After a morning in the training rooms on the third day of training, the tributes are all called together for a meeting. The head trainer, who I now think is named Leon, claps his hands together and yells in his booming voice to gather. All of us stop what we're doing and form a tight circle, fanning out as if we don't want to have to touch each other. Leon announces that we will be given a final score for today, based on our performances for our private sessions with the Gamemakers. We will be called, one by one, per district- male tributes first, then females- and then scored based on our skill sets. A few shift uncomfortably around me, and Amethyst flashes me a grin that heavily resembles a snarl. So it begins.

We are sent back to do training for one more hour, before we are called during lunch for our final assessments. Everyone seems more determined now- driven by fear, by self-consciousness- to train harder and seem stronger. As if they are trying to win the Games during training. I have visited every station, so I just bide my time. I make one last snare at the knot-tying station; do a timed run at the Gauntlet, the so-nicknamed obstacle course. I spend the last few minutes of training running laps around the stations; mainly to stay fit, but also to work off the nervous energy building inside me. Wouldn't want that to explode during my assessment. Becoming a lump of blubbering goo would likely fail to impress the Gamemakers.

While Cornelius is called for his assessment, everyone else snags a lunch. Noticeably, none of the food today is rich at all- tomato soup, fresh fruit, lightly steamed rice, platters of raw vegetables, the usual breadbasket of rolls from different districts- but no meat or trace of cream or fat is anywhere in the meals. The wish to please the Gamemakers seems to run strongly everywhere we go- and it probably says somewhere that bloating the tributes is a crime.

Soon, Amethyst is called over the loudspeaker. Though the most powerful of the Careers have left, the tension builds with each tribute that is gone. Then the pair from Two. The boy from Three. Lydia. The more tributes who leave, the less everyone eats. By the time the girl from Five's head of spiky black hair disappears from sight, no one is eating or talking. We just sit there, either overcome by apathy or waiting. Just waiting for our name to be called over the loudspeaker. The two from Six leave consecutively, both of them visibly shaking as they walk. I feel a twinge of empathy for both of them; and wonder how common it is to see breakdowns before the arena.

"Elijah Leviticus," a robotic voice calls. Eli stands, takes a deep breath, and gives me a hug.

"See you later, Cass," he says.

As soon as he turns away, I call after him, "You too, Elijah Leviticus." Eli turns momentarily to laugh and give me a shaky grin, and then disappears through the doors. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Maggie give me a sympathetic look. For once, I nod and give her a signal that I had seen. These next few hours before the results are given will be hard for everyone, and I feel now that it's not in my place to bring anyone down. And I just can't do that to Maggie, not when she's been so kind to me, creepy as it's been. Not when she seems so small now, even from only two tables away.

The time moves only as quickly as agony. I fidget with my fork, turning my mound of rice into a roll. Give it fluted edges. A dumpling. Smash it flat. A batter cake. Crush some fruit. Fold it together. Mush. I give a bitter laugh. Back home, Eli and I could probably entertain ourselves with this for hours. Then Ivy would join in. Then Dad. And Mom would probably scream at us for wasting food, and we'd all be on the floor dying of laughter- then maybe Dad would get her to laugh, too. We'd be able to do it too; if we weren't so busy hunting and going to school, and doing gymnastics, and wearing stupid logs in horse-drawn chariots. . .

"Cassia Leviticus." I stop, only a tad confused until I realize why I'm here. I pull myself out of my brain, and get ready to leave. But it would probably be more convenient if I had not forgotten how to walk. My wavering attention lapses for just a second, and I end up turning it to my tray of food, sitting uneaten on the table. My parents' words and Ivy's smile take over my thoughts for a second, and I suddenly see Mom playing the food game with Ivy, silently stepping into our absences to give her youngest a few more days of lighthearted calm. 

"Cassia Leviticus?" the voice repeats again, the speaker simultaneously sounding bored and as if he's testing the name on his tongue, like the first fallen snow. I leap to my feet and propel myself from the table to the floor. I get up and brush myself off, aware of everyone's eyes. I feel that I should have gotten used to the feeling of being stared at by now, but I've never liked excess attention. I walk briskly towards the door, and after a deep breath, push them open.

The gymnasium towers over me like a wave of black water. In a giant socket in the wall, the Gamemakers are laughing and talking about whatnot. A feast is laid out before them, and most of them are talking, eating, and gulping punch. Obviously alcoholic, from the way most of them are staggering around.

I roll my eyes. Idiots. No wonder half the tributes get awful scores. So what are they truly scoring? The food? I wonder how any of them sleep at night after they rate a ham over a tribute. 

I suddenly feel trapped, like a beetle inside a closed jar. What am I doing here? I look at all of the equipment, the targets, everything. Suddenly it's the Gamemakers who look out of place. And it's then that I know just what to do.

For good measure, I call, "Cassia Leviticus," which causes a couple of Gamemakers to look up. They laugh and tell me to go on, but they don't attempt to get their colleagues' attention. Fortunately, though, that's just what this next part that I've planned is for.

I walk over to the archery station, the one station I had to pretend to be terrible at during training. Fortunately, not anymore. After allowing myself a few seconds to marvel over the bows and arrows, I sling a choice longbow around my body and tie a quiver of flexible silver arrows across my back. Then I take a deep breath, pause, and start running.

I hear a few of the Gamemakers murmur as more of their attention turns to me. I sprint as hard as I can, for I will need the momentum for what I'm about to do. I fly past the other equipment, and soon the ropes-course comes into focus. My strides hit farther and farther apart now, gaining me speed. The ropes-course flies forward exactly as fast as I do, coming up to meet me. I jump.

My leap sends me onto a rope three feet from the ground. Taking advantage of my extra momentum, I leap onto another rope, then another. I can feel eyes, and I know I've caught the Gamemakers' attention for sure now. So far, so good.

I try to make the climb as acrobatic as possible. I swing myself upside down occasionally, climb with only my hands sometimes, and leap for further ropes other times. When I reach the top rope, I launch myself into the air, tuck into a front flip, and land in a crouch at the top of the ropes. I stand, brush myself off, and glance at the Gamemakers. Each one of them is watching intently, which is exactly what I want. I test the spring of the ropes underneath me, and then turn my head to the other side of the gymnasium.

Now comes the tricky part. This next part I have planned will involve me firing arrows at the archery targets long-distance, but then that is where I add some extra flair. This next stunt also involves a fairly complicated gymnastics sequence, which will be done while I do my archery. It is dangerous, but there is a catch to the danger. If I do this flawlessly, I have a high chance of getting a score of eleven, or higher, from the Gamemakers. But if I fail? I shake my head and almost don't want to consider the alternative. But I have to.

If I fail, or miss a step, there is a good chance I will hit the floor of the gymnasium and die. Not a pleasant thought at all. Even the gymnastics instructor at my school would call this insanity. It is.

To reassure myself before I start hyperventilating, I visualize the times in my acrobatic routines where I landed on my feet. Completed something dangerous for anyone who could not do it. In a way, gymnastics is do or die, anyway. There is always some chance of death.

Well, then. I smile privately to myself, then turn and face the Gamemakers. It's fortunate that I'm insane.

I walk towards the middle of the ropes. "What's she doing?" I hear one of the Gamemakers say, not too quietly at all. A final warning to me, perhaps. I look down. There is a hole in the center of the course just big enough for me and the bow to fit through. I turn my back to it and bounce a little for good measure.

"No, seriously. What's she doing?" I hear the Gamemaker's voice again, only this time, there's no interest, but fear. I tell myself this is all the more in my favor if I pull this off. I swing my arms back a little, then pause. I can hear the silence in my ears, a roar that collects into a wave of adrenaline. Deep breaths. Focus. Focus. Two seconds later, I can feel that I'm ready. My eyes snap open. I wink at the Gamemakers, then spring back.

I am falling. I travel head-first through the hole, my arms flat at my sides. The next level of ropes travels rapidly closer. I curl my legs towards my face and tuck into a ball. Right before I crash on the ropes, I uncurl and my feet smack the cords. I locate the first target with my eyes, notch an arrow, and fire. First step done. I tuck into a back flip, raise my arms to my ears, and fall through the next hole.

I land on the lowest level of ropes, my feet again planting firmly. I decide to have fun with this a little bit. I slide into splits, straddling the opening underneath me. I somersault backwards, pushing my body up into a handstand, then hand-walk for a few seconds, making sure I turn on my hands a bit. I spring forward, landing on my feet, then do a couple of scissor-leaps for good measure, my legs spreading far apart and then coming together. I locate the second archery target, then leap and twist in the air. When I land, I notch another arrow and fire. I do a couple of fancy turns, bob and weave under a few imaginary blows, and then walk to the edge of the ropes. I feel a buzz of excitement in the air when I turn my back on the edge. I swing my arms back again, then swing them back up and over my head. My body travels with the momentum, and adrenaline rushes through me as I feel my body twist through the air. My eyes spot the ground, and I feel the rush of falling-

I feel the solid surface of the gymnasium floor hit evenly with my feet. My arms spread forward, balancing me. There is complete silence. Blissful, beautiful silence. A silence so tangible, I can feel the beauty up close. Now, I know what it feels like to enjoy it.

I throw my arms past my ears to signal the end of my routine, and beam giddily at the ceiling.

Two more seconds of silence. Then the roar of applause.

I turn to find the Gamemakers clapping. The Gamemaker who seemed worried about my routine lets out a whoop, and the others laugh. An invisible force turns me around, and I find my two targets with my eyes. I feel my mouth drop open. In both, an arrow is embedded in the very center of the red circle. I let out an audible gasp, and let my smile swallow my face. I made it. I sway a little, unbelieving. I. Just. Made it.

"You are dismissed," the Head Gamemaker says laughingly, still clapping. I give a little bow, getting more laughs, put away my bow and arrows, and head for the elevator.

As I head up, I know that I have done my team on the seventh floor proud.

. . .

I lay on the bed in my quarters, running my fingers along the silky covers. I cannot wipe my smile away with anything. I replay my routine in my head over and over. You could call it obsession, but I refuse to think about anything else. There is nothing that has ever made me so happy in my entire life, probably.

A sound on my door. Gem barks at me to come get my dinner. Things are still normal, only this time, I want to take my sweet time following Gem's orders. Another knock. My eyes open a crack. I reach for one of the plump cushions on my bed and throw it. It hits the door with a thwack. "Go away," I call good-naturedly, and then laugh for no reason at all.

"Open up, you little peasant," Gem snarls. "In case you hadn't noticed, your doom is about to be announced on television." I roll my eyes. "You might want to be there to see it coming," she continues. I sigh with finality, spring off my bed, and open my door. Gem steps aside for me to leave, and we both head to the living room.

Inside, Cedar, Ash, Eli, our prep teams, and Vernus lounge on the couches, making quiet small talk. Dishes and silverware cover the glass coffee table, and everyone has some kind of food or other on their plate. It seems that Zerina, Eli's stylist, isn't there, but it doesn't look like anyone is paying her absence much mind. Cedar waves me over to sit down, and I take a plate and fill it. I plop down on the floor next to Eli, and the program on the television starts. The Capitol anthem plays, and my giddiness immediately transitions to worry.

I suddenly feel like talking, chattering away my energy until I feel normal again. When they're nervous, my father cracks lots of bad jokes; and my mother hums and hums her worries away. I seem to solve it by finding something to talk about. Not to my surprise, I find myself asking about the weather, but Gem hisses at me to shut up. The anthem finishes and the interviewer, Caesar Flickerman, appears on the screen. The room is silent as he begins with a dramatic introduction about the importance of the tributes' scores, just like the one he gives every year.

While he emphasizes his points, Cedar asks us quietly, "How did you guys do?"

Eli replies so quietly, he is practically exhaling his answer. "I think I did good." The others congratulate him and Ash pats him on the back.

Cedar looks like he's about to ask me how my session went, but then Gem hisses for quiet again and we focus our attention to the screen.

"The first of our tributes is Cornelius from District One," begins Caesar as Cornelius's face appears on the screen. A hush fills the room as we wait for the score to appear by his name. I feel a sudden tug at my brain, and I suddenly get the feeling something horrible is about to happen.

His next words don't register at first, but by the looks on the others' faces, my suspicions are confirmed. I crane my neck to the side to look at the screen.

Right next to Cornelius's name and smug expression, is the score of twelve.

"Oh," I hear Ash whisper. His face is ashen and he looks physically shaken.

"Oh my," breathes Gem, her voice filled with awe. I have no doubt that she'll be sponsoring him as soon as we're sent into the arena. But I can tell that the number is a wonder to everyone.

Twelve. On a scale of one, being no chance of survival; to twelve, a score so high that probably only a couple of tributes have ever attained it, he has a twelve. As far as I know, the number means the death of everyone.

More scores are read out. Amethyst with the lovely score of nine. The boy from Two with a score of ten. I suspect that this may have been with a bow and arrow, because he certainly proved his worth with it during training. His district partner, also with the score of ten. I feel my teeth chattering for no apparent reason. Lydia with the score of eight. A good score for such a tiny girl, but supposing she probably charmed the Gamemakers with her snares, it's not surprising.

My mind spaces out until I hear the score of the boy from Six. A three. The poorest score so far. Everyone in the room visibly winces, but no one is surprised. Twelve-year-olds hardly get good scores, anyway. Especially smaller ones like him.

My mind manages to escape reality only until Caesar turns his attention to Eli's scorecard. "Elijah from District Seven. With the score of. . . ten." Caesar sounds somewhat pleased, and so does everyone else in the room. We congratulate Eli as he quietly gasps, turns red, and hides a smile behind his hands.

"An excellent score," Cedar assures Eli, patting him on the back.

"What did you do?" I say.

"Knife-throwing," says Eli quietly. I can tell that he can hardly contain the joy behind his modest expression.

Suddenly Caesar is talking again. "Oh, oh, shhh," Cedar says, and I suddenly realize that it's my turn.

"Now for Cassia from District Seven," says Caesar. He lets the silence drag for a good three seconds. I am so nervous that I could throw up. "With a score of. . ." I am shaking so hard, I have to put my plate on the table to keep it from dropping to the floor.

The air is so silent, I can hear Eli's heartbeat next to mine.

"Twelve."

Silence. Utter, complete silence. Did I hear right? I can see Gem gaping at the screen out of the corner of my eye, but does that mean that. . .

The room erupts with cheers. I can hear Eli clapping and hollering and feel his arm swing around my shoulders. Then I feel the strain of being lifted up in the air. Cedar is holding me by the waist, swinging me round and round the room.

"You got a twelve! You got a twelve!" Eli shouts, dancing and bouncing off the couches with boundless energy.

I got a twelve, I think numbly. A twelve.

"How did you do it?" Cedar asks me. I am still so stunned I can't answer. I catch Ash's eye and he flashes me a knowing smile.

I feel dizzy. The room is spinning. A lot more than it should be. I think. But how am I supposed to know?

Round and round, I think deliriously. The world is going round and round and round and round. . . I feel my body go limp, with relief and probably fatigue. I rest my head on Cedar's shoulder, and watch the world swirl in circles in front of my eyes.

Ash pats my face with a hand, chuckling. "Do you want to watch the rest of the scores?" I nod, my face still numbly giddy, and we sit through the last six scores, which range from the lowest score, 1, to an 8. Then I'm moving suddenly, being carried off to quarters.

Cedar opens the door to my quarters and deposits me on the bed. "Great job today," he says to me with a genuinely huge grin. "Even I didn't get a score that high."

"You think. . . you think my family's proud of me?" I whisper, sounding like an awestruck child.

"Yes," I hear Cedar whisper, "I think they are."

An awkward silence fills the room, and I feel a pang of homesickness. I wonder if Cedar feels it, too.

"Good night, Cassia," Cedar says softly, shuffling as quietly as he can out of my room. He pauses at my door, and gives me a look so happy, it could have been Dad standing there. And so full of pain, I think he knows he's probably going to lose me. "Sweet dreams." The door closes with a soft click, and I am left to savor the silence.

The number twelve is the only thing that registers in my mind tonight. Twelve. 12. In the districts, a number of both life and death. A score of twelve means one's survival. The district most likely to die in the arena. The age someone's name is first entered into the reaping ball. Twelve. A number both blessed and cursed.

I fall asleep making the number twelve with marks in the wall, wondering if this means Cornelius is more likely to kill me.

-   -   -   -   -   -   -   -   -   -

Hi, guys!!

Cassia has gotten the highest score possible. Is this going to be the start or end of her survival? (Just to help you along a little, I certainly don't know ;).

Comments! Feedback! Votes (maybe)! Gogogo!

And make sure to have a great day for me ;). Everyone needs one.