Not Like You Think

Chapter 1

‘Ladies first!’ The shrill voice of the escort, Masalyne, rings out through the square. Watching from the 15 year old area, brown eyes follow with determination, as the Capitol woman fishes around in the bowl for a small, rectangular piece of paper. Masalyne waddles back in front of the microphone and unfolds the paper with her pale orange gloves.

‘Amabel Stone,’

Before the girl could even blink, two voices rang out from the girls section. The girl everyone knew to be volunteering this year, Pippa Goldberg, and another that no one really paid much attention to, Clove Kentwell.

Both girls stepped out into the walkway between the girls and boys sections, and glared at each other. Pippa moved forward to Clove, meaning to punch the girl out, or something worse, before an ear splitting scream tore out of her mouth. She collapsed to the ground, a knife that was once in Clove’s boot now embedded in her knee. Clove surveyed Pippa for a second, pleased, before turning and headed towards the stage, where Masalyne looked appalled, and a little bit frightened.

‘What’s your name, dear?’ Masalyne’s now less chirpy voice queried.

‘Clove Kentwell,’ she said with a hint of smugness as she watched Pippa being carried away by two medics, the knife still lodged in her kneecap. A low murmur had started up in the crowd as Clove had walked towards the stage, and kept going as District 2’s escort sought for a name in the boys reaping bowl.

A name Clove didn’t hear rang through the speakers in the square. She didn’t need to hear it because she already knew who was volunteering from the boys; whoever was reaped was redundant. A cocky, blonde haired 18 year old strode up beside Masalyne and gave his name: Cato Hadley.

After making them shake hands, Masalyne guided Clove and Cato towards the Justice building and ushered them into separate rooms so family members and close friends could say a final goodbye. The room was very nice, with its soft green wallpaper and wooden floor covered with a black and white carpet that perfectly complimented each other. Walking around the obviously expensive furniture that littered the room, Clove sat down on the pale green couch under a heavily curtained window and stared playing with a knife that she hid in the waistband of her red dress.

The door opened and Clove contemplated throwing the knife at her father as he strode in. Dillon Kentwell was the Victor of the 67th Hunger Games, and wasn’t happy when his wife gave birth to a girl instead of a boy; even more so when Corin Kentwell died after having said girl. He had shunned Clove from a young age, and when she “accidently” fell from the second floor balcony at age 5, which had angered her father greatly that she had only come away with a head wound, not anything worse. Thinking about it, it appeared to ascertain why Clove is how she is, and why she volunteered for the Games.

Clove refused to even acknowledge that her father was in the room. She ignored the lecture he gave her, something about deserving this and hoping she ever came back, before stalking out of the room. As the door closed, Clove leaned back on the couch, not expecting any more visitors, so when the door opened; she was astounded, especially when she saw who it was.

Pippa Goldberg entered the room, a Peacekeeper holding the door open as she limped into the room on crutches. Clove looked at her dubiously as the girl leaned on the table by the door.

‘I didn’t think they’d let you out so soon,’ Clove said, breaking the silence.

‘I persuaded them,’ Pippa smiled half-heartedly, making Clove smile a little as well. After a silence, Clove spoke up again.

‘So, what are you doing here?’ Clove was genuinely curious as to why Pippa was here. Unless it was to rip Clove’s throat out, that is.

‘I just came to say good luck,’ Pippa said quietly, ‘even though I was meant to go. I reckon you’re gonna need it, especially if you’re up against Cato and whoever was chosen from the other Districts.’

‘Well, I’m sure I can handle myself against a coalminer,’ Clove said, unamused. What in the world made Pippa think that Clove couldn’t handle herself in the Games? Was it because she was so small that Pippa thought she could be killed by a 12 year old? Whatever the reason was, she hoped that everyone else thought that so she could throw a knife into their skulls.

‘Times up,’ said a gruff voice from the door. Pippa got up from the table and limped out of the room, but turned around at the last second to wish Clove good luck. Clove nodded at her, and she was alone in the room once again.

When visiting time was up, Clove was lying on the couch, absently staring at the roof when the door opened and a Peacekeeper came in and tugged her off the couch and into the hallway with Masalyne and Cato. Escorted by a group of Peacekeepers, the trio was lead out of the Justice building towards the train station, where reporters buzzed, all wanting to get shots of the District 2 tributes before everyone else.

Clove and Cato were battered by questions, the shouts from the reporters all blurred together, so it was impossible to actually hear what they were asking. Not that it mattered as Cato was smiling broadly at the cameras, his cocksure smile and attitude captivating the audience. Clove, on the other hand, was done with the reporters and the flashing of the cameras and just wanted to get on the train. She was sure that if the Peacekeeper hadn’t taken her knife off her when they left the Justice building, she would’ve thrown it at a reporter by now. By the time they’d gotten to the train, Clove was sure that she could see the murderous glint in Cato’s eye, the same one he got when he was really getting into training, even through the confidence that he was sure the cameras picked up on. He was as done as she was. It was certainly a relief when Masalyne stepped through the door and it slid shut with a soft hiss.