Chapter 8

As I stride toward the elevator, I fling my bow to one side

and my quiver to the other. I brush past the gaping Avoxes

who guard the elevators and hit the number twelve button

with my fist. The doors slide together and I zip upward. I 

actually make it back to my floor before the tears start 

running down my cheeks. I can hear the others calling me 

from the sitting room, but I fly down the hall into my room, 

bolt the door, and fling myself onto my bed. Then I really 

begin to sob. Now I’ve done it! Now I’ve ruined everything! 

If I’d stood even a ghost of chance, it vanished when I sent that 

arrow flying at the Gamemakers. What will they do to me now? 

Arrest me? Execute me? Cut my tongue and turn me into an 

Avox so I can wait on the future tributes of Panem? What was 

I thinking, shooting at the Gamemakers? Of course, I wasn’t, I 

was shooting at that apple because I was so angry at being 

ignored. I wasn’t trying to kill one of them. If I were, they’d be 

dead! Oh, what does it matter? It’s not like I was going to win 

the Games anyway. Who cares what they do to me? What really

scares me is what they might do to my mother and Prim, how

my family might suffer now because of my impulsiveness. Will

they take their few belongings, or send my mother to prison

and Prim to the community home, or kill them? They wouldn’t

kill them, would they? Why not? What do they care? I should 

have stayed and apologized. Or laughed, like it was a big joke. 

Then maybe I would have found some leniency. But instead I 

stalked out of the place in the most disrespectful manner possible.

Haymitch and Effie are knocking on my door. I shout for

them to go away and eventually they do. It takes at least an

hour for me to cry myself out. Then I just lay curled up on the

bed, stroking the silken sheets, watching the sun set over the

artificial candy Capitol.

At first, I expect guards to come for me. But as time passes,

it seems less likely. I calm down. They still need a girl tribute

from District 12, don’t they? If the Gamemakers want to punish

me, they can do it publicly. Wait until I’m in the arena and

sic starving wild animals on me. You can bet they’ll make sure

I don’t have a bow and arrow to defend myself.

Before that though, they’ll give me a score so low, no one in

their right mind would sponsor me. That’s what will happen

tonight. Since the training isn’t open to viewers, the 

Gamemakers announce a score for each player. It gives the 

audience a starting place for the betting that will continue 

throughout the Games. The number, which is between one 

and twelve, one being irredeemably bad and twelve being 

unattainably high, signifies the promise of the tribute. The mark 

is not a guarantee of which person will win. It’s only an 

indication of the potential a tribute showed in training. Often, 

because of the variables in the actual arena, high-scoring tributes 

go down almost immediately. And a few years ago, the boy who

won the Games only received a three. Still, the scores can help

or hurt an individual tribute in terms of sponsorship. I had

been hoping my shooting skills might get me a six or a seven,

even if I’m not particularly powerful. Now I’m sure I’ll have

the lowest score of the twenty-four. If no one sponsors me, my

odds of staying alive decrease to almost zero.

When Effie taps on the door to call me to dinner, I decide I

may as well go. The scores will be televised tonight. It’s not

like I can hide what happened forever. I go to the bathroom

and wash my face, but it’s still red and splotchy.

Everyone’s waiting at the table, even Cinna and Portia. I

wish the stylists hadn’t shown up because for some reason, I

don’t like the idea of disappointing them. It’s as if I’ve thrown

away all the good work they did on the opening ceremonies

without a thought. I avoid looking at anyone as I take tiny

spoonfuls of fish soup. The saltiness reminds me of my tears.

The adults begin some chitchat about the weather forecast,

and I let my eyes meet Peeta’s. He raises his eyebrows. A 

question. What happened? I just give my head a small shake. 

Then, as they’re serving the main course, I hear Haymitch say,

“Okay, enough small talk, just how bad were you today?”

Peeta jumps in. “I don’t know that it mattered. By the time I

showed up, no one even bothered to look at me. They were

singing some kind of drinking song, I think. So, I threw 

around some heavy objects until they told me I could go.”

That makes me feel a bit better. It’s not like Peeta attacked

the Gamemakers, but at least he was provoked, too.

“And you, sweetheart?” says Haymitch. Somehow Haymitch 

calling me sweetheart ticks me off enough that I’m at least 

able to speak. “I shot an arrow at the Gamemakers.”

Everyone stops eating. “You what?” The horror in Effie’s

voice confirms my worse suspicions.

“I shot an arrow at them. Not exactly at them. In their direction.

It’s like Peeta said, I was shooting and they were ignoring

me and I just . . . I just lost my head, so I shot an apple out of

their stupid roast pig’s mouth!” I say defiantly.

“And what did they say?” says Cinna carefully.

“Nothing. Or I don’t know. I walked out after that,” I say.

“Without being dismissed?” gasps Effie.

“I dismissed myself,” I said. I remember how I promised

Prim that I really would try to win and I feel like a ton of coal

has dropped on me.

“Well, that’s that,” says Haymitch. Then he butters a roll.

“Do you think they’ll arrest me?” I ask. “Doubt it. Be a pain

to replace you at this stage,” says Haymitch.