I wake up to the heavy smell of freshly baked bread. The air is thick with cinnamon and ginger today. On mornings like this, when the sweet smell of the spices drift all the way up to the attic I share with my older brother, I am gently reminded that there is something significant about the day ahead. On happier occasions, I am greeted with the smell of baking gingerbread on Christmas Day. Soon after, the buttery, sugary air of frosting for New Year's cakes. But today, it is the familiar mixture of a simply filling bread recipe that reminds me today is Reaping Day.
I take a minute to allow the sinking feeling in my stomach to subside. It's fine, I try to remind myself. It's just another Reaping Day. You're fine. I swing my legs over the edge of the bed and force myself to stand. I throw a pillow at my older brother and he groans. We'd both love to sleep in, but it's Reaping Day, and our father will need all the help he can get down in the bakery. We usually get a lot of business on holidays, especially Reaping Day, when everyone wants to have a loaf of bread for their celebratory dinner after the lottery is held. I always try to wish the best for everyone who walks through the door- one of them will hold a dinner in silence with one less child to share the meal with.
Just as I'm about to make my way downstairs, a pebble hits the small round window once, then twice. I don't have to look to know who it is. I feel myself smile as I quickly and quietly tiptoe downstairs. I take careful steps down the hall and through the kitchen doors. Just before I turn the corner through the kitchen and out of the back door, I grab a warm blueberry tart right off of a tray, wrap it in a piece of wax paper, and sneak out. Someone might notice, but I don't care. I know she'll love this.
My closest friend, Delly Cartwright, leans against the old apple tree in my backyard wearing a light pink dress with a gray sash. Her blonde hair rests just below her shoulders and is tied halfway up with a ribbon that matches her dress. She smiles her kind, innocent smile and plays with something in her palm.
"Hey." she nearly whispers, trying to keep a hold of her smile.
"Hey." I bounce back, just as quiet. We keep a hold of each other's eyes for a minute, trying to read the other. Delly breaks the silence.
"I brought you these," she says as she hands me a pair of thick shoestrings. They're dark brown and are tied together in a bow. My Reaping Day gift.
"Thank you, Delly," I smile. "And this is for you." I hand her the tart, and she sighs when she unwraps the paper. The sweet smell fills the air around us.
"Oh Peeta," she says in awe. Her amazement quickly turns into lighthearted laughter. "Oh, Peeta! Your mom is going to kill you!"
" Well, that's nothing new." I roll my eyes, and we laugh together. Our smiles begin to fade and the fear starts to settle between us. Delly wraps her arms around me and I place mine around her. Two scared children shaking as one.
"We'll be fine." I say, as we pull away from each other. "The odds are in our favor. It could be worse." I think of the many other kids our age who aren't as lucky, whose odds are far away from their favor. I think of one in particular...
"You're right." Delly says, smoothing her skirt. "We'll be just fine. And tonight, we'll celebrate. I'll sit by you at our dinner." Delly's parents always hold a dinner for their family friends that have children of Reaping age. Everyone who's been invited has always been able to attend. What should be different about this year?
"You can bet on it, Delly." I smile, and we part our separate ways.
I walk back into the bakery, ready to start the day ahead. Just as I turn the corner into the shop, I catch sight of him. He's a smart man, showing up so early before my mother's woken up. If she were downstairs, he wouldn't be able to get a decent thing from my father. But no, Gale Hawthorne is here at the crack of dawn with four squirrels to trade.
"Just a loaf of bread, sir. I've got four squirrels for you right here." he says, his husky voice hushed beneath the crackle of the fire in the oven.
"Ah.." my father ponders over this. "Just the one will do you fine, boy." Gale's eyebrows raise in shock, but he doesn't question this. He hands over one of the squirrels by the tail in exchange for the bread."Thank you, sir." he says.
My father nods. "Good luck, boy." Gale nods respectfully at me, and I nod back. I wait until the shop door closes and he's past the next shop over.
"Why'd you only ask him for a squirrel, dad?" I ask in a quiet voice. My father puts the squirrel in a bag in a cupboard for later.
"That kid needs about as much help as he can get today, son. His name must be in that bowl about fifty times." he says. "Always do the best you can to help others, Peeta. Your kindness may be the only thing a person has to look forward to."
It's moments like these I wonder how in the world my father could have possibly fallen in love with my mother. My father- who never turns down an opportunity to give the best he can to those in greater need, and my mother- who'd never give a penny to a starving soul even if she owned them all. The pieces never seemed to fit right to me.
The rest of my day is filled with orders of breads and tarts and even small cakes, from those who can afford them. The entire day I can't help but worry about the outcome of the Reaping. Will it be me? My brother? Delly?... Her?
"Peeta, sit still would you!" My mother exclaims as she combs back my hair. I hadn't realized I was shaking until now. "I ought to just let you fix your own hair, you're old enough! Now stop moving!" I resort to fidgeting with a button on my shirt as she pushes back the last few stray hairs. "There. Now stand up, let me take a look at you." I stand with my arms to my side. All it takes is one look and she's already shaking her head.
"Can't you tuck a shirt in, boy? You look sloppy, like those brats from the Seam with nothing but two shirts to wear!" She sighs. "Clean yourself up and go downstairs, son." I tuck in my shirt and take one last look in the mirror. As good as it'll get, I guess.
Because the Reaping is held in the square, I don't have to walk far at all to get where I'm supposed to be. In fact, I've already checked in and am standing in my section within twenty minutes. I look around at all the other boys there will be to choose from. My mother had a brutal point- some of the kids from the Seam are dressed in what must be their best, but still wear holes in their shirts or have patches where pockets used to be. This is no comfort to me, but it reminds me again that the odds are in my favor. The names of the kids from the Seam overpower those of the kids who have never had to sign up for tesserae.
All too soon, the town clock strikes two, and the mayor steps up to the podium to read the same old speech delivered each year. He tells the history of the Dark Days, the creation of the Hunger Games, and acknowledges the only two victors of our district. One of them is dead, and the other is drunk. He stumbles onstage, making his grand appearance, and attempts to hug our district's escort. The mayor tries to draw the attention away from the drunk and introduces Effie Trinket.
She struts to the center of the stage between the two Reaping bowls. "Happy Hunger Games!" she booms into the microphone. "And may the odds be ever in your favor." a snicker escapes from her bright pink lips. "Ladies first!"
My heart races for Delly. For the others.
For her.
Effie Trinket reaches deep into the glass bowl and picks one single slip of paper out of thousands. She crosses to the podium and reads the paper in a trill, condescending voice.
Not her.
Please.
And it's not.
"Primrose Everdeen!"