Chapter 3
It feels like hours pass in my windowless square box, with only the President's face, frozen in the past, for company. The walls must be thick. I can't hear anything except the thoughts racing through my own head as I think through possible strategies. But even that only relieves me for so long. After a while, I stare up at the blank white ceiling. Just as I am about to die of boredom, the door opens and a Peacekeeper beckons me.
Too bad for Slicer. If I had been left to die in the holding room, he could have replaced me with someone more to his taste. But, instead, the Peacekeeper leads me to the shiny black car that will drive me to the tribute train, thwarting Slicer's last chance at control.
The Peacekeeper opens the door for me, in an almost chivalrous way that makes me glance up at him. Or her, but given his height and stature, I'm inclined to think it's a him. We can't see their faces, hidden by a mask to ensure their anonymity. Since our district trains the Peacekeepers, it would be too much of a conflict of interest for their identities to be known. When my father was young, the Peacekeepers in District 2 were still partially being staffed by Capitol citizens. Now, we can assume each Peacekeeper in our district was once an Academy student. But, in the beginning, there was too much favoritism and manipulation to the point where they couldn't do their jobs appropriately. Now they're always masked.
I wonder if I know him, or if he knows me, or if this is just standard procedure. Maybe he knew Vito at the Academy. Who knows, but the gesture of having a final send off no matter how small, eases the pit in my gut at having Slicer be my only visitor.
He shuts the door gently behind me and I am suddenly alone again. The driver sits on the other side of tinted glass, obscuring him from my view. I lean back into the leather seat, turning to glance out the window. It is also tinted glass, but I can still see out, meaning I can see a different Peacekeeper emerge from the Justice Building with Gus trailing confidently behind him.
His head is high, but as he approaches, I can see the soft lines of his face. Gus has always been close to his mother – his father's prodigy but his mother's pride and joy – so saying goodbye to her must have been difficult. I've met Mrs. Griswald a handful of times, but I'm much more familiar with her treats and trinkets. She always sends Gus to special sessions with a small baggie of sweets, and once she realized Gus always split it with me, she started sending two. Gus, for all the bravado the Academy attaches to him, has no qualms identifying as a Mama's Boy.
Even as the Peacekeeper leads Gus around to the other side of the transport car, I don't turn away from the window. The back door to the Justice Building is shut, cutting off our last tie to the district as a whole. From now until the start of the Games, it'll just be me, Gus, and our two mentors.
The door clicks and I can feel Gus shuffle in, taking the seat beside me. I still don't turn. It was one thing to meet his eyes on stage, but now the doors are shut and it's just the two of us, alone, hurtling down the road toward the train. The gravity of going into these Games with Gus has already hit me, but Slicer's words echo in my head. Make sure it doesn't kill you both. Our Headmaster has clearly noticed our friendship enough that it worries him that we're together.
I finally glance over to Gus and find him already looking at me, always two steps ahead. He holds something in his lap and gestures it in my direction. I recognize the white paper bag from Mrs. Griswald's favorite candy store. A smile creeps onto my lips as I reach in, withdrawing a hard candy and popping it in my mouth.
As much as I may come to hate it, in this moment, I've never been happier to have Gus by my side. There is no one I trust more to start the Games with, even if I'll have to turn my back on him for my own survival.
He sighs and leans against the leather seats. "It was the snake, right?" he asks, popping a candy into his own mouth. "The one you found on the trail?"
I nod my head and Gus purses his lips in disappointment.
"You promised," he groans.
"I promised that I wouldn't take the attention off the tributes," I retort and then gesture between us. "And, guess what? I didn't."
He shakes his head and pouts. "Someone could have volunteered for you if you hadn't made a scene."
I know what he's getting at, but the insinuation that I can't handle this, immediately after Slicer has told me the same, ignites my fury. I fold my arms, my glare as sharp as a knife.
"Newsflash, no one was volunteering with that old hag as a mentor," I spit.
"Of course they would have," Gus insists.
"You think that I can't do this?"
He sighs and his eyes soften. "I just wish we weren't here together."
Neither one of us is naive to the outcome of the two of us entering the Hunger Games during the same year. I wonder if, like me, Gus had never imagined this outcome or if he has realized that this could be a possibility all along. Has he already figured out the best strategy for our split? Spent hours in his mind figuring out how he could best me in the Games without being the one to end my life?
"So, strategist, how do we do this?" I ask, already seeing the gears churning in his head.
He shrugs. "Well, first we see how the Capitol spun your little revenge plot at the reaping," he says, with a pointed tone. "And we size up our competition."
I nod. Of course. En route to the Capitol, they'll air the recaps from all the districts. We'll be able to watch it on televisions, being able to see who our fellow tributes will be. We can focus on our allies in 1 and 4, see if there's any worthy additions from some of the other districts. Sometimes 3 and 5 can produce some halfway decent fighters, but you never know if they'll be brilliant or just lucky. The rest of the districts are mostly useless and easy to pick off. Half the time, the outlying districts lose both their tributes in the bloodbath.
District 11 is large enough, the largest district by landmass and population, that they can send hulking boys to competition despite their poverty. I touch the dog tags under my dress. When Vito was assigned, my father warned him about the rebellious nature of its citizens and told stories about how the farming district was constantly getting into trouble. It's why we always sent some of our strongest Academy students as Peacekeepers, to keep them in line. Still, sometimes even the strongest Academy members and the best Peacekeepers can't hold down the high crime rate there.
I don't know who killed my brother. His body was so disfigured that there was no way of identifying him besides his dog tags. District 11 is on my radar though. I would like nothing more than revenge.
I'm seething in memories when we arrive at the train station to cameras lined up to watch us board. When my door opens, I storm out. Let the cameras capture my anger. I want people to see me as a threat.
The camera crew tries to follow me but I don't give them the pleasure. I know I should stop and give a little smirk, up my cocky loose cannon angle, but the fire in me is too strong. I storm up the steps, loudly crashing my impractical boots against the steel stairs into the train car. With four steps, I've left the cameras at my back and my eyes widen at the travel accommodations.
While I'd heard of the opulence of the Capitol, apparent by the pretty costumes and settings of the pre-Games interviews on television, it's much more of a gut punch in real life. District 2 is built sturdy and strong, with a preference for utilitarian design. We prioritize necessity and strength – pretty with a purpose, much like the dress I wear. This room is pretty for the sake of it, with a crystal chandelier hovering over ornate couches and a television nearly the size of the wall.
Gus comes to stand behind me and whistles softly. "I didn't realize it would be so gaudy."
"Didn't your father ever mention anything?" I ask.
General Griswald has taken a few trips to the Capitol for military purposes, but I suppose he might not mention the grandeur. He doesn't seem like the type to dwell on materialism.
"He was always tight-lipped about his meetings," Gus says, stepping into the room and sitting down on the couch. It sinks under his weight to envelope him and he smiles at me. "I could get used to this."
I join him and am shocked at the sigh that escapes my lips. Our furniture at the Academy is, like everything at the Academy, meant to foster integrity and not comfort. There will be no creature comforts in the arena. Our beds will be tree branches, hard ground, hidden in brush. The heat never works on purpose, always too hot or too cold to prepare us for the extremes in environments.
"You know, I may have to kill you if it means furniture like this," I say leaning back into the soft velvet.
Gus chuckles softly, his eyes closed in bliss. "I guess I'll have to keep one eye open."
A door slams and we're both jolted from our cocoon of comfort. Both Gus and I stand at attention, years of training making it second nature. Our mentors enter the car just as the train begins to move. Muriel Finster leads the way, her kitten heels click-clacking on the tile floor and her hideous yellow dress like a highlighter among the rich dark colors of the train walls. Behind her is Gus's mentor, a Victor-turned-Academy trainer known to both of us as Mr. E, or just E if he likes you. Luckily for us, Gus and I both had him as students the previous year. He's probably my father's age and known for his ruthless gameplay.
During last year's special session, he had all of us playing chess for days to work on strategy, much to the chagrin of the brutes. E had always been more focused on strategy than size and his opinion was that the smartest tribute wins in the end. It was something that I had taken to heart because I'm not very large myself, standing only barely over five feet. In the beginning of the special sessions, trainers used to write me off and I had to claw my way into their good graces.
Maybe he'll adopt me when Finster chokes.
E walks up to inspect us as we stand at attention, our hands folded behind our straight backs. He and Gus stand eye-to-eye in height, but when he comes to me, he has to look down. A small half smile plays with the corner of his mouth.
"I assume we have no snakes on this train, Spinelli?" he says, his tone cool and questioning in contrast to the quick tilt of his lips.
"No, sir."
Finster huffs behind E, taking a seat in a dark purple chair and crossing her legs at the ankles. Gus and I exchange a glance and he must see the fire in my eyes because he shakes his head at me as a warning. Don't say anything. She's in charge of your life. I roll my eyes and turn back to the old hag, who with her bright yellow dress against the purple velvet of the chair, looks less like a mentor and more like someone put mustard on an eggplant. She can't even stand up. Looks like I'm going to have to fend for myself.
"Have either of you thought about your strategies?" E asks, pulling up his own chair near the couch.
"We wanted to see how the Capitol aired our recaps," Gus says. "No point wasting energy until we see how they've started to spin the story."
E practically salivates at Gus's trainer's mind and I collapse into the soft velvet of the couch once more, watching as the two discuss their hopes for the Capitol's broadcast. I already knew that Gus and E would make a good team having seen the two work together last year, but seeing their discussion while my mentor is currently being served a hot cup of tea by a train attendant is the cherry on top of Gus's multiple advantages.
I try to wrack my brain for any remembrance of Finster's Games and any reason why she might be chosen out of the plethora of Victors District 2 has. We do spend a decent amount of time studying previous Games, but the Academy focuses on the recent ones. The older Games don't necessarily have different rules, but there are different strategies that work better. The Capitol audience has changed from the time Finster was a tribute. She's probably as old as the Games themselves Back when she won there was no strategy. Or at least not the way it is today.
She pulls the tea bag out of her cup and pours in some cream, stirring it with an absurdly tiny spoon. Does she even know what to do with me? I can't even place in my head when the last time she mentored was – long before I had the wherewithal to start paying attention. But there must be a reason why Slicer would ever allow her to mentor. He would be more likely to send her to pasture, a well-timed accident perhaps, than send a tribute with a useless mentor.
Gus sits down next to me, drawing my attention away from Finster. E stands before us, fiddling with a remote. The seal of Panem appears on the screen and I lean back, kicking my feet up to enjoy the show.
Mort Chalk's face graces our screen and he gives a wicked grin. The man has been the face of the Hunger Games for as long as I can remember, a news reporter that rose up through the ranks in the Capitol to the biggest stage of them all. The man's voice is unnaturally newsy, overexaggerated and showy. Nothing about the man is genuine, all part of the ploy, and his favorites clearly get an advantage in his broadcasts.
"Welcome to the 74th Annual Hunger Games!" he shouts, lifting his arm in the air as the crowd in the live audience studio cheers around him. "We have just concluded the reaping in all twelve districts, where one boy and one girl were chosen to represent their districts in a battle for glory, strength, and fortune!"
He introduces the set up for any Capitol citizen who has lived under a rock for the last seventy-four years. They'll start with District 1 and continue on until they complete District 12.
The crowd cheers again and he gestures to the screen behind him. "Are you ready to meet them?" He gives a fake sort of laugh and then the camera zooms in on the screen, going black for a moment before the words District 1 fills our screen.
Much like District 2, District 1 can have reapings that last for hours and Mort's voice gives a colorful commentary as the girls argue back and forth. Finally, a redhead emerges from the crowd. She wears a powder blue tweed skirt suit that sparkles in the light as if the fabric is made of diamonds. I roll my eyes. District 1 always dresses their girls for the reaping like little dolls. If it weren't for the cunning determination in her eyes, she wouldn't look scary at all.
The escort announces her name – Ashley Quinlan – and a snarling groan emerges from my mouth before I can hold it back. Besides me, Gus chuckles quietly and I turn to glare. Of course there would be another Ashley in our Career Pack. Ashley is such a popular name in the Career districts, or at least it was when I was born. There were five other Ashleys in my little village alone. In District 2, the boys get strong warrior names –Gustav, Vito – names that have a bit of umph, but also set them apart. The girls are named for whoever the popular Victor is at the time, in attempts of making sure their daughters embody the strength and power of a winner.
Tell me parents want boys without telling me parents want boys.
I didn't start going by Spinelli until I was six. When we arrived to school for the second year and it became obvious that Ashley Armbruster and I were going to be in the same small group again, I started to detest my name. Every time someone called out Ashley we both turned our heads and so they started calling us Ashley A and Ashley S. I spent a few lunch periods pacing angrily and ranting to Gus, who suggested it. Why not go by Spinelli? It would set me apart from all the other Ashleys, not just Ashley A. Even at six, Gus was already showing signs of being an expert strategist.
"Shut up," I hiss at him under my breath.
"Maybe we'll have a little trio of Ashleys," he whispers back.
I put my fist into his arm just as E clears his throat, clearly wanting us to focus. I turn back just in time to see the two District 1 tributes shake hands, missing the boy's name but knowing I'm bound to figure it out eventually.
The screen dissolves to black and both Gus and I lean forward to see how the Capitol viewed our shorter than average reaping.
The screen is still black when my name is called and then we can hear the crunch of the gravel under my boots. The darkness fades, focusing on my boots first, where we can see the little lip of my red socks sticking out. The camera pans up my body until it lands on my face, showing a confident smirk. The cameras pan to the front row of girls, the ones typically battling it out. Even though I know that this must have been captured as Slicer came out to the mic, the way it's edited makes it look like the girls are scared of me.
Without the snake incident, I look less like a loose cannon and more like the standard District 2 tribute. I wonder if Slicer made a call to the Capitol or if this was just the Gamemaker's decision? Regardless, it can't hurt me.
"Well, at least we don't have to deal with the cattiness with that stupid snake," Finster says, and I spin my head quickly to see her also leaning toward the television. She turns to me and smirks. "You're damn lucky, girl."
"This is good," E agrees, as if he realizes I trust him more than my own mentor. "We can work with this."
Gus's reaping is shown just as it happened. There is nothing to edit. Mort's face pops up in the bottom of the screen as he speaks to the Capitol audience. "No volunteers for 2!" he says, as if he's surprised and has no idea what is coming next when I'm sure he is involved in the edits. He claps his hand over his mouth as the crowd gasps. "You know what that must mean – these tributes are the real deal!"
My lip curls down at the corniness of his phrasing, tainting our strong entrance into the Games. Of course he doesn't like us. Mort always likes an underdog.
3's tributes both look like weasels and the only intriguing thing about the whole reaping is that Gretchen Grundler is the female mentor. She won last year's Games by utilizing the arena itself. She had found the force field that surrounds the arena, keeping us inside the playing field, and used it to help kill the people who found her. It isn't like District 3 doesn't have other Victors, but perhaps they're hoping to utilize her recent knowledge.
Much to my chagrin, District 4's girl's name is Ashley as well. Gus finds it hilarious and it's all I can do to keep from biting his head off.
I tune out for the next chunk of districts while Gus keeps his eyes trained on our competition as if anyone from the outlying districts might be dangerous to us. After District 5, I write off the others until 10's tributes, shaking on stage like they're going to be shot dead in that moment, dissolve into darkness and District 11 graces our screen.
My fingers find the dog tags around my neck as the boy and girl take the stage. I wonder if either of them knew Vito. Were they some of the final people to lay eyes on him before he'd been caught in a revolt that killed Peacekeepers and citizens alike? The boy is hulking, eighteen and strong from working the fields, and the girl is thin and crying. Neither looks like someone who would attack a Peacekeeper, especially the girl. But maybe like me, danger comes in small packages.
District 12 is last and if I hadn't been waiting to see District 11, I might have been asleep by this point. Not that it matters. District 12 never produces anything worth the worry. They are, to this day, the only district where a tribute has scored a one out of twelve as a training score, the last bit of knowledge the crowd gets to make bets before the Games start. They're poor and uneducated and so hungry they can barely make muscle, much less use it. If their tributes don't die in the bloodbath, they succumb to starvation not long after.
The girl has dark brown hair in pigtails and her blue eyes water as she climbs the steps, tear tracks cleaning the coal dust off her face. I almost feel bad for her, but part of me wonders if a quick death in the Games is better than the alternative of returning to District 12 even with the riches.
The escort yells out the boy's name and I'm surprised that the camera doesn't directly pan to him. Instead, it scans the crowd as a group of teen girls bring their hands up over their mouths in shock. In fact, as the camera flies through the reaping pens, the non-reaped are crying, not in relief, but in sadness. I frown and glance at Gus.
"Why are they crying?" I ask. "They're all safe."
Gus shrugs. "He must be popular."
It's then that the camera finds the boy. He isn't anything special on first appearance – mousy brown hair, a shirt missing a button, and the same deer in headlights look all outlying tributes have in the minutes after their name is called. The boy next to him, tall and dark and handsome, looks like he's about to puke and as the tribute tries to pass, the boy grabs at his arm. It's then that the tribute shakes him off, his words not intelligible by sound but I can read his lips.
Don't cause a scene.
No wonder they didn't show my snake. They wanted to save the scene for District 12. I narrow my eyes and cross my arms, suddenly angry that this random boy in the crowd is taking my thunder. But the boy doesn't cause a scene. He stays in his section, head down, as the tribute walks up to the stage among others reaching out to touch him, crying out for him.
The broadcast is spending an awfully long time on this kid's reaping, showing his entire walk up as the district mourns him. They must see something in this kid. The Capitol doesn't care about 12 enough to continue showing it in this much detail for no reason.
"What'd they say his name was?" I ask.
E shrugs but Finster is glancing at an electronic tablet. "Theodore Detweiler, 16," she reads.
Gus hums next to me, as if he is also coming to the conclusion that this kid from 12 might be someone to keep an eye on. It may end up being nothing. If he can't kill, he won't last regardless of how much his district supports him. But, if there's something about him that the Capitol is going to highlight, we're going to want to figure it out quickly and squash it before he can run away with our potential sponsors.
The boy climbs up to the stage and he and the girl shake hands. As they're being led into the Justice Building, the perfect end to the recap, I see this boy wrap his arm around his crying fellow tribute. The Capitol audience swoons and Mort claps gleefully at the team.
I grind my teeth. There it is – likeability, which can sometimes be the most dangerous strategy of them all. What's worse is that the Capitol is eating it up. Mort is back on our screens, engaging with the Capitol crowd who are all fawning over this ploy like they've never seen a poor kid play up the camera.
He is playing the audience like a fiddle without even knowing what he's doing. If he continues like this we'll have a problem. A big problem.
…
Notes
Mort Chalk is the local TV reporter, seen in "The Biggest Trouble Ever", as well as the two Recess movies. I thought he made sense for our host.
And finally we've met TJ.
Thanks for reading!