The Hunger Pains (3 page)

Effu beckons me and Pita to a dinner in the train’s dining car. When I walk in, I’m speechless. The table is covered
with more food than I’ve ever seen in my entire life. Bacon cheeseburgers, chili dogs, nachos, french fries, and General Tso’s chicken are spread across the table on large platters. Pita begins to hyperventilate. I plant my face right into the pile of burgers. It’s heavenly. It tastes even better than the finest squirrel meat.

Using my hands, I shovel food into my mouth until I’m stuffed. I wipe my mouth on the tablecloth, but once it’s drenched in sauce, I begin wiping my mouth on Effu’s shirtsleeve. Effu is disgusted. “Each year, da tributes’ manners are worse den da year before,” she says. While she complains, Pita blows his nose into a hamburger bun. Effu dry-heaves for a few seconds before beginning to speak. “Ya need ta be on ya best behavior for da sponsors,” she says. “Dis won’t do.”

Effu’s right. We have to consider how we look to the sponsors. Sponsors are an important part of the Hunger Games. They can deliver gifts of supplies to tributes while they’re in the arena. Receiving a sponsorship gift can make the difference between life and death.

The door slides open and Buttitch walks in. “Effu, can you spot me a few hundred dollars?” he asks.

Effu tosses her napkin onto the table and gets up from her seat. “No, Buttitch!” she shouts, leaving the room.

Buttitch takes her seat at the table. Before Pita can stop him, he grabs the hamburger bun from Pita’s plate and takes a large bite. “Hm, didn’t know they put mayonnaise on these,” he says, as he finishes it off.

As a former Hunger Games champion—also known as a
serial killer
—Buttitch will coach Pita and me throughout the competition. His coaching record is an encouraging 0–24. Many people in District 12 think his gambling addiction is to blame for his poor performance.

“Do either of you have some money I can borrow?” Buttitch asks. “I’ll get it back to you. I’ll double it. It’s a sure thing.” Pita and I shake our heads. “Too bad,” he says. “Look, I don’t have a whole lot of time to talk—I’m betting the conductor that he can’t go twice the speed limit without derailing the train—but I just want to say a few words of advice for when we arrive.”

Pita and I lean in to listen. “When we get to the Capital,” he says, “eat at O’Doyle’s. It’s the best pub in the city. Great buffalo wings.” This hardly seems useful, but when I glance at Pita, he’s hurriedly writing “O’Doyle’s wings” on the back of his hand. “And just as important,” Buttitch continues, “listen to your stylists.”

Just then, the train starts to slow down. I look out the window. We’re already pulling into the Capital. The train is cruising up Main Street in the shadow of a magnificent castle, steepled with spires and surrounded by a large moat. We pass the faded image of a cartoon mouse wearing white gloves. Buttitch tells us a bit about the city. “There are a few distinct neighborhoods. Over there is Tomorrowland, and that over there is Epcot.” He’s pointing out the window. “And there’s the Training Center.” We’ve arrived.

O
uch!” I cry as another strip of wax is peeled off, taking
the last of my lower-back hair with it.

“Cool it, mon,” shouts Venereal, one of my assistant stylists. Like Effu, she speaks with the strange Capital accent, drawing out the letters into sounds I’ve never heard before. “Ya got bear fur back here! Relax, we almost done. Now roll over to ya backside.”

I feel tired, as I didn’t sleep well in the train station’s motel last night. The bed was too soft and clean.

I’m lying in the middle of a cold room filled with cosmetic supplies and mirrors. This is where my stylists will give me a makeover and costume for the Opening Ceremony. They’re a strange bunch, my stylists. Like all Capital residents, their speech, fashions, and mannerisms are like nothing I’ve ever encountered.

Another assistant, Flabbiest, sits in the corner stroking his
cosmetic horns. He stands and walks over. “You always do da waxin’,” he complains to Venereal.

“Well, maybe if ya had both arms, ya’d be half as good as me,” Venereal says. It’s true, Flabbiest, in keeping with this season’s fashions, has no left arm. It’s been deliberately lopped off at the shoulder. Although it seems peculiar, even in District 12 we are amazed by the beautiful asymmetry of what we call the
amputistas
filling television talk shows and runways.

I hope they don’t chop off my arm
, I think to myself, shivering in the cold. I’m completely naked. A blank slate for the styling team to work with.

Flabbiest begins to spread cream all over my face. “Chin up, missy. We gonna shave ya whiskers,” he says.

As his razor begins shearing away long wisps of my facial hair, I think about how in the Crack it’s a mark of strength for a woman to have a few proud whiskers. When I sit up, clean-shaven, the last assistant, Octopus, nods in approval. Her smile reveals how fashion savvy she really is: she has no teeth.

“Dat does it,” Flabbiest says. He sounds pleased with his work. “We’ve gotten rid of da coarsest hair, removed da fungus and moles, and treated ya scoliosis. We even fixed ya breasts, so now dey’re da same size.”

“Thanks,” I say, trying to appear sweet and grateful. I remember Buttitch’s advice. I’ll have enough enemies once the Hunger Games begin. It wouldn’t hurt to have the stylists on my side. They seem to be falling for my nice-girl act, so I keep it going. “We don’t have much reason back home to look pretty,” I tell them. Then I pinch my own cheek and giggle.

The assistants squeal with delight. They understand that I’ve had a rough upbringing living outside the Capital.

“Don’t get me started on dis government!” Octopus says. “Did ya see what President Bernette was wearin’ last year at the Openin’ Ceremony? Dat pinstripe suit? He looked like a real cockatoo!”

Just then the door bursts open and a squadron of Pacemakers dressed in black marches in. They grab Octopus and drag her outside.

Venereal clears her throat. “All right, dear, thas enough for today. Now that ya look like a normal, healthy human, Cinnabon can finally have a look at ya.” At last, I will get to meet
the
stylist.

She and Flabbiest gather their supplies and exit the room. Once they’re gone, I remember that I’m naked. It didn’t bother me in front of the assistants. For one thing, I appreciated the attention. And I’m pretty sure they were naked too. It was very hard to tell with all their tattoos and extragenital accessories.

The door slides open, not at all like the doors back in District 12, which are mostly just tarps. In walks an old man, dressed in a green canvas smock, fashionably holding a bucket. He studies my naked body. I know it’s crucial to stay perfectly still to show I trust his judgment.

After about four minutes of this, I can’t hold out any longer. I blurt out, “You’re not like any stylist I’ve ever seen on TV.”

“Stylist? I’m just the janitor,” the man says. “I had to
see for myself what kind of creature was shedding all the hair and fur I’ve been shoveling into the furnace. My guess was a wolf, maybe a moose.” I cover my chest, embarrassed. “Anyway, nice to meet you. My name’s Barnels.” He gives my body one last look from top to bottom and then hobbles back outside.

After that I lose track of time. Back in District 12, few are rich enough to afford clocks, so if we need to know the time, we walk to the public square and ask Counting Richard, a man who spends all day counting.

Just as I begin to doze off for a quick naked nap, an exquisitely stylish man steps into the room. His hair is dashing—business in the front, party in the back. He wears a Hawaiian shirt, buttoned crookedly and untucked from his cargo shorts. On his feet, lime green Crocs. The ensemble takes my breath away.

“Hi, I’m Cinnabon, your stylist for the Hunger Games. You must be …” He unfolds a piece of paper from his pocket. “Terry.”

“It’s Kantkiss,” I say.

“Right!” he says. “Terry was last year’s tribute. God rest his soul.”

I bow my head in respect.

Cinnabon breaks the silence. “You must be hungry,” he says. With his finger, he presses a button on his chair that says Fancy Lunch Button. A meal instantly falls into the room from the ceiling. I notice that Cinnabon doesn’t speak with the Capital accent.

I eye the food excitedly. “Wait!” Cinnabon yells before I can dig in. “For the love of Bernette, put some clothes on before you start gorging yourself. I don’t know if the naked thing is a custom in your district or just a personal preference, but either way you need to cover up all that back stubble if I’m going to have any chance of keeping my food down.”

After I throw on a robe, we eat. The food is amazing. Cinnabon’s lunch is served on fine china. He eats a steak dusted in rosemary atop wild rice, with pudding for dessert. And for me, on the carpet, is a tray of steamed cabbage, an assortment of different roots, a full corncob, all mashed together with chicken neck. We have nothing this delicious back home, and though my heart is full of hate toward the Capital, my belly is full of yum-yums.

Cinnabon puts down his fork. “You must think we’re all monsters,” he says. His eyes glare at me and I feel my breathing quicken. I’m not sure if I should answer, or nod, or stay silent, or try a cartwheel. Unsure of how to proceed, I let out a burp.

Cinnabon nods understandingly and continues. “It must seem so awful: fat, rich Capital residents snatching up half-fed, mangy children so they can watch them slaughter one another.” Cinnabon has surprised me, both by his cold assessment of the Hunger Games and by starting his meal with the pudding. “Anyway, about your costume.”

My costume.
This is the part I’ve been dreading, even more than my probable death alone in the wilderness. For the Opening Ceremony, tributes are dressed in a costume representing their districts, and since District 12 is the tele
marketing district, our tributes usually end up looking like phone books.

“Now, I could’ve sworn the Hunger Games didn’t start until next week,” Cinnabon says, as he picks up a small suitcase from beside his chair. “I must have misread my calendar. But I did my best to throw something together at the last minute. Don’t worry, nobody will notice that it was rushed.”

Cinnabon reaches a hand into the suitcase and pulls out a large white sheet. He unfurls it and holds it up for me to see. It’s just a regular sheet, aside from two small holes cut in the middle. Cinnabon tosses the sheet over himself and twists and turns until his eyes are visible through the holes. “You’ll be a ghost!” he declares.

At first, I don’t say anything. I stare blankly at the ghost standing before me. I take a moment and walk a full circle around Cinnabon. “Well?” he says from beneath the sheet. “What do you think?”

“It’s … it’s … genius!” I say. Cinnabon shimmies out of the sheet and tosses it over me. It fits perfectly. He can’t see it, but I’m ecstatic. I’ve never felt so beautiful.

I’m rushed downstairs for the ceremony. Everyone we pass in the halls jumps back in horror before realizing I’m not a real ghost. Then they congratulate Cinnabon on his masterpiece. At this year’s Emmy Awards, Cinnabon will be a lock for Best Costume Design, Reality Series.

Finally, we arrive at the child stable where the tributes are kept until the ceremony begins. Pita walks in a few minutes later. His costume is beautiful. His doughy body is
enclosed in a hulking black plastic suit meant to replicate a Singer-Point 14 series telephone—just like the one they use back home in the telemarketing office. As I stare at Pita, he keeps trying to scratch an itch on his butt, which involves slapping the 9 button with his palm.

I go over to Pita to ask him about his experience with the stylists. “That was pretty weird, huh?” I say. “Especially being naked in front of all those strangers.”

“You were naked?” Pita says.

“Yeah. Wasn’t everybody?” I say.

Pita shakes his head. “I didn’t get naked,” he says. In the hallway, a few other tributes shake their heads as well.

A couple guards walk in and push us into the front of the child stable, from which we’ll enter the stadium for the Opening Ceremony. Attached to a chariot stand two massive horses. I’ve never seen a horse up close before. They’re extremely rare in the woods of District 12, and I’ve been dying to hunt one since I was a little girl.

One by one, the different tribute pairs will emerge from the child stable onto the stadium floor. Tributes will ride their chariots toward the center of the stadium, where a large stage awaits.

The first tributes to ride out are from District 1. District 1 is known as the champions district. Whereas my district specializes in telemarketing, District 1 specializes in breeding kids to dominate the Hunger Games. These kids are big, strong, and ruthless. They ride out wearing varsity letter jackets and drinking Red Bull.

District 2 is next. District 2 is the ultimate fighting district, and it’s home to some vicious kids. Its tributes are wearing basketball shorts, tattoos, and mohawks. Even in the chariot, they’re kicking and punching each other, entertaining the audience as they inflict pain. Like District 1 tributes, tributes from the ultimate fighting district usually do very well in the Hunger Games.

The districts roll by, too many for me to possibly count. I catch the girl tribute from District 7, the district attorney district, staring at me contemptuously. I can tell that beneath her pantsuit there is a fierce rage directed straight at me, although I have no idea why. Maybe it’s my killer costume that’s setting her off.

The next pair is from District 8, the red light district. I’m not sure what they make there, but their tributes are dressed very provocatively.

Later comes District 10, the theater district, and as usual both tributes are boys.

By counting my fingers and toes, I conclude that our turn is coming up. Pita and I mount our chariot. As we move into view of the crowd, and the millions of viewers across Peaceland, I feel sick with nervousness.
Man, I hope they like my outfit.

“Boooo! Boooo!” the crowd screams in an obvious nod to my ghost costume. On the Jumbotron, Cinnabon’s face appears. The crowd stops booing and goes absolutely wild. Cinnabon is one of the most popular stylists, and everything he’s associated with is a hit. My white sheet is no exception.
Even though Cinnabon is burying his head in his hands, I know that he’s proud of us. The crowd chants his name.

Our chariot comes to a stop at the broad semicircle formed by all the tributes. Taken together, the costumes are truly magnificent. Pita and I are the capstone: telephone and ghost. President Mark Bernette appears at the podium and the crowd erupts in applause. He raises a hand to indicate that he’d like the crowd to quiet down. Immediately, there is silence. No farts.