"As you know," Katniss begins, staring intensely at all of us. "Today is evaluation day, and tomorrow's interview night."

Brooke stares down at the tablecloth, trying to hide the tears dripping down her face. She sniffles and makes a quick grab for the tissue box, which slips out of her hands and crashes with a soft thud on the floor, then awkwardly snatches it and wipes her eyes and nose.

Our mentor continues after significantly frowning at Brooke for a second. "You will have fifteen minutes total to show off your skills. My advice to you is to either get a very low score, or a super high one so that you won't be the first tribute others will try to kill in the actual arena. The eleven I scored held the Careers off me for a while, but no tribute over the past seventy-five years got anything greater than a ten."

We all nod, looking at our shoelaces, and head into the elevator, down to the training floor. Our group is supposed to go first, in the order of which we were reaped.

"Brooke Glitter."

The tall girl shuffles into the large room, knees trembling like raindrops on a window about to slide down. The metal doors slam behind her loudly, and I hear the frightened tribute gasp and pant.

After a while, the intercom blares, "Alistair Hope."

Alistair strides in way more confidently than Brooke, but his eyes shimmer with the same dread I saw in every roasted pig I've ever eaten at family gatherings. 

As the Gamemakers rate Alistair on his skills, a stomach cramp crosses my body, and thoughts swarm me as if they're a nest of wasps. What'll I do? How much skill will get me a ten? What score will I probably get? I wonder what Scarlett will get? She probably has a ten or something with all that District Thirteen training. BUT SERIOUSLY WHAT WILL I FREAKING DO?!

"Celestia Snow." They call my name quicker than I could collect myself and go. I stiffly get up, walking into the automatic doors with held back shoulders and a stern look.

The Gamemakers are up on top of a high marble platform, staring down at me like hawks. "You have fifteen minutes to show off your skills." One of them says in a monotone voice.

I nod, then head over to a slingshot station, where dummies stand. I grab a slingshot, filling it with some ammo, then whip it out. The object sticks on the second outer ring, then flops over on the ground. Laughs from the Gamemakers arise.

Fuming, I grab more ammo, aiming more carefully, and fire again. This time it doesn't fall, staying on the third ring from the center. Another throw lands on the second ring from the center. 

After some more throws, a black felt marker on the floor catches my eye. Without knowing what I'm doing, I pace over to it and pick it up, my hand robotically uncapping the art tool and drawing a face. A creepy face with blobby gray eyes that show no emotion.

The Gamemakers murmur anticipatingly as they watch me stride back to fling objects at the dummy. It lands directly in the forehead. 

The next shots I take are decent, but not good enough. Not if I want a good score. Time to show off my real skill, aka Scarlett Coin's biggest weakness. 

Camouflage.

The station is very far away from the Gamemakers, probably because practically no one does it since they aren't GT art majors. One tall lady on the deck grabs a telescope, watching me paint my right arm brown and leaning it against a tree. Small, quiet applauds explode from her and the others.

Then, I take a sponge and dip it in dry green paint, dabbing it on various parts of my arm to express moss and grass. I kneel down in front of the tree, putting my arm at the base to form another root scrawling into the ground.

Before I can do any more, though, a portly little man in a green pinstriped coat proclaims, "Your time is up, Ms. Snow."

I nod and walk away steadily.

As I reach the exit door, the same man asks, "But really Celestia, who is that person you drew on the dummy?"

I look at him innocently. "Why, President Alma Coin, of course."

"How did you do?" Katniss asks when I step onto the carpeted floor as the elevator doors close behind me.

"Okay."

She nods, and I join Brooke and Alistair on the leather couch, ordering a seafood soup from a servant. He quickly brings it to me, in which I bring the delicious warm bowl to my nose, inhaling the scent, and devour the whole thing in hungry bites and slurps.

After the last tribute is done being scored, the television in front of us lights up with Ceasar Flickerman sitting there, scratching a still new hairdo.

He welcomes us with a cheerful greeting, then starts reading the names and scores when a picture of Brooke appears next to him.

"Brooke Sparkles, with a score of 5."

Brooke's face flushes up like it always does, and she looks down, steaming.

"Alistair Hope, with a score of ... 7! Not bad!"

He shrugs, then goes back to eating the plate of fried rice on his lap.

Then, it's me. I hold my breath as Ceasar says, "And the Capitol darling, Celestia Snow, with a score of ..."

All eyes are on me. I hold my breath when Ceasar announces all too quickly,

"8!"

An eight! Wow, I thought that I'd score a five or six with my flaws and inexperience. Hopefully no one will target me.

I pay attention to a few specific scores after. The huge boy that Enobaria has gets a 10. No surprise. Beetee's nerdy looking kid receives a 9. Scarlett ends up with a 10 also.

Katniss dismisses us, and I flop into bed, dreaming about going back home as the victor, a goal almost impossible to reach.