Elite Hops // District Four

Name: Leet Hops, if you please
Age: 18
Gender: Male
District/Area: District 4
Appearance:

I was a pretty cute kid. I now believe that's where my troubles all started.

It's one thing to have a mop of curls and big, jewel-toned eyes. It's another to have a gaggle of younger siblings with even bigger eyes and wilder personalities. People literally stopped us in the street, to ooh and ahh over our combined cuteness. No, scratch that. Quintupled cuteness. And all that attention? It fluffed the little one's egos, which made the lot of them intolerable, even as toddlers. For me, I always felt like the cooing strangers dragged rakes up and down my arms. I couldn't wait to get back home, to curl up in the corner of the room that was my oasis, at first, and then became crowded with far too many of my siblings.

But I've lost sight of what you've asked. You asked about my looks, and well, I lost out on the genetic lottery, other than my hair. My hair is godlike. The rest of me is merely mortal. A blunted nose, flat lips which have met far too few other lips in my lifetime, a chin that wants to be its own continent, too small ears and a scrawny body.

Yep, I'm was designed to be a nerd. What else could I hope to be, with my pasty pale skin? I look at my siblings and it's uncanny. Side by side, we have the same skin tone, but far away, they all look so much better. You don't have to agree with me. I already know. And while that irritated me as a kid, I no longer care. I know my purpose in life isn't to be a stud; it's to be the smartest kid in all of Four. Some day. Later.

Personality:

The one thing you really need to know about me? I'm the oldest of the Hops gang. Pretty much the only thing I've accomplished with my life. Oh wait, scratch that, that's what everyone thinks of me. I'm still trying to figure out what I'm going to accomplish, but I know it's something big. The Hops name is synonymous with two things in our district: fresh oysters and flounder. For three generation we've fished along the shore, buying up boats and making deals with the local ports. It was only my mother who started diving for oysters, and that's what really skyrocketed us to fame. If it was up to me, we'd sell all of the fish and survive on the booger-quality oysters. Just the sight of flounder makes my stomach turn. I calculated it once, and I've eaten well over three hundred flounders in my life time, just by myself. You'd be sick of anything you ate that much too, trust me, especially if its eyes migrated over its body.

Regardless of my personal feelings about flounder, I take after my mother. If there's a good business opportunity to be seen and contemplated, I'm on it. When I was eight I begged my parents to let me open up a pearl stand, even though they rarely found any clams with pearls. The rarity helped, though, and I pulled in a tidy profit that summer. I should have kept a few though, because two years later, I met her. If only I could have given her the one black pearl I found. That's the thing about regret though: if you carry it with you, it slowly eats away at your soul.

I wouldn't say I know the Vespolis well, but I felt for them when their parents passed away. By then I'd gotten to know a few of them, in my ongoing attempts to court Catalina. When they let me, I liked to spend time in the garden, rooting down, letting my mind spin and spin. I'm actually surprised it took me so long to realized that the small amount of the crop they dealt to friends could be expanded. Of course, the thing with crops is that you have to keep after them, and that's not really my forte. I'm more of an idea guy.

Sure, it bothers me when people don't take my good advice. These days I don't have time to argue about it, though. My parents have me sailing ships in the good weather, and forehead-deep in books during the school year. They should know better. I don't belong on a ship or in a classroom. I need room to breathe, to think, to explore and expand. When I start to think about the cat and mouse game of life, of all the rules, and the bullshit of printed money and the tyranny of tesserae, that's when I tear up my homework, pull out my latest Vespoli investment, and pluck the mature leaves. Roll them between my fingers, wrap them in paper, and light up.

And then, everything is just fine.

History:

There's one key characteristic that my parents and I have in common: when they do something right, they want to do it again, and again, and again. So, of course, after I was born and showed them that having a baby was a cinch, they went on to have more and more, testing the theory that multiple children would just increase their happiness. Of course, it doesn't always work that way, and while I received no help from the appearance genetic pool, I got the lion's share of the intelligence. It's rude, but you know, it's also true.

Currently my siblings are fifteen, fourteen, twelve, ten and eight. You'd think we'd group a little more evenly, with the teens spending time together and shunning the youngers, but it never worked that way. Despite only three years difference, I've always been older. Different. Almost like another parent. This is actually okay by me. I need space, and until my youngest brother came along, I got it. Sacrifices must be made, blah blah, and sometimes I wonder if my parents kept having children until it became impossible to have any privacy in our home, as spacious as it is, right on the waterfront. If I want my own room, I pretty much have to go out on our fishing boat, and then it's a closet with a hammock that smells of flounder guts.

But I've digressed. You know by now that I value intelligence above most things. And I am smart, but my test scores don't reflect that. The teachers just don't understand me, the way my mind opens to the world, and zips through connections. That's fine. Fuck 'em. I'm just about done with school anyhow and then I'll be free to start my own business, to succeed as they have never dreamed of succeeding. This drive was all I thought about, once upon a time, even above toys and games. Until Catalina walked into my life. We had a class together. She was so beautiful, bright eyed and passionate and strange. At first I thought it was an act, but over the years, I've seen it's part of who she is. Part of her perfection. She is like no one else in all of Panem, and even though I know I'm flawed, I'm deliriously sure I could make her happy.

So, I made a plan. A business plan, if you will, with analysis and projections. I began our courtship by buying fish I didn't need, and then progressed to cannabis, even though I'd never been interested in drugs. Turns out, weed is the only drug I'll ever need other than Catalina. It makes my mind relax, helps me focus on the important things. Once I tried it, I was hooked, and it was no longer just an excuse to trek over to the Vespoli wreck. I wanted to be there, not just for her, but for all of them. To support their endeavor. I think it's a sign, that I was meant to be a part of the family.

And despite all my careful calculations, all the time I've spent watching Catalina in class, bargaining with her over her products, I still haven't found a way to execute the part of the plan where I actually ask her out. All in good time. I'll ask her later. Tomorrow. Some day.

And if she says yes, it will all have been worth it.

Codeword: Odair
Comments/Other: