The Hunger Pains Read Online Free PDF Page A

respect.
    Cinnabon breaks the silence. “You must be hungry,” he says. With his finger, he presses a button on his chair that says Fancy Lunch Button. A meal instantly falls into the room from the ceiling. I notice that Cinnabon doesn’t speak with the Capital accent.
    I eye the food excitedly. “Wait!” Cinnabon yells before I can dig in. “For the love of Bernette, put some clothes on before you start gorging yourself. I don’t know if the naked thing is a custom in your district or just a personal preference, but either way you need to cover up all that back stubble if I’m going to have any chance of keeping my food down.”
    After I throw on a robe, we eat. The food is amazing. Cinnabon’s lunch is served on fine china. He eats a steak dusted in rosemary atop wild rice, with pudding for dessert. And for me, on the carpet, is a tray of steamed cabbage, an assortment of different roots, a full corncob, all mashed together with chicken neck. We have nothing this delicious back home, and though my heart is full of hate toward the Capital, my belly is full of yum-yums.
    Cinnabon puts down his fork. “You must think we’re all monsters,” he says. His eyes glare at me and I feel my breathing quicken. I’m not sure if I should answer, or nod, or stay silent, or try a cartwheel. Unsure of how to proceed, I let out a burp.
    Cinnabon nods understandingly and continues. “It must seem so awful: fat, rich Capital residents snatching up half-fed, mangy children so they can watch them slaughter one another.” Cinnabon has surprised me, both by his cold assessment of the Hunger Games and by starting his meal with the pudding. “Anyway, about your costume.”
    My costume. This is the part I’ve been dreading, even more than my probable death alone in the wilderness. For the Opening Ceremony, tributes are dressed in a costume representing their districts, and since District 12 is the telemarketing district, our tributes usually end up looking like phone books.
    “Now, I could’ve sworn the Hunger Games didn’t start until next week,” Cinnabon says, as he picks up a small suitcase from beside his chair. “I must have misread my calendar. But I did my best to throw something together at the last minute. Don’t worry, nobody will notice that it was rushed.”
    Cinnabon reaches a hand into the suitcase and pulls out a large white sheet. He unfurls it and holds it up for me to see. It’s just a regular sheet, aside from two small holes cut in the middle. Cinnabon tosses the sheet over himself and twists and turns until his eyes are visible through the holes. “You’ll be a ghost!” he declares.
    At first, I don’t say anything. I stare blankly at the ghost standing before me. I take a moment and walk a full circle around Cinnabon. “Well?” he says from beneath the sheet. “What do you think?”
    “It’s … it’s … genius!” I say. Cinnabon shimmies out of the sheet and tosses it over me. It fits perfectly. He can’t see it, but I’m ecstatic. I’ve never felt so beautiful.
    I’m rushed downstairs for the ceremony. Everyone we pass in the halls jumps back in horror before realizing I’m not a real ghost. Then they congratulate Cinnabon on his masterpiece. At this year’s Emmy Awards, Cinnabon will be a lock for Best Costume Design, Reality Series.
    Finally, we arrive at the child stable where the tributes are kept until the ceremony begins. Pita walks in a few minutes later. His costume is beautiful. His doughy body isenclosed in a hulking black plastic suit meant to replicate a Singer-Point 14 series telephone—just like the one they use back home in the telemarketing office. As I stare at Pita, he keeps trying to scratch an itch on his butt, which involves slapping the 9 button with his palm.
    I go over to Pita to ask him about his experience with the stylists. “That was pretty weird, huh?” I say. “Especially being naked in front of all those strangers.”
    “You were naked?” Pita