When he realizes I know something about snares, he

shows us a simple, excellent trap that will leave a human

competitor dangling by a leg from a tree. We concentrate on

this one skill for an hour until both of us have mastered it.

Then we move on to camouflage. Peeta genuinely seems to 

enjoy this station, swirling a combination of mud and clay and

berry juices around on his pale skin, weaving disguises from

vines and leaves. The trainer who runs the camouflage station

is full of enthusiasm at his work.

“I do the cakes,” he admits to me.

“The cakes?” I ask. I’ve been preoccupied with watching the

boy from District 2 send a spear through a dummy’s heart

from fifteen yards. “What cakes?”

“At home. The iced ones, for the bakery,” he says.

He means the ones they display in the windows. Fancy

cakes with flowers and pretty things painted in frosting.

They’re for birthdays and New Year’s Day. When we’re in the

square, Prim always drags me over to admire them, although

we’d never be able to afford one. There’s little enough beauty

in District 12, though, so I can hardly deny her this. I look more 

critically at the design on Peeta’s arm. The alternating pattern of 

light and dark suggests sunlight falling through the leaves in the 

woods. I wonder how he knows this, since I doubt he’s ever been 

beyond the fence. Has he been able to pick this up from just that 

scraggly old apple tree in his backyard? Somehow the whole thing

 — his skill, those inaccessible cakes, the praise of the camouflage 

expert — annoys me.

“It’s lovely. If only you could frost someone to death,” I say.

“Don’t be so superior. You can never tell what you’ll find in

the arena. Say it’s actually a gigantic cake —” begins Peeta.

“Say we move on,” I break in.

So the next three days pass with Peeta and I going quietly

from station to station. We do pick up some valuable skills,

from starting fires, to knife throwing, to making shelter. 

Despite Haymitch’s order to appear mediocre, Peeta excels in

hand-to-hand combat, and I sweep the edible plants test without

blinking an eye. We steer clear of archery and weightlifting

though, wanting to save those for our private sessions.

The Gamemakers appeared early on the first day. Twenty

or so men and women dressed in deep purple robes. They sit

in the elevated stands that surround the gymnasium, some

times wandering about to watch us, jotting down notes, other

times eating at the endless banquet that has been set for them,

ignoring the lot of us. But they do seem to be keeping their eye

on the District 12 tributes. Several times I’ve looked up to find

one fixated on me. They consult with the trainers during our

meals as well. We see them all gathered together when we

come back.

Breakfast and dinner are served on our floor, but at lunch

the twenty-four of us eat in a dining room off the gymnasium.

Food is arranged on carts around the room and you serve

yourself. The Career Tributes tend to gather rowdily around

one table, as if to prove their superiority, that they have no

fear of one another and consider the rest of us beneath notice.

Most of the other tributes sit alone, like lost sheep. No one

says a word to us. Peeta and I eat together, and since Haymitch

keeps dogging us about it, try to keep up a friendly conversation

during the meals.

It’s not easy to find a topic. Talking of home is painful. Talking

of the present unbearable. One day, Peeta empties our 

breadbasket and points out how they have been careful to 

include types from the districts along with the refined bread of

the Capitol. The fish-shaped loaf tinted green with seaweed

from District 4. The crescent moon roll dotted with seeds from

District 11. Somehow, although it’s made from the same stuff,

it looks a lot more appetizing than the ugly drop biscuits that

are the standard fare at home.

“And there you have it,” says Peeta, scooping the breads

back in the basket.

“You certainly know a lot,” I say.

“Only about bread,” he says. “Okay, now laugh as if I’ve said

something funny.”

We both give a somewhat convincing laugh and ignore the

stares from around the room. “All right, I’ll keep smiling 

pleasantly and you talk,” says Peeta. It’s wearing us both out, 

Haymitch’s direction to be friendly. Because ever since I 

slammed my door, there’s been a chill in the air between us. 

But we have our orders.“Did I ever tell you about the time I 

was chased by a bear?” I ask.

“No, but it sounds fascinating,” says Peeta. I try and animate 

my face as I recall the event, a true story, in which I’d foolishly 

challenged a black bear over the rights to a beehive. Peeta 

laughs and asks questions right on cue(果然不出所料). He’s 

much better at this than I am. 

On the second day, while we’re taking a shot at spear throwing, 

he whispers to me. “I think we have a shadow.” I throw my 

spear, which I’m not too bad at actually, if I don’t have to throw 

too far, and see the little girl from District 11 standing back a bit, 

watching us. She’s the twelve-year-old, the one who reminded me 

so of Prim in stature. Up close she looks about ten. She has bright, 

dark, eyes and satiny brown skin and stands tilted up on her toes 

with her arms slightly extended to her sides, as if ready to take wing 

at the slightest sound.