Ch. 1
The loveliest spring day, but the farthest from our hearts. We all hate today, the reaping day, because we know that later tonight, two families will be mourning the unquestionable death of one child. And every child between the ages of 12 and 18 are asking themselves the same question: What if it's me?
The golden rays of the sunrise shining through the window are what wake me. The cobbled street is silent for once; everyone is huddled up inside, trying to move their mind away from what will happen later. I push the white blankets off of me and stand up, stretching. My small room is on the second floor of the bakery, facing the center of the square. Out of my window I see the vacant streets staring up at me, mocking me with the knowledge that they are safe, and I am not. Although being from the square gives me the advantage of not having to sign up for tesserae, I still have a chance to be chosen. This year, my name is entered five times, not much compared to the kids that live in the Seam. Far off, I can see the Peacekeepers and Capitol officials setting up the stage for later, when one boy and one girl will be chosen for the horrific Hunger Games. Will it be me? I can't help but wonder.
Rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I meander over to my dresser and prepare for the day, dressing in my best attire. After combing my blond hair back out of my eyes, I pad softly down the stairs, being careful not to wake my sleeping dragon mother. If she is woken up, she will be spewing angry words of fire.
Downstairs in the bakery, my father is already hard at work, kneading dough for bread and pulling baked cakes out of the ovens. His burn-scarred arms are powdered with flour up to the elbows, and the counter also bears a layer of the fine white dust. At my silent entrance into the steaming kitchen, he mumbles a quiet "Mornin' son" and continues work after pushing a couple of freshly baked cakes towards me. Passively, I sit down on a stool at the counter and begin decorating the cakes, absentmindedly covering them in intricate flowers, animals, and words. I love to paint, but we can't afford expensive painting supplies, so I do the cakes.
Switching colors often, I weave a web of designs; each cake is different. In the middle of a pink and orange flower that is dominating the center of my second cake, there is a quiet knock on the back door. I put down my tools and, wiping my hands on my apron, walk to the door. The door opens easily under my touch and I am surprised to see Gale, a boy from the Seam, standing on the doorstep.
Gale clears his throat and says gruffly, "Is your father here?" I nod awkwardly. He is only two years older than me, but his towering frame makes him seem much older.
"Dad," I call, turning back into the shop. He stops his work for a moment and wipes his hands on his apron before heading to the door. He must be feeling generous on this mournful day because he trades an entire freshly baked loaf for one measly squirrel. He has a passion for wild squirrels, and is supplied with them thanks to Gale Hawthorne and Katniss Everdeen. Katniss Everdeen. The most beautiful girl ever. I have been in love with her ever since I first laid eyes on her, when we were 5. She has the radiance of a sunbeam; I just can't seem to get her face out of my mind.
Daydreaming, I stumble back to my stool and drop my head in my hands, smiling happily. Without knowing, I have drawn a picture of her on a new cake, the dark waves of hair, the deep grey eyes. Embarrassed, I scrape the colored icing away before my father can see and create a beautiful orange flower bud on the brink of blooming. A sunset orange. My favorite color.
For the rest of the morning I sit around on the rickety stool decorating the cakes and cookies. At one point my father takes a break and pulls a loaf of bread down from a cabinet. As usual, it is as hard as a rock, leftovers of what didn't sell two days ago. To hide the crunchy, disgusting texture I spread a thick layer of butter over the bread and dig in. Stale. Still Stale. Washing it down with a cool swig of water, I wipe the crumbs and water from my mouth and get back to work.
The sleeping dragon roars as she is awakened by my idiot brother Aster. Aster is my insensitive, arrogant, pugnacious older brother by two years. He pounds down the stairs screaming "Hungry!" Not worried about what my mother might do, he continues screaming until my father hands him a plate of stale bread. But by then it is already too late. First I hear a growl, and then she emerges from her cave, spewing smoke and fire, screaming angrily at the top of her lungs. She bounds down the stairs shrieking profanities at my brothers, me, my father, anyone who comes into her mind. I am surprised sometimes that our neighbors are not disturbed by her endless cacophony of noise.
My father rolls his eyes at her boisterous uproar and turns back to the new batch of bread coming out of the oven after plunking down a hot mug of coffee in front of her. The roasted smell billows into the air, mixing with the sweltering heat of the ovens and the scent of bread. It's like a jungle in here; the heat is increased by my mother's huffing fire breath as she breathes deeply in fury. She swigs most of her coffee in one gulp and seems to relax a bit. Sighing, the dragon releases hold on her and takes flight, standing by if it has a chance to take over her again.
"So," she drawls, sipping from her mug, "What time is the reaping?" Aster shudders from the corner where he's taken up residence and stuffs another piece of bread in his mouth. Although he chooses to display his self-absorbed, mocking side, on the inside he is a complete coward, which he conveniently hides from his friends.
"One," I reply, "The same as always." I exhale slowly, knowing it's no use to get riled up by her. She nods thoughtfully and reaches up to brush my shaggy blond hair out of my eyes.
"I need to cut your hair," she murmurs, lacerating my scalp with her long fingernails. "Tonight, after the reaping, I will cut everyone's hair. I don't want you all looking like some mangy little runt from the Seam." I roll my eyes, knowing that more than half of the kids from the Seam are better behaved than most of the people in my family.
"Mom!" Aster protests, shying away from a new haircut. He's been proud of his hair of late; his bully friends think it's cool. Biting back a snicker I clear his and my plates, taking them to the wash bucket where I begin to scrub them clean with a piece of lard soap and a bristle brush. My mother continues to rant about trivial gossip, not paying mind that my father stopped listening long ago and Aster has left the room. As she continues prattling on, my mind drifts to the woods, and, as always, Katniss. The steady rhythm of the brush on the plate helps me tune out my mother's droning voice and I focus on the reaping that will occur later. I don't have a big chance to be chosen, but it is still possible, and I am most worried about Katniss. Her name is entered 20 times, and there is a great chance that she might be chosen.
Glumly, I think about what will happen if she is chosen. I don't think I can survive without her, but maybe there's a chance that she could win. She's an amazing archer; if she gets her hands on a bow, she could probably win. But if not… I don't know what I'll do.
Shaking the gnawing thoughts from my head, I focus back on the cleaning. My mother has ended her rant, and is now stuffing herself with hard bread. The squirrel has mysteriously disappeared and my father has left the room. Probably to go get ready for later. Sighing, I get back to the cakes, setting them in a display in the front of the shop.
We head into the square at one o'clock precisely. Everyone is required to come, unless you are dying; if you don't, the Peacekeepers will imprison you. If you are late, you can be imprisoned, too.
The square is lined with shops, including ours, and there are banners hung around the square, as if it is a festival. The banners give it a holiday feel, although the reaping has darkened the faces of all the people standing solemnly around the square. The stage has been set up in the middle of the square and it has been draped with lavender fabric bearing the emblem of Panem, what is left of North America. Peacekeepers patrol the edges of the square and camera crews line the tops of every building like vultures waiting patiently for their prey.
People file in silently and sign in. The Capitol likes to keep tabs on us, counting the population. They wouldn't want us to become too large and powerful and spark a rebellion. Twelve- through eighteen-year-olds are herded into roped off areas marked off by ages with young ones near the front, and older ones in the back. I am separated from my family as my parents and older brother, Heath, move towards the perimeter, Aster is led into the eighteen-year-old section, and I'm pushed into the sixteen-year-old section.
Instantly, I am surrounded by a clump of other 16-year-old boys who are unusually silent due to nerves. My friends squeeze my shoulder nervously and I nod back to them in acknowledgement. Glancing over to the adjacent girls area, I catch a glimpse of Katniss and suck in a breath. She is absolutely gorgeous. Her hair is braided up and curled around her head and she is wearing a light blue dress made of a fine material. I stare at her longingly, but she doesn't catch my glance. I see she is exchanging glances with Gale. My friends catch my longing look and begin to snicker as Gale sees my gaze on Katniss. Embarrassed, I turn my head, hoping they do not see the blush creeping up my cheeks.
We focus our attention on the temporary stage set up in front of the Justice Building. It holds three chairs, a podium, and two large glass balls, one for the boys and one for the girls. I stare at the paper slips in the girl's ball. Twenty of them have Katniss Everdeen written on them in careful, spidery handwriting. My heart skips a beat.
Two of the three chairs contain the mayor, Mayor Undersee, a tall, gray-haired man, and Effie Trinket, District 12's escort, fresh from the Capitol with her scary white grin, pinkish hair, and spring green suit. The mayor's daughter, Madge, is in my year at school. I wonder if he's worried about her being chosen. Probably not; a mayor's child hasn't been chosen for the games in years. The third chair belongs to a missing Haymitch Abernathy, the only still-living victor District 12 has. He is no doubt laying drunk somewhere while Capitol officials attempt to find him. He always is during the Hunger Games each year, and I don't blame him. It's probably hell to watch kids go into the games each year and come out still and lifeless, and not be able to do anything about it.
Just as the town clock strikes two, the mayor steps up to the podium and begins to read. It's the same story every year. The history of Panem, the rebellion of the Dark Days, the obliteration of District 13, and the formation of the Hunger Games as a retribution for all the damage the districts had caused. The Hunger Games takes 24 tributes, one boy and one girl, from each district and tosses them into some unknown arena where they must battle each other to the death.
Taking the kids from our districts, forcing them to kill one another while we watch - this is the Capitol's idea of fun, and how they like to express their power. How little chance we would stand of surviving another rebellion. The real message is clear to all trying to survive in the districts. The Capitol has an abundance of power, and is not afraid to use it to make us bend to their will.
The Games are considered a festivity in the Capitol, and they expect us to rejoice as well. It is tortuous, watching children die, bloodied and pale, at the hands of other children. It sickens me.
"It is both a time or repentance and a time for thanks," intones the mayor. Then he reads the list of past District 12 victors. District 12 has had two victors over the past 74 years. Haymitch and Pan Ester, who won the 11th annual Hunger Games and died 20 years ago, are the only two victors District 12 has ever had. Haymitch takes this moment to stumble up the steps and onto the stage, drunk as ever, falling confused onto a frightened Effie Trinket. Embarassed, she helps him to his seat, where he collapses in a bewildered trance.
The mayor looks distressed. Since all of this is televised live, I'm sure right now District 12 is the laughingstock of Panem, and he knows it. With his face tomato red, he attempts to distract the chattering crowd by introducing Effie.
With her face a mask of excitement and joy, Effie Trinket scuttles to the podium and gives her signature, "Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be ever in your favor!" She must have a wig, for her pale pink curls have tilted precariously to one side of her head. She babbles about herself for a minute, while audience members exchanged bored looks.
Through the crowd, I spot Katniss, still exchanging looks with Gale. My heart skips a beat at her glowing beauty, and I shudder again at the thought of her going into the ghastly Hunger Games. A ghost of a smile plays around Gale's lips, and a pang of jealousy shoots through me. If only she looked at me like that! Suddenly I am thinking of Katniss and how the odds are not in her favor with her twenty names scattered through the glass girl's orb. And maybe Gale's thinking the same thing because his face darkens and he turns away. "You'll be fine!" I wish I could whisper to her.
It's time for the drawing. Effie Trinket says as she always does, "Gentlemen first!" and crosses to the glass ball with the boys' names. She reaches in, digs her hand deep into the ball, swirling her hand for a dramatic effect, and pulls out a slip of paper, flourishing it theatrically. Silence reverberates through the crowd, and it is so quiet I fancy I can my own heartbeat, thumping quickly in nervousness. Would I volunteer for Aster? I honestly cannot even decide right now.
Effie Trinket crosses back to the podium, smoothes the slip of paper, and reads out the name in her high-pitched, whiny voice. And I won't have to worry about volunteering for Aster, or any of my friends because the name she calls isn't theirs.
It's Peeta Mellark.