I'm finally putting this story back up. I don't have all of the chapters, but I'll put up what I do have. Hope you enjoy! Pictures of the characters can be found on Tumblr, under the username essevideri.
District 1
Iskandar Samir, 18
A loud bell ringing through the training facility of District 1 awakens me. With a yawn, I climb down from the vent I sleep in to avoid any physical activity whatsoever, and listen as a voice comes over the loudspeaker.
"Attention, District 1. Training has ended. All citizens are to report to the district center for the reapings immediately."
Oh, for crying out loud. They hold those things at the most inconvenient times. I open the door to the supply closet and slip out into the hall, only to bump into a skinny girl with a headband.
"What were you doing in there?" she asks me curiously.
"Getting… cleaning supplies. Why do you care?"
"I heard strange noises coming from the vents. I followed the noises here, to this supply closet. And now here you are, coming out of said supply closet. It's suspicious, quite frankly."
"Who are you?"
"Tammy Harding."
"Well, it was great talking to you, Sherlock Holmes, but I've got to get going to the reapings. See ya around."
I slip around the girl and sprint off through the large double-doors in the training facility, across the outdoor track, and into the district center. I arrive a few minutes early and curse my promptness; I had plenty of time to grab a quick snack. But soon enough, they're calling the boy tribute, and I hear a very familiar name.
"Iskandar Samir!"
What? …No! No. I refuse. I refuse! Even as I'm dragged to the stage by the peacekeepers, I vehemently refuse.
They expect me to train? And then go to all the trouble of an interview, a chariot ride, and that ridiculous prepping process? And to top it all off, I'll have to fight off twenty-three losers in an arena with no beds, no vending machines, no videogames?
I'm just about ready to declare that things couldn't possibly get any worse when they announce the female tribute: Tamara Harding. The weirdo who stalked me outside the supply closet.
Fantastic. Just stupendous.
District 2
Katerina, 17
My sister is dead. I rejoice.
I watched Lorelei, the skank, flirting with that Sylvester boy the entire Games. And my family had the audacity to cry when her cannon fired? For crying out loud. They should have been singing with joy; now they can focus all of their attention on the good daughter, Katerina. Me.
People never cease to astound me.
Duval, 16
Operation Whoopee Cushion was supposed to go off without a hitch.
The whoopee cushion is classic because, no matter how overused it is, it never ceases to embarrass the victim. Ever. It's foolproof. This is why I placed my stash so strategically around District 2 – it would provide me with endless enjoyment throughout reaping day.
But, no. They just had to pick my name out of the reaping bowl.
Katerina, 17
I volunteered. I volunteered to prove to everyone, once and for all, that I am a winner. Not to mention the fact that Lorelei besmirched the family name when she lost last year's Games so ungracefully; it's up to me to fix that, and make sure everyone understands that the Draven's are, and always will be, on top.
District 3
Remi, 17
"Ray-mee! Ray-meeeeee!" Alice whimpers from the back room.
I snatch her pills from the counter and sprint to her side; no need for water, she's an expert at swallowing pills by now.
"It's okay, Alice," I soothe, spilling several pills into her tiny, cupped hands. "I'm here now. It's okay."
She sighs, a runaway tear escaping down her cheek, and takes the pain medication. I vaguely wonder what would happen today if she were to be reaped; would they put her in a wheelchair and push her into the arena? She would die immediately, I know that. What I don't know is, would the Games be a better end for her than rotting away the rest of her life in this bed?
"I don't want to lie here anymore," she whispers as she closes her eyes.
"I know, Alice. I know."
But I don't. I don't know anything. The doctors can't even tell us what's wrong with her; she's sick, that's been obvious since the day she was born. But why? And what on earth will cure her?
The Capitol. Surely, if I were to win the Games, they would do their best to heal her. I would pay every doctor in Panem to fix her; I would slay every tribute in the arena to take away her pain. But I know that my chances of winning the Games are slim, and then where would Alice be? Alone in her bed, no one to care for her. And that? That is something I could never put my little sister through.
Alise, 14
"Do you have your whistle?" Father asks.
"Always," I tell him, pulling the black cord around my neck; hanging from the necklace is a wooden whistle, shaped like a mockingjay. A joke, you see: I am a mockingjay, a little bird that you must always keep your eye on, for you never know when I may sing a mocking tune behind your back.
"Good. When you get back from the reapings, I'm going to test my new toothbrush out on you."
"Excellent, Father. When I return."
I dart out the front door and down the street. As I head to the reapings, I pass the laboratory where my father works; his desk lies somewhere inside, covered in spinning toothbrushes. My father is a genius, always inventing new items to be used around District 3. I am his assistant, running around the laboratory, seeking out the tiny screws and bolts he orders. It is an acrobat's act, leaping over electric fences, ducking under miniature helicopters, dancing across malfunctioning robotic floors. The laboratory is always filled with inventors and their various inventions, and simply entering the door often turns into maneuvering a dangerous obstacle course.
As such, my eyesight and acrobatic abilities are nothing to be laughed about. I contemplate this as the reapings begin and the male tribute is called: someone named Remi Adlanji. I don't really start paying attention until I hear my own name called. My head snaps up; have I done something wrong? Why are they singling me out?
"Alise Lune?" the announcer calls again, and suddenly I understand.
I've been reaped.
Well, doesn't that just beat all?
District 4
Virdiana "Vi" (pronounced 'Vie')
My fishing boat rocks gently as I get closer to the pier. Nymera will be impressed with my haul today, and I know that her parents will be pleased at the money. It's not as though they make me pay them, they don't even ask. But ever since the fight I had with my parents, I've been living with Nymera and her family, and I feel more than obligated to give them all of my earnings in return.
"Vi, you done?" Nymera calls from the dock.
"Yup, just finished!"
"Well, hurry up! The reapings are today!"
As if anyone could forget.
I tie up the boat, leaving the fish behind to deal with after the reapings. Nymera and I walk to the reapings together, chatting all the way.
Avenaye, 17
My knife spins as it sails across the room and sinks into the dummy's thigh.
"Is that the best you can do? You pathetic waste of breath! Take a lap!"
"Aye-aye, captain!" I shout in my best soldier voice, giving the trainer an exaggerated salute.
"They don't pay me enough to deal with you."
"You seem very stressed. Can I offer you a free massage?"
"Don't touch me, Avenaye."
"It's nothing sexual, sir. Just pop off that shirt of yours so I can lather you up with oil and run my hands over those handsome muscles you've got there."
"Avenaye, I swear… if you don't get out of my sight right now, I'm going to snap your scrawny little neck and-"
"I'm not gonna lie, sir. I'm open to you putting your hands anywhere on my body, even my neck."
"I cannot take another year of this," my trainer murmurs, more to himself than anyone else. "Avenaye Darwin, you're going to volunteer at those reapings."
"But… I still have another year."
"I'm telling the Mayor that you're ready for the Games this year. And I don't think I have to remind you how angry he gets when time is wasted."
"You aren't going to miss me?"
"I'm praying you'll die in the bloodbath."
"Well, okay. If you really think I'm that good…"
"Your ability has nothing to do with it," he mumbles.
"What was that?"
"Get out."
I blow him a kiss as I skip out the gym door. This whole mess started four years ago, when a couple of peacekeepers caught me sneaking around their barracks with a bag full of firecrackers and a dead fish. And they automatically jumped to the unfounded conclusion that I was up to something. I'm not used to being caught, so I was a tad nervous in regards to the punishment I might receive; I got off pretty easy, if I do say so myself. District 4 has been somewhat lacking in male careers lately, so the Mayor offered me an alternative to whatever other punishment he was cooking up: train for the Games.
I laughed all the way to the gym.
Virdiana, (Vi), 17
The male tribute is called, but then the village idiot decides to volunteer for him. Nymera and I snicker quietly; Avenaye, climbing up on the stage barefoot, for crying out loud, will certainly not be receiving any sponsor gifts from District 4 in the arena.
"Virdiana Rayne!"
Our snickering ends abruptly.
District 5
Jango, 17
I'm awoken by a rat sniffing my face.
"Get off!" I shout, waving my hands at the vermin. "Get out of here!"
I stand, brushing any rat droppings from my clothes – a black shirt covered in dirt, torn jeans covered in grass stains, and a filthy red leather jacket I found in the trash. Ducking my head to avoid slamming into an attic beam, I climb out the broken window and down a rope ladder, the only way in or out of my apartment. Home sweet home.
"Calvin!" I call excitedly as I see my friend crossing the street. "Calvin, what's up?"
"Did you pick up my dry cleaning?"
"Sure did, buddy!"
"Great. Make sure you leave it on my bed when you clean my toilets today."
"You got it, friend-o! So, listen. Are we hanging out later?"
Calvin gives me a strange look. "Uh… no. I'm really busy, Jango. Maybe some other time."
"…You always seem to be busy."
"Look, I gotta go. Don't forget my dry cleaning."
"Gotcha!" I shout, giving him a thumbs-up as he sprints away.
That's me - Mr. Popular. I'm pretty much the coolest guy in the school. Everyone's always telling me we can hang out sometime. Jealous? I think so.
I head into town, whistling as I swing open the door to the bookshop.
"Good morning, marvelous Madelyn!" I cheerfully greet my girlfriend, who's standing at the counter reading a large book.
"…Hello Jango," she murmurs so quietly that I barely hear her.
"How about a good morning hug?" I reach to put my arms around her, and she cringes away.
"Please don't touch me," she breathes, terrified.
"Right. I don't want another 'sexual harassment in the workplace' lawsuit, do I?"
So I was exaggerating just a teeny bit when I called her my girlfriend. I just sweep her mother's bookstore. But I'm working my magic on her, and I get the feeling that she's got a major crush on me, so things are definitely looking up for me in the romance department.
Madelyn, 17
Jango smells.
It's a strange mixture of wet dog and rat droppings, and I know it has something to do with the fact that he hasn't showered in weeks. Or that he doesn't even own deodorant. Or a toothbrush, for that matter.
I don't want him around me; he terrifies me. But he's the only one in the entire district who's willing to work for next to nothing, so my mother hires him to keep our bookshop clean, even if he seems incapable of keeping himself clean.
"So what are you reading today?" he asks me as he wipes down the counter with a wet rag.
Timidly, I close my book to show him the cover, A Complete History of District 5.
"Oh, great. Good book. Yeah, I read that a few years ago, when I was, like, twelve or something."
"You can't read," I murmur, blushing from the simple act of speaking.
"Excuse me?"
"You're illiterate, Jango."
"Well, I'm not… I mean, I can read." He laughs nervously. "I just… you know, don't have a lot of time to… to read, and such."
"You can't write, either."
"I… I'm a very… parliamentary… writer. Which explains why, you know, you don't always see me… uh, trans-transcreeping things… you know?"
Transcribing, I want to correct, but lack the courage to do so.
"You have a very tenuous grasp on the English language," I mumble, turning away to gently place my book back on the history shelf.
"Well, that's… that's what I'm trying to tell you, is that I'm not… not anything less than completely literate, you hear me?" Jango moves on to dusting the stuffy shelves as I brew coffee for any customers that might stop by.
I can't help but notice how ruggedly pathetic he looks, as though he's just been beaten up, which I suppose he has; his entire life has been one beating after another. His parents babied him, which is generally a non-issue, but when your parents are gentle, timid, dysfunctional folks with extreme obsessive compulsive disorder and an inability to deal with reality, it can sometimes lead to a rough upbringing. Whenever Jango threw a temper tantrum, his parents gave him whatever he wanted; I assume this is why he still has temper tantrums, even at the mature age of seventeen.
But they put their foot down last year when Jango threw an antique vase at his mother's head. Jango's parents kicked him out, though they made it quite clear that he was welcome back as soon as he apologized. But Jango insists that they're the ones who owe him and apology, and besides, he's doing fine on his own. What I want to tell him is, you wouldn't know that he was fine by looking at him.
"So, I was wondering, you know, if you might be… I mean, if you were doing anything tonight, or anything? Because I was thinking we could go out on a date. You could come over to my apartment? I have a very nice bed. Or… I mean, it's not exactly a bed, it's sort of, like, a futon… well, it's from the dumpster behind the homeless shelter, so I'm not actually sure what classification it fits under, but it's definitely in the general category of a futon. So… you interested?"
"No, thank you," I murmur as I brush past him and out the door, wincing as the tiny bell dingles above me.
"Okay. Okay, I get it, busy day… busy day. Maybe tomorrow."
"No."
"Well, let's not… let's not take it off the table, it's still an option. 'Cause I think it's a pretty good…"
As his voice is drowned by the distance I place between us, I finally feel as though I can breathe. He'll be following after me shortly, as we're both headed to the reapings. But at least I'm allowed at least a few moments of blessed silence before the annoying little jackrabbit catches up to me.
I feel bad that he's illiterate, temperamental, lonely, and overwhelmed by reality. But I am in no shape to change his life; I can barely even speak.
Jango, 17
"For our boy tribute… Jango Cage!"
Me… me, me, me, me, me! My head bobs through the crowd as I race to the stage, throwing my hands into the air in a victory pose. I feel a little confused, and am not entirely sure what I'm doing; all I know is, I've got to get the crowd pumped. Whenever you're in front of a large crowd of people that is always the first thing you do. Without question.
It's not until I catch her eyes in the crowd before me that I realize: When I win this thing, Madelyn will adore me. I'll be her hero. She'll love me forever. And then, as if she's reading my thoughts, my angel slowly comes to me. She climbs the stage, stands beside me, and shakes my hand. She touches me. Voluntarily! Without ever uttering the words, you're sexually harassing me. The Games are working their magic already; she's fallen in love with me.
But then she starts to cry.
"Madelyn, don't cry," I tell her. "I'll come back for you."
"Jango, I got reaped," she whispers through the tears.
Well, that certainly changes things.
Madelyn, 17
The train is constricting and terrifying; the Capitol has taken away all of my freedom simply by uttering my name. What's more, I have Jango for a district partner.
"Listen, Madelyn," he says in what I can only assume is his seductive voice. "I'm touched that you volunteered for the Games so that you could protect me. But I think you overlooked the fact that I'm a strong, mentally superior tribute who-"
"I was reaped," I hiss, wishing I had the courage to scream at him.
"Well, they're pretty much the same thing, so-"
"Between 'reaped' and 'volunteered,' there is all the difference in the world."
District 6
Elisa, 17
"Why is there blood on the floor?" Angela, my mother, whispers as she steps into our enormous kitchen.
"It's not blood, Angela," I tell her from where I'm sitting at the kitchen table. "I just spilled some water."
"Did you hear that?" Her head snaps to the left in alarm.
"What?"
"A cannon. They're dead."
"Who's dead?"
"All of them."
"Honey, why don't you go upstairs and rest?" my father interrupts as he enters the room. She allows him to escort her up the steps, and I use their absence as an opportunity to escape without being questioned.
People are jealous that I live in the Victor Village. They have no idea what it's like to live with a crazy mother and know that if she had never been in the Games, she would have been perfectly normal. She would have been capable of loving you.
I dart out the door and sprint into town. I arrive at the reapings with plenty of time to spare, just the way I like it. Always on time, everything in order. I wait patiently for the ceremony to begin.
Osmium, 16
"Osmium," my mother grunts from her seat in our dilapidated armchair. "Get me my crack."
"Sure thing, Ma." I toss her a plastic baggie of the stuff, making sure to keep a little extra for myself. "Hey, Dad? Can I have some cash?"
My father looks at me over his reading glasses. "What for?"
"Books."
"Sure." He doles out a few greenbacks and slaps them into my hand, knowing full well that I'm off to buy drugs.
"Thanks, Dad," I shout over my back as I race out the door of our lovely home. It pays to be the Mayor's son. At least, if you're looking for cash and drugs. Not so much if you want love and attention.
And it certainly doesn't pay to be the Mayor's wife; just ask my mother.
Knock four times on the cellar door behind the electronics shop. Say the password. Pass down your cash. Wait for your merchandise.
It is a routine, one that I perform twice daily. More, if I'm feeling antsy. Today I take some of the good stuff and snort it quickly; as the Mayor's son, I'm obligated to show up to the reapings on time. To show up late would draw attention to me and the fact that I'm high, and we certainly don't want that. Bad for our reputation.
And so it's with a light head and a drugged state of mind that I stumble off to the reapings. On the way, I bump into that victor's kid, Elisa something-or-other, and she gives me a raise of her eyebrows. Yes, as you can see, things in the Mayor's house are going well, how about the Victor Village? Judging by your mother, I'd say you guys are just as happy as my family.
So quit it with the judgmental looks.
"Osmium Bullion!"
It's a weird sensation, trying to go from completely stoned to completely aware in three seconds. And, obviously, it doesn't work. I struggle to comprehend what's going on; someone is shouting my name, someone is pushing me up some steps, someone is shouting again.
"Elisa Maldomi!"
The girl I bumped into appears next to me, and then another of her, and another of her. The announcer stares at me in horror, and then another of her stares at me, and then another. I see three copies of everyone, and suddenly my head is dizzy, and then I'm on the floor.
District 7
Daniel, 17
"Good morning, Grace," I say smoothly, smiling seductively. "How are you?"
She forces a smile, though it looks entirely unwanted. "I'd just like some flower seeds," she tells me coldly.
I slide three packets of roses across the counter. "But I do have to warn you… they aren't going to be nearly as beautiful as you, Grace."
"Hmm." She purses her lips and pays me before walking out of the store without another word, her beautiful red hair taunting me from the back of her head. Grace Lennox comes in nearly every day for something or another, and if this routine continues for another few years then she's bound to fall in love with me eventually. It's the science of love; she gets so used to seeing my face every morning that, after a while, her entire day will be thrown off if she doesn't see me. She'll dream of me in my plaid shirt and work pants, long to caress my face and-
Bang!
I snap out of my daydream at the sound of Maude banging her cane against the floor. She rarely ever speaks to me; her cane is capable of conveying any number of emotions. And right now it's telling me to get back to work.
My warm smile convinces her that I get the message, and my elderly employer returns to her post in an old wicker rocking chair. She's in the middle of her eighties, and ever since my mother got sick she's paid me to help her run this little shop; we take care of each other, and that's all there is to it.
"I'll go stack the wood," I tell her cheerfully, grabbing my axe before stepping out into the frigid air.
Aibileen (Abe), 16
My breath dances in the cold air in front of me, and I pretend the smoke is words. Hello, I blow through my nose. Good morning, I puff. Indubitably, I blow, the biggest smoke cloud yet, and wonder how the word would taste on my tongue.
"Hey, look everybody! The freak's here!" Jimmy Lint laughs from the schoolyard where he and his pals have been smoking.
"Hey, Aibileen, don't say anything if you want us to throw you in the dumpster. What's that? Nothing? Okay!"
They crowd around me, these brutes, and grab at my body. Immediately, I go into fighter mode. Feet spread apart, hands up, head high; a tall boy steps forward and I sock him in the gut. He bends over in pain, low enough for me to kick him in the face. Something cracks; he groans as he falls to the ground. But I'm outnumbered, and the others quickly overtake me. I stare daggers at Jimmy, the ringleader, and he smirks back at me.
"It's okay, Aibey Avox. If we do anything you don't like, just scream for help."
The group cackles and drags me toward the trashcans.
"Wait!" Everyone freezes as Jimmy gives his order. A soft, repetitive thunking noise echoes across the empty road. Everyone turns to look at Maude the Murderer's shop, where the creepy old woman stares at us from her rocking chair. "Let's put her in Maude's basement. See if she makes it out, or if the old lady eats her like she ate her own kids!"
To my knowledge, Maude never had any children, but I am physically incapable of telling anyone this. The boys seem to like this idea, however, and lift me into the air in order to better carry me across the street. They take me to the rear of Maude's shop, searching for the cellar door, and this is when we discover the source of the thunking noise. Before us stands a tall, attractive man with muscles to spare. He uses this perfect body of his to chop blocks of wood, which he subsequently stacks into a nice, organized rack. I know this boy. Daniel, a friendly boy a grade above me who has the gift of a wonderfully eloquent tongue; how my mouth waters at the wonderful words he so effortlessly spins.
I would give everything I have to speak. Everything. Take my arms, take my legs. My ears and my eyes. I need none of them. Just allow me, for one blessed day, to shout to the heavens; sing with the birds; tell everyone exactly what I think of them. For I would never be tongue-tied. I would never be shy. If I had words, I would never forsake them, mince them, or suppress them. I, and only I, see them for the gift they truly are, and I would use them like no other.
But, for now, I silently squirm at the hands of my captors, kicking and attempting to wrestle my arms out of their grasp. Seeing this, Daniel drops his axe and steps toward us.
"Aibileen?" he asks curiously, as if wondering why on earth I've allowed myself to be lifted into the air and plunged into a dark cellar. Abe, I want to tell him. Not Aibey, not Aibileen, not Avox. Abe.
Lacking words, I do the only thing I'm capable of using my mouth for: spitting. It comes out as a practiced, lovely little projectile and lands directly on Daniel's shirt. Without even so much as a second glance at the saliva, Daniel brushes it off of his shirt and takes another step closer.
"What's going on?" he asks the boys. "Put her down."
"She's fine," Jimmy snaps. "She likes it."
His posse laughs, but Daniel isn't intimidated. He gets right up in Jimmy's face.
"I said put her down," Daniel says quietly, calmly.
Jimmy assesses the situation, but it's pretty clear who's going to win if this should morph into a fistfight. So he laughs it off. "Whatever, man. If you want the avox so much, you can have her."
They drop me unceremoniously to the ground, and I land painfully on my back. Daniel offers me a hand as my tormentors sprint off, but I ignore it and stand up myself. Brushing myself off, I contemplate my next move; theoretically, I should thank him, but how? It's simply not possible. I could smile at him, sure, but would that look weird? Will he think I'm a freak? Laugh as soon as I walk away?
And to top it all off, now he thinks I'm weak. I can't even hold my ground against a few schoolyard bullies. If I could speak, I would thank him. I would apologize for interrupting his work, and offer to help. If I could speak, I would be a nice person. But, alas, I cannot, and so there is only one thing I can do.
I give him a taste of my mean left hook, catching him right across the jaw. Daniel leans over, spits blood on the ground, and raises his head to stare at me. A mixture of surprise, confusion, and hurt cloud his features, and I'm immediately seized by a little bit of shame.
"Did you just punch me?" he asks incredulously.
I simply stare at him. Now he knows: I am not weak. I am a fighter. I need help from no one.
But being tough is a double-edged sword, for now he hates me.
"…Can you… talk?" he asks slowly.
I take a single step back, analyzing my options, and decide there's only one way to do this. I run.
"Wait!" he calls after me, but I can't turn around because then he might see me cry.
Daniel, 17
A single rap on the window makes me turn. Maude shoos me away with her hand, telling me to go.
The reapings!
I wave gratefully to Maude as I jog away. By the time I reach the square, the reapings have already begun. Grace Lennox looks at me with disapproval, and I wink at her as I slip into my section. The announcer finishes her speech, and snatches a slip of paper from the reaping bowl with her manicured fingers.
"Joseph Lennox!"
My ears tell me something I would rather not have known; I feel my breath seize in my throat as two peacekeepers hold Grace's screaming form away from her younger brother. Joseph's lower lip quivers, and I feel my feet going places I've begged them not to go.
"I volunteer," I say quietly, half-heartedly. No one hears. "I volunteer!" My determined voice hushes the crowd.
"We have a volunteer! What's your name, young man?"
If I say this, I'm dead. I know this, and yet somehow I can't stop myself. It is a reflex, answering a question like that. Who can be asked their name, and not give it automatically?
"Daniel Burns."
A peacekeeper shoves me forward roughly, and I stumble to the stage. Gazing out at the crowd, I'm struck with terror: this is really happening.
"And now for our girl tribute… Aibileen Jude!"
The name feels slippery in my brain; I know it, and yet I can't place it. No one in the audience moves. The peacekeepers are forced to take action, and they reach into the sixteen-year-old girl section, grabbing a short female and yanking her roughly to the aisle between the male and female sections. Aibileen – the avox! Her name hits me as hard as her sucker punch, and I find myself absentmindedly rubbing my sore jaw. She opens her mouth wide in a silent scream, her face torn in anguish, and I grow angry at the roughness with which the peacekeepers yank her forward.
I imagine someone grabbing Grace that way, hurting Grace, and I imagine her being unable to speak, unable to say that it hurts. And I imagine everyone watching as though this is okay.
If someone can't speak, then I will speak for them. Not because I want to, but because someone should.
"Let her go!" I shout, jumping from the stage and running to the peacekeepers. "You're hurting her!"
The crowd falls silent, watching me in shock. The peacekeepers stare me down for a moment, but tributes are sacred; no harm can come to us outside the arena. Inside, there are no rules. But outside, we are gods.
Slowly, reluctantly, they shove her toward me. Aibileen stares at me, her face full of pain and fear. I take her hand and gently lead her to the stage. As soon as we're safely away from the peacekeepers, however, she snatches her hand away angrily. I forgive her for this; to be unable to defend myself, unable even to speak for myself, would be infuriating.
"District seven, I give you your tributes!" the announcer shouts with glee. "Shake hands, children!"
I offer my hand to Aibileen, and she stares at it for a moment, as though contemplating the situation. Then she spits into her own hand and shakes mine. That's okay, I want to tell her. Saliva doesn't bother me. I wipe it nonchalantly on my work pants as we head to the goodbye rooms. I wonder, briefly, what it will be like to sit in them alone. To have no one to say goodbye to.
My father is dead, my mother too sick to leave the house. All I have is Maude, and she never attends the reapings; they are simply too sad for her. But the door opens anyway, and two figures walk in.
Grace and Joseph.
"Thanks, Mister Danny," Joseph says shyly.
"No problem, buddy," I tell him warmly, patting him on the back.
"Daniel…" Grace struggles to find the right words.
"It's okay. It was my choice."
She says nothing more, simply presses something small into my hand. And then they're gone.
I open my palm and a silver chain winks at me. Hooked on the chain is a small pendant: a pine tree. I kiss the tree before hooking the chain around my neck, though as I do so I wonder if my feelings for Grace are fading. I remember the cold way in which she's treated me every moment up until this one.
Do I have to die in order for her to love me? I would do anything for her, I would. No matter what. Her gentle beauty captivates me. But I think that I'm done idolizing her. Girls think that all a guy wants is beauty, but they don't understand: kindness is what's attractive. And Grace lacks the warmth I'm looking for.
Though she's nowhere near as bad as Aibileen.
We sit across from each other at a large dining table on the train. She stares me down for several minutes before pulling out a small pad of paper and a pencil. After scribbling something down, she passes the pad to me.
Sorry about the sucker punch. And the spit.
I offer her a conciliatory smile. "Don't worry about it. The unbearable pain should die down in a week or so." She smiles sheepishly, and I marvel at how it lights up her otherwise ordinary face. "You're pretty tough, you know that?" Aibileen sticks out her chin proudly. "So, are you… are you an avox?"
I feel nervous asking, not wanting to upset her any further. But she sticks her tongue out with pride.
"Oh," I say lamely, having not expected that. "You're not an avox. So, you just… what, can't talk?"
She takes the pad back, writes something down, and hands it to me.
Mute.
"I see. You know, I never introduced myself. I'm Daniel. You're Aibileen, right?"
Abe.
"Abe?" She nods affirmatively. "Cool name. Listen, Abe… if you want… I mean, if you needed help… like, someone to… talk for you…"
I trail off when I see her unnerving stare. She scribbles again.
Be my voice.
"You want… uh, you want me to… speak for you?
She underlines the words be my voice. Then she writes another word, one I would never have expected from her: please. Her hand shakes as she hands me the pad, and I suddenly understand how demeaning this is for her, how infuriating. If I couldn't speak for myself, needed to ask someone to speak for me… I think I would be just as angry as Abe.
"Okay, Abe," I say gently. "I'll be your voice."
A brilliant smile crosses her face.
District 8
Niels Valence, 15
"Hey, Gramps," I call cheerfully as I unlock my front door.
"Get me my medical marijuana," he grumbles grumpily from his perpetual post in our family's torn armchair by the front window.
"Grandpa, no more pot. Remember what the doctor said?"
"I've got kidney stones older than that doctor, Nelly. He doesn't know what he's talking about."
"Niels, Gramps. I'm Niels. And pot is bad for you. I'll get you a glass of water instead."
"I know pot is bad for me, I'm not an idiot! That's why I take medical marijuana, you bastard. They call it medicine for a reason, you know."
"Okay, Grandpa." I mosey on into the kitchen, where my father sits yawning at the table. Without so much as a wave, he's off for his shift at the thread factory, where I've just returned from. Someone has to be home at all times; we live in a seedy neighborhood. And Grandpa wouldn't be much help against any burglars; his memory is so shot that every other day he thinks he's in the Hunger Games. Although the reasoning behind this is lost to me, as he was never even in the Games in the first place.
"Drink your water, Grandpa," I say gently, handing him a plastic cup so it doesn't break when he inevitable throws it.
"Did you poison this, you bitch?"
"No, Grandpa. We're in our living room in District eight. I'm your grandson. It's just water."
"…I know that," he says in embarrassment, having returned momentarily to the real world. But within moments he's becomes lost in his mind once more, and he angrily throws the plastic cup at my head, spilling water all over the carpet. "I thought you were my ally! How could you tell the careers where I was hiding?"
"Okay, Grandpa, I'm taking you to the reapings now." I help him out of his armchair and into the ratty old wheelchair we picked up at the hospital the last time Grandpa stabbed Dad for being a career. I wheel Grandpa to the reapings in what he refers to as the 'electric chair.'
"For our male tribute… Niels Valence!"
I pause in my tracks, embarrassed at being caught coming in late and terrified of taking my hands off of Grandpa's wheelchair. A peacekeeper shoves me toward the stage, leaving my grandpa behind to fend for himself. My feet drag me forward, but my brain seems to lag behind.
"And our female tribute is… Desdemona Moor!"
A small Spanish girl is taken from the 13-year-olds' section and pushed to the stage. She climbs the steps like a doomed prisoner, her entire body shaking. We're forced to shake hands, and as we do so she whispers something nervously under her breath.
"No me gusta."
I'm not familiar with the meaning of this saying, or even the language, but fear is universal and I catch it in her voice.
The goodbye room is small and comfortable, yet empty. My only visitor is Grandpa, who is wheeled in by a peacekeeper that he keeps referring to as President Snow.
"And I'm telling you, Mr. President, I fought honorably for you in my Games. You're a damn good man, and I always have my eyes peeled out for rebels. In fact, my granddaughter, Nelly, has been trying to poison me for years. She knows how high I am on the Panem hierarchy. That rebel should be whipped and executed, I'm telling you."
I cough loudly and Grandpa stares at me in surprise, as if he hadn't realized I was here.
"Nelly! I didn't see you there. Have you been spying on me?"
The peacekeeper leaves with an annoyed grunt, as if being a wheelchair-pusher is below him. Grandpa stares at the window for a moment before wheeling himself over to me.
"Listen, Nelson," he says quietly. "Don't let them take your memory. That's the worst thing you can lose. Even worse than losing a friend or a lover. Don't ever give them your memory, because they can't take it unless you let them. Don't ever let anyone touch your memory. It's the most valuable thing you own."
"Okay, Grandpa," I whisper back, afraid that any loud voice might scare away his momentary sanity.
"And one more thing. If you ever try to poison my water again I'll slit your throat, you little bitch."
"Will do, Gramps."
District 9
June Leonardo, 17
The hunting grounds are always open in District 9.
I string an arrow across my bow and wait patiently for my prey to cease moving. The deer lifts its head and stares directly into my eyes.
Kill it, you little sissy.
Don't kill it. It's a harmless animal.
You're a baby if you don't do this. Let the arrow go.
I let the arrow fly; when choosing between the competing voices in my head, I generally go with the devil. My arrow sings through the distance between my prey and I, sinking into the deer's flesh within the span of a few seconds.
Nice shot.
Are you kidding me? You nearly missed. Pathetic.
"June? June!" I turn my head to face my hunting partner, Calvin. He scrambles forward and snatches the deer's legs. "You spaced out again, man."
"Sorry," I murmur as he carries our kill to the butcher's. There is an unchangeable hierarchy in District 9: there are those who hunt, and those who carry. Calvin will forever be a carrier, I the hunter. That's simply how it is. I will get the lion's share of our earnings, and Calvin will receive a few coins to rub together for his trouble.
"We've got to hurry, dude," Calvin continues, grunting under the weight of the deer. "Reaping day."
Volunteer.
Don't volunteer!
Volunteer!
"Did you hear me?"
"Huh?" I spin my head to look at Calvin again.
"I said, I've got the deer. You go the reapings. No sense in both of us getting whipped for being late."
"You're the best, Calvin." I clap him happily on the back and take off for the district square.
Haley Jay, 12
"Are you alright?" I ask the little girl in front of me. Her knee is scraped up and bleeding.
"I tripped on my way here," she sniffles.
"Here. Let me help. I've got some bandages in my coat pocket." I ruffle through the various items in my coat before pulling out some adhesive bandages and helping the girl dress her minor wound.
"Thanks," she says shyly.
"No problem." I give her a warm smile.
Turning my eyes back to the stage, I notice a tall boy standing beside the announcer: the male tribute. Which means the girls are next. My stomach fills with butterflies, but I know the chances of my name being picked are slim.
"Haley Jay!" the announcer chirps.
My feet walk of their own accord, and the only thing I can think as I ascend the stage is this: I'm glad it was me, and not any of the other girls in District 9.
District 10
Dolly, 16
"Hey, it's the freak show!"
"Look everybody – is it a girl or a boy? Nobody knows!"
"And there's Ghost Boy!"
The popular kids laugh and point, whispering cruel jokes to each other as we pass. I stand tall, sticking my chin out as we pass the crowd; Charles hides behind me, his albino skin glowing in the sunlight.
"Hey, Charles, how are you doing today?" a beautiful girl asks him, obviously an attempt to get him to say something inappropriate, as he is prone to do without realizing or understanding why it causes laughter and weird glances from the other children.
"Leave him alone," I command, towering over the twig beneath me. The girl raises her eyebrows and laughs at me until I take a step closer, at which point she nervously backs up.
"Whatever," she giggles uncertainly, waiting to see how angry I'll get.
But I simply keep walking; today is reaping day, and I have no time for bullies. Charles and I walk the two miles to my house and around to the fields spanning the countryside. One of my father's horses trots up to us, and Charles happily pets the beast. I leave my friend with the animals as I race upstairs to change into my reaping outfit: a bright pink dress and ballerina flats that greatly contrast my large feet. I heap on the makeup, hoping to make myself look prettier and more girly – fake eyelashes, blue eye shadow, pink lipstick. My hair remains in two pigtails, and I place as much jewelry as I can find on my body.
I step back to admire my work, and gasp. I look like a cross-dressing man. Tears sting my eyes, and the cruel comments of my classmates echo in my ears.
Is it a girl or boy? Nobody knows!
Freak!
That's the worst one: freak. I am not a circus freak; I am not someone to be laughed at. I am a girl with feelings; I am a human being. No matter what anyway says, words do hurt – they are, and have always been, the most painful weapon you could ever encounter.
"Dolly!" my mother calls. "Dolly, I've made lunch for you and your friend!"
No matter how often Charles comes over, my mother refuses to call him by his name. This is her way of politely refusing to acknowledge him. It is the same as taking your younger sibling to a party because your parents forced you to; the sibling can look at others, they can engage in small talk, but they may not be friends with your friends, and they may not use their name. I imagine this is the real reason Cain hated Abel; it had little to do with the isolated incident that everyone always states. It's all about consistently knocking someone down. Who is that kid? That's Abel's brother. Abel's brother, who is so much less important that he does not even worthy of his own name; he only exists in relation to Abel. He is subhuman, for no other reason than that someone, somewhere, decided that this little boy was not as good as all of the other little boys.
Or perhaps I am projecting.
"Oh!" my mother gasps, her hand flying over her mouth as I descend the stairs. This moment, this should have been a good one: the beautiful daughter rounding the banister, the proud mother tearing up because of what a lovely young woman her kin has become. But instead, tears gather in my mother's eyes because of how much pain it causes her to see me, the ugly beast she has the misfortune to call her own. "Dolly, you look… pretty."
I smile at her as though everything is okay, as though I am unaware of how much she's struggling not to sob. And then I run out the door, ignoring her thoughtful lunch and charging to our barn, the only place in the world where I am not the ugliest creature around.
Dara, 12
The slaughterhouse is roaring when I arrive. I see my parents right there in the thick of things, throwing levers that carry doomed animals directly into the belly of the beast. Screams, grunts, and terrified snorts are emitted by the animals that hang upside down, their back legs tied to a conveyor belt on the ceiling by tight, uncomfortable ropes.
A refreshing spray of blood hits my clothing as I slip around the animals and machines; I quiver in excitement. Finally, I find what I'm looking for: the extractor. I snatch the extractor, which is really just a large set of pliers, and run out of the slaughterhouse.
I charge down the alleyway closest to the slaughterhouse and past the tightly packed, dilapidated houses of my neighborhood. Chain link fences, cardboard windows, and broken glass scattered in the streets: this is my home. And here amongst the chaos, I thrive.
An over-grazed wasteland lies a few yards past my neighborhood; I anxiously race to my wonderful lair of torture. In my coat is a writhing snake; I slowly lift the menacing creature out and drop him on the ground, quickly stepping down on his body. Something in his slippery snakey skin snaps, and a delightful shiver of satisfaction runs up my spine. The snake can no longer move, and I know that it's time to perform my experiment, while the snake is still able to feel the pain.
I bend to the ground and pry the snake's mouth open with one hand, inserting the extractor with the other. Latching the extractor onto a prominent fang, I give a laudable yank. There's a popping noise as the fang comes out, after some struggling; the snake writhes in the ground, and I delight in how much pain I am capable of causing the thing.
My laughter echoes off the dead trees around me as I race back home, the snake fang clenched tightly, victoriously, in my fist.
I wait for the gang in our meeting place: the sidewalk outside the slaughterhouse, so that whoever is forced to stand there impatiently until the others arrive can at least be entertained by the sound of tortured and dying animals. When I arrive, the entire gang is assembled, waiting for their leader. That's me, despite the fact that I'm the youngest one of us.
Brutus, Henry, Agam, and Dudley stand together, profoundly excited for the reapings.
"Dude, I can't wait to see who gets picked," Agam tells us.
"The looks on their faces will be priceless!" Brutus chimes in.
"Yeah, yeah," I say, waving my hand disinterestedly at my gang. "It'll be great. But there's still time to teach a kid a lesson first."
The boys grin, and we all yank out our black masks; the masks make me feel as though we're a rough gang of cowboys, or perhaps desperados. The reason I made them, however, was to ensure our anonymity: nobody knows, although I daresay they suspect, that we are the culprits behind so many beatings in District 10.
We wait outside the library for several minutes before a nerd walks out. Brutus and Agam jump the kid and drag him behind the library, where we can beat him up behind the dumpsters. I start with a little fancy fist-work, and then move on to kicking. By the time the boy has been sufficiently beaten, it's nearly time for the reapings. The gang eggs me on as I leave our official mark on the kid: a large 'X' sliced onto the back of his hand.
It's the best kind of scar: a permanent one.
Dolly, 16
Charles and I are forced to separate at the reapings, but I tell him to wait for me so that I can walk him home safely afterward.
And then the festivities begin.
A young boy, Dara O'Gaur, is reaped first. He stands upon the stage, petrified, staring at a group of four other boys as if he expects them to volunteer for them. None of them so much as blink.
It's a pity, too, because Dara is a sweet-looking little boy, and he gives off the impression of being an angel. Of all people, he certainly doesn't deserve this.
"Dolly Domaine!"
And neither do I.
It's not until Charles visits me in the goodbye room that the full gravity of the situation starts to hit me: who will take care of him when I'm gone? But Charles, my best friend in the whole world, pulls through for me.
He hands me my token. He says that he made it for me. It's a bracelet made of fabric, nothing out of the ordinary, with four white ducklings stitched into the design. And then, all alone, is one little black duckling, and I understand immediately what this bracelet means.
Charles and I, we are black ducklings among the white.
I tie it lovingly around my wrist and hug my friend goodbye.
District 11
Harper, 14
Reed, my older brother, yells at me from across the field. I follow his voice to the blueberry section, where he's watching a tall, Native-looking boy chop down a tree.
"What is it?" I ask Reed.
"They're clearing that field. What do you think is going on?"
"They're expanding," I gulp. That's never good; more jobs means more children pulled from school to tend the fields. And that means that our younger siblings are going to be out here in the hot sun, losing out on their education just as we are, very soon.
The tall boy by the tree wields a lethal-looking axe with his strong arms. His dark hair falls halfway down his bronze, shirtless back, and a small braid on the left side of his face has a feather entwined in it. Reed and I watch as the boy takes down our beloved trees.
"Forget it," Reed tells me soothingly. "Let's just go to the reapings, Harper."
I nod, spinning around in my yellow dress to follow my brother.
Bidzill, 17
Two small children watch me work, and I find it quite unnerving; they seem oblivious to the fact that I can clearly see them staring at me. Finally, they leave, and it is only then that I remember the reapings I'm supposed to be attending.
With a swift, final chop, I fell the tree. One down, only a few hundred to go. I place the axe carefully beside the horizontal tree, positive that I'll be back to finish the job later. Quickly, I sprint home to check on my mother, and then I'm off for the reapings.
If it weren't for me, I honestly don't know what my mother would do. No income, no family, no nothing. I am her world.
"Harper Cosecha!"
A small girl in a pretty yellow dress screams as the peacekeepers tear her away from her brother, who desperately reaches out his hand for her. I bristle at that; if I had to choose the worst thing about the Games, it would be the way families are torn apart without any warning, without any reason.
"Bidzill Farfel!"
And as quickly as a swift axe chopping wood, my family is split in half.
District 12
Laciel, 18
"Missy, it's almost time for the reapings," I tell the young girl. "Let's go home and get you cleaned up."
She happily skips after me, and I lovingly take her hand. Luke greets as at the door. At the sight of my twin, my heart once again fills with wonder at the thought of him being pulled from that arena of death and carried back home to me.
"You ready for the reapings?" I ask him brightly.
"I have to be a mentor this year," he tells me solemnly, the shadows of the past dancing across his face.
"There's no pressure, Luke. No way you could do worse than Haymitch."
Missy giggles at the mention of Haymitch's name. Every child in District 12 knows Haymitch as the 'silly fat man.'
"Oh, by the way," I add quickly. "Missy and I are going to see Arthur before the reapings, so don't wait up."
Luke's face turns sour.
"Arthur," he sneers. "You spend two much time with him."
"He's my boyfriend, Lukey," I sing as I tie Missy's hair in sweet pigtails.
"For now."
"Don't be a grouch."
"Whatever. I'm heading over to the reapings now. Make sure Laciel doesn't do anything stupid, Missy." Luke gives Missy a quick hug.
"Bye, Lukey!" Missy calls as he walks out of our mansion.
Poor Missy. Poor Luke. Daryl Rivers was Luke's best friend, ever since kindergarten. When Daryl died in the Games two years ago, when the blind kid from District 6 won, Wesley or something similar, Luke was devastated. And poor Missy, losing her big brother so shortly after her father passed away.
No one knows what killed Missy and Daryl's mother a few months ago, but the general consensus is grief. Which is something I've never understood; grief is not a sickness. It is a state of mind. How could you allow any amount of sadness to separate you from your daughter?
After Luke won last year, things began to look up. We were given a house in the Victor Village, which had previously only been occupied by Haymitch. I still can't quite grasp why there are so many empty mansions sitting out here while the rest of District 12 lives in squalor, but I suppose I should be more grateful.
Missy moved in with us after her mother passed, and for the first time in my life I feel… lucky. After all, all of Panem is referring to my brother as Lucky Luke nowadays. But I know, deep inside, that this will not last; we are not a lucky family. We never have been. And eventually our happiness is bound to be snatched away again.
"Come on, Laciel!" Missy calls excitedly from the front door. "Arthur's waiting!"
She was six when her brother died, and now she's grown into a lively eight-year-old. I only wish Daryl could see her now.
"All right, sweetie!" I tell her, taking her hand and leading her to the blacksmith's.
"Arthur!" Missy screams, running around the shop. "Arthur, we're here!"
"Is that Miss Missy?" Arthur asks.
"It's me, Arthur!"
"You know, I have a present for you." Arthur reaches a hand into his apron and pulls out a necklace with a silver pendant bearing the name 'Missy.' Missy squeals as I clasp it around her neck.
"Thank you, Arthur!"
"Did you make that?" I ask, impressed.
"I make jewelry all the time," Arthur answers casually.
"You've never made anything for me."
"Yeah, I generally only give presents to people I like, Lacy." With a smile, he grabs me around the waist and kisses me gently.
If anyone else ever dared to call me Lacy, I would sock them right across the face. But I like the way it sounds on Arthur's tongue.
"You're a jerk," I laugh, shoving him away. "So, how much longer until you're ready to be an actual blacksmith?"
"I am an actual blacksmith."
"You're a blacksmith's apprentice, Artie."
"The end of this year's Games."
"Really?"
"The blacksmith's shop is mine as soon as the Games end," Arthur tells me proudly.
I hug him happily; it's no easy feat to avoid the mines in District 12, and I couldn't be more excited for Arthur.
He's always been a quiet boy, prone to being picked on at school, and occasionally I stood up for him when we were younger. But we never talked to each other; we just didn't run in the same circles. It wasn't until last year, when Luke entered the Games, that we really got to know each other. He stopped by every day to check on Missy, my mother, and I. Arthur's a sweet boy. He's not a genius; he's the athletic equivalent of a middle-school boy; he's certainly not Mr. Popular. But he's sweet. And I like that.
We're both eighteen now, and in District 12 that means it's time to get married and have enough kids to earn a steady income from the mines. Not that I'm interested in the whole raising children thing; I have Missy to take care of, and our family no longer has any financial trouble, thanks to Luke. But I'd still like to be Arthur's wife. Doesn't every girl want that? The blacksmith's wife. Arthur and Laciel. I can't think of anything else I'd like to do with my life.
"We'd better go," Arthur interrupts my thoughts. "Don't want to be late for the reapings."
This is our final year of eligibility, and it brings relief. Finally, an end to the terror. Of course, it will all roll around again in a few years when Missy is eligible, but at least we'll get a break.
I leave Missy in the audience with my mother and head to my section.
"Pawl Temple!"
A young boy, shaking like a leaf, climbs the stage and stares at the crowd with wide, petrified eyes. There's a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach; first Daryl, then Luke, now this poor boy. And then I do my yearly prayer: not my family. Not my family. Not my family.
"Laciel Eve!"
For a moment, I'm sure that it's a joke. What a cruel twist of fate – they had Lucky Luke last year, and now they want his twin. And the best part? My twin brother will be my mentor.
Of course, it's too perfect to be a coincidence. No, this was planned. The reapings were rigged. I can just imagine the dramatic gasps and delightful squeals of the Capitol audience as they watch the drama unfolding before them. No matter how cheated I feel, that is one truth that I cannot deny: it makes for great entertainment.
My feet seem to move themselves. Before I even realize that I'm moving, I find myself standing on the stage next to little Pawl Temple. Arthur's anguished face stares at me from the crowd; Missy is bawling. But Luke's face is the worst: absolute betrayal. How could they? How? Was one Eve child not enough?
As I try to remember how to breath, my brother shoves his way through the crowd and races onstage next to me; he whispers forcefully at the announcer. There must be a mistake, he insists. This is not possible. I don't care what the slip of paper says, just call a different name. Ruin a different family.
"Luke!" I hiss. "Don't do this. Don't make them mad."
He turns, suddenly aware of the cameras watching his every move.
I nearly cry when Missy hugs me and tearfully says goodbye. But I manage to hold it in, for her. Arthur is next, and he seems incapable of doing anything but staring at me in shock, his face reflecting a profound loss. I'm not dead yet, I want to tell him.
"Laciel, just… just take this, okay? Promise me you'll wear it." He hands me a ring.
"What is this?" I ask slowly.
"I've been saving it."
"For when?"
"For the right moment. But I guess this is the best I'm gonna get."
"…It's beautiful. I can't believe you made this. You're going to be the best blacksmith this district has ever seen." My voice cracks, and I focus on slipping the ring onto my finger so that I don't have to stare at Arthur, because I know that if I do I won't be able to keep myself from crying any longer.
"Laciel, I love you."
"Arthur, I'm going to wear this now. But when I get back, I expect you to ask me properly."
He stares at me with a look of pure tragedy, and I realize that he doesn't expect me to come back at all.
Tributes:
District 1:
Iskandar Samir, 18
Tammy Harding
District 2:
Katerina, 17
Duval, 16
District 3:
Remi, 17
Alise, 14
District 4:
Virdiana "Vi"
Avenaye Darwin, 17
District 5:
Jango, 17
Madelyn, 17
District 6:
Elisa, 17
Osmium, 16
District 7:
Daniel, 17
Aibileen "Abe" Jude, 16
District 8:
Niels Valence, 15
District 9:
June Leonardo, 17
Haley Jay, 12
District 10:
Dolly, 16
Dara, 12
District 11:
Harper, 14
Bidzill, 17
District 12:
Laciel Eve, 18
Pawl Temple, 12
