quentin mentiras {district 11}

You could easily say that thievery is a family inherited act. For years we’ve been locking words in cabinets, storing identities behind bookshelves, and scattering memories across tables to then be pieced together and made into new words, which are hidden beneath fragile sheets of paper and screaming lies and metallic expressions.

[/i] My mother says we’re just like any other family in District Eleven, but it’s hard to believe her when we’re likely the only ones who have shared dinner every day for the past thirteen years. She says we should keep our wealth a secret. Money is nothing to brag about, I constantly hear, but I know my mother’s biggest concern is keeping the suspicion away from our front door.[/i]

We’re not spies, she says. We’re just good citizens. When we see trouble, we report it immediately. That’s what I’ve been told since the day I was born: you see anyone slacking in the fields, you see anyone stealing or fighting or sleeping on the job, or any secret clubs in your school, you give their names to me, you promise, Quentin? You promise?

I promise. Whatever, okay, I promise, because our Uncle Dorian is a peacekeeper. We give him names, he gives us cash. But I still think we’re spies; it sounds more interesting anyways.[/i] However, I must have been seven when everything first turned around. Us younger workers were required to sort and count the crops that came in from the fields. My hands were working hard and fast as I sat, but my brain was stumbling to keep up with the thoughts that waged war with one another.[/i] The sun was seeping into my skin and the boy next to me was talking up a sea.

I’m Rowan, you?

Quentin.

I can’t believe I have to work five more days this week .I’m so tired. You know I wish school was longer, I’d rather be in school, y’know Quentin? Y’know?

I didn’t know.

I took a glance to my side and saw someone shoving a couple of berries into their pocket. My eyes widened; momma would want me to tell her about that. However, there was a growing wonder inside of me – what if I tried it? [/i]I didn’t need any food, but would I succeed if I were that desperate? It almost looked like fun, an adventure of some sort.[/i] So when nobody was looking, I grabbed a cob of corn and stuffed it into the inside my jacket. Easy as that. Who knew? [/i]

Of course, I couldn’t get rid of Rowan. He was walking home with me. I’m so hungry, I sure hope my momma’s making dinner tonight, Rowan exclaimed. With the least bit of sympathy, I pulled the corn from my jacket as inconspicuously as possible. I managed to slip it into the inside of his own jacket.

Shh, I said.

Quentin, you could get whipped for that! I could!

You won’t, I said smiling. Anyway, it was easy. But when I arrived home, that was different story.

Quentin, Uncle Dorian said they were short a cob of corn today. You were sorting, you must have seen something, my mother said the moment I walked in the door. Uncle Dorian wasn't just a peacekeeper. He was the only reason I didn't have dirt beneath my fingernails. [/i]

I, uh… My heart was pounding and I knew I’d done something terribly wrong except only minutes ago, it had felt so good. So very good.

C’mon give me a name.

Rowan Harris, and the next day as I walked through the square on my way to school, there was blood in the cracks beneath my feet.[/i]



After that day, I didn’t understand why we were such proud Capitol loyalists and why I followed along. But I did it anyways, because the reverse was too confusing to even comprehend at my young age. [/i]And still, there’s this huge disconnect between what I say and what I think but I feel like the more I speak something, the more I start to believe it, whether it’s truth or not.[/i]

Don’t be like them. Be just like them. Why don’t you have more friends? Don’t be friends with traitors. You should get out more, Quentin. Where were you, Quentin? Who were you with? What were you doing?

Be yourself, Quentin. Be yourself.

Just don’t be that version of yourself.

I don't know what anybody's trying to say. My sister says I’m an idiot, and if you’ve ever seen me in public, I suppose that’s true. But it’s my way of coping. Boldly making the best of every moment, I don't like to conform to the expectations that weigh me down...at least while I'm not at home. The power my parents have, the power I have, it scares me. [/i]So I don't let myself be that person in public. I like to make trouble and prove that there's something more to me than what my parents expect. [/i]

And then I deal with the consequences later. Or rather, toss them on someone else. [/i]But it's not just my status, or even my parents that I'm ashamed of. There's something else...

My first-grade teacher told us a lot of stories. She kept a storybook full of one-hundred different fairytales on our class bookshelf and sometimes she had us write our own. I didn’t even realize that I was hiding stories in my closet until there was a bank of useless trinkets scattered across the floor. [/i] So, let me tell you a couple of my stories.

Once upon a time,

[/i] I had a friend named Conall, but then I stole a cup from his kitchen pantry. I’ve avoided talking to him ever since. The end. [/i]

Once upon a time,[/i] I stole my teacher’s classroom chalk. We never got to use the chalkboard again. The end.[/i]

Once upon a time, I went to the swimming pond with my sister and her friend. They took their shoes off and jumped in, but I was too afraid. So instead, I took her friend’s shoe and walked home. The end.[/i]

Once upon a time,[/i] Uncle Dorian came over. We played cards. I thought it would be funny to steal the joker. No one noticed anyways. The end. [/i]

Once upon a time,[/i] my sister’s boyfriend brought over a roll of tape for their school project. I took it. They had to use glue. The end. [/i]

Once upon a time,[/i] my parents bought my sister a camera. She spent an entire day taking pictures, but she couldn’t figure out where she’d put them down. With the roll of tape I’d stolen from her boyfriend, I hung them along the inside of my closet. The end. [/i]

Once upon a time,[/i] my mom had guests over while my friend, Tyler Lavin and I were hanging out. I shook hands with one of my mom’s friends. It took her an entire day before she discovered her wedding ring was missing. The end. [/i]

Once upon a time,[/i] Tyler Lavin told me that I was a kleptomaniac.[/i] He said he was going to tell on me. So I stole his accusation and reported to my mother that Tyler Lavin had in fact stolen her friend’s wedding ring. I never spoke to him again. In fact, I never saw him. The end. [/i]

Once upon a time, [/i]my mother was proud of me. I’m proud to call you my son, she said with a smile. I stole her smile – I stole it and I carried it around in my pocket, within easy reach of the lies that dotted my fingers. The end.[/i]

Once upon a time,[/i] my first-grade teacher took out that big storybook, full of conflicts and characters and, each story with a beginning, a middle, and an end. And I thought about how much more captivating my life would be if it were a storybook, how much more meaning it would have. Strung together by lies and lost trinkets that had no use to me, I stole the author's idea.

And I created my life. [/i]

The End, I guess.

But endings always lead to new beginnings, so let's keep playing with circles.[/i] [/color][/blockquote]

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