My bare feet are half-buried in the wet sand. I am in my lethal stance, my trident in one hand, my eyes focused intently on the enormous specimen before me. Blood spurts out of the large wound I made on its side. It squirms in the shallow water, too weak to get away either from my trident or from dying of blood loss. It knows this and when it gives me a pleading gaze, my heart is gripped. I utter an apology as I impale it with the sharp points of my weapon.
As soon as the three prongs have sunk in deep enough to ensure the fish's security, I move to deeper water. I walk until the ocean has reached past my knees, the farthest I can go without dropping my prize. The waves push gently against me, murmuring softly that I should submerge myself in the cool water. But I ignore them and look instead for my brother.
There is a high rock formation that is too close to the shore for comfort. It is a place that is not inviting but is the favored spot of my brother. This is where he always stops to catch his breath or have his breakfast. I see him as soon as my eyes adjust to the sunlight, a small boy about ten-years-old, crouched at the very top of the miniature mountain, weaving a basket and surrounded by three fishing poles that are secured to the rock. He's singing something under his breath but I'm too far away to make out the words.
"Destan!" I yell and he looks up. His hands are still moving, intertwining leaves until they begin to take form. "Hey, Des, look what I got!"
He quickly gathers everything in a large sack until all traces of his camp are removed. He stands up and then jumps in the water with a loud splash. I wait and his head emerges a minute later. He can do it longer but now isn't the time for games.
"What did you get?" Destan asks as he wades toward me. His hair is matted to his forehead and his whole body glistens with seawater. The sack is slung over his shoulder. When he sees the dead tuna on my trident, a grin replaces the tired expression on his face. "Wicked! That thing's huge."
I laugh, loving the way his face lights up. When he grins you can see that he's missing a front tooth. He has always been serious, sometimes too much. A smile like that is a rare find.
"It's heavy, too," I tell him. He comes closer and pokes the soft body of the fish. There is a clump of seaweed tangled in his hair, another one hanging over his left ear. He has been swimming in deep water and he has brought with him not only food but also the scents of the dark, underwater caverns. There is a small cut on his chin, probably gotten from scraping against a rock. "This thing's going to bring in the money."
"And feed the Capitol," Destan mutters, making me regret my words. His sea-green eyes gleam and I feel the danger rise. Destan, my little brother. Ten-years-old and already a rebel. I let him talk all he wants at home but make him shut up when we're in public. I tell myself not to worry, it's just youth, I was like this when I was his age. But something about the way Destan's face darkens whenever the Capitol is mention puts the fear in me.
"Destan, shut up," I hiss as we walk to the sand. My eyes scan the seaside, wondering if anyone has heard the angry note in Destan's voice. Even a harmless comment like that can be dangerous when told in the right way. But this time we are lucky. No one has heard. The other workers are too preoccupied in hauling the day's catch to take notice of us. And besides, it is the day of the reaping, the day when two kids are sent to the house of Death. Today, everyone is thinking of themselves.
I search the seas. The waves are calm, the water the same color as our eyes. It is early morning and the sky is still tinged with faint yellows and pinks, the clouds fat and heavy overhead like they're about to fall down on us. A perfect day for sailing. Sometimes, when the day has been peaceful, Destan and I sneak in our father's sailboat in the middle of the night, something that is punishable by law. I know the sea well enough to know which caverns can hide us from the prying eyes of the Peacemakers. We go to the ones I am most familiar with, fish a bit, and then have our midnight snack. If you think about it, these nocturnal adventures are ten times more dangerous than Destan's rants about the Capitol. But we cannot help it. The sea calls us, laps at our feet invitingly. What did our mother say? That we, her children, are the offspring of the sea. She told me how I'd gotten my name, how when she was pregnant with me I would keep kicking inside her until the waves kissed her feet, how she was seldom satisfied with the fish our father had caught. "You've always had taste," she'd told me.
It's not long until I see our father's sailboat. Its large, red-and-white body is familiar to me. Our father is still inside, checking the contents of the big net. Destan drops his sack and waves his arms until he catches his attention. "Later, Destan!" he shouts. "You and Finnick go ahead. I'll catch up with you."
I lead Destan to the crates where workers place their haul at the end of the day. Tobias, the man guarding the results of our hard work, gives an approving nod at my haul before he hands me and Destan our wages. The others—mostly boys my age—look at the dead tuna, too, and all around I feel the intensity of their envy.
District Four, I think, where everything is a competition. Really, most of us are just desperate to win something. Anything. I suppose even taking a leak faster than the others is something to be proud of.
"Don't mind them," Destan says as he returns the borrowed fishing poles.
But I hold their stares for a few beats before I steer Destan away from the beach. Others follow and I nod at some of my friends from school. Their faces are tense with anticipation, their hands balled into fists as if ready to throw a punch. We are given a few hours to prepare ourselves for the reaping. A short time for me, who never wants to participate in the Games. A long, pointless wait for those who want to, those who actually take tesserae even when they have more than enough to eat just so they can get their names entered more than once. It's sickening, the way we throw our lives away. I'm glad that I am nothing like my friends.
We walk to one of the seven shacks where workers leave their belongings. I always leave my slippers and shirt in the one being manned by the Crestas, one of the wealthier families in the district. These people have an alternative, either fish or do something else. I don't really mind them. The gap between the wealthy and the poor is not so large in our district. But of course, the children of the rich still train so that if their names ever get chosen for the reaping, they still stand a chance.
Usually, the counter is manned by Mr. Cresta, a surly old man who has taken a great dislike to me because I am always flirting with his daughters. Destan, on the other hand, is always welcome here. Probably it's because his daughters babysit Kindra and Destan when everyone else is out working. Destan, because of his age, only works three days a week and cannot be trusted to take care of our five-year-old sister.
I prepare myself for the death glare that Mr. Cresta is famous for, only to find that he has been replaced by one his little girls. The one behind the counter is the youngest, the girl with the dark, wavy hair and large eyes. She's only a year younger than me but I have never dared cross the line and flirt with her. For one thing, she seems to be her father's favorite. Another, she doesn't seem interested.
And as I look in her wide eyes, I realize that I have forgotten her name or, if not forgotten, have never even known it. Thankfully, Destan is with me. "Hi, Annie," he says, giving her a rare smile.
Her eyes stop at my face for a second before she turns her attention to my brother. "Hello, Destan." She smiles back and I notice that it changes her face, makes her even lovelier. "Happy Hunger Games."
I notice that Destan has wrinkled his nose in distaste but says nothing to confirm the fact that he hates this greeting. "Yeah…you, too. Have you met Finnick?"
She looks at me again, a small frown on her face. "I believe we've passed by each other in school. Hey."
I shrug. "Hey."
"Good luck…" her voice trails off and I see the fear in her eyes. It betrays the uncaring expression in her face. This is when I think about the Games, really imagine myself inside the arena, and I realize that, yes, my eyes might be doing the same, too. For a moment, we look at each other. And then Destan is tugging at my arm and asking me if I'm going to change out of my wet clothes or not.
I do not say goodbye to Annie Cresta. We avoid saying goodbyes on reaping days because it always sounds like it's the last. What I do is give a careless wave that Destan mimics. And then I am gone, racing after my brother. I refuse to wear my slippers until our feet hit the cemented streets that lead to home.
The houses in District Four are low and made of dark, grey stone. Ours is recognizable by the shards of broken shells stuck to the faded blue door. Knocking is painful unless you find the spots where the shells have been glued flat. Our little sister, Kindra, is sitting on the porch, weaving a crown out of leaves and hibiscus flowers. She is our mother's daughter with her reddish-blond hair and the slightest amount of freckles on her nose which Destan also has. A huge smile crosses her lips but disappears immediately when her eyes meet Destan's. They have been at war with each other since Kindra began to speak.
"Thought you'd take longer," she said. "Momma's been worried."
I scoop her up with one arm and she giggles. "I caught a big tuna. Bigger than you, even. Believe me?"
"Yeah." And she laughs again when I toss her a little.
Our mother has been cooking. She's a pretty woman but you can see that taking care of three kids has taken its toll on her. There are shadows under her eyes, lines at the corners of them. Her body is thin and so frail you wouldn't be able to hug her without thinking of snapping her in half. She makes us sit down and eat. I am faced with the district's infamous fish-shaped bread, sitting on a wooden plate with a fried egg and an assortment of vegetables. We eat with our hands while our mother watches, her eyes trained on me.
Afterwards, she forces me into wearing a pale green shirt with a hood and long sleeves and khaki pants. When she's out of the room I hack off the sleeves with a knife, something that I know won't sit with her well. But I have never been comfortable with clothes that encase my arms. They make me feel like they're constricting me, preventing me from being able to pull back my arm and throw my trident. I suppose years of swimming under the sun with so much exposed skin is making me think this. Whatever it is, my mother sure doesn't like it and nearly sees a fit when she sees what I've done to the newly bought shirt.
"Oh, let him be," my father says, laughing, "I think Finnick can decide what he wants to wear."
My mother just sighs in response.
It is barely nine o'clock when we are ushered in the town square. The smell of fish from the market wafts in the air, making the camera crews from the Capitol squirm in discomfort. Pratt Calder, a mischievous twelve-year-old who has not yet been pushed to his age-group, is smearing something that looks suspiciously like blood on the shimmery jacket of a woman with green hair. Pratt sees me looking and he gives his trademark waggle of eyebrows before he skips off to his group. I have to stifle a laugh. The boy has guts.
On the small stage decorated with fishnets and shells, Mayor Vanderslice gives his annual speech. I tune out his droning voice and instead, focus my attention on the victors sitting behind him. There are five alive but only one of them is of healthy and sober enough to take the job of mentor. Mags, the seventy-year-old victor who won her Games by trapping her opponents in a cave with a fire out of poisonous herbs. Her Games had lasted only three days which is why she's highly respected in our district.
Sylvia Bloom, the woman from the Capitol who is in charge of this year's tributes, stands up from her chair and thanks the mayor for his 'wonderful' introduction. The air is suddenly tense. I can feel the anticipation radiating from the others. The ball rolls. Girls first. An eighteen-year-old, Trix Marion, is chosen. She walks up with her head held high. I have seen her during training and I know that she won't hesitate to draw blood. Sylvia congratulates her then moves on to the ball containing two slips with the name Finnick Odair. I move a little to the front so I can see my family. Destan gives me a small nod. I barely have time to respond when it happens.
"Finnick Odair!"
The sound of my name chills my bones. I whip my head to Sylvia Bloom who has already zeroed in on the shocked fourteen-year-old. I blink, once, twice, until someone nudges me. I move away from my peers and walk with steady steps up the stage. My hands are trembling but I keep them balled into fists so tight the nails are beginning to cut into my palm. I look at my family first. They are open-mouthed, more surprised than I am. Kindra has begun to cry and Destan looks furious. I shake my head at him as Sylvia Bloom places her hand on my shoulder.
"My, my, aren't you a handsome boy?" she says although her eyes betray the chagrin she feels. Fourteen, such a young age. Usually, the tributes chosen are around sixteen or seventeen. Not this time, though.
The boys are shocked as well, so shocked that the minute of volunteering passes, sealing my fate. The girls begin to protest. No! Not Finnick Odair! They begin to shout, yell insults until the Peacemakers appear and everyone is forced to shut up.
The odds are definitely not in my favor.