The Hunger Pains (4 page)

G
ood afternoon,” bellows President Bernette. “Welcome to
the Seventy-Fourth Hunger Games.”

As I process that statement, I realize its magnitude: I am one of a long line of telemarketing district tributes. I am being welcomed. And there have been at least fifty Hunger Games before this one.

President Bernette grips the podium firmly with both hands. He is a good-looking man, with a wide forehead, flowing brown hair, and a dashing smile that he never flashes. He wears a black suit with a black dress shirt underneath. His boxers, I’ve been told, are also black. When I look at him the only color I find is in his rosy cheeks.

He continues. “We know there are three keys to a healthy society: having elected leaders, promoting separation of powers, and making children fight to the death on national TV.”

The crowd roars in agreement. Pita claps also. I don’t blame him. He’s simply distracted by the bagel he’s pulled from his pocket, completely unaware of what’s been said.

“To suppress a revolution,” President Bernette goes on, “it’s important to infuriate and humiliate your constituents regularly, while televising the deaths of their children. On that note, I am happy to welcome these fine tributes. We have a great arena prepared this year, and it should be fun to watch them die—not like that one year where they all starved to death and it took forever.”

The crowd applauds. Pita, listening now, looks appropriately concerned. The Boy with the Head and I exchange worried looks.

“Seeing as how these games are quite perilous, I would like to remind the tributes that you are free to leave at any time,” President Bernette says.

Phew!
Pita and I smile. That’s great news. I imagine Prin watching this. I miss her so much. And I imagine my mother beside her—that stupid woman. I think of them hearing this and realizing that I can come home safely. Maybe Pita and I will leave tomorrow. Or we’ll enjoy touring the Capital for a few more days. I breathe a sigh of relief, knowing that I will soon be back home, living in horrible poverty.

President Bernette repeats himself. “That’s right, you can leave the arena at any time and go back ho—” An adviser cuts him off and whispers in his ear. After nodding, President Bernette continues. “Sorry, sorry, I was thinking of something else,” he says. “Sorry about that.” He laughs. “You can only leave if you die.”

Pita and I look at each other again. We go back to being scared.

“In closing,” President Bernette says, his voice sonorous, his hair gelled, his views right-wing, “I hope you have enjoyed these Opening Ceremonies. To the tributes, I hope you take pride in a few things: your district, getting to be on live TV, and the fact that you will die in interesting ways. Enjoy the evening. Remember, the food court closes at ten thirty.”

Now that the ceremony is over, Pita and I ride our chariot back to the Training Center. Pita wants to stop at a drive-thru, but I remind him that Effu asked us to be in the apartment for dinner. To show his frustration, Pita tries to cross his arms, but he can’t. He settles for making a pouty face.

On the ride to the Training Center, we pass Buttitch huddled with a group of men on a street corner. They’re exchanging money and slips of paper. I can tell that they’re making bets on the Hunger Games. When Buttitch spots us, he hurriedly puts away the money. The others follow suit. Then, in an effort to look casual, they all start whistling and walking in small circles.

As I walk into the training center, I try not to think about how my life is basically in Buttitch’s hands. This building is amazing. It has a floor for each district. I step into a thing Effu calls an “elevator.” When you get out, you are at a different place than you were when you got in. Unless you do not press a button. The whole experience is remarkable. The only other times I’ve ever been in an elevator were when I went to the District 12 Injustice Building to collect my fa
ther’s vaporized body, and every day at school when I rode the elevator to class.

As I ride this elevator, I remember the year that the Hunger Games took place in an arena that was made to resemble an office building. Most of the tributes from poor districts were decapitated by elevators because they weren’t familiar with them. Man, those were good Hunger Games.

I step off the elevator and into the apartment. Like the compartment on the train, it’s very deluxe. Pita sits down to take off his sneakers.
Good idea
, I think. This is a nice place; we should remove our dirty footwear. But then I see that he’s just getting some crackers out of his shoes. As he pulls a few up to his mouth, Effu slaps them out of his hand. “Don’t spoil ya dinna!”

I excuse myself and head for the bathroom. When I shut the door behind me, I let out a deep breath, pleased to have a moment alone for the first time since Super Fun Day. I look around the bathroom. Nothing is familiar. There’s a silver tube that pees water. There’s a bar of a thing called “soap.” The toilet has a lever that makes water disappear counterclockwise and then reappear again. I use the toilet and, for the first time in my life, enjoy pooping without digging a hole first.

When I walk out, Effu is standing there waiting for me. “Here,” she says, handing me a small matchbox. “Ya betta light a match in there.”

“Is that a Capital custom?” I ask.

“No. It’s not,” she says, pinching her nose.

I do as she says, and then we head toward the dining
room. There, I find another massive meal. Pizza, mozzarella sticks, Diet Coke, McFlurries, lobsters, Polish meatballs, pretzels, Swedish meatballs, and a giant tub of raw cookie dough.
Mmm.
I lick my lips. Then I lick my hands: this is how we wash our hands in District 12. I take a seat at the table next to Pita. Effu, Buttitch, and Cinnabon join us.

We start eating. “Did you know this year you can actually bet on the order that the tributes die?” Buttitch says. “I’ve been advocating that for years. Finally!”

Cinnabon looks worried.

“I’ve got you going fourth,” Buttitch says excitedly, pointing his knife toward Pita. “Dying fourth, I mean. Kantkiss—you’ll go sixth. Now, I want—”

“That’s enough!” Cinnabon says, cutting him off.

“You’re right.” Buttitch nods. “I’d better not jinx it.”

When I’m about halfway through my first plateful of meatballs, I think about how long it would take me to assemble this meal at home. For the McFlurries, I’d just hit up McDonald’s. But for the meat, I’d have to kill at least two cows. One for the meat and the other for sport. Then I’d have to kill about a dozen squirrels to trade for the other foods. For the pizza, Carol and I would have to search the woods all day for tomatoes and a pizza oven.

Buttitch, his mouth full of cookie dough, begins to reminisce about past Hunger Games. “Five or six years ago, little Gary Schechter, he put up a good fight. Made District Twelve proud. Like many District Twelve tributes before him, it all ended when he got his intestines ripped out.”

Pita and I swallow our food hard. It’s not pleasant to hear about our predecessors.

“Had a nice funeral, though. Real nice. Flowers, band, speeches,” Buttitch says.

I try not to listen.

He keeps talking. “Herbert Morton—
that
was a funeral. After he was eaten by another tribute in the Hunger Games ten years ago, they buried what was left of him in the most magnificent pearl casket.”

“Quit talking about funerals, Buttitch! You’ll frighten the kids,” Cinnabon says.

I’m grateful to have Cinnabon here. He seems like a real friend.

“It’s insensitive,” Cinnabon remarks. “Everyone knows they don’t have funerals for dead tributes anymore.”

When we start to run low on mozzarella sticks, a red-haired girl emerges from the kitchen with a new tray. She looks familiar and vaguely reminds me of someone I betrayed one time. While Effu and Buttitch talk, I can’t stop staring at this girl. Then it hits me.

“I know you!” I say to the girl.

Everyone at the table gets quiet and stares at me. The girl glances at me for a second, then walks quickly back to the kitchen. “Hey!” I shout at her. But she’s disappeared behind the door. I try to remember where I know her from. The market? The Capital? This dinner?

“How could you possibly know a Notalks?” Cinnabon asks.

“A what?” I reply.

“A Notalks,” he says. “Someone who has committed a crime. The Capital cuts off their tongues as punishment.”

“Ya couldn’t possibly know her,” Effu says.

“I’ll bet she does know her,” Buttitch says excitedly. “What’s it worth to you?” He takes out a fistful of cash. “One hundred? Two hundred? I’m not going higher than three hundred. All right, three-fifty!”

While he rambles on, it finally clicks. I remember how I know the Notalks.

Effu shakes her head. “No gambling, Buttitch!” She turns to me. “So, where do ya know dis girl from?”

Before I can say anything, Pita comes to my rescue. “She looks just like”—Pita’s glancing nervously around the room and then he continues—“Dietcoke Elevatortable!”

“Yes, Dietcoke Elevatortable,” I say confidently. Pita’s trying to protect me. Very clever.

“Dietcoke is this girl at our school,” Pita says. “I noticed that the Notalks looked familiar too, but I just couldn’t put my finger on it. It’s clear now, though. She’s the spitting image of Dietcoke.”

Both Effu and Cinnabon shrug. They appear convinced. I breathe a sigh of relief. I’m not sure why Pita would try to protect me. His behavior can only be interpreted as an effort to kill me. It couldn’t be that he’s just a nice guy.

Everybody continues feasting on dinner. Pita eats more lobster at this meal than I’d eat in a month back home. The only time he stops shoveling food into his mouth is when he
starts choking. Each time this happens, Buttitch calmly gets up and gives him the Heimlich.

As the Notalks comes out of the kitchen to refill the platters in front of Pita, I notice that she keeps flashing me mean looks. Could it be possible that she’s still mad at me?

After we finish dinner, the adults clear the table. Buttitch moves his chair closer to Pita and me. “Okay, guys, training starts tomorrow,” he says. “As you train, be sure to showcase your skills. The Rainmakers will be watching.”

The Rainmakers are the people who design the Hunger Games. They determine everything from the arena location to the weather to the jacket on the special edition Hunger Games DVD that will come out when it’s all over. It’s important to impress them.

“Kantkiss, I hear you’re pretty good with a bow and arrow,” Buttitch says. “Pita,” he continues, “I hear you’re a nice guy.” Pita stares at Buttitch, waiting for more concrete praise. “Well, good night,” Buttitch says, standing to his feet.

When he leaves the room, Pita turns to me. “So, Dietcoke Elevatortable?” he says, smiling.

“We can’t talk here,” I say, eyeing the poorly hidden cameras in the walls. There’s a print of Leonardo da Vinci’s
Mona Lisa
hanging to our left with two giant lenses protruding from the eyes. “Let’s talk on the roof.”

We hop into the elevator and, unsure of how to go up, press all the buttons. Before we get to the roof, the elevator doors slide open on a handful of other floors, offering us a glimpse of a few other tributes. On the seventh floor, the
tributes from District 7—the district attorney district—are proofing legal briefs before bed. On the ninth floor, the tributes from District 9 are curled up on a couch watching the movie
District 9.
Then, on ten, we see the tributes from the theater district doing voice exercises. “Me-mi-ma-mo-moo!” they sing on an upward scale, “I’m-going-to-kill-you!”

Finally, we reach the roof. The moment we step off the elevator into the wind, I see something unexpected. Buttitch is a few feet away, standing on a ledge like he’s about to jump off the building. It’s loud, but I can make out parts of what he’s muttering to himself: “Just do it, man … So much debt!… Stop being such a wuss and jump … Come on, get it over with … I’m going to jump!”

“Buttitch!” I scream, rushing toward him.

He spins around. “Hello, children,” he says glumly. “What are you doing up here?”

“What are
we
doing up here?” Pita asks. “What are
you
doing up there?”

Buttitch scratches the back of his head and shifts nervously. “Well, to be honest, I’m in a lot of gambling debt. I don’t see how I’m going to pay it all off. This seemed like my best option.”

Pita nods and backs away, convinced that Buttitch is right. He gestures that I should do the same. “Pita—no. Get down from there, Buttitch!” I scream.

“Why should I?” he says.

“Because you have so much to live for!” I yell. “And we need your help to make it out of the Hunger Games alive.”

Buttitch peers over the ledge. It’s a long way down. He takes a deep breath, then steps back onto the roof. Without saying a word, he walks over to me and, for a moment, puts his hand on my shoulder. Then he gets into the elevator and goes back downstairs.

“That was intense,” I say to Pita. Judging by his pit stains, he agrees.

We find a bench to sit on while we talk. From there, we enjoy a breathtaking view of the Capital. We can see all the way up Main Street and even over to the Animal Kingdom. And despite the wind, I can hear Capital residents shriek with delight as they ride the spinning teacups near the bottom of the building.

“So tell me,” Pita says, “how do you know the Notalks?”

I tell the story. It was about six months ago. I was in the woods hunting with Carol when I saw them. The girl from dinner was in the bushes with a boy. From what I could tell, they were kissing. I didn’t like that one bit. There I was, trying to hunt, and they’re scaring away all the animals with their loud smooching. So I called the Pacemakers on them. They showed up and captured those two lovebirds and arrested them for trespassing. How was I supposed to know the punishment for French kissing was that you get your tongue cut out?

“Wow,” Pita says once I’ve finished, “she must be awfully mad at you.”

“Nah, it was so long ago,” I assure him. “By now, she’s probably gotten used to living without a tongue and as a slave.”