"Hey Catnip, look what I shot," I hold up the bakers bread by the arrow I have so cleverly severed it with and see her eyes light immediately. A smile spreads across her face – the first one of the day is always the best. She quickly clears the distance and grabs it swiftly from my hands. "Mm, still warm," she mutters as she delicately, pulls out the arrow; the same way that she eases it out after every kill. "What did it cost you?" "Just a squirrel. Think the old man was feeling sentimental this morning. Even wished me luck." I'm sure that even the baker must know that my name is in the bowl more times than almost any other boy in our district. "Well, we all feel a little closer today, don't we?" The sarcasm is evident in her tone. "Prim left us a cheese." "Thank you, Prim. We'll have a real feast." The irony is not lost on me, for at this moment only one thing fills my head and I continue in my best Capitol accent. "I almost forgot! Happy Hunger Games!" I pause to pluck a berry from the nearby bush. "And may the odds —" I toss it in the air. She knows this game well and is ready to receive. She catches it between her teeth and I feel a drop of the sweet juice land on my index finger. "— be ever in your favor!" she finishes.
She's always been able to joke about it, and I try for her sake, but too often my true feelings escape me and she hears all about it. She must walk on egg shells on reaping day worrying about upsetting me. Maybe she's right to; it's not as if I haven't snapped on her before.
I slice the bread with my freshly cleaned knife and begin to spread the cheese. I can feel Katniss's eyes on me and the heat that they radiate, but she feels so far away. The only thing that I can properly feel on this day is anger and hatred. Maybe it's pointless, but I can't shake the fact that if enough people could see, if enough people could feel, then maybe it wouldn't be. I glance over at Katniss as she pulls more berries off of a branch and lays them out on a flat rock. She hates them too – The Capitol. But she ignores it for Prim. She focuses only on what's best for her. And I've got my family to worry about too… but I can't help but think that ending The Capitol is what's best for them.
But, which Katniss has pointed out time and again, that's virtually impossible. But why should we just sit here and watch it occur? There's places out there that we could go to be away from all of it; places that we could go together and actually live instead of survive.
"We could do it you know." The moment the idea occurs to me, I blurt it out without a thought of how it might sound or what she might think. "What?" she asks, looking up from her work. "Leave the district. Run off. Live in the woods. You and I, we could make it," you and I. I cringe slightly at my own indiscretion. "If we didn't have so many kids," I add quickly as a pathetic cover. It's true of course. We have the kids, our younger siblings, and we couldn't leave them. But in that moment, for the first time possibly, I wasn't only thinking of them, but I was thinking only of her. Of Katniss. Of what we could have. I knew that was probably nothing if we remained in district 12. But away… away from The Capitol and everything it means and does, maybe…
"I never want to have kids," she mumbles thoughtfully. And she's right of course. To have a child in this place is wrong. "I might," I admit. "If I didn't leave here." "But you do," she snaps, "Forget it." I knew that it only irritated her, thinking of things she could never have. But lately it seemed like all I could do as I looked at her out of the corner of my eye or admired her silent step behind mine as we hunted. Clearly she thought it delusional, but you had to be crazy to stay sane in a place like this.
"What do you want to do?" she asks after a couple of minutes. Frankly, I'm mentally drained from comforting the kids this morning and if Katniss encountered Prim she must feel the same. So I suggest that we fish down at the river and gather in the woods so that we could have something special to eat when we celebrate another year that we don't have to go and kill 23 other kids who are being sacrificed for The Capitol's entertainment.
I don't talk about how sick I feel gathering food for a "feast" to celebrate the most barbaric thing I can possibly think of. Or how disgusting it is that we might celebrate at all: as if they're showing us mercy by allowing us go on living like this every day as long as they get their precious coal and yearly tributes. Because I don't talk about these things, and I can think of little else, I don't talk much at all, which I know is always okay with Katniss.
We head to The Hob with our loot for the day and do nicely. Everyone is more generous the day of the Reaping. We make a last stop by the mayor's house and I have to hold back a scoff when I see his daughter, Madge, is a pretty little Capitol dress. She's two years younger than I, making her the same age as Katniss, and strickingly pretty. Her hair is done just so, and I can't help but feel anger towards her proper appearance as she has probably never wanted for anything except our strawberries.
"Pretty dress," I great her with a tilt of my head and wrinkle of my nose. Katniss has given her the stamp of approval and I can still for the life of me not understand why.
"Well, if I end up going to The Capitol, I want to look pretty," she retorts. My eyes narrow as try and decipher her meaning. Obviously she won't be going to The Games, being the Mayor's daughter, but her sense of humor on the subject could make her even more spoiled than I had originally thought, or far less. "You won't be going to The Capitol," I grunt. "What can you have? Five entires. I had six when I was just twelve years old."
"That's not her fault," Katniss says softly in Madge's defense. Of course it isn't, I know that. "No, it's no one's fault. Just the way it is." I stalk off angry, partly at myself for being an ass, but mostly for the same reason I'm always angry. Katniss is peeved, but when we part for our separate homes, she gives me a smile. I hold on to that image as I walk quietly home, head down. Posy is waiting for me on the stoop, crying.
Posy isn't old enough to be in the Reaping yet, but she's finally old enough to understand what it means. About two months ago is when I explained The Hunger Games to my baby sister as vaguely as possible. However, Posy is the cleverest girl of her age and she cried silently as we painted her a solemn picture. Usually that would be a discussion you would have with your father, however, her father was dead and I was the closest thing she would ever know.
So when I arrived home, she knew that it was very possible that this might be the last time that I cross over our stoup. My name was in 47 times today, and Posy knew it. I scooped her into my arms and carried her into the 4x4 kitchen where my mother stood brushing Rory, my 13 year old brother's hair. He fidgeted under her coarse hands, but allowed her to do her job. Gage, who's a toddler, is napping on the bed a few feet away. We greeted each other with a meaningful glance and I sat in the chair and stroked Posy's hair. My mother hummed under her breath to chisel away at the tension in the air. I produced a strawberry from my shirt pocket and Posy's tears eased as she enjoyed her favorite flavor.
Everyone nibbles on berries as we wait for the clock to strike one, alerting us that Reaping time is nearing. I don't eat, as my appetite is never very stable this time of year.
I carry Posy in my arms and walk beside my mother with Gage in her arms and Rory to the square where the two of us will check in. I peck Posy on the cheek as her and hand her off to my mother who balances Gage on one hip and Posy on the other as she turns to takes her place amongst the other watchers. She keeps herself under control and I feel a sharp parental love overwhelm me. I know that the only reason she's not screaming for me is because she knows how deeply it will affect me. She keeps a stoic face as we part, eyes locked on me, and I take Rory by the shoulders and guide him to the line. Since it's only his second reaping, I can feel him shake beneath my hands. He steadies under my grasp and we are quickly separated as he is ushered in with his age group and me with mine.
The Treaty of Treason is read and I feel dizzy with hatred. Of course this is all done for our own good, and before I know it, the ever idiotic Effie Trinket fumbles around in her seemingly 13 inch shoes as she reaches into the reaping bowl. Ladies first as always. I look at Katniss and her strong features. I know what she's thinking, because I'm thinking it too, but I'm sure neither of us expected what followed.
Effie Trinket read, in her clear Capitol accent, the name on the piece of paper she had pulled from the bowl. Primrose Everdeen.