There's a sort of perfection in finding the one lazy spot on an otherwise cluttered porch, in lounging there with my feet up on the railing and my head lost in the clouds. Takes talent, really, to look this unbothered by life. Not everyone in District 12 appreciates my dedication to the art of doing nothing, but hey, everyone needs a hobby, and not everyone can knit. Or afford yarn.
I'm Ashton Ember, and I'm very good at disappointing people. You want to know more?
Fine, I'll tell you all about it.
What you really want to know is how someone as lazy as me gets through the day without accidentally falling asleep standing up. It's a skill, let me tell you. People see Ashton Ember, the deadbeat, and shake their heads like they're waiting for me to turn out even worse. Like there's something worse than the lazy slacker son of some town woman with a Capitol itch. I'm here to let you know I'm doing my best not to meet even those low expectations. Maybe you'd like to hear about my particular talents, what it's like to be District 12's resident disappointment.
Let's start with the first big shocker: I might be good for nothing, but I'm still better than you think.
If you pay attention to the gossip — and who doesn't, since there are only about twelve words in the English language in these parts — you'll have heard about my strange friendship with Haymitch Abernathy, the district drunk. I'll tell you, he's got nothing on me when it comes to slacking. That man gets a workout lifting that bottle. We've got ourselves a nice little system. He gives me pointers on the finer points of appearing passed out, and I pretend I need the advice. The town folk, bless their dusty little hearts, are always whispering about us, about me. They don't get why I spend my time hanging around his place instead of doing whatever useful thing they think I should be doing. They're always wondering where I disappear to, how a Seam kid like me manages to look this well-fed without lifting a finger.
It's a gift, folks.
See, the thing about being underestimated is it's actually quite useful. No one expects anything, so you get away with everything. I'm the laziest guy in District 12, and you wouldn't believe what that lets me do. You probably wouldn't believe how much I'm actually doing right now. It's all about managing appearances. You stay one step ahead, or twelve, and people start wondering how a good-for-nothing keeps outsmarting them. There's a sweet spot where they're suspicious but still too convinced of their own story to act. I like to call that the Ember Zone.
"You planning to be the first kid to die of exertion from thinking too hard?"
Haymitch leans against the doorframe like he can't tell if he wants to stand up straight or lie down flat. His hair looks like it's never even seen a comb in the distance, and I think that takes more effort than he lets on.
"Thinking about thinking," I say. "That's as much work as I plan to do today."
He grunts, a sound that carries at least twelve different meanings. Most of them I know by now. "You've got a natural talent for doing nothing, kid."
I tip my imaginary hat at him. "Takes a master to recognize one."
He's got a half-empty bottle and the satisfaction of a man who knows what comes next. "Maybe I'll join you for the training session later. Show you how a real pro naps."
"Don't wear yourself out," I say. "We wouldn't want that."
"Speak for yourself," he says, and wanders off to practice what he preaches.
The air smells like coal dust and stale beer. If you're from here, like me, you're used to it. If you're not, like my father, you're gone by morning. I light up a new cigarette and watch it burn. You want to know how I can afford them when no one else can? Keep asking. The question's worth more than the answer.
I hear my teachers at school are running low on patience with a certain boy who never hands in homework assignments. Lucky for me, they never quite catch me. It's a wonder. Must be my Capitol genes making me slippery. That's what my mother says. Or my luck. That's what I say. People see my silver-gray eyes and know there's something not quite right about them. They say they're not right for the Seam, not right for this district, not right for this world. Maybe they're on to something.
My reputation, well, I've worked hard for it. Now I hardly need to. Once people expect the worst, you get to surprise them by being slightly better. That's the plan, anyway. When they stop looking, you get to do what you want. Like training with a certain District drunk while people assume you're wasted right along with him. Or letting a few of the right families know there's extra food around while the others think you only care about yourself. That's the thing. When you're good at doing nothing, people don't realize just how much that can be.
Goes something like this: They call me lazy, but I call it pacing myself. No need to rush into anything, like an early grave. Which is where they're all headed with how hard they work.
"We work hard," they say. "Unlike that Ashton Ember. No good lazy bum."
"We've got mouths to feed," they say. "Not like that Ashton Ember, who feeds his own fat face."
They wonder how I got this far. I wonder how they got so boring.
All you have to do is stop caring about what everyone thinks, and people start thinking things anyway. Call me lazy, call me useless, call me whatever. As long as they don't call me out. I guess that's why it's working. The more you expect the unexpected, the less you get.
I'll tell you the real reason I am the way I am.
Pretty simple.
I don't actually belong in this world at all.
======
It's funny, they say I've got my father's eyes, like they'd know. My mother won't even say, not straight. "Capitol blood," is all she tells me. "That's why you're like you are." And why is that? Like I've got nothing better to do than disappoint her? She's not far off. Let them talk about my odd looks and my lazy ways, let them keep saying I'll never amount to anything. They've got no idea. But if we're being honest here, and why not, since you're in my head, it's true I don't belong. Just not the way they think.
The truth is, I don't even try to get out of their way when they walk by. Just flop down wherever. Like now. Just right here on this bench in the square, taking up space, doing a lot of nothing. Gives them something to talk about. "That boy's got his father's eyes," they say, like it's the only thing I inherited. Like it's the only thing that matters.
They've got a point, but not like they think. They never figure it out, just keep guessing. Wondering how a kid like me can get away with so much. Why no one's hauled me off to where lazy gets you more than rumors. Guess what? They've got their own ideas about me. It works.
When the Peacekeepers go by, I practice my talent for nothing by slumping against the building like a puppet with its strings cut. My head rolls, and my eyes lose focus. They don't even slow down. Can't tell if they don't care or if it's too pathetic to bother with. As soon as they're gone, I go from useless to useful, and I'm watching again.
People think I do nothing, but it's not true. I do a lot. I avoid work like an Olympic sport. Like a previous life depended on it. Just have to look at me to know I'm up to no good. See me standing here in the middle of the street like I couldn't even bother to move. It's genius. The less I do, the more I get away with. There's something magical about being this lazy. I'm practically invisible.
Everything's got this layer of black dust on it. The houses. The fences. The people. If you're a sucker, you wash it off, and by morning it's back like it never left. It's best to ignore it, like most things. Let the coal paint over the cracks. The buzz of the electric fence never quite stops, a kind of insect whine always on the edge of hearing. Peacekeepers can't be too far, but they're not here now. They don't care about the quiet boy everyone says is good for nothing. It's great. That's just how I like it.
There's a way of standing where I don't look like I care too much. I don't care, by the way, but it's important that everyone knows it. Arms loose, eyes empty. Watch the kids come around. They're everywhere here, always up to something, always up to no good. Like me. They know.
"Hey, Ashton!"
It's clear and hopeful, a bright shout in a dead place. I turn and see them coming, two, three, a whole swarm. Little ragged shadows. All teeth and bones and bright eyes. They flock to me like there's something to gain from it. Like I have anything to offer. Like I can teach them how to be nothing at all, just like me. They know better. It's a game. They know the rules, and they're playing anyway.
"You look tired, Ashton!" one says.
"You look dead, Ashton!" says another.
You have to love their honesty. I grin at them. "At least I'm consistent."
This is a family sport. Laziness runs in my blood. I've trained it well. I've passed on all my secrets to the next generation, or at least they think so. No one's saying a word about it. But they're saying something else.
"What'd you bring us?"
Not coy. They know me too well for that. I play along. Shrug. Look at the ground like I might be interested in it. Finally pretend to find something amazing.
"This."
A piece of candy. Wrapped and shining and perfect, like it's from another world. It's what passes for treasure here, a thing with real sugar in it. The closest any of these kids have been to sweetness since they were born.
Their eyes get even bigger. Someone laughs. "Where'd you get it?"
"Found it," I say. I'm good at finding things. When you know where to look, it's amazing what's right there.
There's not enough to go around. Never is. That's the whole problem. I've solved some of it, but it's still there, that big empty in their bellies and in their futures. You give and give, but it doesn't fill. One piece of candy's not enough, but it's a start. They know, and they're glad for it.
"Thanks, Ashton!"
And then they're gone. Already plotting how to divide it, already knowing there's no good way. They'll be back. They always are.
There's always someone looking. A woman passes. Nods. Sees the kids. Sees the empty space where I stood. Or the empty space where the candy was. Same thing. She knows what's what, but she's not telling. Her silence is another gift.
I wait until no one's watching again. Then I start moving. Keeping busy. Or looking like I'm not. There's a knack for that, a talent, a lifetime of figuring out how to get away with it. I go from point to point, from loose to taut, making connections.
That's the trick. Keep them guessing. Work the angles.
Eventually, they see the whole picture. Until then, I'm hiding in plain sight.