CLOVE's POV:
I spend a lonely rest of the day on the train weighing my chances of survival. Clearly Cato still sort of cares about me if he was willing to volunteer to protect me, but I still feel like he's treating me like less than I am. Honestly, if I volunteered I must have some reason to believe I can win!
Frustrated, I pull out my precious knives and began pegging them at the flowery Capitol things in my room. A porcelain bowl? My knife shatters it. Goldenrod fabric? My knife rips it. A crystal chandelier? My knife strikes it, sending shards of glass raining down around me. Who cares anyway? The Capitol people have placed everything in here for my use and no one else's. They can replace stuff easily with all the wealth they have.
A knock at the door sounds, but I ignore it. I'm not in a mood to talk to Cato right now, or whoever my mentor will be. When the knock comes again, louder this time, I finally have to check it out. An Avox answers it. She looks rather startled at the wreckage, but she doesn't question it. Maybe she's used to tributes having tantrums after their reapings.
She's wordless, but she directs me to the drawers and points out the variety of outfits I have to choose from. I nod politely, but I'm not planning on changing out of my reaping dress. Why? Because it reminds me of my date with Cato, that one glorious moment when we were completely in agreement. The reason I can't stand to look at my ring now is that it means Cato's promise, which was supposed to be ongoing. And I guess it is still; he volunteered to protect me. But that's not necessarily helping me. In fact, I feel more devastated because of it.
CATO'S POV:
I'm staring out the window, but the scenery is all the same to me. Nothing but open fields in the open country between the districts. Why won't she understand? I try to explain it to her. I try to show her what I mean, but she won't understand me.
Maybe I was wrong to volunteer. Now she won't trust me. I sigh and drop my arms onto the seat beside me, staring straight ahead. I want to talk to her, to see if I can gain her back, but I don't know how to approach her.
I drop my face into my hands. Who am I kidding? I've lost Clove for good. We can't be in love in that arena. That's a great way to guarantee weakness. I shouldn't have volunteered. Then she might have had a shot at winning. Now that I'm in the picture, however...
I catch my first glimpse of Clove since the reaping when she arrives at dinner, still wearing that dress that makes her look so stunning. My heart skips a beat and I search her face eagerly, but she won't meet my gaze. Maybe she's just scared to talk to me.
Werret comes in, polishing his cheeks with some weird maroon makeup that makes it look like his face is bleeding. "Well, hello there," he says, barely acknowledging us as he sits down and continues painting red streaks on his face.
"Who are our mentors?" I ask.
"Well, Enobaria would probably have been one, but they didn't want her to mentor her own daughter. Says you've probably had enough of her telling you what to do," Werret says to Clove, and then he starts guffawing, but she doesn't look amused.
"So who is it then?" I ask again.
"Well, there's Brutus. I've heard he can be a handful sometimes, but they thought he'd fit you," Werret says.
I grimace. "Great. And what about for her?" I ask, nodding at Clove.
"I have a name," she responds coldly, and I instantly start to attention. I can't mess with this girl; she's definitely in a mood.
"Sorry... Clove," I say. "So who's mentoring you?" I decide it's better to direct the question at her so she doesn't feel like I'm pretending she's not there. Any feeble attempt at making up is better than sitting here stonily without speaking to each other.
"Brutus is mentoring Clove as well," Werret blurts out before Clove has a chance to say anything. Not that she would have, though. Werret continues, unaware of our coldness. "We figured Brutus would be a good fit for you two. For brutality!" He starts laughing hysterically at his own joke while Clove and I just sit avoiding each others' gazes.
"What is this?" I ask finally, trying to break up the awkwardness. My plate is covered with a mountain of nachos and some slippery dark meat I'm trying to place.
"Cow's tongue," Werret says matter-of-factly, and I hear Clove let out a small strangled cry like a wounded animal. Stunned, I turn to her, but she's clapped both hands over her mouth. Now she leaps to her feet so quickly she overturns her chair. Without bothering to pick it up, she charges from the room, banging the door open and then closed behind her.
"Has the girl got extreme nerves?" Werret asks worriedly, but I don't answer because I know what she's up to. The cow's tongue reminded both of us of our date at the Black 'en White cafe. That glorious evening, neither of us had been hindered by regrets or awkwardness. We had been open books for each other, and we were supposed to have been in agreement.
I feel suddenly overwhelmingly guilty. And I can't think about eating cow's tongue, not when the taste instantly brings to mind that evening when everything had been almost perfect. Almost. Neither of us should have volunteered. Then this wouldn't have happened. We could have been happy in District 2. But I know that it would have been impossible. Careers who have trained their whole lives yet refuse to volunteer are severely looked down upon.
I slide my cow's tongue nacho away and stand up. "I'm not very hungry," I mumble to Werret before I head for the opposite door.
"The cow's tongue isn't poisonous!" Werret exclaims, alarmed and confused. I ignore him, slamming the door shut behind me.
CLOVE'S POV:
I lie on my stomach on my too-stiff bed while forbidden tears begin to pool in my eyes. The girl with the knives isn't supposed to cry. She's supposed to look tough, at least on the outside. It's the District 2 standard.
But I don't care anymore what the District 2 people's standards are. They've just about ruined my relationship with Cato. There's no way we're both going to survive, and if we did, how would it ever be the same?
I still want to be with him, and I can see he does too. But the stupid reaping's changed everything, including my hopes of winning. I can't win without Cato dying!
The Avox is knocking, but I don't feel like answering. Instead, I turn over onto my back and stare at the broken chandelier that sways in rhythm with the movement of the train. Sighing, I toss a knife up at it. It lodges itself between two crystal fixtures.
More knocking sounds, but it's louder and more demanding. Finally, I drag myself over to the door and swing it open. I stiffen instantly as I'm met with a huge, tough-looking broad-shouldered man. He is bald, and his face only displays contempt, as though he's already mad at me for something even though we haven't even met.
"Hello," I manage to say.
The dude lifts his arms and crosses them over his chest. "Hello, Miss Kentwell. If you want to live up to your name and follow in your mother's footsteps, you must listen to every word I say." He lifts a warning finger, which is as thick as a sausage. I inhale deeply.
"Yes--sir. You're... Brutus, right?" I attempt.
He nods. "And I will address you as...?" He makes a questioning gesture.
"Clove," I reply, trying to sound haughty like my normal self. But I'm feeling somewhat intimidated by this beast. "Er--good night." I attempt at shutting the door, but he thrusts out his foot and blocks it.
"Your lessons," he says through gritted teeth, "begin now, Miss Kentwell."
My stomach turns over. I don't like being told what to do. But something about that look in Brutus's eyes warns me to follow his directions... or else. I nod slowly. "Yes, sir."
CATO'S POV:
Who gave this monster the right to tell me what to do? After a reaping day, tributes should have the right to some personal time alone in their rooms. And here Brutus is dragging me out of my quiet place which is as close as I can get to a happy place. "Meet me in the lounge car," he tells me. Good. The lounge car. Maybe I can steal a nap without him noticing.
My secret desire proves unfeasible when I enter the lounge car and notice that all the fancy Capitol couches and furniture have been dragged out of the way, leaving an open space of pale blue carpet.
Clove is there too. She's finally changed out of her black reaping dress into a loose white top and a pair of jean shorts. Her hair is still in its elegant ponytail and the earrings still dangle from her ears. With a pang, I spot the ring on her finger. She hasn't given up on me yet.
Brutus plunks down on the carpet and motions for us to follow. We sit down opposite him.
"All right," he says slowly and calculatingly as he looks us over. "So listen. These Games are going to be a rough piece of work. But there will be a winner. And it'll be one of you."
I hate the way he says "one of you." It's as if he knows how Clove and I are and wants to remind us that we can't both win. I'm going to have to remind myself not to listen to a word this big jerk tells me.
"Let's see what we've got," Brutus says, and he starts rubbing Clove's arms. "Good... good. You've got some muscle, girl."
I want to tell him to back off my girl, but something's warning me not to cross this Brutus. There's no question as to how he won his Games. Mere brutality and strength no doubt won him the crown with very little trouble at all.
Next, Brutus comes over to me, squeezing my arms uncomfortably. "Well, Cato, it seems you have quite a bit of thickness to your biceps," he comments. It's the first positive thing he's said to me since we met.
"What should our strategy be?" Clove asks.
Brutus leans back. "Well, as long as you've trained hard and you don't have problems with killing, it should be a piece of cake." I hate it how he makes it sound so matter-of-fact and straightforward, like I didn't just train my whole life for it.
"And how about the other Careers?" Clove persists.
"Oh, quite simple. If you're a good actor. Just show them you have absolutely no intention of killing them, and then once outside action begins to slow down, turn around and knife them in the back. Quick and basic."
"There's no way that trick can work more than once," I mumble.
"You can stay in denial, or you can look at the facts, Cato," Brutus says sharply, steely eyes fixed in my direction. "This is the kind of thing that happens every year, and the tributes are still falling for it."
I shrug. "So who's joining us? District 1, right? What about Four?"
"Oh, judging from our District 1 pair, they'll be with you two. Four..." Brutus hesitates. "I admit, this year's is a pretty lame batch."
CLOVE'S POV:
Brutus reaches for a remote and clicks on the TV. Caesar Flickerman is talking about the tributes.
"Of course, we have a beautiful young lady, Glimmer!" he rants, gesturing to a blonde chic who looks like she belongs in Cato's fan club. Especially that flirtacious way she's grinning at the camera. Does she know Cato and I are going to waste no time killing her, or is she just that stupid?
Beside me, Cato shakes his head. "She's a piece of work."
"I wouldn't judge her too quickly, Cato," warns Brutus. "That is the mistake of the Career. To think you're better than everyone. Yes, she is pretty. Yes, she is probably ignorant. But don't play your cards without any thought."
"And also, Marvel!" Caesar Flickerman declares, motioning to a brown-haired boy who's long and skinny with barely any muscle. He gives this stupid tight-lipped smirk. Nowhere near as attractive as Cato's. He should expect a knife in the back any time after he's outlived his usefulness.
I watch myself and my dramatic volunteering. I hear Brutus's loud laugh as he sees me beating up Isis in front of the stage. "Rash, stupid perhaps, but nicely played, Clove." I don't answer, staring straight ahead without any acknowledgment. I won't give him the satisfaction of further humiliating me.
I see Cato volunteer on the television screen and a strange lump rises in my throat. I would give anything to be anywhere but here. My elaborate plans to volunteer and win have gone completely haywire.
I expected lousy, weak tributes from the later districts like usual, but it turns out to be an interesting mix. There are a few fighters inserted here and there. Like that brawny giant from Eleven, Thresh. He'll probably end up with us.
I'm surprised by the sixteen-year-old girl from Twelve who volunteers for her sister. She's pretty, and she looks at least a little strong. Plus, she definitely reaches higher than my five foot four, I realize. My stature is my one weakness. The boy from Twelve looks a little less terrifying. He's blond and cute, but one look at those blue eyes and I know he doesn't stand a chance.
I don't go for cute. I go for powerful, dangerous, and strong, especially in handsome boys. Like Cato. I try to remind myself I'm not pursuing anything with him anymore. A relationship is impossible in our current circumstances.
So why can't I get him out of my head? Why, after Brutus finally excuses us to bed at half past midnight, can I still not sleep because I still see Cato in my mind? Why am I constantly flicking on the light to stare dreamily at the word engraved on my ring? Why do I get up at five-thirty to creep down the hall and see if there's a light on under the crack in his door? Why do I keep trying to meet his eyes at breakfast?
It's because I love him. I don't care about the Games. What's life and death when you love someone?