CLOVE'S POV:
I'm distracted. I try to focus on my homework, but my eyes keep drifting to the tall, handsome blond boy in the corner. Our first week in the District 2 Career Academy, and I can't take my eyes off him. We've never spoken--I can't seem to find the courage to even say hi. Sooner or later I'll have to admit it to myself: I have a huge crush on him.
But I can't even find the courage to tell myself that. Because I, Clove Holly Kentwell, am not a lover. I am a future Hunger Games tribute, training hard at the District 2 Career Academy and learning how to throw knives with a deadly accuracy. I jab my pencil hard into my paper to remind myself of that, breaking the tip.
I get up to sharpen my pencil, making a beeline for the sharpener on the wall beside his desk. With as little acknowledgment as possible that I know he's there, I hold my head high and stroll over to the sharpener. My back to the boy, I sharpen my pencil, ducking out of view so he can't see my blushing face.
You're a fighter, Clove. Not a lover. Never a lover. Try to remember that. Without looking at the boy, I return to my desk and sit down before my teacher can draw any attention to my red face.
My eyes start wandering again. Cato; I think that's what his name is. I've seen the other girls eyeing him covetously, and I realize I'm probably doing the same. If only I could just pluck up the courage to say something to him!
I force myself to face reality. Who am I to be noticed by a boy like Cato? True I'm pretty, and I'm a fantastic knife thrower. But will I even attract his attention long enough to display my skills? Maybe I should give up.
I look away and focus on my written homework, but I can't tear my mind off Cato. Cato and knives. They're linked in my brain. Next time I go out there to practice my skills, I'll make sure he sees it.
We're in gym class later that afternoon, and I'm listening to Coach Alvaro giving us a pep talk. "Remember, you don't want to volunteer for those Games unless you're certain you can win. That's why we're learning how to now."
I glance around, and am startled when I catch Cato's gaze. Our eyes lock on each other for a brief second, and he raises his eyebrows at me before I abruptly turn away, because I don't want him to be able to read my eyes.
Later I'm standing firmly on the floor, scrutinizing my target very hard. Gripping one of my knives by the handle, I hurl it at the circular target. I miss the center by seven inches.
"Very close, Clove," Coach Alvaro says as he walks over. "You almost had it. Try it with a little flick of your wrist. Keep it small. Small and subtle."
"Thank you, Coach," I say politely, but I'm inwardly screaming. I'm already a pro at knife-throwing; why couldn't I make it any closer. Then I realize my hands are shaking. Cato. I can't shake off the feeling I'm being watched.
I spin around, but he's at the other end of the gym doing chin-ups on a row of bars. The nerves! They won't settle down. I'll never be able to impress him while I'm like this.
I spend a shaky rest of gym thrusting knives at my target with increasing ferocity. Land it! Land it! Why won't they land in the dead center?? I feel a hand on my shoulder, but I'm still so trapped in my impulse that I spin around and almost skewer Coach Alvaro. He ducks just in time and my knife sails over his head to lodge itself in a punching bag.
"Well... Clove," he murmurs, overcoming the frantic trauma of the previous moment enough to acknowledge me. "Thank you for that."
I'm beet red by this point, but I mumble. "Sorry, sir."
YOU ARE READING
TWISTED // Clato | ✓
FanfictionSeventy-four years has been long enough. The way of the infamous Hunger Games has been altered. No longer is every Gamemaker out to devise the worst means of torture and death for every tribute. No longer are the people of Panem outwardly toleran...