I relax under my mom's gentle fingers and the light tug of the straightener as it smooths out my auburn curls. I can hear my brother's music blaring in the background, the clang of heavy weights from the other half of the house, and I know that he's squeezing in one last workout before he volunteers.

Above that noise, my mother's syrupy-sweet voice quizzes me on every possible thing she can think of.

"When your brother is picked, you are going to-?"

"I'm going to smile politely and clap, but try to make myself cry as well. Like I am worried, but proud," I say monotonously, having gone over this at least a hundred times.

"And how are you going to conduct yourself during the ceremonies?" she asks.

"Stand straight, respectfully blank face, hands folded in front of me."

This goes on as she continues to work on me, her light hands finishing my hair and starting on my makeup. After she won her Games, her talent was cosmetics. I avoid makeup at absolutely any cost, and prefer to keep my hair tied back, but on Reaping day, I know better than to utter so much as a syllable of complaint. My mother sees appearances as everything, and even though sometimes I doubt she has any feelings at all, I know that showing up looking anything less than perfect would be seen as a direct insult to her.

"If you have a feeling that the cameras are on you, what are you going to do?"

"How are you going to walk?"

"After the ceremonies, where are you going to go?"

I know that it probably doesn't make sense to you, that these are the questions I'm asked on Reaping day, but I'm not even offended that this isn't a sentimental moment, or that my family isn't all huddled together like some of them, praying that the names of their loved ones are not drawn. I do not think that I'm going to the Hunger Games, and neither does anyone else. I haven't been to training a day of my life, and I've never worked in the filthy quarries or even reported to the peacekeeper academy like most wealthy teenagers from District Two. Instead, I'm going through extensive training to take over as District Two's head of military intelligence the moment I turn eighteen.

President Snow understands how important that position is because over half of the Capitol's military forces come from District Two. He won't let the only person they have trained for it get chosen. That, I am sure of.

"When we are addressing your brother before he leaves, are you going to cry?"

"No," I say, turning away and rolling my eyes. "Because it'll ruin my makeup."

It's not like I'd cry anyway. Dylan and I are not what you'd call close. We have different goals and ambitions, different lives entirely. Where I've been spending days at a time up in the command center- the mountain overlooking the city square- Dylan works days on end at the Academy, lifting and working and training to follow in our mother's footsteps. We hardly ever speak, we hardly ever see each other. His goal in life is to win the Hunger Games. Mine is to keep the Capitol safe.

All that the Games are going to do is take him out of my life again, perhaps forever. And in all honesty, I really don'tcare. The Hunger Games are just part of what life is in Panem, and if he's going to volunteer to fight to his death, I'm not going to stop him. It's our fault that the Games exist, and doing anything other than bowing our heads and watching is ungrateful. The Capitol has spared the districts. Things could be so much worse. But they aren't, and I think that the Hunger Games are a fair way to compensate for our mistakes.

"If you do get picked?" my mother asks, her voice clearly implying that she thinks it's impossible.

"Look up and see if pigs are flying?" I snort.

"Alessia," she says, but I can see her trying not to smile. "Take this seriously."

"Walk up to the stage and act like Caddie Skye."

Caddie Skye is District Two's escort. Even my mom doesn't bother trying to find something nice to say about her, and my mom can bullshit her way through life better than anyone. Caddie is ditzy, arrogant, and way past stupid. I suppose that since her hair, eyes, nails, and lips are all fake, it's safe to say that her brain is probably made of plastic or silicon, too.

My mother, in the five seconds that she's actually considered me going to the Games, has come up with the strategy that I act like my brain is made of silicon. She knows that people wouldn't buy her daughter acting like a weakling, but a rich girl with private tutors and influential parents acting like she has a chance to win it all, well, it's not that hard to picture.

"Very good." She takes a step back and smiles at me. "I cannot believe how beautiful you are."

I try not to make a face, because she's wrong. I'm not like her, and I don't think she sees that. I'm not curvy and statuesque like she is. I don't have her beautiful face, or her mesmerizing blue eyes or golden hair. No one other than my mother would call me anything more than 'a little pretty'.

"Don't look at me like that," she says, seeing the skeptical look on my face. "Low self-esteem is not becoming."

She says stuff like that a lot. About half of the things that I do are not becoming. Slouching. Not paying attention. Reading too much. Biting my lip when I'm nervous. Cracking my knuckles. Using sarcasm. Making strange observations, mainly about other people, out loud. It's all 'not becoming'.

"Sorry. I am beautiful. I know that."

"Good. Now, you wait right here, and I'll get your dress. Do not move a muscle, or it may mess up your hair."

I'm tempted to ask how I'm going to get to the reaping without moving a muscle, but I figure that she'd say being a smartass wasn't becoming either, and I'd just have to apologize again. My mouth stays firmly shut.

When she comes back, just minutes later, she's carrying a pale mint green dress with a halter top and a skirt that reaches just past my knees. It's nice, but I'd never wear it willingly, especially not with all of the sparkling gold patterns that glitter all over the thing.

"So, what do you think?" she asks, holding it up. I resist the urge to make a face.

"It's beautiful," I say. My voice sounds apathetic to me, but my mother has always had a talent for hearing what she wants. She smiles.

"Good, I thought so, too. It matches your hair, and I think that it'll even bring out your eyes."

"That's wonderful." Again, my voice isn't exactly loaded with enthusiasm, but my mother chooses to ignore it, instead literally cutting the shirt off of my back not to mess up my hair, and helping me strip down and step into the dress.

"Suck in," she commands, and she zips up the back of the thing the moment I do, more or less cutting off my air supply. I'm actually pretty willowy, but it still feels like the dress chokes me. She had to have gotten it custom tailored to strangle me to death. I want to complain, but it wouldn't do any good, so I keep my mouth shut and stand off to the side while my mother runs to fetch Dylan so we can leave.

My brother spares me a quick glance when he follows my mom out of his room, but looks straight back towards the door. He doesn't look nervous, or apprehensive, or really emotional at all. He just looks big, over a head taller than me, with his muscles straining against the jacket of his suit. His blond hair is still sweaty from his workout.

"Ready?" my mother asks.

"I always have been," Dylan says, and she doesn't wait for a comment from me. She and Dylan tear out the door, and I stumble along behind, not the most coordinated, and definitely not very good with heels.

By the time that we actually do get to the square, the Reaping is due to start in ten minutes. I head off to stand with my age group, Dylan goes to his, and my mother makes her way over to her place of honor on the main stage.

I can see Dylan through all the people, laughing and joking with his friends. He's miming chopping someone's head off.

I turn away from him in disgust, but then my eyes find my mother sitting on the stage. She's gesturing for me to stand up straighter. I pretend not to understand, and while she's struggling to communicate the message, Caddie Skye parades across the stage in front of her, looking for all the world like she has a stick up her butt. My mother admits defeat and sits back, but even I can see the glare she sends the District 2 escort.

"Finally, it's time for another wonderful year of the Hunger Games," the escort chirps into the microphone. The entire crowd goes dead silent. "I hope that all of you are as excited about this as I am."

I am excited. Every year, the Games are a chance for District Two to prove just how superior we are to the other Districts. But even better, they're another chance to raise our significance in President Snow's eyes.

Once her introductions are finished, Caddie hands the microphone to Mayor Granderson. His low, deep baritone provides a humorous contrast to Caddie's high-pitched voice. I find myself smiling as I listen to his voice, smooth as velvet. I've always liked him, and I get that impression even more as he goes on about the Dark Days and talks about the past victors. My mother smiles politely throughout his speech, looking entirely perfect.

For another ten minutes or so, he continues with his speech, then tapers off into his usual conclusion of, "District Two has always been the most powerful and feared of the districts. Now, let us bear the burden of our past mistakes and show the Capitol how truly loyal we are."

Then he steps back and gives Caddie the stage again. I can feel the mixture of anticipation and apprehension start to work its way through the air. I close my eyes, take a deep breath. I shouldn't be worrying, but I am.

"Ladies first!," Caddie trills, her voice higher than usual with excitement. She struts to one of the enormous glass balls and sticks her bright pink hand in the top. It seems like time stops for a moment as she daintily plucks the paper out of the ball.

"Alessia Griffin."

For a moment, I'm sure that I misheard. Then she repeats the name, and my mouth pops open into a neat little 'o'.

I swear that I die for a second. My heart completely stops. I think that everyone else's does to. It's like all of the air has been sucked out of District Two. There isn't a sound. No one blinks. No one breathes.

My mother is the first to react. She finds me in the crowd and locks eyes with me. Her surprise isn't showing. Nothing about her countenance shows she's concerned at all. She jerks her head forward, her smile exaggerated. A command. Get my ass on stage and do it with a grin on my face. Follow through with our plan. Act like Caddie.

I don't know why, but I really don't worry at first. My steps come easily, and even though my smile is fake, it isn't forced.

When I finally do get to my place on the stage, I can feel my mother's eyes, still burning into my back. Normally, I would be annoyed. Not that I'd say anything, but I'd care. But today, with Panem staring at me, I don't even notice. I feel so shocked, so numb, that she could probably hit me over the head with a 2x4 and I wouldn't feel it.

"Oooh, Drina Griffin's daughter," Caddie coos. "Such a wonderful treat. I bet these are going to be 'The. Best. Games. Ever.'"

The mayor meets my eyes, and I can see some regret there. I'm glad there's at least one person who doesn't think it's so wonderful.

"Okay, boys next," she chirps. Then, with a slight hesitation, she laughs. "Oh, silly me. I forgot. Would anyone like to volunteer to take Miss Griffin's place?"

For a moment, I'm relieved. I'd totally forgotten of the possibility of a volunteer. However, that relief quickly fades into sheer terror when absolutely no one steps up. What?

I lock eyes with numerous girls in the crowd, Careers who have trained for this, and then resist the urge to growl when all of them shrink away. District Two always has a volunteer, so where in the hell is she?

I think that's when the numbness finally starts to wear off. My smile becomes a lot harder to keep on, and I can feel my heart start pounding against my ribcage, evidently working again.

"Ooo-kay," Caddie says once it's clear that no one else is going to take my place. "Would everyone please applaud Miss Alessia Griffin, the female tribute from District Two?"

My smile has to be looking extremely fake, but I can't make myself care. Even the thundering applause of the audience is only static in my ears.

Because I'm days away from my death.

Then, somehow, things get worse. Caddie quiets the place down and steps to the boy's ball. I remember Dylan.

My stomach constricts and I flinch where I'm standing, positive that I'm going to throw up. Then my Griffin pride kicks in, and I force myself to straighten up, remind myself that smiling is important, but I'm not into it. In all reality, I think that curling up and dying right now would be better than having to stand here and act like nothing is wrong. It'd be easier, if nothing else.

All that I know is that Caddie says a name, and a boy struts to the stage. He's big enough that he could eat me for breakfast any day.

Then I see Dylan step forward, already ready to volunteer, even before she asks for names. I try to catch his eye, to silently tell him that he just can't be in the Games when I'm there, because I couldn't stand it, but I can see that he's purposefully avoiding looking at me.

Now, I know that a normal girl would want their brother in there, to protect them. But the thing is, Dylan wants this. Like really, really wants it. I know for a fact that even though he may not kill me right away, he will break my neck with his bare hands if it comes down to it.

I stand there, thinking of that, wondering if he'll be the one to kill me, as Caddie asks for volunteers.

When Dylan comes up to the stage, he smirks at the other boy, who just shakes his head and walks away. As he comes by me, I can hear the big boy mutter under his breath, "Let the Capitol-lovers go. Better them than me."

I can see that Dylan heard it too, because he gets this look on his face, the one that makes him look really, really slow. It's like he heard the words, but his brain isn't processing them. I ignore the words. They're things that I've heard before. Instead, I focus on Dylan.

I don't know why I look at him. I think it's just to see him one last time before we become enemies. Instead of that, though, a list of his weaknesses runs through my head like movie credits. I visualize all of the ways that I could kill him, that I could take his life. All of my psychology training and military planning takes over, and I see that if I'm smart about it, I could kill my brother.

In a second of thoughtlessness, I want to. I want to show him and his idiot friends that reading and studying all the time is better than lifting weights until you go brain dead.

Then, after Caddie is done gushing over how 'fun, fun, fun' this will be, we're ordered to shake hands, and I push those horrible thoughts out of my head. Because Dylan is my brother, and I can't kill him. I love him, right?

Only when we step away from each other, and he sends me this terrible glare, I'm not so sure that I do.

"Good luck, Brother," I tell him, my cheesy smile the biggest it's been yet. He spits at my feet.

After that, just for a fleeting moment, all of my terror and anxiousness and fear leave me, and this crazy thought runs through my head.

The hell with love. I'm going to poke his brains out with a stick.

Caddie, oblivious to the looks that we're sending each other, beams.

"We have to go now, but remember to keep an eye on these two tributes. I have a feeling that the 71st Hunger Games are going to be a real, real treat!"