Lisle Burrell

Appearance
Obviously you’re not from around here. I am a Burrell after all. We all pretty much look the same: short, red hair; blue eyes; freckles; tall; and—like everyone else in the factories—skinny. I got Ma’s nose though. Everyone else got Pop’s ugly crooked one, but mine’s pretty decent as far as noses go. Tweed, that’s my sister, says I spend too much time worrying about my looks but I told her at least I had looks to worry about. I’m actually kinda pretty if you ignore my ears. I’ve got small, pointy ears that stick out on either side of my head. ‘Cause of the machinery girls cut their hair short and tie it back when they work; I wear a scarf to cover my ears. Helps block out some of the noise too. See? I’m not vain, I’m resourceful.

Background
Well, I’m the fourth of nine kids so I think you can pretty much put the pieces together. Ma and Pop try to make sure everyone’s fed but sometimes it just doesn’t happen but no one holds a grudge. A lot of parents go soft on their kids, but not our parents. We know we’ve gotta fight for what we want. It’s a good thing too ‘cause otherwise my brother Paisley, he got picked for the reaping one year, and he wouldn’t a lasted five minutes if he’d been somebody else’s kid. He got pretty far though and didn’t die ‘cause of something stupid. One of the Careers got him, but that guy was in pretty bad shape by the time it was all over. Ma took it pretty hard but the rest of us put on a good show. Flax, my other brother, and I even gave a whoop.

I pulled my first tesserae when I turned 12, I would’ve at 11 but Pop told me I shouldn’t be so insensitive to Ma. Said it was too soon after Paisley’s death. Well, I think Paisley would’ve wanted us to have the extra food, especially since it wasn’t goin’ in his fat belly. I got a sore bum instead of dinner for about a week after that.

The rest of that is pretty much the same as any other kid in the Texts. I went to school for a while but I never really cared for it and ‘cause of all the extra kids at home I was allowed to take some extra shifts in the factories. A lot of people complain about the warehouses, and don’t get me wrong they’re close to hell, but I like all the noise. It’s better’n anywhere else where it’s quiet. I hate the quiet, makes me wonder if I’m still alive or not. Nawh, I like the whir and clanks of the factory. I’ve been the same ever sense. Maybe a bit cleverer though. And prettier, I’m definitely prettier. You know my cheeks are getting fatter? Tweed’s are all hollowed out but I’ve got nice fat ones when I smile. Tweed says that my face’ll stretch out with all my smiling but she’s just jealous ‘cause her smile looks like a croc’s.

Personality
Oh I get along with everybody, mostly. If I don’t it’s their fault ‘cause I’m the friendly sort. I talk all big I’m a good person. I’m no saint, but I’m sure as good as the next. Ma says I can act real rotten and she’s right, Ma’s right about a lot of things, but I think if a person acts real rotten occasionally then they’re more likely to act real nice unlike Poly who always acts like a hunk of brick. Ma says she’s just well-behaved but there’s only so well-behaved a body can be before he cracks. I think Poly’s just dumb. Anyway, about me. I’m a talker. Pop says I could talk a hornet out of its nest and he’s probably right, but I haven’t found a hornet’s nest to try it out yet. Tweed says I’ve got my “morality confused” or sommat like that. It’s just some of her big fancy words that I’m not exactly normal. Or a “honest citizen”. See, it’s about stealing. I knicked a pair of socks for Baby Cali and Ma boxed my ears but who’s gonna miss them? And besides, if a person’s gotta have socks and he can’t buy ‘em then he’s gotta find another way to get them, right? I don’t know, I think Ma and Tweed just fall for all the Capitol’s rules too much. Everyone knows they’re all just concerned ‘bout being “modern” or whatever. I don’t know. I don’t buy into all that much. I like to think things out sensibly and if a thing don’t make sense then it just idn’t right to me. I can tell you one thing that ain’t right: this bread we git. Nasty stuff.