I awake that morning to the sound of hovercraft. Today's the day. The day that anything could happen. The day that determines if I live or die. I rub the remnants of sleep from my eyes with my bony, crooked fingers and nimbly somersault out of bed. I groggily approach our ice box and pull out a small bag of berries I've been saving for today, as I may as well eat on the Reaping Day, out of all days. I park myself on the bench Father built out of a fallen tree so many years ago, when we were farther from starving. I could turn on the television or flip on the radio, should I want to. Living in District 5, I have grown up with constant electricity.
My little brother, Callidus, appears out of his nook of a room, rubbing his eyes. He's only 6 this year, so he doesn't have to worry about the reaping for a long time.
"Juliya, I'm scared it's going to be you," he crawls up on the bench next to me, taking a couple berries and nervously tossing them between his hands.
"Cal, you shouldn't get worked up about it. If it is me, then it's me. You know how quick I am! Maybe I could even win the whole thing," I croon, tickling his thin little belly. "But it won't be me. I promise." He starts to laugh and nods, popping the berries into his mouth one by one.
"Where's Papa?" he asks.
"Probably out at the square, getting something to eat," I say.
At that moment, he appears. My father is a tall, thin man with light red curls, practically blond when compared with my deep red mane. He always wears a long, raggedy coat, regardless of the weather. His cheekbones have the sunken look of one who rarely eats. And it's true; he gives most of his food to Cal and I. He's a good man. One of the best. Without saying a word, he puts a loaf of bread on the table, followed by a bottle of cold water and a box of raisins. This is a good haul.
"How'd you manage this?" I ask, my eyes still wide. Cal has started tearing chunks off the bread and stuffing them in his mouth. I follow suit.
"Knocked down a cart of apples and took it while they were distracted," Father replies, taking a sip of the water. He hands me the bottle, and I tilt my head back as I drink. It tastes much better than the stuff out of the sink, which runs warm and brown 80% of the time.
"You know you could be whipped for just the raisins?" I say. He shakes his head, smiling.
"You know you could be grounded for just your smart mouth?" He taps Cal on the left shoulder, then sneaks a raisin out of his right hand. "What are you wearing to the Reaping, Juliya? You really should look your best."
I shrug and run my hands through my hair. It's still a little wavy from sleeping on it wet last night, but I don't mind. I like it this way. It makes me look wild.
"Well, your mother had a couple dresses that I'll bet you'd fit into by now," he trails off. He rarely if ever mentions my mother, and I know it's a painful topic for him. I nod before he has to go any farther.
"There's one in particular that I vaguely remember her wearing. The brown one? I might take that one," I test the waters. There's hurt in his eyes, but he smiles sharply and exits to his room, probably to run his hands over the old fabrics of Mother's silky shirts and dresses. She always appreciated the finer things, even if it meant she couldn't eat for a few nights. That's how Father's habit of stealing started. Cal finishes his berries and raisins, washing all of it down with a long drink of the sweet water.
"How many times is your name going into the ball this year?" he asks out of nowhere.
"22 this year, kiddo. We really need those tesserae," I say trying to hide my fear as I rub his sleek brown hair. He has his hair to owe to Mother. His warm chocolate eyes scan my face, and I wonder if the terror at the likelihood of my reaping is showing in my own eyes. He gives me a tight squeeze and a kiss on the cheek before heading back to his room, and I go to mine.
There is a small, cracked mirror on my wall, next to a picture of Mother and Father on their wedding day. The mirror was a wedding present from Father's parents. I scan my face in the mirror and light a candle. Even with the constant promise of electricity, the bills are quite high. I rarely turn on the light in my room, simply for the benefit of Cal. His best nights are those where he can listen to the radio we keep in the kitchen.
I have almond-shaped brown eyes, exactly like every member of my family, including Mother (according to the wedding photo I've practically memorized). In my own eyes, much like my father's, I see a constant crafty glint, which Father calls The Thief's Paradigm. I agree, since that is probably the line of business I'll be following. My nose is small and sloped, dappled with tiny freckles from days spent outside trying to sneak food. I have high cheekbones that carry a constant blush, and thin lips. The overall effect is somewhat like a fox. I like this idea. To me, the fox has always seemed a clever and nimble breed. Father must have known which dress I meant, because it is lying across my bed before I can even think. He probably snuck through the kitchen while Cal and I were talking.
The dress is exactly as I remembered it. It's plain, but that's the beauty of it. It's brown with a few golden threads woven through it. Fabric like this costs hundreds just to buy second-hand. The skirts bunch out mildly, but only just enough to where you can sit down comfortably. I put it on and smile. It's truly lovely. I look just like Mother. Instead of letting Father see me and allowing him to once again digress to tears, I sneak out the window to the Reaping. I'm doing him a favor by not letting him see me. He'll be able to see me after the reaping, and hopefully he'll have calmed down a bit by that point.
I walk into the town square and see the large stage the Capitol has somehow imported via hovercraft. Behind the stage is the typical view of our ugly factories that cough steam and smoke into the air everyday except today, most holy of days in the Capitol; most cheerless in the districts. I imagine that from the stage, you wouldn't be able to see the factories. Of course, that doesn't give me any desire to climb those stairs.
There are large crowds of people huddled together surrounding the stage. This is an emotional day for all of us. I head over to the group of fifteen year olds and they step closer to the Peacekeepers who guard us. They all know my family's reputation, though not a one would admit it. Friends are scarce, to say the least. I look back and see Cal and Father sharing a coat for warmth. I rub my own arms when I realize how cold it truly is.
A short, balding man with green highlights in his hair sits smiling and chatting with our town's mayor. Something about his grin makes me want to throw up my bread and berries. He seems extremely... Greasy. The mayor looks like he shares this sentiment, and is relieved when he hears the clock tower chime three times, which must be his cue to read to us the history of Panem.
He weaves a tale of a fictional-sounding place called North America where the people constantly warred within themselves and were exposed to many different opportunities. I, for some reason, long for a place like that. He then moves on to the list of victors from District 5. A district with a recently booming population, many of our tributes are younger and have not even stood a chance at winning. It is because of this that we have only 4 surviving Victors. Their names are Braxton Applegrass, Bliss Arbuckle, Adicia Puskarich, and Cyprus Zieman. Judging by their position on stage, it appears that this year's mentors will be Cyprus and Bliss. Their expressions are cold and empty, just like every year.
The green-haired man prances cheerily to the front of the stage, where he gushes about how honored he is to be this year's District 5 escort. Though barely intelligible in his thick Capitol accent, I believe he says his name is Xanadu Tum. What a name. Before crossing to the first ball, he winks out at the audience and gives us the standard reaping greeting.
"Happy Hunger Games, and may the odds be ever in your favor!" he trills. "Ladies first!"
He turns the ball over several times.
He opens the little door on the side of the ball.
He reaches his hand in.
He pulls out a name.
He opens the paper.
He says "Juliya Solaris!"
I freeze.
I don't realize what's happened for about 30 seconds, and then they're pulling me up on stage and Bishop is shaking my hand and I'm looking out at the audience and Father is crying and Cal is screaming and I'm holding back the tears that will inevitably squeeze out later and they push me to the front of the stage and the wind blows so hard I'm nearly knocked over. My head is pounding at the same pace as my heart. I am going to die. I remain in a haze as they select the male tribute, a 17 year-old named Jeremiah. He appears to have the same reaction as I do, and looks out at his whimpering family with a helpless look as if to say "I'm sorry. I can't do anything about this." A smiling Xanadu forces Jeremiah and I to shake hands for the cameras, and I manage a tiny smile and a wave.
And I was right. You can't see the factories from the stage.
