Caline Quina | District 11

A dark, dark girl who fits in perfectly with the rest of the children.

There is a mirror in my house, shoved in the very corner as it gathers dust. Mother claims that it’s for “contingencies”, such as a necessity to make a fire; we all know that it’s her streak of vanity that keeps the mirror from being sold. Sometimes, I awaken early and allow myself a frivolous, useless glance at myself before dawn. It is on these days that I realize that I am far from beautiful; the most I can be is cute, in a quirky way. My big brown eyes stare out at strands of greasy dark brown hair that reach just below my shoulders. At my mother’s insistence, I braid it or put it up every morning – but it always ends up coming loose one way or another. A mole on my left cheek glares out accusingly from its perch and may be my face’s most defining feature. My cheeks are slightly sunken-in, which isn’t surprising when the lack of food in my district is taken account. When I smile, my teeth are slightly crooked, but I do have a few dimples that make me more presentable. I fit in well enough among the other girls near my age, and I’m hard to pick out in a crowd. I guess that’s a good thing, because being distinctive can be dangerous among the strict Peacekeepers that roam our district.

I wish I could say that I was muscular or elegantly tall. I am neither; I sport a skinny, reed-like frame. I stand at 4’8” and weigh around 60 pounds. My thin arms aren’t particularly strong, but my long, tapering fingers can grip tightly. My build lends itself well to tree-climbing, because I am agile and light. I’m seen as one of the weaker helpers at the orchards, but I can climb higher than most of the other children. My skin is tanned from my time spent outdoors. Originally, my skin was a pale milky color, but now it resembles the color of a burnt buttermilk biscuit.

Since my family isn’t rich enough to afford fancy, new clothing, I often wear hand-me-downs and clothes that are too small for me. I wear old shirts until I can’t pull them on anymore, and then I give them to my little siblings. The same goes for my shoes, which are falling apart and barely offer any protection from the elements. I’m always desperate for new clothes, and I often scavenge for scraps of cloth in order to put them all together in a patchwork of sorts. I don’t care if I’m wearing boys’ clothes or old blankets; clothes are clothes, and they serve their purpose. I have to admit, though, that I look ridiculous wearing an amalgamation of colors and patterns. I’m trying to grow out of the habit, but I can’t help keeping an eye out for spare pieces of cloth that others leave behind. What a waste, I think. And then I add them to yet another shirt I’m making. That’s what they call a vicious cycle, I guess.

A self-deprecating, quirky intellectual who has trouble making lasting friends.

They say I’m too modest. To that, I just reply: Y’all find too much good in people. I suppose that I do have skills, but I don’t excel in anything. Others, they can work in any conditions or haul ridiculous amounts of produce or bundles of hay around at once. Some can even give food to others, even if they are starving themselves. I can do none of those things. Sure, I’m not a bad student, but I am bad with my hands. I prefer thinking things out and formulating theories. I don’t know what I’ll do when they make me a full-time worker in the orchards; I can’t imagine mindlessly picking fruit (that I’ll never see again, thanks to the filthy Capitol) and then willingly handing it over to Capitolites who have never experienced a hard day in their stupid, useless lives. With my view of the government, others can call me “anti-Capitol”, but I’m too afraid to take any real action. I’ve heard stories about rebels being shot down by the Peacekeepers, and it chills me to the bone. I’m too young to die. I’m afraid to die. I’ll never be a martyr; the thought of spilled blood, especially mine, makes me shiver and sob. I am a coward. I know all of this. And that’s why I’m so “humble”.

I’m not a pack-rat; I just keep things of value. I can find uses for the most esoteric things. My house is full of trinkets and trivialities that others have discarded. I’m always on the lookout for items to add to my collection; I especially love finding cloth or old clothes that I can rip up and use. I have a passion for sewing and mending, which is unusual in a district devoted to farming and agriculture. My parents are more concerned with having enough food then providing me with needles and thread. I do my best, though, to make quilts and shirts for my family. Sometimes I take the long trek into town and try to sell them there, but I rarely get any buyers. I make more than I can use or sell, but I can’t bear to throw anything away. It’s gotten to a point that my brothers are afraid to invite their friends to our house, because they’re embarrassed of their slightly-mad big sister that’s always hoarding (and wearing) the oddest combinations of fabric. It takes a long time to make just one blanket, because of our tendency to shy away from wasting anything, but I can be patient. And besides, I’m not completely practical. I don’t just create these things because they can be used; it provides an opportunity for me to put my energy to use. Because God forbid that I ever act out of my anger and fuel a rebellion.

I tend to hide from conflict, and I’m not particularly vocal. Some of my “friends” hate it when I clam up and plead for them to step down in a fight. They don’t understand my logic: if our whole district can act cooperatively and make a coordinated effort to rebel, then we might actually succeed. Fights in the districts have to be nonexistent if this ever happens. I care far more for the district than some petty individual quarrels. Of course, this doesn’t deem me very popular among most of those my age, but adults tolerate me. I learn quickly, and my tendency to be soft-spoken and languid makes me easy to tame. I’m the least likely to be seen fighting with other people of my district – to be honest, I’m least likely to be seen interacting with other people at all. Still, I try to treat others with civil respect when I’m addressed. It’s hard, because I’m not a kind person by heart. I’m prone to sarcasm and impatience, and I can’t stand people who don’t pull their weight. I’m not a people person in general; I prefer to be lost in books or theories. However, when pushed, I can be a capable leader. I hate bossing people around, and I hate to be bossed around, but my distant, head-in-the-clouds logic can be gratifying to those who are too involved in political matters.

The only people I love without needing a reason is my family. I can’t bear to see them glum, and I’m more open around them. Oftentimes, those invited to my house are shocked by my humanness when I’m at home. I can joke and laugh with them, knowing that they won’t judge me for having an odd sense of humor, or laughing too loud, or being slow to understand jokes. The same goes for very close friends; if they have tolerated me for a long time, I’ll be willing to humor them as well. A reciprocation of efforts, that’s what I operate on.

A girl with a fairly simple life and a not-so-simple family.

I wake at the crack of dawn, like any other day. My brothers are already up and jostling each other, arguing loudly over who will do what in the orchards today. They’re just a year younger than I am, but they’re already doing more important work. Zacharias and Zain – I love them, even for all their antics and arguments. I yawn sleepily and then turn in my rustling straw mattress as I struggle to shake off my lethargy. Together, we clomp to the kitchen table, where my mother awaits. In the pale orange light of the sun, I can almost imagine another shape; the strong, burly shape of the father who isn’t here anymore.

I am six years old, and yawning sleepily as the clatter of pans echoes throughout the house. It’s a bit too early to be up- the sun hasn’t even started to peek above the horizon yet- but I can’t fall asleep, because my father and mother are yelling at each other downstairs.

“You know we can’t afford more children, Cale... what were you thinking?” It’s my mother, whose voice is tinged with despair. I can hear the stomp of my father’s old work boots against the floor. He is clearly angry; my father is usually a quiet and reserved man. They say I’ll take after him, with my soft-spoken ways and tendency to hide. Hide, hide, hide…

“I couldn’t leave them alone to fend for themselves!” my father replies helplessly, his arms slapping against his sides. I am fully awake now; our house isn’t very big, and my mattress is very close to the kitchen. My eyes dart to my five-year-old twin brothers, but they’re sound asleep. I smile wanly. They can sleep through anything. “Please, Zana… please. Just for a couple nights, and then we’ll find somewhere else for them. Alright?” I slump a little, wishing for this confrontation to end. Father seems so calm and reasonable, while Mother seems to be hysterical.

“No! I won’t allow our children to starve as you care for children who aren’t even ours. They’re going to leave, Cale. They’re going to leave right now, before I kick them out.”

The scraping of the wooden chair by our table, my father’s resigned voice saying, “I’m sorry then, Zana. I’m going to care for them, and if you won’t let them live here, then I’m going to leave with them. We’ll find somewhere else.” And then the cries and sobs of a mother, the cries and sobs that fall on deaf ears…

My father is still in our district somewhere. I just don’t see him anymore.

I shake away my memories and sit at the table, my gaze fixed on the ground. When Mother places a small piece of bread in front of me, I shove it towards Zacharias and Zain, who eagerly divide it between them and stuff it in their mouths. My mother looks at me, and I say, “I wasn’t hungry.” After we’re done eating, we go outside to join the other children for school. We won’t be back until evening – after school, we go to join the adults to work in the orchards, either by keeping track of what we’ve picked or just climbing the tress to reach the fruits that adults can’t with ladders. Mother calls out a goodbye, and Zacharias and Zain wave eagerly. I don’t even turn around.

“Hey. Hey, aren’t you the Quina kids?” I jerk my head up, staring at a heavyset man in his early thirties. I’m on my way to school, and I don’t want to be late. Zacharias and Zain hide behind me, their affable six-year-old faces pale and afraid. I straighten, and nod briskly at him. I try to push my way forward- we don’t have any time to socialize- but the man stops me. I look up at him again.

“What happened to your father?” The voice is insidious with curiosity, and disgust slithers in my stomach. Why does he care? Everyone knows that my father is gone now; nobody talks about it anymore…

I don’t want to talk about it, especially to a stranger. I’ve seen this man working in the orchards before, but I don’t trust him. “He left,” I reply curtly. “My siblings and I need to get to school. Please excuse us.”

The man stares after us as we leave, and I imagine his face to be either annoyed or sympathetic. I want neither; I just want to go home and hide.

Because what kind of father left without even a word to this children? And who were those children that he had deemed more important than his own?

I lead my brothers to the school, and then leave them. They’re in a different class than I am, and they’ll be taken care of by the teachers until classes are over. I stand at the edge of the crowd of girls milling around, waiting for the doors to open. I don’t bother to make small talk; all they want to talk about is boys, and the latest ridiculous Capitol fashions, anyway…

Somehow, a girl finds her way to me. “Hi, Caline,” she says. “How are you?”

“Fine, thank you,” I say. The words taste like cardboard to me, and I don’t mean them. “And you?”

The girl smiles widely. “Just looking forward to another day!” she exclaims happily. Oh, an optimist. I rein in a sigh and smile back.

I wish I could say the same thing.

Thank you for reviewing my bio. I just wrote anything that came to mind, so tell me if it doesn't make sense in places.