Chapter One
When I open my eyes, I feel just a fleeting bit of contentment before my eyes finally land on the calendar, and then every bit of happiness flees from every recess of my being. The calendar states that today is June 18th. Today is the reaping day.
Today everything will be cancelled- school will be shut down, the factories closed, the shops opened only in case of emergency. The main square will be busy with both Capitol attendants and our best technicians, setting up the screens and stage where Lola Daurio, our District escort, will pull two of our names from the reaping balls to participate in the Capitol's Hunger Games. The thought of this makes my stomach contract tightly and I squeeze my eyes shut, clenching sheets in my fists to keep the panic from making me vomit.
It's just one day, I tell myself. Brave it and then it'll all be over. There are hundreds of kids in District 3. But that small reassurance doesn't eradicate the possibility that I might be reaped. I'm 17, and what's more, I've been signed up for tesserae since I was 13, though it does my family very little good. My name is in that awful glass ball 20 times.
I roll out of bed, kicking the sheets behind me. It's not like just lying around and dreading it will make it go away. My mother has already laid out something at the foot of my bed, something dark blue and gossamer, but I don't want to have to put it on until I absolutely have to. Instead, I open my door as quietly as I can and tip-toe down to the bathroom, taking care not to make too much noise. If my mother and older brother know I'm awake, they'll start with the reassurances and I really don't feel like dealing with it just yet.
There I am, staring at myself blankly from the mirror. Long, tangled mahogany hair, heavy-lidded dark eyes, cheeks hollowed, sharp facial features. With a little work, my mother can make all the shadows and some of that sharpness disappear, though my brother always says that no matter what she does, nothing will make that scowl go away. I know he's joking, but it's true when he says I have a scowl. There's just always that downward curve to my lips, the slight furrowing of my eyebrows that I'm not even conscious of, but that makes me look unfriendly to others.
The Hunger Games are nothing unfamiliar to me or my family. My best friend, Elaine, was reaped year before last, and two of my cousins have gone in, too. Only one of them- one of my cousins- made it past the bloodbath, and even she only made it to day 4. My brother, Darion, turned 19 and therefore ineligible this year, so we're rejoicing his safety. But I still have another 2 years to go before I'm safe. And my name is going to be added 8 more times before that happens.
My mother knocks on the bathroom door, and I can tell by her voice she's been crying. "Victoria, are you in there?"
"Yeah, Mom." It takes a lot to stifle the sigh that threatens to brush past my lips.
"Unlock the door and let me in, please. We need to get you ready."
My mother and I look a lot alike- we both have the same dark hair and the same slender face, but she has an undeniable sweetness in her features while I look nothing but moody most of the time.
My mother says very little as she works her magic on me; she's probably too emotional. Her thin, nimble fingers coax my snarly hair into soft, flowing waves, and then into a voluminous ponytail from the top of my head, leaving a thick chunk of bangs to frame the left side of my face. She eases me into the dress and puts the shoes on my feet, and not once does she say a word until she's finished.
"There," she murmurs. "You look beautiful, sweetheart."
"Yeah. Thanks, Mom." Is all I can get out, avoiding my reflection in the mirror. The dress feels too light and the heels too high, but I'm sure it's nothing compared to what some of the others girls wear to the reaping in hopes that the boys will get a good look at them.
When I come down, Darion looks at me briefly and says, "You look nice."
I don't listen. He says that every year. I just shrug and refuse the bit of bread he offers me. We barely make enough to get by, what with all three of us working in the factories, but we can at least afford the bite-size rolls that are customary of District 3. Though somewhat tasteless, they're inexpensive and we can buy them in bulk. Mixed with the equally cheap butter, they consist of my main meal for most of my life.
In the square, hundreds are gathered. District 3 is one of the larger districts, and we also have one of the highest tribute populations, right under 11. I'm right about the girls dressing provocatively- they're trying to the point of ridiculousness. My mother squeezes my hand briefly and then I'm shuffled off in the line with the rest of the 17 year olds, holding my breath to keep from inhaling the smell of sweat and dust rising from the stone floor.
Lola Daurio- who's been the announcer since I can remember- is looking peppy and bright as always with her pin-straight, forest green hair and severely arched eyebrows. She's got lipstick that goes past her lips, portraying her mouth as being actually bigger than it is, and the sharp curve to her eyebrows gives the impression that she's severe. But when we're all lined up and sorted, she breaks into a wide grin and croons, "Welcome, welcome to all, to the reaping for the 72nd Hunger Games!"
I hate Lola. I hate how she seems so content about sending two of us to certain death. We've not had a victor since the 68th Games, 4 years ago, when they sent one of the few of us who actually have some muscle on them and she threw the last tribute into a pile of rocks, shattering his neck. Since then, we've watched every single tribute that she's pulled die, mostly in a gruesome manner. I watched my own best friend have a spear driven through her neck year before last.
"I am very excited about this year's Games!" Lola squeals. "Let's start with the gentlemen, shall we?" She totters her way over to the glass ball labeled 'male', her taloned fingers tracing the rim excitedly, teasingly, as if she thinks we're hyped up for this. I feel nothing in the air but dread as she plunges her hand into the ball and runs her fingers through the slips of paper. Finally, her claws pick one, and she yanks it out of the bowl with a theatrical flourish. You could hear a pin drop in the square about now. You could almost hear the boys' frantic heartbeats.
She plucks the paper open and reads brightly, "Liam Ivanoff!"
There's a collective, but cruel, sigh of relief as the hundreds of safe boys exhale, all except for one. Liam Ivanoff makes his way to the stage, white as a sheet, and I can't help but notice he's not much. Lanky, short, and very bony. His hair, dark blonde, is stuck to his forehead with sweat, and his eyes dart around nervously. Not much at all.
"And now for the ladies!" She's making her way over to the girls' ball now, nearly shaking with excitement, and yet all I feel as I watch her is disgust. I just want to wrap my hands around my neck and choke her.
I'm so busy with my violent fantasies that I hardly notice when she whips out the paper. The girls are clenching hands, covering their mouths, bowing their heads and whispering soft prayers that will reach no one, when she says the name.
"Victoria Santegos!"
I feel a brief rush of relief through me, but it's immediately smothered by dread. Because a tiny voice in the back of my head says that's you.
Heads are turning towards me, lips parting, and somewhere I hear my mother's cry of distress. I can't process it, and that voice is still screaming, that's you! She called you!
"Go on," somebody whispers in my ear, and then prods me in the back. I force my legs to move, numb as they are, and I hear Lola murmur, "Come on up, sweetheart, there's no need to be shy! Let's see a smile!"
Fuck you, I think vaguely, and the stairs seem horribly steep under my feet. That voice just won't go away. That's you. She pulled you.
Lola's hand clenches my arm, and she nearly yanks me into place beside the Ivanoff boy. "Our tributes from District 3!" She cries, loud enough for the people across the world to hear. "Liam Ivanoff and Victoria Santegos!"
The applause is light and brief. The relief is making them giddy. And that awful voice says it.
You're a tribute.
Peacekeepers lead me into the Justice Building, which I've never been in before. It's huge and shows signs of past grandeur, but the place is dusty and the carpet is ragged. I'm ushered into a room, one I vaguely remember from the Games two years ago. This is the room where the tributes say goodbye to their loved ones. I came in here to say goodbye to Elaine two years ago, sure she was going to win back then, unaware than in two weeks time, she'd be dead with a spear through her throat.
Reality smacks me across the face, and I begin to feel dread. That could be me, in two weeks. Burned, stabbed, broken. Bled white and in a simple wooden box back here. I feel ready to vomit.
The Peacekeepers open the doors and my mother and brother come through, my mother sobbing shamelessly, my brother expressionless. She collapses on my shoulders, and it's all I can do to cradle her awkwardly while she sobs. It makes me uncomfortable. I don't like excessive emotion, and her grief pains me. My brother keeps watching me.
The Peacekeepers come in to collect them, and I throw my arms around Darion, briefly comforted. Softly, he says, "Try to win, okay?"
I nod and mumble, "My very best. You take care of Mom."
"Count on it," he says. And then they're gone.
Breathing deeply, I sit on the velvet couch, my hands clenched in my lap. I have to breathe deeply to keep myself under control.
The Peacekeepers come, this time accompanied by Lola, who says, "Come on, dear, it's time to go."
I don't listen to her ranting, about the train and whatnot, and I can't make myself look at Liam either. I can feel his eyes on me, but I don't want to see him. Not when I'll have to watch him die, or die at his hand, later on.
No, I just keep my eyes forward and try not to think about what's coming.
A/N: THIS STORY WILL GET BETTER I PROMISE. I just had to kick it off somewhere. ^^
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