Reaping Day

Could it really be that time of year again? Already, it was the day of the reaping. I sigh as I remember that I have 34 slips of paper with my name on them. Nine of them were mandatory, and 25 others in exchange for tesserae for my family. My younger sister, Lavender, has signed up for tesserae as well, despite my protests. Her first year of the reaping, and she already has six entries. I'm worried, though my fears seem irrational.

There are thousands of children in the district that are eligible for the reaping, and we are only two. It's unlikely we'll even make it through the preliminary drawing that precedes the actual reaping. District 7's population is huge, despite the fact that the rebellion now called the Dark Days only happened five years ago. Five years since the Dark Days. Four years since my mother died. Three years since my first entry. Two tributes from each district. And ultimately, one survivor.

Oh, how we despise the Capitol. Leaving us to starve while they live the lives of kings. Forcing us to treat these death sentences as a holiday. I sigh again, knowing that another rebellion at this point is impossible and suicidal. Everybody hates the Capitol, but we are too weak to protest. The Peacekeepers would crush us all like bugs.

"Aera, wake up. Time to get ready," I hear someone say. It's Mason, my ten year old brother. "You know what day it is."

"All right," I say. I drag myself out of bed and wake up Lavender, who is still asleep. "Come on, you. Time to get ready for the big event." I try to sound sarcastic, but I come off as weary.

We spend the next few hours preparing ourselves for the reaping. Lavender chooses a button-up blouse that's the same color as the flower she was named for and a simple black skirt. I choose a dark blue dress adorned with sequins that shine like stars. I'll be pretty for the Capitol, I think.

Lavender and I leave for the town square two hours early to take our places for the preliminary drawing, which determines who gets to go to the actual reaping. Three hundred names are chosen from each age group to go to the reaping. In the end, there are 2100 potential tributes. We take our places, and the drawing begins.

We stand in an area designated for the possible tributes, sectioned off by age. They start the preliminaries with the twelve year olds. I watch my sister, listening to the names being called, hoping that the name Lavender Mikena isn't one of them. Luckily, it isn't. Briefly reassured, I pay no attention to the thirteen and fourteen year olds being chosen. When they start calling the names of the fifteen year olds, I stand alert, knowing I could be called at any time. After about fifty names, I hear it: "Aera Mikena". I'm not surprised since this is the third year in a row I've gone to the reaping.

Another two hours pass as the officials call the names in the sixteen to eighteen age groups. Finally, time for the reaping. I look in the sky and figure it to be about two. Those of us that have been chosen for the reaping are moved to the front of the Justice Building, where a platform has been set up for the reaping. It's always laid out the same: A large television screen in the back, a podium in front, the two glass balls containing the names of the males and females on one side, the chairs of the mayor and the district escort on the other, and lights and cameras surrounding the entire thing.

The mayor takes his place at the podium and recites the Treaty of Treason and the history of Panem. Then Angora Solari, District 7's escort, takes the stage. As usual, she's dressed in the standard Capitol fashions. Sky blue hair piled high on her head adorned with golden ladybugs, spring green pantsuit and heels, metallic makeup and nail polish, and all kinds of jewelry practically dripping all over her. To be honest, she looks more normal to us than most capitol people do. On our television at home, I've seen people with outlandish tattoos covering them, others who have dyed their skin, and still others that actually have gems embedded in their skin.

This woman irritates me. Why must all the Capitol citizens be so strange and infuriating? Her accent makes her almost impossible to understand with their clipped vowels and hissed S's, and her perpetual enthusiasm is unbearable. We are being chosen to die, how can anyone be happy about that? She's from the Capitol; they treat it like a competition, a holiday. Of course she's happy about it.

"It's a pleasure to be here once again in District 7," she trills. "Well, it's that time of year again! Time for the reaping!" She sounds overjoyed, giggling as she walks over to the glass ball containing the names of the girls and says, "Ladies first!" She spins it for a few moments before reaching inside and coming out with a slip. She reads to the crowd, "Aera Mikena!"

What? Did she really call Aera Mikena? Did she really call me? I'm brought back to my senses as I register the fact that someone is holding on to my arm. I turn to whoever is holding me and find that it's Rose Chamberlain, one of my childhood friends. She's crying as she pulls me in for a quick hug before nudging me gently towards the stage. As I take my place on the stage front, Angora shakes my hand, followed by the mayor.

I look past the crowd to the hills where my youngest sister, Ruby, and our mother are buried. My mother died in the rebellion, murdered by the Capitol puppets called Peacekeepers. Ruby died mere days after I signed for the tesserae. She was ill with a fever for some time before that. The day I signed for tesserae, she wouldn't wake up. She never regained consciousness until she died. None of the district doctors knew what she had. I focus on that spot and say my final goodbyes to them in my head. I'll join you soon.

Angora scuttles over to the glass ball containing the boys' names and pulls out a slip. She flattens the paper and reads out, "Hunter Romani!"

Of all people, Hunter is chosen to be my district partner? I cringe inside. Hunter is one of my best friends, and my closest confidant. I don't think I'd be able to kill him if I had to. I know he's scared despite the lack of emotion on his face. The fear in his hazel eyes is well concealed, but apparent to me. Perhaps it's because I've known him that long. I honestly hope that someone else will kill him before I have to. He slowly makes his way up the stage to take his place by my side.

Bright and bubbly as ever, Angora says, "All right tributes, time to shake hands." As we do, she turns back to the crowd and warbles, "Happy Hunger Games!" Then she faces us again and says, "And may the odds be ever in your favor!"

Honestly, must that woman shriek everything she says?