I sit on the bed, hating Haymitch, hating Peeta, hating myself 

for mentioning that day long ago in the rain.

It’s such a joke! Peeta and I going along pretending to be

friends! Talking up each other’s strengths, insisting the other

take credit for their abilities. Because, in fact, at some point,

we’re going to have to knock it off and accept we’re bitter 

adversaries. Which I’d be prepared to do right now if it wasn’t

for Haymitch’s stupid instruction that we stick together in

training. It’s my own fault, I guess, for telling him he didn’t

have to coach us separately. But that didn’t mean I wanted to

do everything with Peeta. Who, by the way, clearly doesn’t

want to be partnering up with me, either.

I hear Peeta’s voice in my head. She has no idea. The effect

she can have. Obviously meant to demean me. Right? but a tiny

part of me wonders if this was a compliment. That he meant I

was appealing in some way. It’s weird, how much he’s noticed

me. Like the attention he’s paid to my hunting. And apparently,

I have not been as oblivious to him as I imagined, either. The 

flour. The wrestling. I have kept track of the boy with the bread.

It’s almost ten. I clean my teeth and smooth back my hair

again. Anger temporarily blocked out my nervousness about

meeting the other tributes, but now I can feel my anxiety rising

again. By the time I meet Effie and Peeta at the elevator, I

catch myself biting my nails. I stop at once.

The actual training rooms are below ground level of our building. 

With these elevators, the ride is less than a minute.The doors open 

into an enormous gymnasium filled with various weapons and 

obstacle courses. Although it’s not yet ten, we’re the last ones to 

arrive. The other tributes are gathered in a tense circle. They each 

have a cloth square with their district number on it pinned to their 

shirts. While someone pins the number 12 on my back, I do a quick 

assessment. Peeta and I are the only two dressed alike.

As soon as we join the circle, the head trainer, a tall, athletic

woman named Atala steps up and begins to explain the training

schedule. Experts in each skill will remain at their stations.

We will be free to travel from area to area as we choose, per

our mentor’s instructions. Some of the stations teach survival

skills, others fighting techniques. We are forbidden to engage

in any combative exercise with another tribute. There are 

assistants on hand if we want to practice with a partner.

When Atala begins to read down the list of the skill stations,

my eyes can’t help flitting around to the other tributes.

It’s the first time we’ve been assembled, on level ground, in

simple clothes. My heart sinks. Almost all of the boys and at

least half of the girls are bigger than I am, even though many

of the tributes have never been fed properly. You can see it in

their bones, their skin, the hollow look in their eyes. I may be

smaller naturally, but overall my family’s resourcefulness has

given me an edge in that area. I stand straight, and while I’m

thin, I’m strong. The meat and plants from the woods combined

with the exertion it took to get them have given me a healthier 

body than most of those I see around me. The exceptions are 

the kids from the wealthier districts, the volunteers, the ones 

who have been fed and trained throughout their lives for this 

moment. The tributes from 1, 2, and 4 traditionally have this 

look about them. It’s technically against the rules to train 

tributes before they reach the Capitol but it happens every 

year. In District 12, we call them the Career Tributes, or just 

the Careers. And like as not, the winner will be one of them.

The slight advantage I held coming into the Training Center,

my fiery entrance last night, seems to vanish in the presence

of my competition. The other tributes were jealous of us,

but not because we were amazing, because our stylists were.

Now I see nothing but contempt in the glances of the Career

Tributes. Each must have fifty to a hundred pounds on me.

They project arrogance and brutality. When Atala releases us,

they head straight for the deadliest-looking weapons in the

gym and handle them with ease.

I’m thinking that it’s lucky I’m a fast runner when Peeta

nudges my arm and I jump. He is still beside me, per 

Haymitch’s instructions. His expression is sober. “Where 

would you like to start?”

I look around at the Career Tributes who are showing off,

clearly trying to intimidate the field. Then at the others, the

underfed, the incompetent, shakily having their first lessons

with a knife or an ax.

“Suppose we tie some knots,” I say.

“Right you are,” says Peeta. We cross to an empty station 

where the trainer seems pleased to have students. You get 

the feeling that the knot-tying class is not the Hunger games 

hot spot.