The Hunger Pains (5 page)

Pita starts shivering in the cold and says he wants to go inside. With all that blubber on his bones, I know he’s only pretending to be cold and that he really just wants to go downstairs to eat more. But I’m ready to go to sleep, so I go anyway.

I bid Pita good night in the hallway outside my bedroom. When I step inside, the Notalks is there waiting for me. She’s drawn the sheets back on my bed, and she’s holding a warm glass of milk for me.
Would somebody who’s still mad at me be this nice?
I think to myself reassuringly. Then I watch as the Notalks clears her throat and spits into the milk.
That was probably an accident
, I tell myself as I climb into the soft bed.

“So, how long have you been working here?” I ask the Notalks. She glares at me. “Right, you can’t speak. Sorry,” I say. An awkward silence follows. “Do you enjoy the work?” No response. She points angrily at her mouth. “That was a yes-or-no question, you could have answered it,” I tell her. Her face starts to get red.

I decide I’d better be a little nicer to the Notalks. I stand up next to her and take her hand. I look right into her eyes. “What’s your name?” I ask.

For the first time since I’ve seen her, the angry look disappears from her face. She walks over to the windowsill, where there’s a vase holding a single rose. She raises a finger and points at it.

“That’s lovely. But what’s your name?” I ask.

She points at the rose again.

“What? You want me to water it? Isn’t that your job?” I say.

She points again, more emphatically.

“Oh! Your name! Your name is … vase?”

She shakes her head, then starts circling the rose with her hand.

“Circle! Your name is Circle!”

The Notalks buries her face in her hands for a moment, then lifts the rose out of the vase.

“All right, Circle, you can have the rose. But everything else in this room belongs to me,” I say, as I climb back into bed. “Now tuck me in.”

Circle sighs deeply and approaches the bed. She pulls the sheets up over me nice and tight. Then she takes a pillow and pushes it over my face, hard. I start to giggle.

“Hey, cut that out, you’ll suffocate me!” I say between laughs. She finally relents. I sit up, gasping for air. “So what did they do with your tongue after they cut it out? Did you get to keep it?”

The Notalks furrows her brow, then snatches the vase from the other side of the room.
We’re getting along great
, I think to myself.
There’s no way she could still be mad at me.
As I pepper Circle with more questions, she raises the vase high up in the air. Then, to help me fall asleep immediately, she slams it down on my head and knocks me unconscious.

T
he next morning, I awake with a headache. I swing my
feet down onto the floor and recoil in pain. I cut my feet on bits of glass. The vase is mysteriously shattered on the floor. I groggily walk over to the closet, where I find an outfit has already been picked out for me. I’m happy to see it’s my usual attire: black pants, maroon tunic, lace bra, and frilly panties.

I go into the dining room. The table is practically empty, aside from a giant stack of pancakes, a tray of bacon, and a platter of scrambled eggs. I sigh loudly. Could the Hunger Games get
any
worse? I’m sick of eating all these expensive meals and living rent-free in a luxury apartment. I just wish I could go home to my shack.

Buttitch steps into the room. I notice that he enters from the front door, rather than from his bedroom.

“Have you been out all night?” I ask.

He grunts affirmatively, grabbing a handful of bacon as he passes through the room. Before he leaves, he says, “Be
sure to stick with Pita today. The two of you will fare much better if you’re together.” Then he’s gone.

I busy myself with breakfast, but I can’t help but think about Pita. He’s been acting strange lately. Buttitch wants us to act like friends, but I’ve never had any friends so I’m not sure what to do. Pita’s been doing his best to play the part. He compliments me all the time. He writes me romantic sonnets. And when I have to step in puddles, he lays himself down in the water so I can walk on his back to avoid getting wet. You know, normal friend stuff.

Just as I’m thinking of him, Pita walks into the room. He’s still in his pajamas and he’s chewing on a pretzel.

“You’d better get dressed. We’ll be late for training,” I say.

“All right, just give me one second,” he says. He goes into the kitchen for a moment and returns with a burlap sack. Then he positions the sack at the edge of the table and holds it open. “Do me a favor, Kantkiss. Push all the food into this sack.”

Once his food sack is full, Pita scurries off to get his clothes. Then we hop in the elevator and ride all the way down to the training level. When we arrive, we join the group of tributes already standing in the middle of the gymnasium floor.

As the head trainer explains the day’s schedule, I examine the other tributes. Some look like the type of kids you’d find back in District 12. They’re thin and pale. But others—the Varsity tributes—look big and tough. They’re trained in combat, as well as screen presence, in the hopes of one day
winning the Hunger Games and ultimately getting a starring role on a major network sitcom. Indeed, most champions get a show for a few years before the public grows tired of them. Growing up, I can remember watching
Buttitch Totalapathy, MD
with my father.

But for every Varsity tribute that’s here today, there are thousands more at home who
weren’t
selected to participate in the Hunger Games. I shudder when I think about those kids. All their lives, they grow up training for the Hunger Games. They do nothing but throw spears and practice decapitating people. Then, at the age of eighteen, they must immediately forget all that and transition to being normal. All of a sudden, they’re not killing machines, they’re tax attorneys. Or chefs. Tragically, many end up as
unheralded
murderers.

One of the Varsities gathers the rest around him in a huddle. He kneels in the center and addresses them. “All right, you guys, this is it. The big day. So let’s go out there and give it all we’ve got,” he shouts. “We’ve been waiting our whole lives for this. Savor this moment,” he adds with a grin. When the huddle breaks up, the boy sees that I’m looking at him. He glares at me. From the Opening Ceremony, I know his name. Archie Nemesis. Something tells me that the two of us aren’t going to get along. As I return his death stare, I notice that Pita is waving frantically at Archie. I elbow him in the stomach.

“Ow!” Pita says. “What’d you do that for?”

“Quit waving at Archie,” I tell him. “He’s probably going to kill us both!”

Pita rubs his stomach. “I don’t know,” he says, “seems like a pretty cool guy to me.”

Next to Archie, I see a girl tribute. She’s roughly my age and she’s clinging to Archie, petting his firm biceps. Her hair is long and blond. She’s beautiful. From the looks of it, I doubt they had to shave much of her facial hair during her makeover. She probably didn’t have much to begin with.

“That’s Mandy. Mandy Kappagamma.” Pita says, gazing at her. “Man, I hope we’re the last two left.”

I elbow him in the stomach again.

From across the room, I can hear Mandy whisper to another girl tribute. She’s talking about Archie. “I
think
he likes me, but I’m also, like,
sooo
worried he’s going to, like,
murder
me or something because of this whole ‘only one can survive’ thing. I don’t know, I’m probably just overthinking it.”

With the blow of a whistle, the head trainer announces the start of training. We have the next few hours to visit skill stations where we can practice for our time in the arena. I look around at our options. Among them, I see a spear-throwing station, a wine-tasting station, and a train station.

“Well, where should we go first?” Pita asks.

We settle on the camouflage station. I spend a few minutes chatting with an instructor, and then I practice painting my face to blend in with trees. Pita, meanwhile, is speaking with a different instructor.

Holding a clipboard, the instructor asks, “Any previous camouflage experience?”

“Ten years of cake decorating,” Pita says proudly.

“So, no experience then.” Without looking up from his clipboard, the instructor checks off a box. “Got it.”

We move on to other stations. In the back of the room, I see the Rainmakers watching us, jotting down notes and munching on snacks. I try not to think about them and instead focus my attention on learning as much as I can at each station. After a brief stop at the stationery station, where I pick up some nice cards for Prin, Pita and I find ourselves in front of the kissing station.

Pita clears his throat. “Uh … so, Kantkiss … should we maybe, I don’t know, check out this station? It could be pretty useful in the arena,” he says.

I hardly listen to what he says. I’m distracted.

“Pita,” I say, “I think we’re being followed.”

Upon hearing this, Pita grips his food bag extra tightly. I spin around to see what it is that’s unnerving me. I’m right. Someone is following us.

About ten feet behind me is a small crib, rocking back and forth, right beside the diaper-changing station. Inside, wearing pink booties and wrapped in a puffy blanket, is a little baby. It’s the girl tribute from District 11. I squint to get a better look. She can’t be a day over six months old.

“Pita,” I say, dumbfounded, “look at that tribute. Look how little she is!”

The two of us slowly walk toward the crib. As we approach, she coos and spits up a bit. Pita starts making funny faces at her.

“Hey, check this out,” Pita says, pointing to the side of the crib. There, in flowery pink writing, are the words
Run
Babyrun.
Pita slides his hand over it. “That must be her name. Run. Boy, they sure do have weird names in other districts, eh, Kantkiss?”

I nod. Looking at Run, lying there in her crib, I start to feel a little more confident about my chances in the Hunger Games. Compared to Run, I’m a pretty worthy competitor. I can walk, feed myself, and support the weight of my own head. I glance at Pita. He can do those things too, although he often complains about how heavy his head is. No, Run won’t pose much of a problem for me in the arena. It’s the Varsities I worry about.

The head trainer blows her whistle to announce a lunch break. It comes at the perfect time: Pita has just hit the bottom of his food sack. The tributes file into an adjacent cafeteria. It’s set up a lot like the cafeteria back at my school, the main difference being that this cafeteria has food in it.

After I get my food, I look around for a place to sit. From a table in the back, Pita waves wildly at me. “KANTKISS!” he screams. “KANTKISS NEVERCLEAN!” I pretend not to hear him as I look for a different table. There are some cool-looking girls to my left, but when I turn in their direction, they avert their eyes. The kids at the next table do the same. Meanwhile, Pita is still hollering. “WE’LL MAKE IT A DISTRICT TWELVE TABLE! COME ON!” Finally, I relent and put my tray down next to Pita.

As we sit there, eating another delicious meal, I notice an absolutely massive tribute searching for a table. He’s well over six feet tall—maybe seven. His thighs are like tree
trunks. I’d seen him earlier at the boulder-throwing station, heaving enormous boulders across the room with ease. It was very impressive. A few Rainmakers had clapped. But what catches my eye now is not his size, it’s what he’s carrying. Tucked underneath his right arm is Run. Unable to find an empty table, he settles for a stand-up meal. The boy slides a diaper bag off his left arm, removes a bottle, and starts feeding Run.

“That’s the other District Eleven tribute,” Pita says with a mouthful of food. “His name’s Smash.”

“I’m going to invite him to join us,” I say, desperate to avoid another meal listening only to the sound of Pita gorging himself. I do my best to smile as I wave him over. He pulls up a seat at our table and slams down the diaper bag.

“Me Smash,” he says with a crooked grin. “You stay away from baby.”

“Nice to meet you,” Pita says.

“Me train hard. Kill everyone,” Smash says.

Before we hear more of Smash’s musings, we’re told that the individual training sessions are beginning. This is our chance to show off our skills to the Rainmakers. Afterward, we’re given scores that indicate our chances of success in the arena. Scores range from 1, totally screwed, to 12, cold-blooded killer.

The Rainmakers call in the first tribute. It’s Archie from District 1. He crushes a beer can on his forehead before going inside the gymnasium. I slouch down in my chair as I realize that I’m going to be waiting for a long time before it’s
my turn. Pita, sensing my frustration, puts his hand on mine and smiles sympathetically.

Is this friendship I’m starting to feel toward Pita? He doesn’t fit my two criteria for male friends—must 1) be super attractive and 2) have a girl’s name. But maybe I’ve been too harsh on Pita. He might be a good friend after all. And judging by the way he’s raising and lowering his eyebrows and making kissy sounds with his lips at me, I can tell he wants to be my friend too.

After what feels like a lifetime of waiting, the Rainmakers call me for my individual session. I’m feeling confident. But when I step inside the gym, I realize the odds are against me. The Rainmakers have seen twenty-three performances before me. They look bored.

“No more fighting!” one calls out. “Let’s see a dance!”

“Yeah!” the Rainmakers shout. “Dance! Dance! Dance! Dance!”

I stay focused and grab a bow. I’ve decided to showcase my best skill, archery. But the archery range they’ve set up for me is too simple, just some blue and red targets painted on live humans. I know what will impress them. I launch into a one-woman dramatic rendition of a hunter pursuing a deer, playing both parts, hunter and deer.

When I get to the best part—squealing and frothing on the floor in my death throes as a wounded deer—I notice they’ve stopped booing. Awestruck, no doubt. But then I see it’s because the Rainmakers have just been served a roast pheasant. I’m furious. Here I am, my life on the line, being
judged by people who don’t appreciate good theater when it lies on the ground frothing right in front of them.

Enough is enough.
Without even thinking, I shoot an arrow right at the apple in the pheasant’s mouth. I miss pretty badly and the arrow enters the chest of a Rainmaker and pins him, dead, against the wall.

Silence. A few agonizing seconds pass. Then, something strange happens. One of the Rainmakers begins a slow clap.
Clap … Clap … Clap.
And the other Rainmakers join in. Soon, they’re all standing and they’re roaring with applause. A few of them even whistle. “Good show!” one of them cries.

“We
hated
that guy,” says another.

“Shoot Ralph again!” shouts another. So I do.

I can still hear the Rainmakers’ raucous applause in my ears as I step into the elevator to head upstairs. When the doors slide open on the twelfth floor, Pita, Buttitch, and Effu are waiting for me.

“They’re about to announce the scores!” Buttitch exclaims.

“And there are cookies in the dining room!” Pita shrieks.

We gather around the television to see the results. First they show each tribute’s picture, then a picture of the animal they most resemble, then their score. Buttitch is jumping up and down with excitement. He’s got a lot riding on these scores. “Come on, baby, give Daddy a seven!” he yells.

The Varsities all score between eight and ten. From floors below, I can hear them high-fiving and chest-bumping.
Smash, not surprisingly, scores an eleven. But what comes next is truly shocking. Baby Run gets a twelve.

“How did that happen?” I ask, bewildered.

“She really floored the Rainmakers during her private session,” Pita says. “She made the stinkiest poo. It literally knocked out half the judges.”

Now Pita’s picture is on the screen, followed by an animated picture of a sloth turning into a fatter sloth. Everyone in the room holds their breath, except Pita, who can’t do anything nearly that strenuous. His score flashes on the screen: zero.

“Woo hoo!”
Buttitch cries. “Got that one right.” He slaps Pita on the back proudly.

Pita looks sad. “I don’t understand,” he says.

“What happened in there?” I ask.

“I did everything perfectly,” he says. “I walked in, thanked the Rainmakers for their time, and delivered a very humble and sincere speech about how I hope to perform well in the Hunger Games.” Effu, Buttitch, and I stare at him blankly.

Before I can spend any time feeling bad for Pita, my picture is on the television. After an image of a weird, gamey-looking badger, the number twelve flashes on the screen.