The Hunger Games: Peace Corps version

*Preface: If you haven't read the series, this satire may not make as much sense or trigger as much laughter. But sure, read it anyway:

We started with 70 volunteers. As we sat in the terminal, waiting to leave the capital, some volunteers said final goodbyes on phones in the corners of the room. The rest of us sat eyeing each other. Just as we did the previous evening. The previous day and a half were spent in last-minute prep, training, and eating as much as we possibly could. While we were still safe, in a place where food is easy to come by and still tastes like home. So we traveled in packs across the capital, enjoying in dim lighting what we knew would be one of our last good meals. But even then, we were stealing peaks from the corners of our vision whenever we had the chance, studying our peers and asking ourselves, “Will he make it? What District is she from? How long will she last?” We knew the statistic too well: after two years, ten percent of the group who arrived in the capital together would be finished, gone. At our five-month mark, we had already reached that ten percent: seven gone.

Kerry was the first one to go. I remember meeting her in the training center in the capital, catching her name tag as I came out of a restroom, and sitting beside her again as we all waited in the terminal the next day. She had graduated only two weeks before. It was my first time meeting someone from her District: Delaware. I know now that all Delaware people must be lovely. At least now, they’re 1 for 1. Kerry was our immediate favorite, and we were delighted when she was placed in our smaller training group of ten. So early in the Games, we forgot we should be careful about getting too close to the others; it was difficult to remember we wouldn’t all come home together. The morning Kerry left, one month later, we all tried hiding our tears. She was too sick to stay, but she didn’t want to return to the capital. As we said goodbye, she remembered my telling her awhile back that I couldn’t handle the pillows the Gamemakers gave us. In the arena, I would fall asleep by inflating a tiny travel pillow my sister gave me before I left, and wrapping it in a comfortable sweatshirt. That’s when it happened. Kerry handed me her own pillow from home. This meant more to me than she’d ever know.

The others we lost by choice: they had enough of the harassment in the arena, the discomfort, the distance from family and significant others, the issues and needs that the sponsors wouldn’t fix and the Gamemakers ignored: like adequate shelter. We do miss them, especially when a favorite leaves, someone we’ve grown close to. And it’s difficult to imagine them among friends and family now, in their comfortable homes with full refrigerators, when we’ve only known them in the loneliness and hardship of the arena.

As we sat in the terminal that day, I wasn’t eyeing the strangers from other Districts. I sat stealing glances at the man across from me, the one I came with. I was overwhelmed with relief and thanks that I wasn’t alone and had him here with me. Only three other sets of volunteers came in pairs, four couples. Everyone else was heading into the arena alone. As I watched him, the person I know and love best in the world, I wondered his thoughts. “Is he nervous? Excited? Regretting we came?” I grabbed his hand (something we wouldn’t be allowed to do in the arena) and we decided to find breakfast. Our last meal in the capital, where meals still come by standing in lines. In retrospect, I would’ve put more cream cheese on that bagel. It was the last time I would eat that creamy delight for 365 days, and I knew it, but in those days I was still too shy and weak to ask the Avox for an extra container. But we enjoyed it. We mentioned our fears, worries, and the thrill of it all, with full, sticky mouths. I told him what a comfort it was to be with him. Before we left, my grandmother instructed him to take care of me, protect me in every way he knew how. And I knew that he would, without being asked.

We didn’t eavesdrop on purpose. But two volunteers sat at a table near us, obviously thinking along our lines, and spoke a little too loudly. A crushing reminder that there are others, and that at least seven must go before our time is out.

In the beginning it seemed the Gamemakers were setting traps early, putting certain volunteers at a disadvantage. They told us we could bring 80 pounds from home, whatever we chose. Daniel and I thought strategically, and followed the suggested packing list to a T. We brought cooking supplies that wouldn’t be available in the arena, vegetable and herb seeds to provide our own sustenance, bulky raingear, fabric and sewing supplies, a roll of duct tape, knives. But when we finally unpacked months later, we saw our bags had been rifled through at the terminal. It was likely done by the Peacekeepers, before we boarded the plane. But why they took a pack of wet wipes and our cilantro seeds, we can’t quite understand. Nonetheless, when we reached the capital we were told we could have brought 100 pounds, and several of the volunteers from other Districts did. A last-minute policy change for the benefit of some, and detriment of others. We have a term for those of us who packed light, maybe the highest term of respect among the volunteers: a one-bagger. Those are the volunteers who thought their 80 pounds could only be in one bag, and so they brought much less than they could have. We don’t have a term for the ones who brought everything; one of our favorite volunteers even brought his baseball bat. I’m surprised the Peacekeepers didn’t snatch that one. I suppose the term for him could be fiancé, as he overpacked on supplies, but left his most prized part of himself back in his District.

Only a handful of us are lucky enough to think of the arena in two shifts: we’ll get a few weeks of respite at home with family after one year. Most can’t afford this. But our strategy isn’t one that considers price. We’ll take that respite regardless. Almost every month a baby is born into one of the volunteers’ families back in their Districts, which means the child will be walking before they meet it for the first time. For morale’s sake, we want to meet our own when he turns one.

Living in the arena has actually become comfortable. The shock of our new and difficult surroundings has faded into normalcy, and now our conversations shift to the shock of returning home some day. Do you think we’ll have panic attacks when we step into a grocery store? Will we remember how to speak with people in English? Will we greet every stranger, holding out our right arms to shake theirs, as we support it at the elbow with our left hand—a cultural thing in the arena? Will we get sick by eating too much, too quickly, too richly? And we fear how we’ve changed since leaving the capital. Just yesterday I spoke with a man in the arena, and he said he would meet with me. “Yes, if you are voluntary,” I said in a high-pitched question. Daniel spoke in disapproval: “You probably shouldn’t reinforce his bad English.” The trouble is, it wasn’t intentional. I thought I was speaking normally.

The nightmares have nearly stopped. But just last night I dreamt I was at an 8-table feast, with foods you could never imagine, that I’ve never even seen. Giant sausages and cakes, various varieties of green beans, and drumsticks you could only find on your plate at Medieval Times. Standing in line at one of the tables, in my shock and excitement, I grabbed a piece of chicken and put the whole thing in my mouth, biting into the bone and all. I was confused, you couldn’t blame me. And the night before that I was in the terminal again, perusing donuts and hot dogs. But Daniel tells me the nightmares will stop, and soon I’ll forget the things I long for. While walking in the arena one day, he even told me with a shaky laugh, “I don’t even remember America.” And then I fear for him.

But I think we’re in this for the long haul. The number of couples from the Districts is down to three. But just as those from District Texas are at an advantage in the afternoon heat; the Career volunteers have the advantage of this being their second time in the arena; and the well-trained volunteers who already knew how to read the strange language of the arena before they left the capital are obviously at an advantage—I know I have the greatest advantage. I get Daniel Luttrull. And he gets me.