Dedication
To Joseph F. Hickey
Contents
Cover
Dedication
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About the Author
Other Books by the Harvard Lampoon
Copyright
I awake to the sound of a growling stomach. It’s not mine. It’s the cat’s. “Shut up, Butterball,” I moan, as I push him off the bed. He hits the ground with a thud. “Bark!” goes the cat. I try to go back to sleep but it’s no use. Today is Super Fun Day.
I tiptoe across the dirt floor to the other side of the room to avoid waking my mother. Butterball has recovered from crashing into the floor and licks my leg annoyingly. He’s hungry.
I look in the cabinet for some food. The cabinet is where we keep our small food supply. It’s also where my little sister sleeps. Her name is Prin, which is short for Princess. Butterball is Prin’s cat. When I open the cabinet, Prin is snuggled up against an empty box of cookies. She looks so cute.
The only thing I see for Butterball to eat is a small pile of moldy carrots. I carefully reach my hand into the cabinet and grab them. Prin stirs for a moment but doesn’t wake up. “Phew!” I say, really loudly. Now she wakes up.
“Close the cabinet, you idiot!” she shouts.
“I’m sorry,” I say. I lean in to give her a peck on the cheek, but she slams the cabinet door in my face.
I toss the carrots down to Butterball. He looks up at me and growls. You see, Butterball and I are not exactly the closest of friends. I remember when Prin first brought him home. He was the biggest, ugliest cat I had ever seen, weighing probably fifty pounds, with a wet, black nose and floppy ears and a tongue that just wouldn’t stay in his mouth but insisted on slurp, slurp, slurping all over the place. His thick golden fur was full of fleas, and every time I threw a rubber newspaper out the window, the dumb old cat would run to retrieve it and bring it back, panting. He was repulsive.
“No way, Prin,” I said at the time, “you can’t keep him.” Then I led Butterball outside to drown him in the puddle at the end of our driveway, but the puddle was so shallow that his long snout wouldn’t fit under the water. “Fine,” I relented, “you can keep the stupid cat.”
So we kept Butterball. Not many people have pets where I’m from. I live in District 12, one of twelve districts that make up Peaceland. District 12 is the poorest district. While some affectionately call it “the Dirty Dozen,” most call it “a Terrible Place to Live.” My neighborhood, the worst in District 12, is known as the Crack.
I look down at Butterball as he chows down on those delicious rotting carrots. I should have saved a few for myself. For a moment, I envy Butterball. Today is just another ordinary day for that dumb cat. He’ll chase his tail and catch Frisbees in the park without a care in the world. But for me, today is different. It’s Super Fun Day.
The sun is rising. It’s time to hunt. I pull my boots out from under the bed, the pair my father gave me before he died. Once they’re on, I’m ready to go. I’m careful not to let the door slam on my way out. Once it closes softly, I open up the mail slot and yell back into the house, “I’m going hunting!” I set off to meet my hunting partner, Carol Hand-somestein.
The streets of District 12 are eerily empty today. The regular clatter of keyboards and ringing of telephones that usually fills the air has fallen silent as the anxious pall brought by the arrival of Super Fun Day descends over the town like a pillow and duct tape over the face of an unwanted pet.
A man raises the District 12 flag outside his house as I walk by. It’s black, like all the flags in merry old Peaceland. In the center, there’s a golden telephone. Each district specializes in one industry, and District 12 is the telemarketing district. Along with the other districts, District 12 once rose up in rebellion against the Capital, which is where all the rich and powerful people of Peaceland live. That didn’t go too well. In fact, it went horribly. How horribly? Well, there used to be two hundred districts. Lesson learned.
In order to ensure nobody ever forgets that the rebellion failed and the Capital won and they are in charge and blah, blah, blah, each year they make all twelve districts participate in what is called the Hunger Games. Every district selects two kids, one boy and one girl, to represent them in a big competition. These two kids are called tributes, which is short for tributary, which is a stream or river that flows into a main stem (or parent) river or a lake.
The Hunger Games aren’t exactly fun. If I’m being totally honest, I’d say they suck. Since there are twelve districts, and two tributes from each one, you know there are at least … twenty tributes in total. All of them are thrown into an arena somewhere in the wilderness where they have to kill one another until there’s only one tribute left. And it’s all televised. Most people TiVo it so they can fast forward to the killing.
Now, when they first started, the Hunger Games weren’t so bad. The Capital gathered all the tributes and televised them doing some pretty fun stuff: softball tournament, relay race, obstacle course, and jumping rope. The main event was a huge hot dog–eating contest. Everybody would try to get extra hungry before it began, hence the name Hunger Games.
But after a few years, the tributes got so competitive with one another that the Games turned violent. A punch in the face here, a kick in the crotch there—soon, the tributes were at one another’s throats. And rather than putting a stop to this madness, the Capital encouraged it. After all, it made for great television. So they changed the rules. Instead of fun field games and competitive eating, the Hunger Games became a fight to the death. They still allow softball, but nobody’s ever in the mood anymore.
Super Fun Day is the day every year when each district selects its tributes. Everybody gathers in the public square. At a certain time, all the kids in District 12 play the nose game. The two kids who are last to touch their fingers to their noses become tributes. This is also televised, and most people TiVo it as well. It airs at the same time as Seinfeld reruns.
That’s why the streets are so quiet today. Everybody in all of Peaceland has the day off from work for Super Fun Day. Attendance is mandatory. Anyone who doesn’t show up for the announcement risks getting the crap beaten out of them by the Pacemakers, the bunch of elderly Capital thugs who are in charge of each district but are otherwise pretty nice people.
I think about all this as I walk toward the woods to meet Carol. I’m getting close to where we usually meet. Suddenly, I hear a twig snap from a few feet away.
“Think fast!” a voice yells. My head turns just as an arrow whizzes past my face and lodges in the tree next to my head. It’s Carol.
“No, you think fast!” I say, and stab him in the leg. He pulls out the knife and we laugh so much.
“Nice one, Catpiss,” he says. That’s not my real name. My name is actually Kantkiss. Kantkiss Neverclean. Carol calls me Catpiss because the first time we met, I whispered my name so softly that he misheard me. And I had just slipped in a puddle of cat urine. Ever since, Carol likes to tease me by calling me Catpiss. Unfortunately, I can’t think of any way to make fun of his name.
Carol and I have known each other for years. He’s an excellent hunter and he’s incredibly good-looking. Even when he’s pulling the guts out of a squirrel, he looks so dreamy. I always let him take the first bite of squirrel heart.
Together, we hunt for food to feed our families and to trade for supplies in District 12. There is a flourishing black market in District 12, kno
wn as the Nob. At the Nob, Carol and I often trade with an old woman named Slimey Sue. She’s famous for her soups and for having a full mustache and no teeth.
I hunt for my family because my father can no longer provide for us. Don’t worry, it’s not because he’s lazy or anything—it’s because he’s dead. There was an explosion at the telemarketing office where he worked. He had time to call home just one last time, but his body was incinerated before he could finish the sales pitch. He was halfway through the jingle—“Averill’s pudding / Tastes real good / Buy Averill’s pudding / Today”—but then he was blown to smithereens. I wanted to tell him how much I was going to miss him, that I promised take care of Prin and my mother forever, but he wouldn’t stop singing. He was a true telemarketer.
“All right, let’s hunt,” Carol says, jolting me back to the present. Carol runs his fingers through his hair, and for a moment, I forget that I live in poverty under an authoritarian government and instead feel like I’m the luckiest girl alive.
We reach the electric fence that separates District 12 from the woods. Because of rolling power outages, it’s really only electrified for three or four hours each day, so it’s usually safe to climb over. For this reason, I am grateful for the power outages. They’re the worst for playing video games, though.
We’re not supposed to leave District 12, and doing so carries a severe penalty. Not that they really need to deter people from leaving, considering all the deadly crap out beyond the fence. Mamajams, wagalaks, and even some tuto birds all roam free. But there’s also food if you know how to find it. Carol and I don’t let fear keep us inside the fence, where we’d otherwise waste away to skin and bones in complete and perfect safety. “District Twelve. Where the safety is good, but other things are less good,” I say. One of my many clever maxims.
I step toward the fence. I try to hop over, but my leg gets caught in one of the planks. Dropping down on my belly, I try to shimmy my way under the fence, but I just can’t suck in my tummy to get low enough. I’m stuck there wriggling between the fence and the ground when Carol grabs my feet and pulls me out. He’s so strong, I think to myself. Next I try running straight through the fence, but that doesn’t work either. By now I’m pretty dizzy. Finally, I spot a small gate about four feet to my left. I unlatch the gate, push it open, and walk through to the other side. Carol takes a few steps back and then proceeds to hurdle over the fence. Breathtaking.
We walk along the fence for about half a mile, ready to hunt. Up ahead, we can see a barn. Carol whispers to me. “I’ll go high and you go low.” I nod back in agreement. I quietly crouch down and start crawling. Carol walks upright beside me. We’re prepared for anything.
We arrive at the barn. Locked in a small wooden pen, a handful of cows are grazing on the grass. The cows that aren’t grazing are eating slop out of a big wheelbarrow beside a napping farmer. Worthy adversaries. My heart is racing. This is so dangerous!
I load my bow and send an arrow flying. One of the cows falls to the ground. We sprint toward it. Carol and I hog-tie its legs and drag it back to the woods and back through the electric fence. Back to civilization. Even the cow breathes a sigh of relief before Carol slits its throat.
I reach inside the cow and grab the meat. I hand Carol the T-bone and the filet and keep the New York strip and porterhouse for myself. It was a great hunt. My shrewdness and courage will keep us alive for at least a few more days.
That is, if my mother decides to actually cook for us. You see, my mother is a horrible person. After my father died, she became really bummed out for some reason. She would hardly ever come out of her room. Prin and I would go for days without so much as a single bagel bite. That’s when I knew I would have to provide for the family. I quickly learned to identify the edible berries in the supermarket, to iron blouses, and to make peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. It’s because of me the three of us are still alive.
Super Fun Day is actually the only day of the year that my mother looks forward to. She’s a huge Hunger Games fan. She can’t get enough of them. So when they arrive each year, she gets very excited. She goes knocking door-to-door to make sure every person in District 12 attends the selection ceremony. She even has a special hat—a Super Fun Day hat—that she wears for the month leading up to Super Fun Day in anticipation.
I walk in the door to our house carrying the meat in my arms. Prin is up and dressed, sitting on the floor with Butterball. “Here, Prin,” I say, “I got you some lunch for Super Fun Day. Don’t eat the meat raw. I’ll have to cook it first.” With little sisters you can never be too careful.
“I can make my own lunch, Kantkiss. I’m not a moron,” she says sweetly.
“I love you, Prin,” I say.
“Just shut up.”
Prin and I are very close. Most of the time it’s the thought of her starving to death that keeps me going day in and day out. I promised my father I would never let anything bad happen to her, and I’ll keep that promise. He also made me promise I’d never let anything bad happen to him, but I guess I sort of dropped the ball on that one.
I toss the meat into the sink and change into the clothes my mother laid out for me. I tell Prin I’ll see her at the selection ceremony, then I set off to get a good seat.
On the way, I run into a girl I know from school. Her name is Badge Underwear. Her father is Mayor Underwear, the mayor of District 12. Neither of us has any real friends, so we’re usually forced to pair up for things like the three-legged race and partners yoga.
Badge is wearing a pretty little sundress, not like the ugly tube top my mom picked out for me. But it’s easy to wear pretty clothes when you don’t have to risk your life hunting every day, like I do.
She’s wearing a magnificent golden pin on her dress. Its flash catches my eye. It has a golden ring that encircles an emblem that reads THE CAPITAL SUCKS! I stare at the pin and wonder if it means something.
“Hi, Kantkiss!” she says. “I just want to say good luck at Super Fun Day. I hope neither of us gets picked.”
“I hope you get picked!” I reply. I can’t stand Badge. She’s so stuck-up.
“Very funny,” she laughs, walking away.
Soon, I arrive at the public square. The only times people ever come here are for Super Fun Day or to go to the post office. Despite its oppressive rule and a tendency to murder its citizens, I’ve got to admit that the Capital runs a great post office. I’ve never had to wait in line for more than a couple of minutes, and the censors are very polite when they read your mail.
In the square, all the children of District 12 begin to take their places for the nose game. Many are practicing intently—placing their hands at their sides, then shooting them up to their noses.
After everyone gets settled, three chairs are placed on the stage. Mayor Underwear sits in the first. Beside him is the only person from District 12 who’s ever won the Hunger Games, Buttitch Totalapathy. From what I can tell, he’s busy shouting to the gamblers in the front row. Next to Buttitch, and the first to the podium, is Effu Poorpeople. This awful woman serves as the liaison between the Capital and District 12 for the Hunger Games. Since she represents the Capital, she’s very unpopular here. And like everyone from the Capital, she speaks in a strange accent.
“Welcome, everyone, to da Super Fun Day!” Effu says into the microphone. The Capital accent, I’m told, closely resembles what used to be called a “Jamaican” accent. “We gonna have a great time out here today!” Effu announces.
The moment is upon us. The nose game is about to start. Girls will go first. My heart is pounding. They’re about to pick two kids who have to go far away, fight it out with a bunch of strangers, and face almost certain death. Just make it quick, I think. As long as it’s not me, Prin, or Carol, I really don’t care who the tributes are. I do hope it’s that snotty brat Badge, though.
“Girls, are ya ready?” Effu scans the crowd to ensure all hands are down. Then, as is the custom, she says the slogan of the Hunger Games: “Ma
y da odds be eva in ya fava, mon!” The crowd grumbles back inaudibly. “All right, on ma signal. Ready, set, go!”
And with that, a thousand young hands shoot to their faces. From the back of the crowd, I can hear my mother blow her air horn. I’ve been practicing a lot lately and get my finger on my nose in record time. I’m a little off actually, so my finger goes up my nose, but it’s there, nonetheless. I look around searching for the poor soul who came in last. Just then an image of a girl’s face flashes up on the Jumbotron. The newest tribute from District 12.
It’s Prin.
Crap.
This can’t be happening. With my finger still stuffed deep up my nose, I spin around searching for Prin. I spot her a few yards away as she walks nervously toward the stage. Her eyes are wide with fear. The crowd groans. A young tribute like Prin doesn’t stand much of a chance in the arena with older competitors. Plus, she’s kind of ugly.
Suddenly, from behind me, I hear a shout. “I volunteer!” a voice cries. The crowd erupts in whispers as Effu raises the microphone to her lips.
“Who dat? Who wishes to volunteer for Prin Neverclean?” Effu asks.
To my surprise, the voice calls back, “I do—Kantkiss Neverclean!”
I’m stunned. Who said that? Who would volunteer me?
Maybe it’s just someone else in the district with my exact same name, I tell myself. That must be it. Just as I begin to relax again, I’m pushed and tugged toward the stage. No, the voice hasn’t volunteered itself, it has volunteered me! I have been involuntarily volunteered!
I look back, scanning the crowd for the culprit. My eyes land on Slimey Sue. Her mouth is curled into a sinister smile. It was her. But why? Was it because I had forgotten her birthday? Or because I didn’t return the spices I’d borrowed? Maybe it was because I accused her husband of a crime he didn’t commit and he was subsequently executed. There is no way to know for sure. Whatever it was, Sue is still angry enough to fake my entry into the Hunger Games. It was probably the birthday thing.