"It's over," Ryder tells me, face buried in his hands. "Yesterday, the officials signed the Treaty of Treason."
I nearly fall out of my chair when he says this. The round wooden table wobbles as I barely save myself from keeling over right here in my kitchen. "You're kidding me."
He raises his tear-streaked face from his hands. I've always been the only person he could cry around—he is known for his seemingly emotionless temperament towards life, but I know it's all been a front ever since his parents died last year while aiding the Rebellion. He has no compassion; the only thing he's loved since his parents were publically executed on television for inciting a riot here in District 3 is the Rebellion. And now, even that is taken from him.
"We didn't even get over the freaking mountains!" He cries, assaulting the freshly brewed cup of tea I made for him. The brown liquid creeps towards me as he rises from his chair, sending it flying back onto the floor. "It's a lost cause. I heard that the Capitol is requiring all of the Districts to gather in their respective center squares at noon. Says there'll be something called the 'Reaping,' but none of us know what it is yet."
I look at the silver watch (an heirloom that's been in my family since before the Disaster) fastened on my wrist and note that it is 11:47 a.m. "'Reaping?' You mean like a Harvest?"
"I don't know," Ryder says as he wipes his bloodshot eyes on the sleeve of his black mohair sweater. I stare at him expectantly and he looks right back at me, emerald eyes narrowing in a failing attempt to keep from crying.
My mother rushes into the kitchen where we sit. She must've heard the sound of Ryder's anger-fit. Since his parents died, she's taken care of him as though he was her own son, even though he could be considered a grown man (he is nineteen years old). He works hard at the factory and sneaks home some of the latest in Capitol electronics, which fascinates my mother but doesn't impress me one bit. I know how to make those electronics, not just put them together. Either way, he helps provide for us even though he doesn't live here, which is enough for him to be considered family. "What's going on here?" my mother says, sweet, nervous eyes darting around the room in search for her pseudo-son.
"It's over," I reply, even though the question wasn't directed at me.
"What?"
"The Rebellion. It's over. We are to meet at the center square at noon."
She is speechless, lips moving but no sound coming from her throat. We, too, lost people we loved in the war, a few of those people being my dad and both of my older brothers. She and I are the only ones surviving in our biological family. Ryder doesn't move to help, but I get up to comfort her. I'm good with this kind of thing—emotions, I mean. I have an exceptional talent for reading people and knowing what to say or do. Ryder, on the other hand, is so socially awkward that he might be considered about as charming as a tree.
Hand in hand, my mother and I walk to the square with Ryder flanking us. The anxious shuffling of feet and shoving of bodies show that we all have the same question: what's next? I stare up into the gray sky and button the collar of my coat up to my neck. The day is cold and dark—as are most fall days in District 3, but it seems more like evening than midday. It's fitting for the ominous mood that hangs over the entire District. Thousands of us stand with our shoulders touching each others' so closely that we are one body, despite the inevitable separation we know we and the other districts will experience at the hands of the Capitol.
The slow, careful and yet rueful steps of Mayor Harney tiptoe up the stairs to the Justice Building. A small sliver of sunlight cuts through the clouds illuminates his face and I notice the heavy sheen of sweat on his furrowed brow. He clears his throat obnoxiously, stares at the podium where his notes lie, and begins to speak. His voice is hoarse from what sounds like nights of unrest. "Good afternoon, citizens of District 3. I am here today to speak to you on behalf of the Capitol."
Anxious murmurs echo through the crowd as Harney clears his throat again to quiet them. "Ahem, excuse me, Citizens," he continues between nervously short, gasping breaths. "In response to the Rebellion of the thirteen districts of Panem, the Capitol has issued a few repercussions and punishments to convey the impact of the devastation the Rebels caused. To start, District 13 has been obliterated."
More shocked and anxious murmuring. My mother's bony and calloused fingers tighten around the back of my hand. I notice a flock of geese flying in a v-shape towards the Justice Building ,but as soon as they reach the gargantuan stone and marble building, one of the geese starts to disband from the group and lags behind the rest. District 13 is like that goose, I think. And soon, the rest of the flock—the rest of us—will fall apart.
Harney's raspy voice breaks my train of thought. "Secondly, there will be no further contact with the other districts. Each district will only be able to communicate with the Capitol. The Peacekeepers will make sure to keep any infringement upon this rule from occurring.
"Lastly, to forever remind the districts of the fact that for every Capitol citizen who died in the Rebellion, two Rebels died, each district will be required to annually submit two 'tributes;' one boy and one girl between the ages of twelve and eighteen. Their respective tributes will compete against the others in a fight to the death until one tribute is left and crowned a victor," he says frankly, as though getting through the horrible message he's just given us will soften the blow. Yes, we are all silent. But only out of disbelief. Disbelief that our mayor could so easily resign our district to this fate. But he doesn't have children, or any family for that matter. He doesn't know what it's like to have someone to live for, to love, to protect. Someone to lose. All he's ever lived for is power over District 3.
"The victor of the competition, which is hereby named the 'Hunger Games,' will receive unlimited riches and food, which, as you all know, are quite scarce nowadays. He or she will also mentor future tributes as well as serve as a reminder that no one can overcome the Capitol; the Capitol simply endows one with luxury and privilege."
And this is the end of his speech. He dismisses himself, and without further adieu, the peppy click-clack of platform heels pattering on the stage let us all know that a Capitol representative has been sent to begin the first year of the Hunger Games. I take in her appearance; aqua-colored wig, powder blue skin, and impossible attire that only someone who is completely insane or from the Capitol would choose to wear. Maybe she's both.
She whips the microphone in front of her face excitedly. "Hello, District 3, and welcome to the Reaping of the 1st Annual Hunger Games! My name is Aggie Aester, and I will be your District Representative. Bear with me, I'm new at this thing," she jokes, giving us a crazed but exhilarated smile. In response, we all stare at her wordlessly—still in shock over what has just taken place—but despite our lack of enthusiasm, she goes on. "Well, then, let's get to it. The girls will go first. Each girl in District 3 between the ages of twelve and eighteen's name has been entered into this little bowl," she taps the glass bowl with folded slips of white paper inside it lightly with her freakishly long, blue fingernails, "and I will draw one slip of paper with a name on it. The girl whose name I draw will be the female tribute from this District, and likewise with the boys."
With that, Aggie dips her hands slowly and carefully into the bowl and snatches up a piece of paper. She unfolds the sheet of paper for what seems like a millennium, muttering slight comments of "Oh, I'm just so excited!" and "I can't wait to see who it is!" into the microphone. I wonder if she knows that we can hear her thrill over picking which one of us dies. Abruptly, she reads the name in her thick Capitol accent. "Marjissa Werth!"
The crowd parts with sighs of sadness to reveal a tall, slender girl. Agonized wails come from her mother who desperately grips onto her child's arm. The girl gently shakes the sobbing woman off of her bravely while keeping her focus on Aggie. My eyes move from Marjissa to the screen in front of the Justice Building, which broadcasts her face on national television. She is beautiful in an odd and unique way, but is easily identifiable as a District 3 girl with her dark, wavy brown hair, statuesque build, and straight nose. As she strides onto the stage, I watch her close her eyes as to keep from breaking down and crying. Crying would make her a bigger target; she would be seen as weak by other stronger tributes. Once she opens her eyes, all sign of emotion in her face are lacking. Smart move.
Aggie claps and kicks her heel a little but almost loses her balance, which makes us all laugh. "Yes, well," she starts, trying to shake off embarrassment. "It's time for the boy's ticket."
This phrase sends chills of unease up my spine as she dips her hand into a different bowl this time. Thousands and thousands of names. This small, virtually useless bowl holds all of our futures and determines whether we live or die.
She draws out a name and reads it quickly. "Kellen Bolt."
It takes a few seconds to register that the name she drew was mine. The only time I finally understand what is happening is by hearing the deafening and helpless cries of my mother and Ryder screaming out, "I volunteer! I volunteer for Kellen Bolt! Take me instead."
Aggie raises an eyebrow suspiciously and then delivers him the hard-hitting news. "How old are you? Twentysomething? You're not allowed to volunteer. You must be between twelve and eighteen years old."
Ryder pushes his way to the front of the crowd, which gives its own murmurs of dissent as he says, "God, woman, he's just fifteen! He's a kid!"
I breathe in deeply like Marjissa and accept my fate. "No, Ryder. This is my cross to bear. I'm doing this." I have resigned to my death. As I push Ryder and my sobbing mother aside and step onto the stage, I realize that what I've done cannot be reversed. I am fighting to the death. I will take away innocent people's lives. I might even die myself. But as I look at the faces in the crowd, I know that I have all of District 3 on my side.
I'm not alone in this battle.