It had been a while since I had driven in Papa's car, even longer since I'd been through this area. It must have been the last Reaping now that I thought about it. There were times that I'd driven here to get to District 4's Capital, Mercado, once for to go to a special doctor when I got my ear infection at eight, another to go to a celebratory dinner for Papa and his company when I was fourteen but besides those and a few other spotted trips Mama and I really only went to Mercado annually for the Reaping. Papa went more and could relax as he drove, memorizing the twisted short cuts and routes. I mostly watched out the windows as we traveled through the small markets and humbler areas of Burbs. It must have been about two months ago since I was in the car, when Papa drove me to another "better" shopping center for my birthday. I remember I finally got to sit in the front (Mama had had to go to a hair appointment) and watch the streets like Papa did when he drove. I made him promise me on the way that he would teach me to drive his car also, just for the fun of it. Reluctantly he agreed and that promise far exceeded my excitement for the "chic" new center or any of the dresses he'd bought me there. We hadn't gotten the chance to have our lesson yet (apparently the supply of wheat in District 5 had gone down drastically due to a frost they had experienced earlier this month, Papa had been frantically shipping them a special fertilizer sent from The Capitol all month, apparently sending it by boat was much cheaper then by train and so Papa and his company were booming) but I knew he'd keep his end of the bargain. He wouldn't dare to cross me, I thought as I smirked out the window.
How impressive would I be, not only would I be able to travel by boat but also by land as well now. Though I of course understood that there would be very little reason for me to ever need to drive just having the skill was good enough. I thought maybe I'd ask his to teach me, I wasn't sure if I'd be able to learn in one lesson or if it would take multiple, next week on Saturday. It was forecasted to be blazing that day and I was reluctant to leave the cool comfort of my home as well as well as annoyed that I would assumingly be cooped up in my room all day. Shade didn't help much on days like those when the sun beat down on you so hard just stepping outside sent beads of sticky sweat down your back. Ugh. Today was much nicer, only seventy-eight, slightly cool for late summer. Others were taking advantage of the nice weather outside as they walked there way to Mercado. Small groups of girls held hands and jabbered, there mothers a few steps behind having there own conversations. Boys rode their bikes together in packs. There were a few strays, not many people headed out this early, with the sun still rising, but I considered them the smarter ones. God forbid you be late, then the peacekeepers would really get you then. I'd never experienced their wrath first hand, merely smiling at them as Mama and Papa trained me to do when I was younger, but I'd heard stories…. That's why we always drove. Mama wouldn't have had it any other way mind you (the sun caused wrinkles apparently and god knows she gotten enough in her youth) and the three-hour walk to Mercado was out of the question anyway. I don't think I would really mind, but then again I'd never had to take it. I watched more groups as they walked on past.
I noticed, when we stopped at a light, a younger boy holding the hand of his mother, his eyes looked red and she kept rubbing his nest of brown curls in comfort. Twelve. Oh that magical year, I thought as I sighed. We drove on and I watched as the crying boy and his mother eventually went out of sight. Two smaller blobs in the sun, the wind from the ocean whipping their hair back, and then a building as we turned left carrying on our own way. There were more groups, I purposely watched for teenagers now, especially the younger ones. See if I could catch a tear, even shudder. There were many a nervous looks and frantic whispers but I didn't spy any other crying.
I hadn't cried my first year either, District 4 was a huge district, third largest behind 5 and 11, and plus, there was almost always at least one volunteer. Still, this hadn't stopped my heart from skipping regularly or my breath from gasping as I was hurried to my seat and the young man had called the girls name that year. It had been Constantine. Constantine something, I couldn't remember, but I do recall the blood draining from my face as I heard the hard "C" sound and knew- just knew- he was going to finish with "ora". Cora. Id even thought I'd heard it but then the blood stopped gushing behind my ears and I heard the whispers of "Constantine", "Constantine" around me. Some in questioning, some in relief. I let out a huge sigh then and a slightly older girl to my right had smirked down at me knowingly. My Mama had hugged me proudly and quickly after that, a rare occurrence, as if I'd done something honorable by not getting picked. The moment ended quickly though she then let go of me and, shooting back up, flattened her top and proclaimed she needed a drink. As she turned Papa had winked at me and I'd beamed. It had been so beautifully relaxing then. The scariness was over, I'd survived, the next Reaping was a whole year away, that seemed like ages back then. Since then I've learned not to be so worried about the Reaping. Of course every person in that building holds their breath (excitement, worry, anticipation, horror) as the names are being called but since there in, literally, a one in a million chance Cora Gil will ever be called I don't usually find myself dreading the pearly white Justice Building nearly as much as I did in years past. Plus after this year there is just one more and then I'm officially a survivor. I spend the rest of the car ride watching the humble quite houses grow more and more extravagant as we head closer to the heart of District 4. Mama and Papa discuss something but I don't listen to them, if Mama's talking it mustn't be of much importance anyway.
Mercado is a very modern village of District 4 and is designed to take after the fashionable style of The Capitol. It's pristine and glamorous and while I used to gawk at its marvel when I was younger I find myself thinking the whole thing seems so unnatural to the lifestyle of District 4 now. I have never been alive so long as to experience the weather reach below sixty degrees and yet the locals here strut down the streets in furs. They walk on heels that make them look like swamp birds, they coat there faces with thick make up that must be unsweatable in the heat of the day which beats down on them. And while the colors usually portrayed around the streets and worn by the people do reflect that of the see and local flowers it all seems a little too much. I more then anyone else can appreciate fashion. I love glancing through magazines my mother discards after studying, I understand the importance of the way one presents themselves to the world, how they choose to have other view them throughout there day, what inspires and moves them. Yet the people here just seem like wannabes of the Capitols own unique designs. I watch them and wish District 4 could have its own identity besides fishing. But then again, I think solemnly, that would be besides the point. They don't want any originals do they? New ideas are dangerous. It is dangerous to be right when your government is wrong. I touch my pointer finger to my collarbone and think about that.
We arrive at the hotel Mama wanted to stay at this year. If we had ever stayed here I do not recall it. She gets out of the car, all in a flutter; she has done her makeup in the way she only does it when she's here, with her eyelids bright blue and her lips a softer grey. Her face is patted down with a thin layer of powder. I've gotten used to this, she says it's the only time she gets to dress how she wants to, I think that's garbage as she has absolutely every right to dress this way in Burbs. She'd be the only one though. Most women there settle for simple navy eyeliner and pastel lip balm. She just wants to be one of the crowd I suppose.
We wash up in the hotel, it's nice, I have my own room though I share a bathroom with Mama and Papa. That's fine as long as I keep my things in my room, I don't think I'd be able to find them under the mountains of makeup and wigs displayed on the counter and under the sink. It's only for two days though.
Because the Reaping is at 3:30 and it is only 11:00 now the three of us head out to a restaurant one of Mama's friends said she just "would die without experiencing". My dad folds under her will when Mama demands he wear sparkling belt and shoes, as well as a matching earing.
"It's so trendy Bien, really you should let me dress you up more often"
He refrains from stating that she does buy most of his clothes as well as minimal makeup. Mostly it just includes a nice silk down shirt and casual pants ("I still spend most of my day in the boat yard honey") but there is the occasional diamond studded pants or lavender vest. He doesn't complain, I honestly don't think he cares. I do though, and even if I did enjoy the cookie cutter clothes Mama insists she buys for me I still wouldn't wear them, even if it were simply out of spite.
"Cora please, please it's a nice occasion we are going to the Reaping directly after lunch. Please just a hint of hair dye"
"I don't want any"
"Oh but your eyes it will accent them so well!"
"No Mama"
"Fine then, a wig. It's less permanent. I think I brought my long green one with-"
"Mama! No, I said no. I'm not going to dress up in a costume for you!"
"Cora! It is not-"
"Genevieve" Papa simply shakes his head at her and she realizes she will not get her way with me. We may be uncommonly wealthy and important in Burbs but here we are of average income, something she feels is shameful and tries to cover up. I refuse to fall into this and resign to adding a simple silver dot to the corner of each eye along with painting the eye lashes black. I wear a nice white lace dress that shows my arms, nothing different then I'd wear to a fancy lunch in Burbs. My hair I twist in an assortment of braids of the hairline of my head, the rest falls across my back and over my left shoulder. Mama pouts and throws a small tantrum, and Papa frowns at my stubbornness, which has caused her distress. I don't budge though, I find stubbornness to be a good quality, and we head to the restaurant on foot, it is not but ten minutes away. Mama's parcel could easily cover us three it is so big and obnoxious. I find myself walking a few steps behind her so people won't associate us together. I think she does the same, purposely rushing herself and Papa down the sidewalks crowded with glamorous strangers.
The restaurant is in fact very lovely. I order the mussels, Papa the clam chowder and Mama, with her nose high in the air, gets the blue dolphin. I glare at her, Papa sighs to himself. I wonder if he's worried about the cost. We do not have much time to waste as we leave the restaurant at 2:50 yet the three of us do not initially head to the Justice Building. I think subconsciously we are trying to avoid it. Even if we know we cant forever. After a while we do start making are way over along with the other crowds of people walking the same direction, like magnets I studied as a third grader in school, all being drawn towards the same place. By the time we do reach the gates of the Justice Building we are swarmed into a pack of hundreds of other people. Honestly there is no way to avoid this no matter what time one should arrive here. I remember again my first time being separated from my parents instead of sitting with them in their designated seats, which tower over the small stage. That year had been the first time I had been one of those children to be honored with the position to sit in front of the stage with over fifteen thousand other twelve through eighteen year olds and watch the names being called from ground level. I remember how the bleachers had surrounded me making me feel as though every eye was on me. Almost everyone in all of District 4 was there that day, as they were every year, to hear them call Constantine's name. She had walked up slowly to the stage taking almost five whole minutes from her spot in the way, way back. The cameras had abandoned the face of the District 4 host that year to study her. She had not cried but her face had been white as paper, her eyes crystal blue as she slowly inched her way to the stage. Ever eye on her. There had been no volunteer for her that year. When the boy had been called an eighteen year old tall young man had honorably taken his place. His frame had dwarfed Constantine's from where the cameras showed them next to each other on that stage. He had come in 5th place that year, she had died the first day. I cried when they showed her face in the night sky of the arena, they had also showed a small clip of her brother as well as he collapsed in tears. That had been five years ago from this day that they had called her up to risk her life, to die.
I walked into the building and through the archways leading to the thousands of red cushioned chairs splayed out across the area. I was not sure how each of the other districts arranged their meeting but over twenty years ago the Mayor of that time had decided, to cause less confusion that each possible tribute should be assigned a seat based on the village in District 4 they lived in. I myself agreed that this was a wise idea, along with the other declaration to provide chairs made fifty years ago. With the amount of people living in District 4 it really was necessary so for the last couple of years I had been directed, after showing my ticket, to the far left side, slightly towards the front. Being around familiar faces was comforting, I will admit, but also the familiarity of the view from the stage (about 200 yards away) as well as the constant gigantic screen that allowed me to watch the Reaping that truly calmed me. It was the same as it had been every year. This time I was assigned a seat in the Burb swarm of girls that was only ten or fifteen seats from the left edge of the possible tribute area. I had never been that close the edge before yet I still was not much fazed. I spotted Nadia Kipps to my right and waved happily as we made eye contact. She was an older girl in our school choir, sweet enough for me to like. After searching a little longer I noticed Cordelia Dime a couple of rows ahead of me who was my "Buddy" entering her first year of Advanced Schooling last year. She had been very quite. There were a couple of other faces that I spotted and recognized from classes, girls I knew from walking through the courtyard at school, or other who went to the same marina as my family, some who's fathers worked for mine at the boat yard. I smiled at a few, all of them smiled back. The Reaping had a way of doing that, bringing everyone together. It was ironic really. I had just spotted one of my good friends Grifith a few rows up and to my right when the voice of a young man spoke confidently through his mike on the stage. The Mayor and other officials as well as the past District 4 living Victors had already taken there places one the stage and the crowd had instantly hushed, almost eerily, eyes turning to the screens. I glanced at Grifith one more time hopping to catch her eye but reluctantly drew them away when I saw she was set on watching our hosts Jonah Thrice speak. He looked just as "fabulous" as every other local of Mercado. From the screen I could see his eyes where painted with long swirls of black paint ribboning down his cheeks. His goatee was trimmed at pointed, dyed a pinkish red and as he gestured to his left, signaling the Panem Anthem, I saw that his hands were covered in striking red gloves. His overall appearance strikingly resembled a lobster. Whether he had done this on purpose or not had no bother over the smile that quickly spread over my face. I stood with that smile as the music played and I honored my country and The Games. I watched him on the screen, his grin was even wider then mine. He had kept his position as District 4 host, an honor as we were an extremely vast and important district to Panem's overall existent. We also had the third most Victors living. There were four. Three men and one woman. Sometimes I liked to watch them as a tribute was called, they never smiled happily like the host did.