It's the morning of the reaping. Nobody speaks; the district is silent. There isn't work today, just another day without pay for some, a death sentence for others.
The entire district crams into the town square. We all wait in anticipation of who will be representing us this year. The children stand tall, trying to mask their fright. I am among them. I look around in search of familiar faces. I see some boys my age from work. There are some adults in the back I recognize. They look at me and try to smile. I don't care. I don't need their pity. It's not like they care about me.
The new representative for District 6 walks across the stage, her heels smacking the cement with each step. Her hair is blue and her skin is a lighter shade of it. I scoff at her. She smiles at us and introduces the video we all know too well. I stare at her as it plays. She's nervous, it's obvious, as she fiddles with the end of her sleeve. She looks to the mayor for a nod for reassurance before she starts to reaping, what we are all dreading.
"Ladies first, hmm?" she says, sticking her hand in the giant bowl. The crowd is silent as the names of everyone with more than five slips of paper in there rush through their minds. I'm among those names this year. This is my fifth reaping.
She pulls out a slip and clears her throat. "Beca Mitchell."
Everyone looks at me. I'm not sad. Surprised, yes, but not sad. I have nothing here anyways. Better me than someone with a future.
As I start towards the stage, I feel all eyes on me. The eyes of District 6, of the new escort, my escort, and the eyes of the Capitol. Right now, people are betting on my chances for survival. It's sick, but I swallow hard, trying to think of something else. "Any volunteers?" rings in my ears. It's something they have to ask here in 6. People volunteer sometimes, it's rare, but it happens. But who would volunteer for me? Nobody. I don't blame them.
I don't realize I'm on stage until the blue woman grabs my hand and smiles at me.
"And now for the boys." Boys. That's all the chosen male will ever be, a boy. He won't grow up to be a man. He probably won't live to his next birthday. She pulls out the slip and reads, "Jesse Swanson." I search the crowd to meet his teary eyes. I've talked to him maybe once or twice. He works at the same factory as me, but a different department.
He walks on stage and we shake hands, tradition, then walk into the building behind us to say our final goodbyes to our friends and family. Important people from the District come and say their goodbyes. I haven't met half of these people, but whatever helps them sleep at night. The only person I care about comes to say goodbye. She's old and feeble. We work together, side by side, and she hands me a photograph without speaking. It's of my parents on their wedding day. It's a simple exchange of vows and a signing of paper, but my mother is in a dress, looking as beautiful as I remember, and my father is holding her hand in his best suit. I look up to meet the old eyes the woman, Margret, as she sets a hand on my shoulder and smiles. I nod at her. We don't speak, but we understand.
The guards come a few minutes later to escort me to the train, which I may or may not have a hand in building. I look back at my district, my home, and I feel this is the last time I will ever see it.
I wake up screaming in bed drenched in sweat. It's routine now. I take a minute to catch my breath and look around. This happens every single fucking time I wake up, since I've left 6, and I forget where I am sometimes. It's scary, but I know how to remind myself of where I am. "My name is Beca Mitchell. I am 17 years old. My home is District 6. I am a tribute in the 68th Annual Hunger Games."
My eyes begin to focus on something in the room that doesn't belong. It's Gail, my escort, the woman from the reaping. As she comes closer, I can see a tinge of sadness in her eyes. This is the first time she's seen me wake up. A smile is on her lips as she claps her hands excitedly, but her eyes never change. "Up, up, up! It's going to be a big, big, big day!" She leaves as quickly as she came, leaving me to shower. My skin has healed completely from the scrubbing when I arrived, but I'm still not used to it. The scars on my arms from the burns at work are gone. They've been there for years. The Capitol has changed me so much over the course of the few days I've been here.
I dress myself in pajamas and walk out to the dining area. Luke and Jesse are already seated and eating. My mentor's muscles bulge under his tight shirt with the way he sits leaning over his plate. Most girls at home would think he is attractive, but I know better. I know how he is, who he is, but not what he did in his own Games. I've asked Patricia about it before, but she never answers.
As I take a seat, Luke asks, "Are you ready for today?" I nod. "We haven't really practiced much. Are you sure?" I nod again. "So you know exactly what to say about Jesse if they ask, right? And you know to humor Ceasar and the crowd?" I slam my fist down on the table and glare at Luke.
"I fucking got it."
"Shit like that will get you killed," Luke scolds, pointing his knife at me while he speaks. I roll my eyes. "And that," he continues, "will piss everyone off. You will never get a sponsor if you act like this." Jesse keeps his head down, not making eye contact with either of us. That's what he does. Luke wants us to have this brother/sister dynamic in the arena, but I don't see it happening. He won't stick up for me here, so he doesn't deserve my protection out there. I've promised to at least try, though, just for the Games.
Luke hands his plate to an avox and leans back in his chair, glaring at me as I eat. Jesse readjusts in his seat. The blonde looks at his watch and sighs. "Hurry up. Fat Amy and Ethan are waiting." Ethan. It's such an un-Capitol-like name for such an eccentric guy. His eye lashes are covered in gold and his skin color changes every time I see him. Thankfully, he's Jesse's stylist. "I want to go over proper etiquette again before we leave." And with that, Luke leaves the room. Jesse continues to eat. He looks up at me warily then back down at his plate. I scoff and get up. I'm not hungry anyways.
"Why do you call yourself Fat Amy?" I hear her laugh behind me as she tightens my dress.
"Why do you call me Patricia?"
I smirk. The only time I really laugh is with Patricia. "I don't see why you should call yourself fat when you're not."
"Thank you. I was," she sighs,"given the name Amy when I became a stylist; it was more modern than Patricia or something like that. Anyways, there were some...rude girls who were calling me names behind my back and such. I just gave myself the name Fat Amy so they'd shut the fuck up." I laugh with her. She's the only Capitol citizen I've heard curse besides Luke, but he technically belongs in 6, so I guess it makes sense. "But why do you call me Patricia when you could just call me Amy?"
"I don't want the Capitol to change people, you know. I've lost the scars I earned working and, no matter how small it is, I feel different from it."
"You've healed up real nice," she says, running her hand on the outside of my forearm. Her accent is thick and easily recognizable as Capitol.
"Yeah," I say nervously, not wanting to offend the only decent person in this god forsaken city. "I'm grateful for everything your team has done and everything, it's just-" She interrupts me by putting her hand up. She smooths the ruffle across my stomach and points toward the mirror in the corner.
"You look phenomenal." I can't disagree. The dress hugs my small waist and cascades to the middle of my shins. With a few small ruffles around the top and stomach area, the dress fits me well. I thought the single strap might have been too much, but it looks good and it won't slip off. But, I don't look like me. The make-up isn't me. There's blush on my cheeks and eye shadow and lipstick. At least she kept my thick eyeliner on. It brings out your eyes, my mother always told me.
"Do you like it?"
"The dress looks great."
"But...?"
"I barely recognize myself." My stylist laughs.
"That's common. You'll get used to it." I see the tinge of pain cross her features. She doesn't realize what she was saying until after she said it. She knows there's a slim chance she'll see me after the Games. A very slim chance.
"I want to look like me," I look Patricia in the eyes through the mirror. She reminds me of our deal we made when we met. I'd look myself during the parade, but the interview was her domain. I nod.
"As soon as your interview is over, you can come back and wipe all this junk off." She wraps an arm around me.
"Please tell me Jesse and I don't match this time."
She chuckles, "No. I didn't talk to Ethan about coordinating this time. You're welcome." I like Patricia. She's the only one who really understands me here.
I stand in line in the long hallway backstage. Television screens line the wall. It's not like they need more than one back here, but apparently they need this many. Jesse is behind me. I'm practically drowning in his cologne. The blonde girl from 1, a career, just finished her interview. Too confident.
The boy from 1, Bumper Allen, also confident.
The girl from 2. Oh god, the girl from 2. I start to pay attention at this time. This girl is different than the other careers. She still has that confident stance and look about her, but she's not like Aubrey or Bumper.
Ceaser greets her just like the other tributes and starts by asking what her strengths are. She answers saying it's a secret. This makes the crowd laugh. She knows what she's doing.
"Now, you've trained for the Games for many years, correct?"
"Yes, Ceasar, I have."
"And how do you think your training will benefit you?"
She stops and thinks for a moment before speaking. Biting her lip, she looks at the crowd then down at her hands. "Honestly, Ceasar..." she looks up to meet his eyes. "It can only benefit me so much. I mean, don't get me wrong, I appreciate it and everything, it gives me an advantage over the other tributes, but hand-to-hand combat and such doesn't happen often. We all know that by watching the Games previous years. A lot of people die by stepping in traps, or not knowing how to swim, or simply starving to death. Yeah, it benefits me by letting me focus on survival techniques during training, but that's about it."
"I see..." Ceasar trails off slightly and smiles at the crowd who are flabbergasted by Chloe's response. "How you always been a redhead?"
The crowd laughs. Ceasar's good too.
"It's all-natural," Chloe beams, running her hands through her long locks. "What is your favorite hair color choice?"
"I chose to go green this year, but I really love blue. I see you do too!" He motions to her dress. "It suits you. Maybe you should try going blue."
"Really? Should I?" She turns to the crowd and they roar in response. Laughing, she concludes saying she should keep her hair red.
"Blue would look fantastic on you!" Ceasar chuckles and gets up to hug the tribute. "Chloe Beale from District 2 everybody!" he yells, getting the crowd to roar once again. Chloe curtsies and walks off. She materializes at the front of the line backstage. Bombarded by her mentor, she shrugs off his scolding and refuses to return with him right away. She says she'd rather stay. As she heads to the back of the line where the benches are, I turn my eyes to the floor. We don't touch nor make eye contact, but I feel an energy pass through me as she walks by. I don't look back at her.
My interview passes by as a blur. I don't even remember what we talked about. My mind is stuck on the redhead from 2, Chloe Beale. We've met before on the training floor, but we have never spoken. This is really the first time I've heard her angelic voice.
She's gone by the time I get back. I look around, but she's nowhere to be found. Her mentor probably dragged her back to their apartment. I turn my attention to one of the television screens to find Jesse and Ceasar already sitting and conversing.
"So, Jesse, tell me, what is the most interesting thing about the Capitol?"
"I'd have to say the architecture."
"Really? Architecture?"
"Yep!"
"Which building in our magnificent square interests you the most?"
"I haven't had much time to get out and explore the city, but I'd have to say the City Hall building. I like to go out on the roof at night at watch the city below. I find the Capitol very interesting."
"Ah, yes. I can agree with you on that!" Ceasar pats Jesse's leg as they laugh along with the crowd. "Jesse, do you have anyone special back home?"
Jesse's smile falls a bit. "No, no I don't."
"Oh, come on now. A boy as handsome as yourself has to have someone."
Jesse shakes his head. "Nope."
"Ah, well, I bet when you return home the ladies won't be able to keep their hands off you! Am I right, ladies?" The crowd roars with hoots and hollers. Jesse starts to blush.
Ceasar gets serious and shakes Jesse's hand for the second time. "It was so nice to meet you. I wish you the best of luck."
"Thank you, Ceasar."
Jesse walks backstage to meet me and Luke, who just showed up. "Good job, kid," the blonde says, smacking Jesse on the back. He turns to glare at me. "Not you."
"What did I do wrong?" I ask seriously.
"Just everything."
"I don't even remember being on stage. You can't yell at me now because that's not fair."
"You know what, Sweetheart? Life's notfucking fair. Back in my Games-"
"Now, now, children. Let's not fight in front of the other Tributes," Gail says, swooping in to save the day. We all nod and head towards the elevator.
"Please welcome Beca Mitchell from District 6!" I watch myself walk across the stage. I look so small, like a child. A child in a dress that hugs her hips too tightly.
"Hello, Ceasar!" I say with too much pizzazz. I am revolting. I turn my attention away from the screen to watch Luke's face. He is expressionless, like a statue. I hear cheering, and I look back to the screen to find myself twirling around with Ceasar. We are dancing. No wonder I didn't want to remember my interview.
"You are a very good dancer," Ceasar says with a genuine smile.
"As are you," I giggle. Gross.
He sets his hand on mine, which is on the arm of the chair now, and he speaks slowly. "I'm so sorry about your parents. I'm sure it's been tough. How have you been since they passed away?"
I clear my throat on screen and off screen. "It's been tough, yes, but I've been taking care of myself. My father passed away before I was born. And my mother, she died when I was ten. I was old enough to get a job, so I got one and I've had it ever since."
"So you support yourself?"
"Yes."
"Beca Mitchell, you are an inspiration."
"I don't think so…" I look out at the crowd and my face crinkles a bit in confusion. I remember their faces. Everyone looked so sad. They shouldn't be sad. They're not the ones who lost their parents.
"Oh, but you are. You stepped up when most of us are still dependent on others. You were alone. You are very independent and that is your strength."
"Being alone for seven years is my strength?," I turn to look Ceasar in the eyes. "Losing my parents to freak accidents is my strength? Not knowing what it feels like to be loved is my strength, Ceasar? If that's the only thing that makes me strong, I'd rather be weak."
Even Ceasar was at a loss for words. I don't remember going off on that little tangent. The camera zooms in on my face, and I see tears in my own eyes. They're not there because I am sad, they're there because I am angry. Angry at what exactly is the real question.
I can feel Luke's eyes on me from across the room. I don't dare look over now. I see Gail get up from the couch out of the corner of my eye. Deciding I've had enough of these interviews, I get up and follow her. "Gail?" I call out. She turns to look at me.
"Your make up is still on."
"What?"
"Patricia told me you didn't like your make up."
"She did?" She nods. I return to my bedroom to look in the mirror. She's right.