I pick up another spear while Peeta throws. “I think her

name’s Rue,” he says softly.

I bite my lip. Rue is a small yellow flower that grows in the

Meadow. Rue. Primrose. Neither of them could tip the scale at

seventy pounds soaking wet.

“What can we do about it?” I ask him, more harshly than I

intended.

“Nothing to do,” he says back. “Just making conversation.”

Now that I know she’s there, it’s hard to ignore the child.

She slips up and joins us at different stations. Like me, she’s

clever with plants, climbs swiftly, and has good aim. She can

hit the target every time with a slingshot. But what is a slingshot

against a 220-pound male with a sword?

Back on the District 12 floor, Haymitch and Effie grill us

throughout breakfast and dinner about every moment of the

day. What we did, who watched us, how the other tributes size

up. Cinna and Portia aren’t around, so there’s no one to add

any sanity to the meals. Not that Haymitch and Effie are fighting

anymore. Instead they seem to be of one mind, determined

to whip us into shape. Full of endless directions about what

we should do and not do in training. Peeta is more patient, but

I become fed up and surly.

When we finally escape to bed on the second night, Peeta

mumbles, “Someone ought to get Haymitch a drink.”

I make a sound that is somewhere between a snort and a

laugh. Then catch myself. It’s messing with my mind too much,

trying to keep straight when we’re supposedly friends and

when we’re not. At least when we get into the arena, I’ll know

where we stand. “Don’t. Don’t let’s pretend when there’s no

one around.”

“All right, Katniss,” he says tiredly. After that, we only talk

in front of people.

On the third day of training, they start to call us out of lunch

for our private sessions with the Gamemakers. District by district,

first the boy, then the girl tribute. As usual, District 12 is

slated to go last. We linger in the dining room, unsure where

else to go. No one comes back once they have left. As the room

empties, the pressure to appear friendly lightens. By the time

they call Rue, we are left alone. We sit in silence until they

summon Peeta. He rises.

“Remember what Haymitch said about being sure to throw

the weights.” The words come out of my mouth without permission.

“Thanks. I will,” he says. “You . . . shoot straight.”

I nod. I don’t know why I said anything at all. Although if

I’m going to lose, I’d rather Peeta win than the others. Better

for our district, for my mother and Prim.

After about fifteen minutes, they call my name. I smooth my

hair, set my shoulders back, and walk into the gymnasium. Instantly,

I know I’m in trouble. They’ve been here too long, the

Gamemakers. Sat through twenty-three other demonstrations.

Had too much to wine, most of them. Want more than anything

to go home.

There’s nothing I can do but continue with the plan. I walk

to the archery station. Oh, the weapons! I’ve been itching to

get my hands on them for days! Bows made of wood and plastic

and metal and materials I can’t even name. Arrows with

feathers cut in flawless uniform lines. I choose a bow, string it,

and sling the matching quiver of arrows over my shoulder.

There’s a shooting range, but it’s much too limited. Standard

bull’s-eyes and human silhouettes. I walk to the center of the

gymnasium and pick my first target. The dummy used for

knife practice. Even as I pull back on the bow I know something

is wrong. The string’s tighter than the one I use at home.

The arrow’s more rigid. I miss the dummy by a couple of inches

and lose what little attention I had been commanding. For a

moment, I’m humiliated, then I head back to the bull’s-eye. I

shoot again and again until I get the feel of these new weapons.

Back in the center of the gymnasium, I take my initial position

and skewer the dummy right through the heart. Then I

sever the rope that holds the sandbag for boxing, and the bag

splits open as it slams to the ground. Without pausing, I

shoulder-roll forward,（向前肩滚翻） come up on one knee, and 

send an arrow into one of the hanging lights high above the 

gymnasium floor. A shower of sparks bursts from the fixture.

It’s excellent shooting. I turn to the Gamemakers. A few are

nodding approval, but the majority of them are fixated on a

roast pig that has just arrived at their banquet table.

Suddenly I am furious, that with my life on the line, they

don’t even have the decency to pay attention to me. That I’m

being upstaged by a dead pig. My heart starts to pound, I can

feel my face burning. Without thinking, I pull an arrow from

my quiver and send it straight at the Gamemakers’ table. I

hear shouts of alarm as people stumble back. The arrow

skewers the apple in the pig’s mouth and pins it to the wall

behind it. Everyone stares at me in disbelief.

“Thank you for your consideration,” I say. Then I give a

slight bow and walk straight toward the exit without being

dismissed.