267'

Somehow it all comes back to coal at school. Besides basic reading and math most of our instruction is coal-related.

Except for the weekly lecture on the history of Panem.

It’s mostly a lot of blather about what we owe the Capitol. I know there
must be more than they’re telling us, an actual account of what happened during the rebellion.

But I don’t spend muchtime thinking about it. Whatever the truth is, I don’t see how it
will help me get food on the table.

The tribute train is fancier than even the room in the JusticeBuilding.

We are each given our own chambers that have a bedroom, a dressing area, and a private bathroom with hot and cold running water. We don’t have hot water at home, unless we boil it.

There are drawers filled with fine clothes, and Effie Trinket tells me to do anything I want, wear anything I want, everything
is at my disposal. Just be ready for supper in an hour.

I peel off my mother’s blue dress and take a hot shower. I’ve never had a shower before. It’s like being in a summer rain,only warmer.

I dress in a dark green shirt and pants.
At the last minute, I remember Madge’s little gold pin.

For the first time, I get a good look at it. It’s as if someone fashioned a small golden bird and then attached a ring around
it.

The bird is connected to the ring only by its wing tips. I suddenly recognize it. Amockingjay.

They’re funny birds and something of a slap in the face to the Capitol. During the rebellion, the Capitol bred a series of
genetically altered animals as weapons.

The common term for them was muttations, or sometimes mutts for short.

One was a special bird called a jabberjay that had the ability to memorize and repeat whole human conversations. They were homing birds, exclusively male, that were released into regions where the Capitol’s enemies were known to be hiding.

After the birds gathered words, they’d fly back to centers to be recorded. It took people awhile to realize what was going on in the districts, how private conversations were being transmitted.

Then, of course, the rebels fed the Capitol endless lies, and thejoke was on it. So the centers were shut down and the birds
were abandoned to die off in the wild.
Only they didn’t die off.

Instead, the jabberjays mated with
female mockingbirds creating a whole new species that could replicate both bird whistles and human melodies.

They had lost the ability to enunciate words but could still mimic a
range of human vocal sounds, from a child’s high-pitched warble to a man’s deep tones. And they could re-create songs.

Not just a few notes, but whole songs with multiple verses, if you had the patience to sing them and if they liked your voice.

My father was particularly fond of mockingjays. When we went hunting, he would whistle or sing complicated songs to
them and, after a polite pause, they’d always sing back.

Not everyone is treated with such respect. But whenever my father
sang, all the birds in the area would fall silent and listen.

His voice was that beautiful, high and clear and so filled with life it made you want to laugh and cry at the same time. I could
never bring myself to continue the practice after he was gone.

Still, there’s something comforting about the little bird. It’s like having a piece of my father with me, protecting me.

I fasten the pin onto my shirt, and with the dark green fabric as a background, I can almost imagine the mockingjay flying

231'

Effie Trinket comes to collect me for supper. I follow her through the narrow, rocking corridor into a dining room with
polished paneled walls.

There’s a table where all the dishes are highly breakable. Peeta Mellark sits waiting for us, the chair next to him empty.
“Where’s Haymitch?” asks Effie Trinket brightly.

“Last time I saw him, he said he was going to take a nap,”
says Peeta.

“Well, it’s been an exhausting day,” says Effie Trinket. I think she’s relieved by Haymitch’s absence, and who can
blame her?

The supper comes in courses. A thick carrot soup, green salad, lamb chops and mashed potatoes, cheese and fruit, a
chocolate cake.

Throughout the meal, Effie Trinket keeps
reminding us to save space because there’s more to come.

ButI’m stuffing myself because I’ve never had food like this, so good and so much, and because probably the best thing I can
do between now and the Games is put on a few pounds.

“At least, you two have decent manners,” says Effie as we’re finishing the main course. “The pair last year ate everything with their hands like a couple of savages. It completely upsetmy digestion.”

The pair last year were two kids from the Seam who’d never,
not one day of their lives, had enough to eat.

And when they did have food, table manners were surely the last thing on their minds. Peeta’s a baker’s son.

My mother taught Prim and I to eat properly, so yes, I can handle a fork and knife. But

I hate Effie Trinket’s comment so much I make a point of eating
the rest of my meal with my fingers. Then I wipe my hands on the tablecloth. This makes her purse her lips tightly together.

Now that the meal’s over, I’m fighting to keep the food down.

I can see Peeta’s looking a little green, too. Neither of our stomachs is used to such rich fare.

But if I can hold down
Greasy Sae’s concoction of mice meat, pig entrails, and tree
bark — a winter specialty — I’m determined to hang on to this.
We go to another compartment to watch the recap of the reapings across Panem. They try to stagger them throughout
the day so a person could conceivably watch the whole thing live, but only people in the Capitol could really do that, since
none of them have to attend reapings themselves.

One by one, we see the other reapings, the names called,
the volunteers stepping forward or, more often, not. We examine the faces of the kids who will be our competition.

A few stand out in my mind. A monstrous boy who lunges forward to volunteer from District 2.

A fox-faced girl with sleek red hair from District 5.

A boy with a crippled foot from District 10. And most hauntingly, a twelve-year-old girl from District 11.

She has dark brown skin and eyes, but other than that, she’s very like Prim in size and demeanor.

Only when shemounts the stage and they ask for volunteers, all you can hear
is the wind whistling through the decrepit buildings around her. There’s no one willing to take her place.

157'

Last of all, they show District 12. Prim being called, me running forward to volunteer.

You can’t miss the desperation
in my voice as I shove Prim behind me, as if I’m afraid no one will hear and they’ll take Prim away.

But, of course, they do hear. I see Gale pulling her off me and watch myself mount the stage.

The commentators are not sure what to say about the
crowd’s refusal to applaud. The silent salute. One says that District 12 has always been a bit backward but that local customs can be charming.

As if on cue, Haymitch falls off thestage, and they groan comically.

Peeta’s name is drawn, and he
quietly takes his place. We shake hands.

They cut to the anthem again, and the pro-gram ends.

Effie Trinket is disgruntled about the state her wig was in.

“Your mentor has a lot to learn about presentation. A lot about
televised behavior.”

Peeta unexpectedly laughs. “He was drunk,” says Peeta.
“He’s drunk every year.”

“Every day,” I add. I can’t help smirking a little.

Effie Trinket
makes it sound like Haymitch just has somewhat rough manners that could be corrected with a few tips from her.

“Yes,” hisses Effie Trinket. “How odd you two find it amusing.You know your mentor is your lifeline to the world in these Games. The one who advises you, lines up your sponsors,and dictates the presentation of any gifts. Haymitch can well be the difference between your life and your death!”

Just then, Haymitch staggers into the compartment. “I miss supper?” he says in a slurred voice. Then he vomits all over
the expensive carpet and falls in the mess.

“So laugh away!” says Effie Trinket. She hops in her pointy shoes around the pool of vomit and flees the room.