My birthday begins with my mother's screams.
In the moments before they begin, the house is already alive with noise. Cinna is downstairs; his spoon makes soft clinking noises against his cup of coffee. My brother's voice mixes with his quiet tones, their loud whispers rising and falling. They reach me from two angles; the open door that reveals the grand wooden staircase, and the open window that greets my opening eyes.
The tree is there, still so sturdy and strong. My father hadn't let them cut it down when construction on this house began. I was born first, so I was given the privilege of the bedroom that it guards. The tree's leaves are bright and shimmering with dew in the new light of day. A raven flits among the backdrop of branches, the great-great-grand-bird of those that lived here long before my family and the forefather of those that will likely be here long after us.
I'm considering for the millionth time if one of the raven feathers would ever show up well in my hair, black as it is, when the first wail sounds.
The first one always starts off slow, haunted, and closer to a sob than a scream. It is the alarm clock of this and every Reaping Day; my mother will cry out for lost children, in agony at her inability to save them, and then they will torture her into screams for her shortcomings.
The pattern carries out as it always does; I lie in bed, watching the sun splinter into shadows as it filters through the tree. Cinna continues to talk to my brother in the same calm tones. Meanwhile, the rest of the house scrambles into chaos. My father is already yelling over the noise of my mother's cries. His words are always the same, all you're safe, it's not real, not real, not real, wake up love.
Effie scurries from her guest bedroom, the one across the hall from mine. She sprints past the door, still spry as ever. A long red scarf flies from the ends of her long golden hair as she dashes past my open door. She manages to turn her head as she runs, greet me with a smile and a good morning Emmie darling, big day today, before she is gone. In the next second, I hear her consoling my mother, recommending pills I know she won't take.
I take in the peace of my room one last time, because I know it won't be long now. There's the window, wide open and streaming green light and black shadow. Next to it is the old rocking chair Gale made for my mother when she was pregnant with me, carved with mockingjays by hand. The Capitol tabloids had somehow gotten ahold of the picture of it when she was eight months along; mockingjay rocking chairs had become all the rage, filling every nursery in the city that year. My mother had been so furious about it she'd had to be confined to bed rest the last three weeks of her final trimester. Now, a blanket hand-sewn with flutterfires, equally as old, rested across the back. The orange, red, gold glittering thread still shines. It had been a gift from Effie when I was still a toddler, when flutterfires weren't very well known. A new Capitol creation, Effie had said with a smile. She loved bringing back news of beautiful things, conveniently leaving out how destructive the flutterfires really were. One or two in an area was okay; the most they could do was singe. But get many in one place, and suddenly an inferno sprang to life, devouring everything in its path. I stare now at the flutterfires on the old quilted blanket that are deceptively designed to look like small delicate red butterflies; the wooden mockingjays; my father's mural of a beautiful sunrise on my walls. Reds, pinks, oranges, yellows, colors I can't quite name but have known my whole life, swirl on the walls. The sun constantly rises above the horizon of my headboard.
"I know you're awake, sweet pea," Granddad Haymitch smirks from the doorway.
"So?" My mother is quieting down, her screams fading into stifled whimpers. I know her hand is over her own mouth, her effort monumental in her strain to choke them back.
"You know you'd better get up and eat something before Celine swoops in here to doll you up."
I do know this, and yet I do not move. Today will be a long day of standing in front of cameras in the prettiest parts of Twelve, waving and smiling. After the Reaping, I'll be interviewed about my relationships to and knowledge of the poor children chosen. I'll lie through my teeth. Oh they're wonderful, so smart and strong! Twelve definitely has a winner this year.
I groan and cover my head with my golden comforter.
"Alright, but don't ask Effie for snacks. There's no room in that bag of hers this year. Couldn't talk her out of taking a small one; she's loyal to the minimalist trend."
"The minimalist trend my mother started ten years ago."
Granddad shrugs, the movement causing his long hair to fall back over his shoulder. His beard is almost as long now; it has more gray in it than it used to. I know the movement to mean she's loyal to your mother. Effie had been thrilled when, after the glamor of having children had waned on the Capitol consumers, my mother had chosen design as her talent. Granted, I don't think Effie had counted on it being home design, and minimalist at that, but over the years it had seeped into clothing trends, makeup patterns, tattoos.
Celine bounds up the stairs as my mother falls entirely silent. Her grin shines in her face. She's already dressed entirely in black, one thin golden line of eyeliner her only accessory. "Happy birthday! Wake up, Emmie!"
"I am awake."
"Dad is making Rowan some bacon. If you let me get started, you might be able to snag some before we head out."
I listen carefully, and in fact I can hear Cinna clattering a pan about, and my brother's cheerful rambling, both louder now that the panic on this floor is over. I consider my options carefully, and then decide that since I must participate in this day I might as well do it on a full stomach. "Fine."
I roll onto my side, and then out from under the blanket into the cool air of morning. Celine pounces in an instant, dragging me to my wardrobe on the far end of the room. Besides my vanity, which Cinna had insisted on purchasing me when I turned thirteen, it is the only other piece of furniture in my room. She takes a garment bag down, plain and unassuming besides the mockingjay logo that has become the unofficial seal of Twelve.
A tattoo of the same glints darker than her skin on the back of her shoulder, but it is covered under a layer of black fabric today. I miss the sight of it, new as it is. She'd gifted the tattoo to herself for her eighteenth birthday, only a week before mine.
"This is your last Reaping," Celine says unnecessarily, as though I could forget. My parents have been holding their breaths for weeks, as they usually do before this day, but this time their eyes linger a little longer on me. I understand that they're stunned to have kept me alive this far. My Reap-less record doesn't uncoil the fear in the pit of my stomach.
Celine unzips the bag sleekly, revealing the outfit I hadn't bothered to look at last night. The tension in me dissipates slightly as I realize it's not a dress; the first time in eighteen years I haven't worn a dress on Reaping Day. Instead, there's a pair of slim beige slacks, and a blue silk shirt that's almost gray. Small glittering buttons hold the front together. It has sleeves long enough to hide the mockingjay symbol tattoo just above the bend of my left arm. Still inside the wardrobe are the new leather silver boots I found last night.
I smile as widely as I can manage at Celine; we both know how much trouble she could get into back at the Capitol for dressing me less like a Capitol heiress and more like the Seam girl my mother once was. Changing takes only a few minutes, and then she's braiding my hair back as well as she can. I inherited my father's father's curls; thick and wild, they've always put the Capitol stylists in poor moods. Once, when Effie had offered to help me tame them with some Capitol cream concoction, Granddad had threatened to divorce her. It wouldn't have technically meant anything, since they were only married in the Twelve bread-and-fire way, not legally, but she had taken the hint and never mentioned anything of the sort again.
Celine ties the messy braid off and places it on my shoulder. Blue wildflowers appear in her hand from nowhere; tiny and discrete, they fit perfectly in the folds of the braid. With a swipe of silver eyeliner that complements her own, I'm complete.
"There," she says with a haughty hair toss. "That wasn't so bad, was it?"
"Thanks," I say, distracted. I can tell by the lack of a sizzling sound that the bacon is done. I sit still, however, at another sound. There's a scuffling in the hall, slow and ashamed.
Her hair appears first, thick like mine but straighter and lighter in color. It's grown since her time in the Games, falling in wild strands to her waist, tangled from all the tossing she's done this morning and in her nightmares. One brilliant gray eye appears next, set in a face that is tired but beautiful, all angles and warm olive skin. That much, we share.
I know she's gauging my reaction to her night terrors. She does every year, too embarrassed at her perceived weakness to show her whole face to me immediately. I offer her a small smile and hold my arms out. Open. Waiting.
Her face crumples for a moment in relief, like I knew it would, and then she's smiling softly at me, the way she smiles at my aunt Prim. My waiting arms and acceptance give her confidence and strength she was lacking only moments ago; she straightens her shoulders, enters my hug with one of her own.
"Good morning, dear heart," she sighs into my braid.
"Morning, Mom." I can't say it's good when it's not.
"Are you ready?"
No. "Of course."
"Do you think you could…?" Do you think you could go with Daddy and Rowan, dear heart, and talk to the nice people with cameras until I get to the ceremony? Mommy is running late. The first time she asked me to stall, when I was four and Rowan was an infant, echoes in my head. The nightmares had been particularly bad that year, and ever since the question was the same. The familiarity of it all comforts me. I know she'll arrive looking as gorgeous and strong as ever, smiling and waving on stage at all the children down below waiting to die. Her entrance will appear grand to the cameras, seeing as she's still the one the Capitol fawns over most.
"Always," I nod, willing my voice to be stronger than the knot in my throat.
"Thank you," she breathes. Then she pulls away and kisses my cheek.
"Come on, sweetheart, we don't have all day," Granddad snaps from my doorway. I hadn't noticed him come back. He'd thought himself so clever, coming up with sweet pea as my nickname. My mother and I do look a lot alike; two peas in a pod, sweetheart.
Mom rolls her eyes but retreats back to her room and her stylists.
When I finally make my way downstairs, I find the rest of the family already dressed. Grandmother and Aunt Prim linger in the doorway to their wing of the house, which is really just a small hallway and two extra bedrooms. They don't use their rooms much anymore, having moved into a small house on the edge of the Seam years ago when Aunt Prim married Uncle Rory, but on Reaping Day they're always here.
"Where's Basil?" I ask.
"Your cousin stayed with his father this year," Prim smiles tightly at me. I nod, knowing it pains her to be away from him on only his second Reaping. My grandmother says nothing, but holds out a small plate of bacon.
I grin at her. "Thank you!"
"Come on, come on, chins up, smiles on," Effie is saying. Her eyes fall first on Rowan, then me. As our godmother, she seems constantly aware of our presence, and what it looks like. Rowan is dressed in an outfit similar to mine this year, except his is closer to black than blue. His blonde hair glints with the gel slicked into it, like my father's, but his gray eyes flash like mine and Mom's. Effie's eyes scan my outfit and she seems surprised, but she doesn't say anything negative so I slip past her to the porch.
My father stands on the steps, staring worriedly at the Peacekeepers driving our car this year. Every year, more seem to escort us. I know it worries him.
"Did you see the light this morning?" I ask him, trying to distract. "It was perfect for your painting."
He turns and grins at me, eyes lingering on my pants. "No dress this year? Good. You look more like yourself."
"I'll never be able to repay Celine for this one," I agree.
His eyes flit next to the crease of my left arm. "Tattoo covered?"
"You realize the whole country has to know I have it by now, right? It's been weeks, and the weeks leading up to the Reaping, no less. Some photographer must have it."
Dad shrugs uneasily, eyes softening. "You know the Capitol doesn't like us using it too much."
Before I can respond, Effie has all but shoved Rowan out the door. Granddad follows after, steadying my brother's nervous twitching hands by guiding him to the car. Dad and I pile in after him, teasing him about the gel matting his curls.
Terror, yellow and sharp, fills me. It is hard to breathe. I regret the bacon in my stomach. The din of my family, extended and those bound by blood, surrounds me, but it fades into the blur of Twelve slipping slowly past behind the tinted glass windows. Starving children and their families line the edges of the road, following our vehicle to Twelve's square.
My hands shake as we come to a stop. Effie is still chattering on about something; Granddad takes a flask out of his jacket and takes a swig. When Dad isn't looking, he passes it to me and then after a considering shrug to Rowan. The alcohol burns. I hate to admit it, but it's a decent enough distraction to get me out of the car, to the dusty ground, standing on shaking knees.
My father disappears in a crowd of Peacekeepers. I feel the eyes of hundreds on me, each waiting and watching to see me live while one of them is slaughtered. Terror melds and molds to nausea, to numbness. I take my brother's hand. Already, his eyes are filling with tears. He's always been serious. Rowan has a hard time disguising his fear. We stumble through the crowd, standing as close as we can to one another across the dividing lines of male and female.
The Anthem plays, and then the Capital propaganda about the Dark Days. It is almost time. Granddad winks at me from the stage, nods as subtly as he can to my terrified brother. I see Basil, our beautiful blond cousin, slide up next to Rowan. They seem too small to be standing there, each fragile in their own way. Their pale features stand out amongst the coal-stained Seam kids.
When my mother takes the stage, everyone claps politely. She raises her hand in greeting, taking her place beside my father. They look perfect on camera, poised and civilized. Effie looks even better, her hair tucked back in a neat bun. I've seen footage of her on my mother and father's Reaping Day; she looks almost unrecognizable from the woman that wore elaborate wigs made of butterfly wings.
Granddad, as usual, just looks drunk. This thought comforts me, but it doesn't make my heart beat any slower.
"Welcome everyone to District Twelve's 99th annual Reaping Day for The Hunger Games!" Effie beams, voice full of false joy. Sometimes it disturbs me how well she does this; if I hadn't known her my whole life, I'd think she well and truly enjoys this day. I've heard her voice trembling in the night at Granddad's, though, and I've heard the true joy in her tones. This isn't it. There's a terrible pause, just as there is every year. I assume there is supposed to be applause at this point, but District Twelve is silent.
Effie's smile freezes grotesquely on her face. "Well, let the Games begin! Ladies first, as always."
Her perfectly manicured hand gets its very own close-up on the screens in front of us all when she reaches into the bowl, fingers clawing. I know this is her way of stalling, giving everyone a precious yet terrible moment to hope against hope that it won't be their name called.
So far, everything has gone as it always has. I know this routine in the depths of my being, at the core of my bone marrow. This day is meant to mark the beginning of the end of my life, and so far I have escaped unscathed, allowing other little girls to die in my stead. I have one moment, one beautiful, horrible shining moment given to me by my godmother, to stand in the dirt and heat of Twelve's square, imagining what my life will be after this final Reaping is over. I'll go home, and scrub myself clean in the shower. I'll make a sandwich, and watch my parents arrive with their two new victims on yet another screen. I'll listen to Rowan meticulously pick out notes on his piano. I'll slip through the fence to hide in the woods like a coward with Gale when darkness falls and the preliminary ceremonies of the Games begin on the screen.
Someday after the Games and the Victory Tour, when everyone in the Capitol is bored and restless, I'll go out with some rich Capitol man; perhaps even a Capitol woman, if there hasn't been a scandal in a while. I'll become an airheaded model. I'll leave Twelve and its judgements of my sins behind. I'll see the grudge-lined eyes of every hardened man, woman, and child in my dreams at night and lie to my bedfellow about my tosses and turns. It's likely that I'll become a bride soon, just to keep myself and my family safe from too much scrutiny and harassment.
This terrible future is just in front of me, within reach, shimmering in front of my eyes, as Effie draws the name from the bowl.
I watch as that imagined future, full of stability and heartbeats, slips away. It's in the cracking of Effie's façade, her lips clinging to a grin that is really a grimace, the shaking of her hands. That same hellish tremble is back in her voice, the one that echoes through Granddad's house as she damns the odds each year, the one no one else is privileged to hear, when she steps up to the microphone.
"This year's female tribute from District Twelve is… Ember-Rue Everdeen."
My mother is not permitted to scream, but I hear the echoes from this morning when her gray eyes meet mine. I can't bear the anguish in them, so instead I turn to my father. Oh, but his is worse.
Peacekeepers surround me. I stumble my way up to the stage, Granddad's sarcastic laughing and drunken clapping the only sound. His claps sound like bombs; my ears ache. The world spins around me. Everything fades to a haze. No one steps forward to take my place. They watch me begin to die, as I watched them die in my place all those years. I cannot blame them. Finally, I am atoning.
I have just begun to accept what has happened, smiling on reflex at the flash of cameras, when Effie reaches into the bowl containing the male names.
This time, not even she can begin to hide her horror. "Oh. Oh. Ah-hem. Excuse me. The male tribute for District Twelve is… well, it's… it's Rowan Mellark."
Only my father's strong arm around my mother's waist stops her lunge, her hands curled like claws. Likely they would have ended up around Effie's neck. Effie looks as though she'd welcome death in this moment. I peer into the bowls as hard as I can, reeling where I stand. Terror, shame, anger, resentment, grief all swirl at their strongest within me. The bowls are filled with our names. Only our names. The whole 99th Reaping has been rigged against my family. Effie never could have chosen another child; there were no others to choose.
Before my parents can open their mouths to condemn anyone, before my brother can be ripped away from our cousin by Peacekeepers, the crowd of boys shift. Merchant boys scrabble out of the way as the Seam population surges forward, a horde of dark young men beginning to clap as Haymitch had done only moments before. Peacekeepers surge forward, a gaggle of white meeting dingy black. I stand frozen, waiting for the violence. Is this the uprising Gale is always going on about? Do my family mean more to these people than I thought? I'd believed they regarded us as traitors and leeches, but perhaps-
But no. No, this is something different. One lone boy breaks away from the crowd. He looks more man than boy, all hard muscle and broad bones. Dark hair falls to his shoulders in straight sheaths, gray eyes that match mine glare at the stage.
The Peacekeepers fall away. The crowd's claps fade.
"I, Wren Hawthorne, volunteer as tribute. I'll take the place of Rowan Mellark."
As Gale's son takes his place next to me, our entire District raises a three-fingered solute, my mother and father included. The confusion of seconds before clears, making way for regular old fear. Of course Twelve hadn't been rising to our defense; we deserve none of it. Instead, it had cleared room for its prodigal son, a son of the Seam. Twelve definitely has a winner this year. Suddenly my practiced words don't seem so false.
My entire district has already chosen its Victor, and it isn't me. Wren climbs onto the stage. He reaches for my hand. I imagine his covered in my blood. I take it anyway. Together, we turn to the district and grin.
"I told you we'd hold hands again," he murmurs against the roar of the cheers. Here's Effie's applause.
Then we are whisked away to begin our funeral processions to the Capitol.