Today is the reaping.
President Snow of Panem has announced that there will be a new show that will be televised. The Hunger Games, he calls it. He says that all of our Districts, 1 through 12, must submit all of their children from ages twelve to eighteen to the reaping. The reaping will tell us which two children in our district—one boy and one girl—will be going to the Games.
The whole of District 4 is in a fuss, with mothers and aunts running around, trying to get their children tidied up. I can't see the point of it all, since whoever gets chosen will probably be dead in a matter of weeks.
I hear my name being called, but I don't bother turning around. Like I said, I have no intention of being "tidied up."
"Joleyn!" my mother shouts again. "Get in the house, now!"
Irritated, I twist around to see the livid face of my mother. They say that she was a beauty back in her time, but I can't see where that came from. From this point of view, she looks like a toad. "Yes, Mother?"
She scowls haughtily at me, her blond hair in an uptight bun. "The reaping is today, girl! How many times have I told you, you have to look presentable!"
My face remains impassive, as it has been for all my life. People have told me that when I was a baby, I never shed a single tear. "I don't see the point, as I'll be dead in less than a month if I am picked."
"You have to look presentable once you reach the Capitol," she says primly, then yanks me by the hair. She keeps a tight grip on me as she drags me towards our house. It's a modest building, made of rough plaster and leftover paint. This is the place that I hate the most.
It's where I was born.
My mother throws a white dress on my bed and starts running the bath. I pick up the dress gingerly with two fingers, looking at it in distaste. Not my style at all. It has a square neckline, and it's made of clingy material. I don't know where my mother got this, but I feel a twinge of regret for the money wasted on it. This could have been a week of food.
Four hours later, I look nothing like myself. My dark brown hair is up in an intricate braided bun, my eyes are lined with a waterproof black substance, and the dress is absolutely hideous. I look at my mother, my face still expressionless, but a deaf person could hear the sarcasm in my voice from a mile away. "Thanks so much, dearest mother."
Her lips thin as she presses them together, but she just nods stiffly and ushers me out the door. "I hope—well, good luck," she says to me, a faint emotion that isn't anger glimmering in her eyes. I'm surprised by it. The only emotion she ever has when she's around me is fury.
Perhaps she isn't as bad as I originally thought.
"Well?" my mother snaps. "Get on with it! You'll be late for the reaping!"
On second thought, maybe she is quite as bad as I originally thought.
I sigh and walk confidently towards the plaza. I know that I'm the odd girl in the district, because I fear water. District 4's duty is to fish, and it's mandatory for all children to learn how to swim for fish. I never learned, because the instructors couldn't get me into the water. Since then, I've been known as the oddball.
My eyes calmly scan the plaza full of fidgeting children and teenagers. I'm not late yet, but I'm not early, either. I suppose I classify as "just on time."
The woman sent from the Capitol introduces herself as Esme, then starts babbling about the rules of the Hunger Games. She finishes with an, "And may the odds be ever in your favor! Welcome to the very first Annual Hunger Games!"
I look at her with barely masked disgust, which is probably the most expression I've used in a long time. How can she look so pleased when she's sending children to their deaths? The Capitol really does have monsters for residents.
"Ladies first," Esme proclaims, smiling widely. I can see that she's been worked on by surgeons, because her smile is stretched tightly over her teeth. She looks about thirty, but I'm guessing that she's really in her early forties.
The name that rings out doesn't make me weep, but it doesn't make me happy, either. I'm expressionless, as always.
"Joleyn Laychin!" she calls out after a long silence, probably for suspense.
I shrug and walk up to the plaza, feeling almost bored. Like I'd told my mother, there was really no point for me to dress up, since I'd be dead in less than three weeks. I felt a little bit irritated, since I'd gone through that torturous ordeal for nothing.
Esme hands me the microphone in her hand. I take it and look at her impassively. "Yes?"
"Well, introduce yourself!" she says, her cheerfulness almost disgusting. I shoot her a despising look—she called my name out less than a minute ago, for heaven's sake. There's no point in introductions.
After a minute, I sigh in exasperation and take the microphone, saying into it coolly, "Joleyn Laychin, District 4." I hand Esme back the microphone and cross my arms indifferently.
For a moment, Esme looks stunned, then she regains her composure. "Erm—boys next, then." She reaches her hand into the sphere full of names. Coming up with a scrap of white paper. "Devin Hollister," she reads off.
My eyes connect with a tall, leanly muscled boy with bronze hair and gray eyes. Those storm-colored eyes are filled with panic at the moment. And even though I have only talked to him once, I feel a faint glimmer of dread rising up in my stomach.
He slowly walks up to Esme and I, and a load of girls burst into tears. A wry smile tugs at the ends of my lips; Devin is well-known to be the most desired boy of our school. The sobbing girls in the plaza are an obvious giveaway for that.
"Introduce yourself!" Esme sings, shoving the microphone into his tan hands. "Name, district, and age." She looks pointedly at me, and I roll my eyes, grabbing the mike from Devin's hands.
"Joleyn Laychin, District 4, age fourteen," I snap into the microphone, then throw it back at Devin, scowling. He catches it out of the air with the ghost of a smile on his lips.
He speaks into the microphone in his low, slightly husky voice. "Devin Hollister, District 4, age sixteen." Devin hands Esme the microphone again, and I see that his hands are shaking a bit. Understandable, seeing as we're practically walking into our own deaths.
Esme claps her hands together, the picture-perfect image of an ecstatic child. "Excellent! Happy Hunger Games, everyone!" She smiles widely at the cameras pointing at us. "And again, may the odds be ever in your favor."
I smirk slightly. As if. Our odds were one out of twenty-four. If I get out of that arena alive, it will be a miracle.
Devin takes a slightly shaky breath in, then sets his wine goblet down on the table. It's dinnertime, and the nerves seem to be getting to Devin. Pity, I'd thought that he would hold up fairly well.
I concentrate on eating as much as I can; I hate wasting food, and I'm sure that the leftovers from this huge meal will go straight to the dump. The Capitol's strong points don't include preservation of food. No time to worry about Devin when there's food to inhale.
Esme, to my disgust, is eating with us, along with our mentor, Jay Meadlark. Jay is well-tanned, as is the majority of District 4. He has flaxen hair and light brown eyes, and his build is tall and stocky. He nods coolly at Devin and I, then gets up with his empty plate. I hear the clatter of the plate against the steel of the sink, then Jay's heavy footsteps fading away as he walks to his room.
For some reason, my eyes go right back to Devin, and I see that he's staring unashamedly at me. I raise a single eyebrow at him, then go back to shoveling food into my mouth. His gaze drops down to his plate, and I feel somewhat satisfied. I stand up and excuse myself, dropping my plate into the sink. Then I start walking down the hallway to my room.
The room that the Capitol provided me is much too girlish for my liking, full of pinks and pastels. But the bed's comfortable, which is more than I can say for my bed back home. I find myself almost enjoying life in this place, which is next to impossible. Joleyn Laychin never enjoys things.
This is what begins to worry me. Not that I'll be dead in approximately two and a half weeks, but that my composure will slip. I don't feel anything but disdain and dislike, and I want to keep it that way.
People think it's a waste that I don't have any emotions for anyone. I think it's what they deserve. For mocking my phobia of water, and for calling me an oddity behind my back. After all, they can't expect respect from me if they grace me with none.
I hear a knock on the door. It's not the timid knock of Esme's, nor is it the heavy knock of Jay's. It's Devin's, I think, although he has never bothered socializing with me, much less knocking on my door.
"Come in, Devin," I say. "The door's unlocked."
My door silently opens, and I see a surprised-looking Devin at the door. I raise an eyebrow at him, wondering why he has finally decided to talk to me.
As I had said before, Devin Hollister has only bothered speaking to me once in my life. We had been in school, and it'd been Gym class. We'd been on the same team for a game, and he'd said to me, "You have pretty eyes."
He never spoke to me again.
"How did you know it was me?" he says, eyebrows creasing together.
I shrug nonchalantly. "Your knock. Jay knocks harder, and Esme knocks so lightly that half the time I don't hear her. There are four people in this building: you, me, Jay, and Esme. Since I wouldn't be knocking on my own door, I somehow narrowed it down to you."
His eyes narrow when he hears the sarcasm in the last sentence. Devin Hollister dislikes being made fun of, I know that much about him. It's funny, really, because the two of us are probably the most powerful figures in our school, save for the teachers and the occasional Peacekeeper. Devin's wish is his command, and although I'm considered an oddball, people fear and respect me.
"So," I say calmly. "What brings you here?"
He frowns slightly at me. "What, so I can't just come around for a friendly visit to the only other tribute from my district?"
I have an odd impulse to laugh at this, but I don't. Instead I tell him how ridiculous that statement is. "No, because we'll be trying to rip each other's throats out in a matter of days. It won't matter what district we're in. We'll be fighting to kill, anyway."
Devin's facial features harden a bit. I cock my head to the side, wondering why he looks so annoyed with me. The truth is the truth—you can't deny what I said was fact. "Maybe, but we should cooperate for the interview."
"Interview? What interview?" I say, allowing a frown to cross my face. Apparently the speech that Esme had given at the beginning of the reaping actually had some information in it, even though it'd sounded like a load of rubbish to me.
Devin shoots me a somewhat incredulous look. I just shrug at him; my listening skills are not exactly famous. "The interview, Joleyn. With Caesar Flickerman. It's key for sponsors, along with the chariot ride for the opening ceremonies. Weren't you listening?"
I stare at him. "Devin," I say slowly, as if talking to a dumb child, "since when have I ever listened to anyone?"
"Point made," he concedes, making a face. "Don't forget the opening ceremony, we have a chariot ride to carry out. But," his gray eyes probe mine, "I didn't come to warn you about that. I want you to help me out."
This is something of a surprise. Most people don't ask for my help; they're either too scared or doubtful of my abilities. Since it doesn't happen much, I'm all ears. I nod at him to continue, my interest sparked.
"You've got a perfect poker face," he says to me. Nothing that I don't already know. "In the interviews with Caesar Flickerman, he's going to ask questions about my personal life. I don't want the Gamemakers to know anything about me, I don't want those slimy Capitol people to know about me. I need you to teach me how to lie."
I tilt my head to the side, trying to get a read on him. He genuinely wants my help—I can see that much—but I can't see why he doesn't want to share his personal information. If he's got a tragic story up his sleeve, that could get him sponsors. "You know how to lie." My gaze is cool, assessing.
"Yes," he says, looking slightly frustrated, "but not as well as you."
A smile spreads across my face for the first time in years, a real one. It twists into a smirk, and I reply with a simple, "Nobody lies as well as me."
Devin inclines his head, not denying it. Because it's true; if I'd murdered someone, and the evidence all pointed to me, I'd be able to lie my way out. "Touché. So will you help me or not?"
I look at him for a moment, my eyes unashamedly sweeping across his well-built body. He's as tanned as the rest of my district, due to the swimming and fishing done every day. His body is toned but lean, and his face—well, his face looks like it's been carved by a sculptor from the Capitol. I have no doubt that he will have sponsors, whether he tells the truth about himself or not. So I make up my mind.
"Of course," I say quietly. But it's not the fact that he'll have sponsors streaming left and right for him that makes me say yes. It's that encounter from years ago . . . the one when he'd said that my eyes were pretty.