I wake up to cold. Not that it's a surprise. It's cold every day in District 12, even in the middle of the pinche summer. It's cold in the faces of the people who live here, cold in our movements, cold in the hunger staring out from the eyes of the children. The only place that isn't cold is the mines – dark and forbidding from the outside, but the men say that it's stifling in the obscurity.

I glance around the room. Mami is still sleeping, her face turned to the wall, body curled around Luisa and Jesus. They're still so little, wrapped around one another like a pair of kittens in the storybooks. Andrea and Xiomara are on their shared bed. The door is open, and I realize that cold air is still coming in, so I pull a blanket around my shoulders and step outside.

"What the fuck, Noah?"

My best friend – only friend, really – is standing at the side of our door, brawny arms crossed across his chest. He's good-looking despite thick, black hair that he insists on shaving at the sides, leaving a skunk's tail across his scalp. He just grins at me, insolent as ever.

"Morning to you, too, Satan," he says. "I just couldn't bear to let you miss out on the glorious morning."

What he really means is that it's reaping day, and he's terrified. Which pisses me off, more than a little, because it's been the same every year, since we first entered our names. Puck's scared, even though his name is only entered seven times. Mine. . .I don't even know, anymore. Once for me, for Mami, for Luisa, Jesus, Andrea, Xiomara, and three times for Julissa, until she passed away. Multiply that by five and. . .

Noah's eyes are soft as he looks at me, and I realize that my mask must have slipped. I cross my arms across my chest and glare at him again.

"What's wrong, sweetcheeks?" he asks. "Miss out on some beauty sleep? You're starting to get wrinkles."

My hands fly to my face before my brain can catch up. It's not that I'm so horribly vain. . .it's just that my looks are all I have. If I'm ever going to get out of the Seam, it's by marrying some merchant boy. God knows that they won't marry me for my wealth or sparkling personality, so it's gonna have to be the big boobs, thin legs, and full lips.

Noah cackles, even as I lean forward to slap him. He catches my wrist before I do.

"Just take a walk with me," he says, his voice almost pleading. "For old times sake."

I don't want to go with him, I really don't. It's cold outside, and people will talk when they see us – more than they do usually, which isn't gonna help me shack up with the baker's son. All of the girls in town love Noah, and I have no doubt that dozens of them lie in bed at night, masturbating to the thought of his hazel eyes or strong hands. But none of them talk to him, none of them would ever date him, or take them home to meet their parents. I wouldn't either, if he hadn't sought me out way back then, if he didn't bring eggs to my house every Thursday, and bird meat on Tuesdays. I don't ask questions, he doesn't provide them, and at least two days a week we get to eat like normal people.

We walk down the grimy back alleys. We don't talk. We've never been big on talking. First we'd avoided one another, then we'd sucked face, then we'd sucked other things, and now we're mostly back to the silence. Probably because I'm busy with the kids all the time, since Mami has a job again. And Noah is. . .well, I don't know what he's doing, but it's probably illicit or illegal.

Before I realize where we're headed, we're on the outskirts of town. That's where we finally stop. I don't understand why, because there's nothing here except the dirty smell of coal and empty riggings. Even the mines are closed for the reaping.

"It's a shitty choice, right?" Noah says. "I mean. . .get picked during the reaping, or work in the mines. Dead if I do and dead if I don't."

"Plenty of people do fine in the mines," I say. Noah shrugs.

"For ten years, fifteen, maybe twenty. Then their lungs go bad and they cough up blood. And that's only if there isn't an accident."

His words are bitter. His dad died in an accident. His mom left right after it – rumor around the Seam was that she left for District 13. It's only a rumor, though, and even Noah knows not to pay attention. There's no such thing as District 13. . .it's as much a fairytale as the cuddly kittens and bright-eyed puppies that my little sisters like to read about.

"Still better than the Games."

"I don't know about that."

I want to slap him, then. He's eighteen. . .it's the last year his name will be entered. It won't be pulled, he won't be sent to die in a killer landscape designed by the bastards in the Capitol. He'll graduate school and work in the mines, probably marry some dippy girl with acne and dimples in her ass. Pop out a couple of kids and die from black lung. It could be worse. It could be a hell of a lot worse.

"Santana. . ."

When he says my name I turn to look at him. I know what he wants, and I open my mouth. I don't like him like that – I'm not sure that I ever died – but it's easy to suck on his lip, taste his tongue. It's easy to enjoy the way that his pulse speeds up and his body presses closer to mine.

It's a little warmth in a cold fucking world.

We don't stay there long, macking on one another. The reaping starts early, and we both have to change for it. He'll put on one of his father's old suits, and I'll wrap a sheet around me, or something. We're expected to look good for the reaping – presentable for the cameras. Noah peels off one way, and I enter my own hellhole.

Xiomara and Andrea are dressed, each of them wearing one of my old dresses. Xiomara's pretty – prettier than me, probably, with apple rose cheeks and a delicate, sweet smile. She's wearing a pink dress, one that Noah gave us after his mom left. It has flowers appliquéd around the bottom. I still remember wearing it, just last year when I was fifteen. Andrea isn't pretty – her lips are always turned down, and her eyebrows are too long and thick. Her hair is a mess, too, and she's a little overweight, which is crazy for people living in the Seam. I used to think that she was stealing food, not sharing it with the family, but now I think it's just the way she looks.

Mami is sitting on the bed, too tired and sick to get Jesus or Luisa dressed. It's important that Jesus get dressed. . .it's his first real reaping, the first time that he'll be joining all of us candidates in the roped-off section. Luisa's safe. . .she's only nine, so they'll let her stay with mami. Still, she can't be wearing that threadbare shift.

"Mara, Andrea, why didn't you make them get dressed?" I ask in exasperation.

"They don't want to," Andrea says sullenly. XIomara just holds out a small blue dress wordlessly.

The dress has seen better days. All of the girls have worn it. It's Mami's, from back when she was a little girl. The hem is coming a bit undone, and it's frayed around the armholes, but it will have to do. Luisa protests the whole time I'm putting it on.

"I want to go to school," she insists petulantly. "You don't wear your nice clothes to school. I don't want to go to church."

"We're not going to church," Xiomara says. "We're going to a party. Everyone's going to be dressed up. You'll like it."

I wince as she says it, and perhaps I pull a little too hard on Jesus' tie. It's just hard to understand anyone liking the reaping.

Except that I must have, when I was younger. I must have thought it was exciting, with the people from the Capitol in their fancy clothing, and all of the cameras. I must have watched in wide-eyed disbelief as the cameras projected images from the other districts.

What I dumbass I must have been.

"Mami," I say urgently, after I've finally forced Jesus into his suit. "Mami, get dressed, we have to go." She just peers at me with her dead eyes.

"Brush your hair a hundred times, m'hija," she says. "That will help the oils distribute themselves."

It's going to be one of those days again. Realistically, nobody will notice or care if one more, middle-aged woman isn't there. And it's not like I'm not used to taking care of things myself, anyway. So I bundle the kids together, ignored Andrea's protests, and head down to the Square.

I hadn't completely lied to Luisa – in some ways, Reaping really is like a party. The Capitol sends men down to clean up the streets, and festoon all of the shops surrounding the Square with ribbons and streamers. People in the Capitol don't want to see dirty, half-starved faces and coal-streaked buildings. They want to believe that the world is doing fine – not fabulous like them, but fine. So they doll up our freaky little town and force us to play dress-up and join them in the charade.

The sick thing is that we all do it. Like a bunch of sick little lemmings.

Some stupid painted trollop is one the stage, standing beside our mayor, and our last victor. Our only victor, really, since only one other person ever survived the Games from our District, and she went crazy and ate her own hand. At least, that's what I've always been told, and I have no reason to doubt it. Instead we only have Beiste.

I think Beiste is a man, and most of the women do, too, but a few of the guys insist that she's a chick. In a way, I should believe them. Noah once went all vigilante on her fat ass, staking out the house in the Victor's Village, boring holes in bathrooms, watching at all hours to try and catch a glimpse of Beiste naked. He insists that the victor has breasts. I think they might just be manboobs.

Then again, Beiste's first name is Shannon, or Sharon, or something like that, and I've never heard of that being a girls' name. It's just that Beiste is fucking huge, like a tree, round and solid and heavy with muscle and fat. It's hairy, and always dressed in the most shapeless clothes, with close-cropped hair that resembles that of the men in the mines.

If Beiste is a woman, she's the ugliest one ever to exist, no doubt.

Our mayor, on the other hand, is attractive. Blond and blue-eyed, with delicate hands that are pink and unblemished, not calloused from work in the mines. He's probably never even washed dishes, just lived in his privileged, ivory tower.

At ten on the dot, he starts the reaping. It starts the same as ever: he reminds us of the history of Panem, the wars that wrecked the country. He tells us that the Capitol saved us from the disasters, the squirmishes, the hunger and drought. I wonder, yet again, whether the mayor ever wanders down to the Seam, because his description of the past sounds an awful lot like my present. He reminds us of the Dark Days, when the Districts rose up against the Capitol, and tells us that the Games are our punishment.

Some kind of a sick, twisted punishment. Taking kids – little kids, sometimes only eleven – to die for some pervert's pleasure. Making kids atone for the supposed misdeeds of their grandparents. I wish I'd been alive in the Dark Days. I'd have risen up against those fuckers, no doubt about it.

Then they turn on the monitors, and begin to project the reapings across the country.

They start in District One, and watching the scene is like being pulled into an entirely different world. Everyone in District One is strong and proud looking. They all look clean – not our fake, freshly scrubbed clean, hair pulled back so no one notices that it's greasy or caked in coal. They look really clean, with full cheeks and sparkling eyes. They don't rope off their kids, they all just stand together in a big, beautiful hall.

And their clothes. . .oh, their clothes are just beautiful, silks and satins and other materials I don't even know the names of. Sometimes I think I would kill just to have a ribbon of that material.

They pull names out of a spinning cage, the same way we do. It's supposed to be a show of solidarity and unity, I think. The cage, which looks glittering and new in our square, just looks old-fashioned and antiquated in District One.

Before their representative from the Capitol can even read the name, a tall, burly kid pushes his way to the front. He must be eighteen to be so big: his shirt is straining at the shoulders, and there's stubble all along his jawline. It's not a surprise that he's older – District One's champions always are. They're Career fighters, trained their whole lives to compete. Of course they're going to wait until the last possible year.

"I volunteer," he says, his voice low and menacing. The representative just grins brightly and drops the name to the side. The boy lumbers up beside her, and nods curtly to everyone in the audience. The camera zooms in on his face, on his square jaw and surprisingly delicate eyebrows.

"I'm Dave Karofsky," he says unflinchingly. "I'd be proud to represent District One."

There's a riot of applause, and even in our Square people are clapping along. We have to, of course, with the Peacekeepers lining all of the streets, eyes peeled for any sign of disobedience. But even beneath the forced action, there's an undercurrent of respect. This kid is strong looking and formidable. It's hard not to cheer for someone who is so likely to win.

The cage is sent spinning again, another show so that they can pretend things aren't rigged in out there. Yet again, before the representative can read a name, a figure is pushing through the crowd.

"I volunteer."

I'm a little surprised by this one. It's a young girl, though I'm sure, like Dave, that she's eighteen. She's slight and pretty – more than pretty, really, she's the most beautiful girl that I've ever seen, with lively green eyes and blond hair. She looks strong, though, with tight little arms. Maybe District One has a specific strategy this year, other than to bulldoze through. Maybe Dave will be the brawn and this girl the beauty.

Or maybe she's more badass than she looks in a pretty white dress and blond curled hair.

The camera zooms in again, on her perfect face. Her teeth are white and straight, her skin almost without discernable pores. I have no doubt that her entire appearance is the best that money could buy. I hate her on instinct.

"Hello, everyone," she says with a charming smile and a little wave. "My name is Quinn Fabray, and I am absolutely honored to represent our District in the Hunger Games."

The sweetness makes me want to vomit. Around me there's whispering, and the applause is more sparse. There's something unsettling about the girl, something menacing in her perfection.

The cameras go blank for a moment as they transition to District Two. I feel a heavy hand on my back and turn to stare at Noah. He isn't looking at me, though. He's just looking at the dark cameras.

"Maybe I should volunteer," he says.

"Shut the fuck up."

"Can't be worse than the mines," he says. I don't bother to answer, because it's a stupid thing to say, it's so, so stupid, and he has to know that.

The camera's flash back on, and now we're in District Two. It's a sterner scene than District One, all greys and metal black. Even the people are dressed in somber colors. There's something threatening in the picture, as though they're all ready for battle. Which makes sense, I suppose, since District Two handles all of the Defense for the Capitol.

We run through the charade again. We all know that District Two sends Careers – there's no way their competitors haven't trained for the games, not with the disproportionate number of victors that come from there. Still, they're stealthier about it than District One. Maybe they don't want to be found out, or maybe they have a little more respect for those of us who don't have the time or funds to train our youth. There aren't ever volunteers from District Two. . .somehow the system is rigged, so their names are pulled from the swirl of strips.

"Rachel Berry!" the voice calls out. There isn't an exclamation of joy from District Two: they just stand apart, creating an open isle down the center of people. It's Moses parting the red sea, only instead of leading people to freedom, this is sending a young girl to almost certain death. I don't feel bad for her.

What finally emerges from the crowd is a plain little hobbit. She has straight brown hair, and her nose is too big. And she's tiny. Even on the camera, with no point of reference I can tell that she's miniature. I wonder if there was finally a slip-up. But nobody seems surprised. The camera zooms in on her face.

"Hello," Rachel booms, her voice clear and confident, and I realize that no mistake has been made. "My name is Rachel Berry, and I am the next District Two victor!"

She's still talking, for some reason, but the camera has pulled away and the cage is spinning again. When it stops, the representative reaches in and pulls out a name.

"Jesse st. James!"

There's silence. The crowd doesn't part, and the representative frowns. When nobody begins walking, he calls out again. "Jesse st. James?"

Behind him, Rachel Berry, she of the man hands and massive beak (seriously, what does she do with that thing, break open seeds?) looks nervous, twisting her dress around in her hands.

A third time "Jesse st. James?" Berry looks like she's going to wet herself, and I feel a little vindicated. Things go wrong, even in the richer Districts.

"Jesse fell in the Factory," a man yells from the very back. The camera zooms in on him, bristly grey beard and dead eyes. "He ain't even conscious yet."

Back to the representative, who looks confused. I hold my breath. There's no excuse for skipping the games if your name has been chosen. If you're hurt or sick, blind or deaf, even if you can't walk. Rachel looks like she's going to cry.

"Well. . ." the representative says slowly. "I suppose. . .it's still up to him, even though. . ."

"No!" Rachel runs forward, tears streaming down her face, and I perk up a little. This is finally getting fun. "No, you can't, I'm supposed to have a partner, Jesse's supposed to help me! You're just sending him to die! You're sending me to die!"

"Well, that generally does happen in the Games," the representative says, chuckling a little nervously.

"Please," Rachel cries, peering now into the audience. "Please, somebody. . .dont' make Jesse do this. Don't make me do this. . ."

There's a sudden mumbling on the screen. I didn't hear anyone volunteer, but there's a shift in the tight press of bodies, and then a short, scrawny kid is breaking free. His hair is carefully controlled, and he's wearing a tight, immaculate suit.

"I volunteer," he says. The audience goes wild, and I don't understand why. Around me people are tentatively clapping, casting nervous glances back at the Peacekeepers, but we don't understand, either.

The boy walks up on stage, and opens his arm. Rachel falls into them, clasping at him like a lifeline, sobbing hopelessly. The camera swivels around her to try and catch his face. It's still wobbling, and the picture is unclear, but the mics are working.

"You're my best friend, Rach. I love you. I'll keep you safe."

The camera finally steadies, and the boy looks up with a fierce, almost-angry look in his eyes.

"My name is Blaine Anderson. May the odds be in our fav—"

The screen cuts off before he finishes his sentence, and I turn to Noah with a shocked look on my face. It's clear now why District Two reacted. Those two are clearly devoted to one another, and it's unheard of for a volunteer from the Career district.

I can't remember, in the history of the game, a couple ever competing on the Hunger Games. It's hard to imagine anybody enjoying a game where a boyfriend must kill his girlfriend, or vice versa. Around me, people are shifting uncomfortably. Somehow, District Two has just changed the games.