The Hunger Pains Read Online Free PDF Page B

completely unaware of what’s been said.
    “To suppress a revolution,” President Bernette goes on, “it’s important to infuriate and humiliate your constituents regularly, while televising the deaths of their children. On that note, I am happy to welcome these fine tributes. We have a great arena prepared this year, and it should be fun to watch them die—not like that one year where they all starved to death and it took forever.”
    The crowd applauds. Pita, listening now, looks appropriately concerned. The Boy with the Head and I exchange worried looks.
    “Seeing as how these games are quite perilous, I would like to remind the tributes that you are free to leave at any time,” President Bernette says.
    Phew! Pita and I smile. That’s great news. I imagine Prin watching this. I miss her so much. And I imagine my mother beside her—that stupid woman. I think of them hearing this and realizing that I can come home safely. Maybe Pita and I will leave tomorrow. Or we’ll enjoy touring the Capital for a few more days. I breathe a sigh of relief, knowing that I will soon be back home, living in horrible poverty.
    President Bernette repeats himself. “That’s right, you can leave the arena at any time and go back ho—” An adviser cuts him off and whispers in his ear. After nodding, President Bernette continues. “Sorry, sorry, I was thinking of something else,” he says. “Sorry about that.” He laughs. “You can only leave if you die.”
    Pita and I look at each other again. We go back to being scared.
    “In closing,” President Bernette says, his voice sonorous, his hair gelled, his views right-wing, “I hope you have enjoyed these Opening Ceremonies. To the tributes, I hope you take pride in a few things: your district, getting to be on live TV, and the fact that you will die in interesting ways. Enjoy the evening. Remember, the food court closes at ten thirty.”
    Now that the ceremony is over, Pita and I ride our chariot back to the Training Center. Pita wants to stop at a drive-thru, but I remind him that Effu asked us to be in the apartment for dinner. To show his frustration, Pita tries to cross his arms, but he can’t. He settles for making a pouty face.
    On the ride to the Training Center, we pass Buttitch huddled with a group of men on a street corner. They’re exchanging money and slips of paper. I can tell that they’re making bets on the Hunger Games. When Buttitch spots us, he hurriedly puts away the money. The others follow suit. Then, in an effort to look casual, they all start whistling and walking in small circles.
    As I walk into the training center, I try not to think about how my life is basically in Buttitch’s hands. This building is amazing. It has a floor for each district. I step into a thing Effu calls an “elevator.” When you get out, you are at a different place than you were when you got in. Unless you do not press a button. The whole experience is remarkable. The only other times I’ve ever been in an elevator were when I went to the District 12 Injustice Building to collect my father’s vaporized body, and every day at school when I rode the elevator to class.
    As I ride this elevator, I remember the year that the Hunger Games took place in an arena that was made to resemble an office building. Most of the tributes from poor districts were decapitated by elevators because they weren’t familiar with them. Man, those were good Hunger Games.
    I step off the elevator and into the apartment. Like the compartment on the train, it’s very deluxe. Pita sits down to take off his sneakers. Good idea , I think. This is a nice place; we should remove our dirty footwear. But then I see that he’s just getting some crackers out of his shoes. As he pulls a few up to his mouth, Effu slaps them out of his hand. “Don’t spoil ya dinna!”
    I excuse myself and head for the bathroom. When I shut the door behind me, I let out a deep breath, pleased to have a moment alone for the