Part I.
Swallowed by a Wave.
I open my eyes to sunlight trickling across the ceiling. District 4 comes fourth, of course. They go in order. Our reaping happens pretty early, but I'm used to getting up early, so I don't mind that part. I think it would be harder to have to wait.
Everything feels different on Reaping Day. Still, I get up and make my bed like it's an ordinary day, all the while knowing that I'm not going out on the boat with Papa and I'm not going to school and I'm not going to do chores and then hang out with my friends in the market.
I don't believe the lies I'm telling myself. It's not an ordinary day. I put on my best dress and that hammers home that things are definitely different today. I must have worn this dress only six or seven times since I got it because it just seems too nice for school or work. It's for special occasions. It's blue and white. Mrs. Mirande made it for me. I don't have a mother to do such things and Mrs. Mirande is happy to; she doesn't have any daughters.
Reaping day is only a special occasion because the Capitol says so, of course. When I was a little girl, there was no such thing. But there was fear then about other things. Planes would roar overhead and I would press my hands against my ears, trying to drown out the worrisome sound. I have a lot of friends without fathers because of those times. It took a while for them to make up their minds on something fittingly ominous and important-sounding, but the Capitol has decided to officially call them the "Dark Days" (at least until some new set of politicians arise who decide that some other moniker is better suited to their purposes and policies).
There are some people who don't like my father, as best as I can tell, simply because he's still around after all that. He would have fought the Capitol like everyone else, he's told me quietly some nights on the boat, but the recruiters wouldn't have him out there holding a gun because of the tremor in his hands. It isn't because he's nervous. When I was small I would hang onto his hands and try to hold them steady. It doesn't matter how hard he focuses- sometimes his hands just shake. He gets around just fine on the boat though and that's what matters when it comes to day to day life.
I can hear him clattering in the kitchen. If it's anyone else, they've broken into our house. Papa and I live alone.
I brush my teeth, fix my hair, and go downstairs. The kitchen smells like coffee and eggs, a pretty normal combination around here. "Hey," I say to Papa. I sit down at the table even though I'm too nervous to be hungry.
"Are you hungry, Mags?"
"Not really," I admit.
"Got to eat your breakfast, even if it's reaping day," Papa stirs the eggs around the pan.
I give it my best shot. Papa is doing the same. The flavor of each bite seems particularly intense this morning. Is it a result of my fear that this might be the last time I share in this familiar meal? Fear is a constant hum in the back of our lives. My whole life there's been fear of one kind or another, just the form has changed.
I wash the dishes and Papa dries them. "Let's walk there together," he says and I agree.
Our house isn't too far from the market square where the reapings take place, although we live on our boat about as much as we live in the house. The house is the better place to stay during the stormy season, and, of course, we stay there for the convenience when we have something planned that requires us to go into town early.
If there were actual cities in 4, this would be our capital. As things are, it's just the biggest town. Papa and I don't live in this town because we're any better off or more important than anyone else in 4, it just happens to be the house where my mother's parents lived. They weren't, socially speaking, any special sorts either. They fished. Of course there are all kinds of other occupations people have in 4, taking care of all the necessary aspects of everyday living, but it's the sea that the Capitol needs us for and things that come from it that inspire whatever love for us they might have for us.
I can see the trembling in Papa's hand as we lock the door and leave the house. He reaches out toward me, tentatively, thinking of holding my hand while we walk like I'm a little girl again, I guess, but doesn't follow through with the action. His fingers twitch and he curls them up into a fist.
I would have let him hold my hand if he had tried. I'm not embarrassed by that kind of thing. And, certainly, on reaping day of all days…
But I feel strange about reaching out for his hand myself and letting him know that I saw.
We reach the highest point between our house and the town center. There's a clear view from here out to the harbor. There are a lot of boats already moored and others coming in alongside them. "There's Odair," Papa points at a beautiful white and orange sail rising from their midst.
"Flashy."
The boats and water slowly drift out of sight as the path slopes down into town.
District 4 is large, stretching along most of Panem's coastline. Its citizens live in boats and tiny communities spread from nearly one tip of it to the other, although Capitol efforts are gradually corralling people in closer together to make it easier for them to keep track of us. When it's old people living on the edges of the civilized parts of the district, they don't worry about it too much. It's the people they still might want to use that are important to them- adults to work in ways that will serve the Capitol and its interests; kids who are eligible to take part in their twisted games.
There are tables set up for sign-ins. Officially, everyone is required to be present. There are different lines forming for kids eligible for reaping and for everyone else. The punishments for failing to appear if you're eligible for reaping are the sternest. If your name was called and you weren't there, even if the Capitol managed to get their hands on you later, you would have humiliated them. If there's one thing that is absolutely unforgivable, it's making the rulers in the Capitol look bad. I would hazard that the more people view this embarrassment, the worse one's punishment would probably be. The Capitol doesn't just like to kill people though- they like to make them suffer. So Papa behaves for me and I behave for him and so on and so forth.
I always hate this part of the reaping. I don't like leaving him. The whole event would feel different if we could stand together and hold onto one another while the names were called. "See you soon," he promises me as we separate.
"Not soon enough," I half joke, half agree. Every year I picture myself staring in shock as my name is called. We don't talk about the fact that Papa probably imagines the exact same thing.
The line for girls isn't very straight. "Ooh, Mags, come stand with us," Azzie, a friend of mine from school, calls out and waves me over. No one complains when I cut the line to join her and Tylina. They're closer to each other than they are to me, but out of the girls I know, we're the closest. I've never quite recovered the depth of bonds of friendship I had when I was younger. I lost my best friend a bit too late to make any childhood friendships as strong. Teenage friendships are kind of different.
Each of us is signed in officially in turn and then we go stand in the designated area for "girls, age 17" as the sign says. It's just a section of the square marked off with blue chalk. "Boys, age 17" jostle in the space to the left of us. To a greater or lesser degree, I know the majority of them and those above or below me a year too. The population of 4 is just so small and with the end of the rebellion followed by the beginning of the Games, the repopulation efforts- one of the very few areas in which the Capitol seems willing to reward rather than punish us- aren't exactly catching on. I hardly see how anyone could think they would.
Saigo Kanno catches my eye and grins, flashing a local hand gesture that indicates how much he thinks this stinks. I poke at Tylina, but she doesn't notice in time. A dark-eyed classmate, uh, 'Lito, looks out of the boys' group at us sadly.
I turn my attention aside and try to find Papa in the thicker, unorganized crowd of other, ineligible citizens from 4, but I don't see him. I think it's because I'm too short.
The clock rings out the hour and Mayor Current rises from his seat and approaches the podium. He reads the same story he's read every year since the Hunger Games were instituted; the same litany of rebellion and punishment heard all around the country on this day.
The official airing of the reapings doesn't show the separate mayor of each of the twelve districts reading all of this stuff, or so I've heard. When I was small I'd asked Papa if hearing the history behind the Games twelve times in one day bored the people in the Capitol. A dozen repetitions all in a row like that and it might even lose some of its frightening formality. Papa didn't know. He suggested that I ask my teacher. So back at school the next day, I did. Apparently they only have to hear the tale once a year. The president reads it at the beginning of the reaping day celebrations. The way the reapings are staggered, even the Capitol viewers how spend all day with their eyes fixed on it watch the action in each successive district without having to waste their time on the "boring" parts.
Mayor Current is a stiff reader, but with a son and daughter eligible for reaping, I can't imagine any possible way he could relax. Apple Smitt, only the second escort our district has ever had, is his opposite in this sense. She speaks as easily as she smiles and always appears to be having a lovely time. Maybe she loves the Games. Maybe she's a good actor.
If District 4 had any past victors (that's the official name for the winners- the sole survivors- all glorified and grand), they'd be sitting up on the temporary stage alongside her.
It's supposed to be really amazing for your district if one of your tributes becomes the victor. I saw on TV some examples of the wealth Emmy Pollack's victory brought to her home in District 10. One month, every family received an allotment of sugar. The girl who'd won it all for them watched with a vacant kind of smile from the porch swing of her fancy victor's house as they gave it out. She perked up when some Capitol guy with a wildly waxed beard and hair appeared onscreen with her (they said his name, but he wasn't a known TV personality, so it didn't stick with me). She explained to this guy and a bunch of rowdy kids how to make some peculiar stretchy pink candy. The color matched her funny pointed boots. When the program cut back to Jeff Zimmer and Jack Umber to comment on it, Jack sang a little song. Apparently it was a commercial jingle for a kind of candy in the Capitol. I had never heard of the product, let alone the song. It was something too trendy and frivolous to make its way out here until its popularity in the Capitol had all but faded (I'd give it six months, but no one in 4 will probably have the spare cash to buy any).
Mayor Current finishes. It's Apple's turn now, and, as usual, she's happy, strutting along in the emerald heels that are the darkest part of her green gradient ensemble. There are silver bells in her hair and the microphone picks up their tinkling with every step. "The sea is green, the skies are blue- it's a lovely selection day," she gushes, "But I know you fine people haven't gathered to hear me blather on about the weather. Let's get started. …And it's only polite for girls to go first."
The entire assembly is dead silent as Apple's fingers rustle through the slips of paper. Beside me, Azzie's lips are pinched shut. She's holding her breath. She's certainly not the only one. I take a deep breath. Tylina keeps moving about with nervous energy, shifting her weight back and forth from heel to toe. She's squeezing Azzie's hand so tight I think that's practically the seal that's holding her breath in.
"Faline Beaumont!" Apple chirps. It's a pretty name, particularly the way that Apple says it.
And I think I know it.
Faline Beaumont, with two long pigtails streaming down her back, steps forward. Once she and her friends were playing in the waves hitting a ball back and forth. Someone's hit went wild and the ball smacked me in the head. I remember how red Faline's face was. "I am so, so sorry," she'd apologized to me. And once, Mr. Hawke, who sells fruit in the market, gave her some extra strawberries, and she shared them with me.
It's strange how slow this moment is passing. I have personally known five other kids who were reaped. One of them was my very best friend. All I did when her name was called was stand still in shock. She started to edge forward, but was stopped short because I hadn't let go of her hand. She was twelve years old, just like Faline is. What did I do but hold her back? What can I do here today?
Time moves again.
"I volunteer!" I shout, for a girl who is not my sister, my cousin, my friend, my anything, really. Before today it is true that I knew her name, but much more than that I can't really claim. She is a tiny little girl, so precious certainly to those who know and love her. She has a mother and father and two brothers, but none of them can step up to take her place. She has no sisters. Who are we? Who is District 4, if we can send a twelve year old off to die (because an untrained twelve year old surely will)?
Everyone is looking at me and many of their mouths hang open in shock. There are rules in place that allow for volunteers. There are. The way some of these people are looking I feel the need to reassure myself of that. Even if what I am doing is the height of foolishness when taking my own life and well-being into consideration, at least it has meaning.
"Come," our ridiculous district representative urges, waving her green false fingernails my way, "Come, come here!"
Staring girls part to let me through. I reach Faline. She's staring too. I pass her and climb the rickety wooden stairs up to the platform. Milly and Marc's father built these stairs at the request of our visitors from the Capitol, but not under their supervision. They wobble under my feet and I wonder if he hoped for some stuck-up Capitol citizen to fall awkwardly off of them on live television. If I fall now, I wonder if people will laugh, but fortunately I'm cautious enough and light on my feet. I hop up onto the sturdier platform and shuffle to Apple's side.
She's very thin, and tall for a woman. In her flamboyant outfit of greens, with hints of pink and lilac she looks like a rare and expensive green house orchid. I've never seen one in person, but pictures in books will serve where plants with no practical use are concerned.
"A very happy selection day to you, Miss!" Apple chirps. This is exciting for her, I think, if the way her unnaturally emerald eyes are widening is any indication. "Please," she turns the microphone toward me, "Why don't you let all of us know your name?"
"It's Mags," I say, and my quiet tone wavers and expands within the microphone, "Mags Gaudet." Well, everyone calls me Mags. …Should I have properly identified myself as "Margaret?"
"Mags Gaudet, everyone!" Apple repeats and things aren't so strange and scary when I find myself wanting to roll my eyes and say, "Pretty much all these people know me anyway, Ms. Smitt," except that it would be rude of me. …And I realize after a moment that she's doing it for all the other people who are or who will be watching. People in the other districts. People in the Capitol.
I almost feel like I'm not really there on the platform in front of the cameras. I feel like I'm somewhere else- still out in the crowd, maybe- watching myself and I look half like I'm some stoic lighthouse rising above the sea and half like I'm a seasick Capitol citizen about to faint onto the deck of a shuddering shrimp boat. …If that's what I look like to myself, what do the "viewers at home," like they like to say, think of me?
Faline Beaumont doesn't look anything like me, but she's enough younger that's she's probably not my close friend, so, presumably, Apple doesn't know what else to ask. "And the girl you've volunteered for, Mags, she's your…cousin?"
"No," I tell the truth, "Just a…girl I know." But when I say it like that it sounds weak and empty. Whether or not I am either of those things, the Mags that I want Panem to see is not. I'm probably going to die in a few days (the reality of it doesn't sink in immediately). But not because the Capitol chose me- because I chose myself. "In District Four," I begin, hoping that the words turn out all right, "We make it a priority to take care of our own. I'm sure a lot of you can relate to that. I might not be able to win, but at least I have a chance."
"My, how noble!" Apple responds with a cutesy stage gasp.
I force myself to decorate my face with a tiny smile to accent my modest nod. More than enough time has been spent on me when there's still a boy to draw. I take my seat as indicated and Apple moves on, back to the bowl full of names. The eyes of our District 4 audience are divided about evenly now between Apple and me.
Death is pretty much inevitable, but I hope that I've managed to leave my mark. I am the first volunteer out of District 4. To the best of my knowledge (as seen through the scope of the Capitol's presentation, that is), I am the first tribute who volunteered for someone she barely knew.
I realize there is someone important I have forgotten in my selfish moment. I stop staring at nothing and look at my father. He's frowning, gazing back at me. He probably never took his eyes off me from the moment I called out in the crowd.
It was Papa who taught me how minuscule the difference could be between martyrdom and insanity. Sometimes they're the same thing.
I lift up my hand and send my fingers sailing in a rippling wave. Papa gives an identical wave back.
What's Jeff Zimmer going to say about me during the recap tonight? "Margarete "Mags" Gaudet. Seventeen. A girl with an ace up her sleeve, or really, really stupid?"
Faline Beaumont is crying in her mother's arms. Mrs. Beaumont is crying too, but I can see her face and rate her emotion as relief. Tylina and Azzie and my other friends from school are caught somewhere between relief of their own and shock.
In a way, I'm as surprised as they are. Some feeling that had been building inside of me all these years (did it start when I was twelve, when Aoko, the girl they reaped, was also also twelve and my friend?) had exploded out of me in a way I had never imagined.
It must be because my thoughts are whirling around like they're caught in a hurricane that I miss Apple's lead-in to the boys' drawing. The next words I hear are, "Jean Paul Mirande!"
Lanky and suntanned Jean Paul Mirande. I clutch at the dress I'm wearing. The dress his mother made me. Reapings would be easier if I didn't have so many friends. They call him "Jean Paul," the same way the slips bearing my name would read "Margarete," but everyone who knows him calls him "Beanpole," from the way he's grown up so thin and tall.
The boys part like some strange sea before him, but he walks like a sleepwalker moving against the tide. Once he's finally onstage, he shakes Apple's hand. No one volunteers for Beanpole. Out in the crowd, Papa is moving toward the side of Mrs. Mirande as she faints into the arms of her surrounding relatives. There's a murmur from the crowd as she's looked after.
Mayor Current returns to the podium, but waits a beat before starting to read the Treaty of Treason. He's waiting, I think, to make sure Mrs. Mirande is okay. A tribute's grandfather died from a heart attack on reaping day three years ago. …Or maybe the mayor's brushing away bad memories of the sister and brother tributes from 12 in the Seventh Hunger Games. It's a nightmare that could have repeated with his kids. It could still happen next year.
Mrs. Mirande is white as a sheet, but she's standing again- or possibly being held up by my father and her sister. Beanpole's odds can't be worse than mine, I'd imagine, but Papa seems strong and rock solid compared to her.
Cameras are still trained on his, but based on what I was told previously, I imagine any live coverage of the event has switched over to 5. The mayor finishes with the treaty. This is the part where the tributes shake hands. Maybe it would be different with a boy I don't know, but since it's Beanpole, a handshake feels kind of awkward and stupid. He seems to finally come awake at my touch. We share a tiny smile as the national anthem begins to swell. It's the same standard recorded version as usual. Local musicians performed it in each district for the first few Hunger Games until the band in 11 decided to go off program and play another song in its place. No official statement was made as to the fate of the band, but it's hardly a stretch to guess they faced severe punishment.
"Why're you smiling?" I ask Beanpole as the music fades.
"What else can I do?" he answers.