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Effie never seizes to surprise me.
This year, District Twelve's escort has donned a ridiculously blue suit — its sleeves much too long, much too frilly — and its collar, a tall, horrendous asset that wraps around her head, as if it were consuming her. Not to mention, she has dyed her hair again, this time a more subtle purple than it once was, but still purple nevertheless.
She glances at the crowd of children before her, and smiles her ridiculous Capitol smile, then mounts the coal-covered stage, where she shall choose two names from twin glass bowls with her gloved, manicured hand, and, most likely, send another pair of scared children to their imminent deaths. I mean, District Twelve hasn't had a Victor since the Fiftieth Hunger Games, so what makes these tributes any different than all the others?
Nothing; because they'll die just like the rest of them.
Let's just hope I don't know either of them. It makes everything much easier.
By now, Effie has taken her seat next to Mayor Undersee. From where I stand, I can see that they are discussing something. I wonder briefly what it may be, until they both glance at the empty chair next to them. Yes, of course. Haymitch Abernathy, District Twelve's only living Victor, is missing. But this isn't new. No, not at all. Just another casualty, Effie would say.
I roll my eyes.
It takes another five minutes to get the ceremony started, and then another two minutes to get Haymitch, who has apparently woken up from his drunken stupor, and had the decency to actually show up — late, but still present — situated. He is clearly intoxicated, though. That's Haymitch for you.
By the time Effie saunters to the front of the stage, everybody is restless. I, for one, am one of them.
"Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be ever in in your favor!" Effie chirps. She waits for applause from the crowd, but when she realizes she isn't going to receive any, she coughs politely and continues with, "Let's get started!"
Looking directly at the females, Effie grins, and sashays over to the bowl that contains all the names of District Twelve's female population between the ages of twelve and eighteen. "Ladies first, of course!" she announces, a strange clip to the end of her words. Her hand then dives into the pool of names and swims around in it, grabbing a slip, then quickly releasing it with a laugh, adding to the suspense. Once her fingers have finally settled on a slip, she beams at the crowd; her eyes dripping with excitement.
Then as quickly as it had dove, her hand slithers out, and she practically bounces back to the podium, her hair now slightly ruffled from all the movement. Although, I don't believe she'll even notice.
"Now, let us see what lucky lady will be representing District Twelve this year!"
Yeah, real lucky.
"Leevy Haarlem!"
I don't recognize the name, although that doesn't make me any less sorry for her or her family.
Leevy, a tall, slender Seam girl, marches out from the seventeen-year-old sector and mounts the stage with a determination that puzzles me.
Her hair is short, the color of coal itself, and her eyes are grey. But those eyes — those grey, grey eyes — hold something in them. What that something is, I don't know, but whoever the male tribute is this year should watch out for it.
It is until then that I notice everybody is staring at me.
Why?
"Peeta Mellark?" Effie's eyes search the crowd for the owner of the name. "Come, come, young man! We have a schedule to keep!"
I glance at all the people that surround me — all of them boys, sixteen, like me — and see that they have distanced themselves from me.
As if being reaped was contagious.
I begin walking through the crowd, though I don't know how; my legs felt like they had been beaten, ran over, then beaten again.
Some boys pat my shoulder as I pass them, others try to smile, but fail miserably, and when I finally reach the stage, I am greeted by Effie Trinket and her gloved hand that helps me up the steps.
I take my place next to Leevy as Effie returns to the podium. "Look at these two; real potential!" The words are supposed to give me comfort, but we all know she doesn't really mean them. Effie knows we'll be dead within the month, but she's too "optimistic" to admit it. She then turns to us and orders, with the same maniacal smile and strange glint in her eyes, to shake hands.
I turn and offer my hand to Leevy, who takes it, but which such hostility, I wonder if she is already devising a plan to murder me. The thought makes my blood curdle.
"Leevy Haarlem and Peeta Mellark; District Twelve's Seventy-fourth annual Hunger Games tributes!"
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