I'd give anything to be in the ocean today.
Every ounce of me is desperate to wade in the ankle-deep water with my friend Ginger, gathering shells and broken starfish while we chatted mindlessly about the happenings in District Four. Or maybe crouching with my older brothers, net in hand, ready to spear a fish for our dinner table. I've gotten pretty good with the spears lately and it only make me more anxious to practice. For so long, I only worked on nets. The spears scared me. It wasn't until my brother Zale insisted I learn, that I got any good with them.
Even from my room I can smell the salt from the ocean in the breeze. It's calling me, becoming me to abandon my plans for the day and dive deep into its familiar waters.
Every ounce of me wants to listen, but it's Reaping Day and so I have no choice. I'll have to swim later.
My mouth fills with terror as I think about the two large glass orbs that hold the names of every boy and girl from my district. Today, two of them will be chosen as tributes, and brought to the capitol to compete in the Hunger Games. I shiver again. I know the games are supposed to fun, especially in a Career District like mine, but even the thought of them sends tremors of fear down my spine.
The idea of the Games doesn't excite me like it does the other kids who live here. I've never harbored any desire to enter the Arena, to fight for my life against twenty-three others. Not once did I ever consider training in one of the Career Academies like so many others here do, even if my parents had allowed it. It wouldn't have helped. I wasn't ever skilled enough to be crowned a victor. If I were to enter the Games, I'd die. So, every Reaping, I keep my head down and wait as they draw names pointlessly.
I turn to face my reflection in the mirror and am presently surprised by what looks back at me. Reaping Day is a holiday across Panem, but especially in District Four. We're expected to look our very best, in the slim chance that one of us is on National Television in front of all of Panem.
My long bronze-colored hair hangs down my back in perfect waves, curtsey of the rollers my mother lent me the night before, and even I'm impressed with how nice it looks. It's usually hangs stringy and dry from all of the time I spend fishing in the ocean. Years of salt water has done its damage to it. Still, I'm luckier than most. I have my mother's classic District Four good looks, and her large ocean-blue eyes, almost too large from our sharp bone structure.
The dress I were is simple and the same one I wore last year; loose, sleeveless and white. Some girls in the district buy new reaping dresses every year. I don't see the point; I might as well limit the dislike I feel for the whole day to this one dress. I pair it with brown woven sandals.
It doesn't matter much what I wear, because I know I won't be seen. I will be buried in the Seventeen-year old's section, behind all of the giant eighteen-year olds from the Academy, the one's itching to volunteer. With all of them standing there, no one will even see what I'm wearing.
"Epperly!"
I hear my mother's call and know it's time to eat something before we head off to the Reaping. I run my fingers easily through my hair one last time and head off to find her. The first thing I smell is the fish bake. The lingering scent curls around the kitchen of our modest home and drift toward the bedrooms. My nose prickles and I can pick out all of the ingredients easily; the grain, cheddar cheese, cod, scallops, and seaweed. It's my favorite. I know it's our special dinner for later when this whole mess is over and my family retreats to our home to try and forget about what we see today. Most of the District will linger in the square, celebrating the beginning of their favorite annual tradition. We won't. Unlike the other citizens of our district, my family hates the Games. We have good reason to, but it doesn't stop most people from seeing our behavior as peculiar.
My parents are seated at our wooden kitchen table with all four of my brothers. Each of them is dressed nicely, a nice change of pace from their usual jean cutoffs and tank tops. They all have the same easy attractiveness of the other fisherman in the district; large muscles and tanned skin. It's nice that they're here, since it must be for me. Zale, Tucker and Lennox haven't been eligible for the reaping for several years now, and last year was Byron's last eligible year. I'm the youngest and still have two more reaping's to go.
On the table in front of them is several green seaweed rolls and cold strips of fish. No one is really touching the food, instead they sit silently, waiting for me to join them. I take a seat between my father Byron. My father makes me a plate and slides it to me. I thank him but know I am too nervous to eat. I mostly pick at it.
"Nervous, Epps?" Byron asks with a shake of his head, watching me shred one of the rolls in front of me.
My voice falters as I answer him. "It's a Reaping day, I'd be stupid not to be."
I can feel the steady dread creeping back into me. My name is only in there six times. The chances of it being chosen when so many people have taken out tesserae is highly unlikely, but it could happen. The idea of my name being chosen makes my bones tighten and I see my mother grimace. Nothing would horrify her more than hearing her only daughter's name being called. Especially after what happened to my eldest brother. But I don't dare mention that. Today is not the day to bring up Wilder.
"You'll be fine," Zale says. "You won't be called."
Lennox nods in agreement, "And even if you are, one of those Careers from the Academy will volunteer for you."
"You'd have to fight them for your spot," Tucker chuckles, clearly trying to assuage my fears.
I watch as my parents exchange a dark grimace. Even imagining my reaping is causing them physical pain. Their faces are already too worn with wrinkles from their last child who was reaped. They can't handle another.
I reach for my father's hand. "Don't worry. I'll be fine," I tell him fiercely. My tone is so firm and sure even I start to believe it.
We eat in silence for a while, until the front door opens and Byron's closest friend Ivan treks in, a large goofy smile plastered across his face.
"Cheer up, Steelstroms'" he says taking a seat at the table. "It's Reaping Day!" His tone is sarcastic. He knows why the room is so tense. He grew up with Wilder too. Ivan is a few months younger than Byron. This will be his last reaping. It makes me feel a little better, knowing that he will be in the crowd too, giving me someone to look too.
"Epperly is a little fidgety already," Byron warns him. "Don't make it any worse.
"Is that Epperly?" Ivan pretends to squint at me. "I don't think I've ever actually seen her this clean and dry" The comment is dripping with sarcasm. Byron has told me about Ivan's proclivity for me, and he knows it.
I roll my eyes at him. "Bite me."
I lob one of the green rolls at his head and catches it deftly, an inch before his face. My mouth falls open. Maybe Ivan should be reaped, if he has skills like that. Reflexes that quick can usually turn a tribute into a victor. I imagine the roll was a knife, searing through the air towards him and wonder if he could catch that as easily. I think of Wilder and the thought disappears immediately. Even the strongest among us still die bloody in the Arena.
Ivan grins at me, unaware of where my thoughts were traveling too, and flashes me the gap between his two front teeth. When we were younger, I used to tease him for it. Now I think it makes him look very unique.
"We should go," My mother says quickly. "It won't benefit either of you to be late."
She's right. In a matter of minutes the Peacekeepers will start combing the houses looking for people attempting to skip the Reaping. Begrudgingly I leave our tiny home.
The walk to the justice building and pavilion takes no time. We live too close to it. Most of the District is already there when we arrive. The eligible children are being ushered to their spots in front of the stage, while the family heads to the surrounding waiting areas, clustered in front of the shops. I walk slowly to my place letting my feet drag across the sandy ground, feeling every single grain on my toes. It's hot today and the sun burns down on my freckled shoulders. In the distance, the cicadas screech violently. These are the sounds of home.
I make my way with Ivan to the groups of teenagers. We separate when we reach them, and I watch as he disappears to the front of the boy's section. I bury myself in the middle of a group of seventeen-year-old girls and search bitterly for any sign of Ginger. She bounds in at the last minute, panting. She was obviously afraid to be late. Her curly orange hair, for which she was named, is carefully arraigned into an up do. Her satin pink dress is new. Excitement is evident on her face and it makes my stomach flip rapidly. Sometimes things like that make it hard for us to get along. Ginger's family is very wealthy and wholly supports the Games. She plans to volunteer when she' eighteen. She frequently gushes about it, and I hate every minute of it. Deep down I know that she's a good person. She just doesn't see the problem with the Games. Some time ago, I was just like her. It takes me a few seconds to remember that.
"I thought you were going to miss it!" I hiss at her. My nerves are making me a little jumpy.
She shakes her head as she slides into place beside me. "Miss the reaping? I'd never. I wait all year for this."
She does. Every year, she invites the other girls from our year at school over to her giant house in town to watch every aspect of the games from the readings to the victory tour. I usually abstain but it doesn't stop them from talking about it in cheery voices at the lunch table.
Ginger's eyes rake up and down me. "Honestly do you have to look so good all of the time?" She scowls. "If I looked like you do, I'd volunteer immediately. Think of the sponsors you'd get looking like that."
I freeze in place, my hands balling into fists. The sponsors I'd get? I want to laugh. Being pretty gets you some sponsors but only when a lethal killing ability lies underneath the good looks. Not to mention, Ginger knows I'd never volunteer. Not after Wilder.
She looks at the horror written across my face and her tone immediately changes. "Right. Sorry I forgot about Wilder for a second there. Of course, you wouldn't volunteer. I'm such an idiot. Forgive me." She's pleading now. Her face has turned slightly pink with embarrassment and she batts her eyes quickly at me.
"It's fine, Ginger." I assure her. "It wasn't anything I wasn't thinking about anyway."
Wilder's face had been cropping in and out of my mind all day, no matter how many times I tried to stop it. I remember him standing up on that stage so clearly it stings. I remember him as a tribute. I remember his death.
"Do you know whose volunteering this year?" Ginger asks quickly, changing the subject. I can see how uncomfortable my reaction had made her and she's searching desperately for a way to talk about anything else. Her eyes dart to the group of eighteen-year old's commanding the front of the square. I scan them carefully. Each and every one of them are huge, and look brutal. They'd all have a decent chance at winning.
I shake my head. "No, do you?"
Ginger shrugs. "I heard something about the teachers at the academy choosing Kenrick and Herja. I know they're the best, but you never know. Someone else might volunteer first. Last year was pretty brutal. I'm sure a bunch of them are itching to get into the arena."
My chest tightens. Last years was a particularly brutal year. It only makes me more nervous. The idea of that brutality making someone want to join the Games, makes my skin crawl.
I look to the stage. The reaping balls are stuffed to the brim with thousands of names. So, stuffed it makes me wonder how many people took out tesserae this year. District Four is a pretty wealthy district, and while most of our people are well-fed, we still have our poor and hungry.
Standing beside the bowls is our escort, Devereux Millington. He's new to us this year, promoted from District Nine after their tributes did decently last year. He's a tall man with skin so pale it almost looks silver. His snow-white hair is long and carefully arraigned into two waist length braids. On his lips, he wears green lipstick. I almost snort. He's so Capitol. He looks like's he's never set foot anywhere near the water. What a change District Four must be. We're surrounded by water on three sides. You can smell it in the air. I wonder if it's making him sweat off his makeup. He doesn't look too used to the heat because he keeps dabbing at his forehead. Beside him are the Victors. We have many, so many that like in Districts 1 and 2, our Victor's Village's had to be extended. Today only two sit on the stage; Mags and Finnick. Mags is elderly. I assume she's only here because Annie Cresta is still not okay after her own win. Two years later and she still hasn't recovered. Finnick sits proudly, talking excitedly to Mags, his eye lingering on the hopeful tributes in the front rows. When he makes eye contact, he winks.
Finnick is beautiful ad very aware of that fact. He mentors almost every year because he's so beloved by the people of both District Four and the Capitol. He helped Annie win only five years after his own games. People believe Finnick can make a tribute into a victor.
Our attention is immediately taken by the mayor, a tall balding man with a round belly. He speaks loudly into the microphone for a few minutes about the history of what we're doing, and how proud he is to participate. It's the same speech every year and by now I'm growing bored. I just want them to announce the tributes already so I can go home and stop worrying. Finally, it's time.
"Happy Hunger Games!" Devereux says loudly, "May the odds be ever in your favor."
I feel the dread slowly creeping over my shoulder again, weighing me down with fear. Odds aren't in my family's favor. Wilder was reaped. I could be too.
"Ladies first," Devereux chirps as he plunges him arm deep into the reaping ball. He takes a minute to feel for the piece of paper he wants.
No one breathes as he plucks one carefully from the ball and smooths it out. It's so quiet, you can hear a pin drop. He turns to the microphone and grins, flashing his perfectly, curved teeth. The sight of them makes me flinch. Each one ends in a perfect U shape. Capitol people are strange. I'm so distracted by how inhuman they look that I almost miss the name he says. Not that I don't recognize it.
"Epperly Steelstrom!" he shouts happily.
It's my name.