The Rainmakers call in the first tribute. It’s Archie from District 1. He crushes a beer can on his forehead before going inside the gymnasium. I slouch down in my chair as I realize that I’m going to be waiting for a long time before it’s my turn. Pita, sensing my frustration, puts his hand on mine and smiles sympathetically.
Is this friendship I’m starting to feel toward Pita? He doesn’t fit my two criteria for male friends—must 1) be super attractive and 2) have a girl’s name. But maybe I’ve been too harsh on Pita. He might be a good friend after all. And judging by the way he’s raising and lowering his eyebrows and making kissy sounds with his lips at me, I can tell he wants to be my friend too.
After what feels like a lifetime of waiting, the Rainmakers call me for my individual session. I’m feeling confident. But when I step inside the gym, I realize the odds are against me. The Rainmakers have seen twenty-three performances before me. They look bored.
“No more fighting!” one calls out. “Let’s see a dance!”
“Yeah!” the Rainmakers shout. “Dance! Dance! Dance! Dance!”
I stay focused and grab a bow. I’ve decided to showcase my best skill, archery. But the archery range they’ve set up for me is too simple, just some blue and red targets painted on live humans. I know what will impress them. I launch into a one-woman dramatic rendition of a hunter pursuing a deer, playing both parts, hunter and deer.
When I get to the best part—squealing and frothing on the floor in my death throes as a wounded deer—I notice they’ve stopped booing. Awestruck, no doubt. But then I see it’s because the Rainmakers have just been served a roast pheasant. I’m furious. Here I am, my life on the line, being judged by people who don’t appreciate good theater when it lies on the ground frothing right in front of them.
Enough is enough. Without even thinking, I shoot an arrow right at the apple in the pheasant’s mouth. I miss pretty badly and the arrow enters the chest of a Rainmaker and pins him, dead, against the wall.
Silence. A few agonizing seconds pass. Then, something strange happens. One of the Rainmakers begins a slow clap. Clap … Clap … Clap. And the other Rainmakers join in. Soon, they’re all standing and they’re roaring with applause. A few of them even whistle. “Good show!” one of them cries.
“We hated that guy,” says another.
“Shoot Ralph again!” shouts another. So I do.
I can still hear the Rainmakers’ raucous applause in my ears as I step into the elevator to head upstairs. When the doors slide open on the twelfth floor, Pita, Buttitch, and Effu are waiting for me.
“They’re about to announce the scores!” Buttitch exclaims.
“And there are cookies in the dining room!” Pita shrieks.
We gather around the television to see the results. First they show each tribute’s picture, then a picture of the animal they most resemble, then their score. Buttitch is jumping up and down with excitement. He’s got a lot riding on these scores. “Come on, baby, give Daddy a seven!” he yells.
The Varsities all score between eight and ten. From floors below, I can hear them high-fiving and chest-bumping. Smash, not surprisingly, scores an eleven. But what comes next is truly shocking. Baby Run gets a twelve.
“How did that happen?” I ask, bewildered.
“She really floored the Rainmakers during her private session,” Pita says. “She made the stinkiest poo. It literally knocked out half the judges.”
Now Pita’s picture is on the screen, followed by an animated picture of a sloth turning into a fatter sloth. Everyone in the room holds their breath, except Pita, who can’t do anything nearly that strenuous. His score flashes on the screen: zero.
“Woo hoo!” Buttitch cries. “Got that one right.” He slaps Pita on the back proudly.
Pita looks sad. “I don’t understand,” he says.
“What happened in there?” I ask.
“I did everything perfectly,” he says. “I walked in, thanked the Rainmakers for their time, and delivered a very humble and sincere speech about how I hope to perform well in the Hunger Games.” Effu, Buttitch, and I stare at him blankly.
Before I can spend any time feeling bad for Pita, my picture is on the television. After an image of a weird, gamey-looking badger, the number twelve flashes on the screen.
“Yes!” I shout. The old deer routine has still got it.
“Goddamnit! Do you realize how much money you just cost me?” Buttitch screams, slamming his fist onto the coffee table.
As I look at that number twelve onscreen, I can’t help thinking of Carol watching the television at home in District 12. I really miss him. I miss his gorgeous hair and beautiful face. I feel my knees go weak as I think about him. The past few days, I haven’t had much time to daydream about Carol. Instead, my thoughts have been filled by another boy—Pita.
In the back of my mind, I wonder who my heart will belong to in the end. Will it be Carol, with his perfect body and unparalleled hunting skills? Or Pita, with his giant head and flabby stomach? It’s a tough call. I ponder this as I look across the room at Pita, who’s trying to lick a bread crumb stuck to his chin to save his arms the effort of moving up to get it.
“Tomorrow, you’ll prepare for your interviews,” Buttitch announces, as he rises to go to bed. “Get a good night’s rest.”
Before he can leave the room, Pita gets up and whispers something in Buttitch’s ear. Buttitch nods, then turns toward me.
“Pita wants you to know that, going forward, he’d like to train separately from you.”
Whatever. That is the first thought that runs through my head. It is a little bit interesting that Pita doesn’t want to train with me anymore. But not very interesting. Definitely not interesting enough to warrant a cliffhanger.
“Are ya all right, mon?” Effu asks me, affectionately hovering her hand above my shoulder.
“Absolutely fine,” I reply. This news has only changed my day a tiny amount.
“All right then,” Effu says. “Let’s go to ya room for ya trainin’ session. Without Pita.”
Shrugging, I follow her. Effu is going to prepare me for my interview tonight, which will be televised and watched by everyone in Peaceland—sponsors included.
When we step into my room, Effu shrieks and quickly walks outside again. “I’m sorry, but this room smells like a poor person,” she says. We waste an hour of precious training time waiting for a crew of Notalkses to fumigate it.
“Ah.” Effu smiles as she reenters the room. “Much betta.” I roll my eyes. Even though she can be a handful sometimes, I like Effu. We spend the next few hours going through my interview technique. Apparently I do not know how to smile. Effu tries to teach me how to move the muscles in my face so that the ends of my lips extend upward, but it feels very strange to me and eventually she gives up.
“At the very least ya have ta stop curling ya hand up into a fist and shakin’ it at da person ya talking to, Kantkiss,” she says with a sigh. We work on that for an hour with no results. Not only am I still shaking my fist, I have also started angrily kicking my leg.
“Well, I’ve done all I can do for ya,” Effu concludes dejectedly when our time is up.
“Thank you for trying,” I reply with a little kick, and head downstairs to find Buttitch. He tells me to change into a full-length gown and high-heel shoes. When I emerge from the dressing room, I am surprised to see he has done the same. I burst out laughing.
“Yeah, yeah. Very funny,” he snarls. “Do you want to learn how to make an entrance or not?”
He spends the next couple of hours instructing me on walking. The shoes are the hardest part. The only other time I’ve ever worn high heels was on an incredibly ill-conceived hunting trip with Carol, and now I can barely walk to the other side of the room without falling down. Buttitch moves like he was born in heels, twirling gracefully and giving me the occasional curtsy just to show he isn’t trying too hard. If Buttitch can do it, so can I. After a while I get the hang of things,
and Buttitch and I walk nimbly up and down the hallway together.
“Good,” he grunts. “Now let’s see how well you interview.”
Buttitch takes the role of the interviewer and I answer his questions as best I can. Things are going pretty well. I’ve stopped kicking him and have even reduced the fist shaking to a passable wave. If I can keep this up, I figure I have a real shot of impressing the sponsors. But Buttitch isn’t satisfied.
“No, no, no!” He stops me. “You need to be sexy! Here. Like this.”
He flutters his eyelids, plays with the fabric of his dress flirtatiously, and giggles like a schoolgirl. I try to follow his example, but it’s hopeless. I will never be sexy like Buttitch.
Buttitch spends the next half hour teaching me the secrets of seduction. Then, after glancing at his pager, he says, “When you get interviewed, make sure you cough exactly six times,” he says. “No more, no less. Six. If you cough exactly six times, I think you have a good shot of winning over the sponsors.”
It doesn’t sound like a very good plan, but it’s the only one I’ve got. I eat alone in my room that night. I’m so frustrated from training that I smash my plates against the wall, pretending that it is Buttitch doing one of his stupid curtsies. When Circle comes in to clean the mess, I shout, “Leave it alone!” and dive onto my bed, crying my eyes out.
I just want to be left alone. I hear a door close behind me. At first I think Circle has left my quarters, but then I realize she has gone into the bathroom. She returns with a damp washcloth and sits down on the bed next to me, stroking my hair soothingly. I know Circle cares about me and isn’t mad. I calm down to let her wash the tears off my face, but then I recoil in pain. The washcloth is soaked in vinegar, and it stings my eyes very badly! I can’t open my eyes, so eventually I just fall asleep.
The next morning my prep team wakes me up and instructs me to get naked. I groggily do as they say. As soon as I’m naked, they tell me to put on my clothes again, then they leave.
Cinnabon comes into the room. He is my last hope, a fashion genius.
“Hello, Kantkiss,” Cinnabon says. “How are you doing today?”
Cinnabon is very kind, but I am too nervous for small talk. “I hope this dress is as beautiful as the last one, Cinnabon. It really needs to be,” I say.
Cinnabon freezes and goes pale. “Dress!” he mouths. “Uh … I mean, yes. It is. Very beautiful. Close your eyes.”
I do as he says and wait for what seems an eternity. I hear the sound of Cinnabon rummaging around the room, then the sound of him walking outside. Finally I hear his footsteps as he reenters the room. With my eyes still closed, Cinnabon fits me into his newest creation. After a few moments, he tells me to open my eyes.
I gasp as I see the creature standing before me in the full-length mirror. White strands of toilet paper twirl all around me, covering every inch of my body except for two eye slits. I am a mummy.
“Cinnabon!” I exclaim. “It’s gorgeous! So scary!”
Cinnabon smiles. “Here’s the best part.” He pulls a cooking pot from behind his back and places it on my head. “There.”
I can scarcely contain my excitement as I look in the mirror. I am not just a mummy but a warrior mummy. The cooking pot is my helmet. “Oh, Cinnabon,” I manage at last, “thank you!”
“You are going to do fine in your interview,” Cinnabon tells me. “Remember, just be yourself.”
Just be myself? It’s not a foolproof plan, but it’s certainly better than what Buttitch came up with. “I’ll try,” I promise Cinnabon.
Then it’s time to leave. The interview is filmed in front of a live studio audience. The other tributes and I file onto the stage and take our seats on a long couch. Jaesar Lenoman, the host of the interviews for the past twenty years, joins us in front of the cameras. He is a frightening man. His hair is a freakish mixture of bleached white and dyed gray. In the Capital they do surgery to make people look like monsters, and Jaesar Lenoman has paid a small fortune to extend his chin so that it nearly reaches his shirt. I can’t imagine why anyone in the Capital would want to see a face like that on television, but somehow he is a huge success here.
“Thank you, thank you very much,” Jaesar begins his monologue. “You might as well get comfortable, because you’re not going anywhere till Monday!”
The next six minutes are the worst of my life.
“I don’t know much about the Hunger Games,” Jaesar quips, patting his belly. “But I’m odds-on favorite to win the Eating Games!” As the audience mindlessly laughs, I look around the stage for a weapon. I have to put an end to this. For Prin. I think of her being forced to watch this monologue at home and feel sick to my stomach. But there are no weapons on stage. I just have to sit there and bear it.
“Sometimes my wife wishes I was a Notalks,” Jaesar continues. “That way I couldn’t tell her what I think of her cooking!” He pretends to be a Notalks, making gestures with his hands to show he is choking on his wife’s food. If Carol were here, he’d know what to do. He would shoot me through the heart with an arrow to put me out of my misery. But Carol isn’t here. I shudder to think what he must be going through, how he also has to watch this monologue.
I am on the verge of passing out from the monologue when Jaesar stops for a commercial break. When we go back on air, the interviews begin. It takes me a while to recover from the jokes, and when I look up, Jaesar is already interviewing the boy tribute from District 3, the moral qualms district. A thoughtful, bookish boy who chooses his words carefully, he is pinning all his hopes on his recollection of Sun Tzu’s The Art of War, although he admits he has difficulty overlooking the ethical tensions in the work. Tributes from the moral qualms district always do very badly in the Hunger Games.
I sit like a lady, the way Buttitch showed me, as the districts slip by. The tributes all interview well, and it makes me nervous. Gatsby Rockefeller CCXLIV, the boy tribute from District 6—the old money district—is perfectly at ease in front of the cameras. He disdainfully tells Jaesar that the Games are no different than a good fox hunt and that his father will hear if anything happens to him. When Jaesar tells him that his three minutes are up, Gatsby threatens to have him fired.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Effu waving in my direction, desperately trying to tell me something. “I wish that Gatsby was my tribute instead of you!” she whispers when I look up. I roll my eyes.
Even Run, the baby from District 11, gives an impressive interview. She spends the first two minutes giggling and pointing at the stage lights, which is very cute, then blows everyone away by saying her first word, ketchup, on live television. The audience gives her a standing ovation as she crawls back to her seat. If only I were a baby. I could get away with the giggling and first-word strategy. I bet most of the sponsors are at least considering her right now.
Smash, the towering tribute from District 11, takes a different approach. “Training good,” he grunts, then picks up Jaesar and lifts him high above his head. Before anyone can explain to him that the private training sessions are over, Smash throws Jaesar into the audience and returns to his seat.
Then it’s my turn to be interviewed. Jaesar brushes some dirt off his suit and says, “I haven’t taken a fall like that since last season’s ratings came in!” As the audience hoots and applauds, I again feel nauseous. I will be sitting less than three feet away from Jaesar during our interview. It will be impossible to ignore his jokes.
“So, Kantkiss,” Jaesar says, getting down to business, “What do you think of the Capital?”
My mind goes blank. Desperately, I seek out Cinnabon in the audience. “Just be honest,” he mouths encouragingly, giving me two thumbs-up.
“Well,” I begin, “obviously I hate the Capital. All of my life it has oppressed me and my family, making us live in poverty and killing my dad, and now it is forcing me to fight to the death against kids. I just completely hate it.”
The words come out before I can stop them. I gulp. I
’ve definitely gone too far this time. Cinnabon’s advice sounded so reasonable!
Jaesar and the rest of the audience look at me quizzically. Any second now I will be taken to the Capital’s prisons and tortured for inciting revolution. Maybe they will turn me into a Notalks instead of killing me. I just pray they don’t hurt my family.
But when Jaesar finally speaks, he sounds amused rather than angry. “What was that, mummy? I couldn’t hear a word you said through that scary costume of yours!” I breathe a huge sigh of relief. Cinnabon to the rescue again.
“That reminds me of the time I flew Egyptian Airways,” Jaesar continues. “Do you want to hear about that?”
Vigorously, I shake my head and make my scariest warrior mummy sounds. But it’s no use. The audience shouts and encourages Jaesar to tell his story and he does, complete with airplane food jokes and a whole routine about how he has to take off his shoes at airport security but is then told to put them back on because his feet are so smelly. While sitting through his act, I silently renew my vow never to have children. Only a monster would bring life into a world where these kinds of jokes are told.
The only good thing about Jaesar’s story is that it takes up all the remaining interview time. As I return to my seat, I see Buttitch tearing up a betting slip and cursing furiously. I forgot to cough six times.
Next up is Pita. He wins over the audience from the start by asking everyone in the front row how their days are going and making small talk with them. Finally, Jaesar gets him to sit down in the interview chair. Jaesar has a hard time interviewing Pita because Pita has so many questions of his own. He is genuinely interested in Jaesar’s life, pleasantly inquiring about his family, health, and hobbies.
“So tell me,” Jaesar manages after answering several of Pita’s questions about his hovercraft collection, “did you leave a girlfriend behind in District Twelve?”
Pita sighs. “Well, there is one girl.”
The audience hoots and asks for more information. Some people in the audience even blow Pita kisses. It is a very unusual audience.
The Hunger Pains: A Parody Page 5