair, "but I'll do what I can. What do you wanna look at first?" So for the next few hours before dinner, we both sit at the table as she interrogates me. I don't ask her if it's technically allowed, since the avox rejected my request, nor does she make any comments on it.
"How do you throw an axe?"
"Raise it behind the head with a strong grip. Hold it perpendicular to the ground, sharp end up, and throw straight and strong," I reply almost mechanically.
"Where do you put your thumb when making a fist?"
"Over the top of the fingers, always, or else you could break it."
"That's right. Now list five edible swamp plants."
"Katniss, cattail, swamp milkweed, sweet flag and chickweed."
"Good."
"Is that correct?"
"Why the fuck would I know?"
When Swinnart, Blaustein, Tim, Al and Goneril arrive in the dining room, I'm thinking old Musky's really not so scary. No—still scary, but also generous. Or dedicated. Or something like that.
On Tim's request, a small assemblage of avoxes carries trays of food into the sitting room, so we can watch the scores as we eat. A District Ten tradition, he says. My dried-plum-and-lamb stew sits mostly untouched on my plate, and to my surprise, so does Swinnart's. He looks a bit green.
Following a familiar flourish of the national anthem, names, faces, ages and scores start to flash on the screen in district order. Once again, boys are first. Handsome Jasper Paring, Eighteen years old, District One, starting off strong with a nine. Nothing special for his district, but very high compared to the rest of our medians. Gilda Martel of the same age and district also receives this score. Casimir Beck, Eighteen, District Two, score of eleven. Marbell Wadler, Eighteen years once again, Two, Score of eight. Next up is Silas Ramsay, Fifteen years, score of Four. That's on the lower side but not completely atrocious. Three usually scores low, but anyone would seem underwhelming tailing the careers' performances. For a non-career district they have a decent share of wins. Twelve-year old Diode Ferro scores a three to match her district number. Poor girl, she won't last long. Reed from Four snags a nine, with his district partner, Khale, pulling a ten. And I notice Four really does have a way with Capitol paedophiles: these two are younger than the others, though admittedly not by a lot. Sixteen and seventeen, respectively.
The twelve-year-old from Five, Valery Stills, is given a four. The pretty girl from his district turns out to be named Raycella. It suits her.
"Race…eller. What an odd name," remarks Goneril.
"Oh—it's, 'ray-chella'", Blaustein corrects her.
Anyway, she's seventeen years old and is awarded a six—dead average and not bad. The kids from that number district tail her: sixteen-year-old Rimma McGrath, who'd worn the statement bracelet at the reaping, and fourteen-year-old Jet Biscotti, each with a five. Hickory Felling, District Seven, fifteen years old, score of eight. Conifer Waxcap, District Seven, thirteen years old, score of five. Velveteen Jones, District Eight, seventeen years old, score of six. Then it's Calico Blair, District Eight, fifteen years old, with yet another six. I breathe a sigh of relief, dropping shoulders I didn't know I was tensing. Rudolf Wang of District Nine, seventeen, gets a seven, and Varvarya Zlak, eighteen, a six.
Ten's up next.
Swinnart Williams. District Ten. Eighteen years old. And a score of three.
I can't help but wince.
That's just as bad as Diode, the twelve-year-old. There's several long, long seconds of silence, subsequently broken by Swinnart's abashed mumbling. He tries to get up off the lounge, but Tim, for whatever reason, holds him down, eyes glued to the screen. The tension in my chest builds to a forte, and time freezes. Or, I wish it did.
Jackie Spidell. District Ten. Sixteen years old. With a score of…
"Eight!"
It was Blaustein who called it out, eyes wide.
"Don't look so surprised," I joke wearily, and earn a few smiles.
There's certainly no fanfare, but the atmosphere in the room is lightened. We all let out a collective exhale. Except Swinnart. When I remember him and look up to check, he's already turning the corner into the hall. Poor thing. I don't know how I'm going to look him in the eyes tomorrow. Back in school, whenever I got more than Eleanor in a test—which was, well, every test—I'd hide my marks from her. I wouldn't mention it wouldn't say a word; she'd only find out how I did if she asked me. She never failed to. It always felt so awkward, even though she never cared much for school. So how am I supposed to handle this? If something so inconsequential as a friend's essay feedback lost me sleep, how do I cope with a matter of life and death?
The final few roll on, me struggling in vain to commit anything to memory. Harrow Teagan, fourteen, whose intricate cornrows I recognise, gets a six. Dainty Barley Caballero, sixteen, gets a four. Diamond Allister, lean and eighteen, gets a five, and, both last and least, seventeen-year-old Lily Allister gets a two.
"Good job on your score," says Tim, when it's finally over. Then, ever tactful: "don't worry about the boy. He's not your problem." I shoot him what I can only hope resembles a thankful smile. "I'll try," I respond sincerely. And after a pause, add, "Tim?"
"Yeah?"
"You know…you know what you said about tryin' not to stand out?"
"Yeah."
"Well, what if this score… makes me do that? Makes me stand out?"
"It will. To sponsors. As we speak, hundreds of people will be placin' bets on you. I've seen how competitive it gets. We're talkin' some nutcases' life savings."
Hundreds? Life savings? That seems a bit of a stretch, but then again, Capitol people are… different.
"But what about the other tributes? Won't this make me a target?"
"A challenge, a threat, sure. That kind of target. But a damn lot better than easy pickings."
"But isn't that… still bad?", I prompt. "Even if I'm getting sponsors, I mean… is it worth the others knowing who I am?"
He furrows his brow. "Depends."
"Depends? On what?"
"Depends on how fast you can run."