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Coriolanus released the fistful of cabbage into the pot of boiling waterand swore that one day it would never pass his lips again. But this was notthat day. He needed to eat a large bowl of the anemic stuff, and drink everydrop of broth, to prevent his stomach from growling during the reapingceremony. He needed to keep the act up and pretend he was one of them. One of the wealthy. At only 18 he had to keep the Snow family name up and prideful.
His shirt for the reaping was worrying him. He had an acceptable pair ofdark dress pants bought on the black market last year, but the shirt was whatpeople looked at. Fortunately, the Academy provided the uniforms it requiredfor daily use. For today's ceremony, however, students were instructed to bedressed fashionably but with the solemnity the occasion dictated.
Tigris hadsaid to trust her, and he did. Only his cousin's cleverness with a needle hadsaved him so far. Still, he couldn't expect miracles but he knew to trust her. The shirt they'd dug from the back of the wardrobe — his father's, frombetter days — was stained and yellowed with age, half the buttons missing, acigarette burn on one cuff. Desperate for anything he'd settled for it.But today's morning it was nowhere to be found and so was his cousin.
If Tigris's revamped shirt was unwearable, what was he to do? Fake theflu and call in sick? Spineless. Soldier through in his uniform shirt?Disrespectful. Squeeze into the red button-down that he had outgrown twoyears ago? Poor. Acceptable option? None of the above.
The front door, warped and complaining, scraped open."Coryo!" Tigris cried out, and he slammed the phone down in hurry. Thenickname she'd given him when he was a newborn had stuck with him. He flew out ofthe kitchen, almost knocking her over, but she was too excited to reproachhim. "I did it! I did it! Well, I did something." Her feet did a rapid little run inplace as she held up a hanger draped in an old dress bag. "Look,"
Coriolanus was speechless. It was gorgeous. No, even better, it was classy. The thick linen wasneither the original white nor the yellow of age, but a delicious cream. It looked as if it was new and just bought.
"You're brilliant," he said "And the best cousin ever."
Carefulto hold the shirt out of harm's way, he hugged her with his free arm. "Snowlands on top!""Snow lands on top!" Tigris crowed. It was the saying that had gottenthem through the war, when it was a constant struggle not to be ground intothe earth.
He smoothed back his blond curls as he mockingly whispered to his image,"Coriolanus Snow, future president of Panem, I salute you."For Tigris's sake, he made a grand entrance into the living room,extending his arms and turning in a full circle to show off the shirt.She squealed in delight and applauded. "You look amazing! So handsomeand fashionable! Come see, Grandma'am!" It was another nickname coinedby little Tigris, who'd found "Grandma," and certainly "Nana," insufficientfor someone so imperial and important.
"Here, here, boy. Put this on. Fresh from my roof garden," she ordered.He reached for the rose, but a thorn pierced his palm in the shakyexchange.
" Why thank you Grandma'am!" he says delightedly looking at his grandmother.
After quickly hugging Tigris again and rushing outside. On the way there he was thinking about the capitol, about his success and how he'd be rewarded about it all. As he turned onto Scholars Road, he tried to measure his pace. He wantedto arrive on time, but cool and composed, not a sweaty mess. This reapingday, like most, was shaping up to be a scorcher. But what else could youexpect on July 4th?
As the finest school in the Capitol, the Academy educated theoffspring of the prominent,wealthy, and influential. With over four hundredstudents in each class, it had been possible for Tigris and Coriolanus, giventheir family's long history at the school, to gain acceptance without muchdifficulty. Unlike the University, it was tuition-free and provided lunch andschool supplies along with uniforms. Anyone who was anyone attended theAcademy, and Coriolanus would need those connections as a foundation forhis future.
When he arrives he is greeted by one of his school friends, Satyria.
"Oh, Coriolanus," Satyria drawled as she waved him over. "Here's mystar pupil." He gave her the expected kiss on the cheek and registered that shewas several glasses of posca ahead of him.
"Beautiful shirt. Where did you get such a thing?"He looked at the shirt as if surprised by its existence and gave the shrugof a young man of limitless options.
"The Snows have deep closets," he said airily. "I was trying for respectfulyet celebratory."
"And so it is. What are these cunning buttons?" Satyria asked, fingeringone of the cubes on his cuff. "Tesserae?"
"Are they? Well, that explains why they remind me of the maid'sbathroom," Coriolanus responded, drawing a chuckle from her friends. This act was a lot more difficult than most would think. He hated having to act like that.
He hurries on to the main hall sitting down waiting to get awarded on the Plinth prize. The prize that would bring his family out of poverty and misery. But that doesnt exactly happen.
All of a sudden a woman stands on the podium making the newest announcement that shook the ground.
"Now this year, the prize wont be given to the best student but rather to the mentor.." She said but everyone was confused."..To the best mentor in the tenth annual hunger games!"
Murmurs and mutter were all that filled the big room. Whispers associated by glances.
Coriolanus drew in a sharp breath. Had all those years of learning been for nothing? How would he help his family?
Dean Casca Highbottom, the man credited with the creation of theHunger Games,was overseeing the mentor program personally. He presentedhimself to the students with all the verve of a sleepwalker, dreamy-eyed and,as usual, doped up on morphling.
"Ho there," he slurred, waving a crumpled piece of paper over his head."Reading the things off now." The students hushed, trying hard to hear himabove the din of the hall. "Read you a name, then you who gets that one.Right? So, fine. District One, boy, goes to . . ." Dean Highbottom squinted atthe paper, trying hard to focus.
"Glasses," he mumbled. "Forgot them."Everyone stared at his glasses, already perched on his nose, and waited whilehis fingers found them. "Ah, here we go. Livia Cardew."
Livia's pointed little face broke into a grin and she punched the air invictory, shouting "Yes!" in her shrill voice.
Coriolanus felt increasing desperation as Dean Highbottom stumbledthrough the list, assigning each district's boy and girl a mentor. After tenyears, a pattern had emerged. The better-fed, more Capitol-friendly districtsof 1 and 2 produced more victors, with the fishing and farming tributes from4 and 11 also being contenders. Coriolanus had hoped for either a 1 or a 2,but neither was assigned to him, which was made more insulting whenSejanus scored the District 2 boy.
Something was amiss when a Snow, who also happened to be one of theAcademy's high-honor students, had gone unrecognized. Coriolanus wasbeginning to think they had forgotten him — perhaps they were giving himsome special position? — when, to his horror, he heard Dean Highbottommumble,
"And last but least, District Twelve girl . . . she belongs toCoriolanus Snow."
