Chapter One

"And District Four's female tribute is… Millicent Cohen."

No.

Millie's big blue eyes were wide as she made her way through the crowd and up to the stage. A girl started crying. One of her friends cussed under her breath. Millie's friends were always cussing – either she had taught them, or they had taught her.

"Oh, we have a pretty one this year!" I heard a Peacekeeper whisper not-so-quietly to his friend, who grunted in reply. Everyone thought Millie was pretty. Her black curls were long and shiny, her pink lips were full, and she was tan and muscular from being out on the sea days at a time. But her greatest asset was her eyes. Huge, surrounded by long, midnight lashes, and very, very blue, "like the sky", as Drell, her boyfriend, liked to say. Millie and I both had blue eyes, but her were like the sky and mine were supposedly like the sea – "blue, but with something more", as Father had said.

"WAIT!" I heard a voice, and then I realized that it was my voice. "I volunteer as tribute!"

But they were already walking off the stage with Millie, already dragging her away. "No! Mags! No!" she called, but her cries faded, along with the crowd, and I was left crying, and crying and crying and crying...

"MAGDALENE HESTER COHEN!" Father shouted. "For the last time. It's Reaping Day. Get up!"

I clutched my roughly woven bed sheets and wiped my eyes with them. I had nightmares like this every time Reaping Day came around. Either Millie would get chosen, or I would, or sometimes friends from school, cousins… and I was never able to save them. A couple years ago a friend from school had gotten chosen – Sylvie Hess, the mayor's daughter. She hadn't survived the bloodbath. The tribute from District Twelve ran a dagger through her mouth and the rest of her head. No one had expected her to survive, though. Sylvie had never been the toughest. Plus, she'd had Durina as a mentor, and Durina was… well, nobody really knew how Durina had survived. I'd always assumed she'd just waited everyone out.

I stood up from bed, forcing myself not to wince from the cold ocean air sinking into my skin. The breeze made the lacy curtains at the window flutter, and I hurriedly threw on my best dress to combat the low temperature.

The dress was pale indigo, and snug-fitting at the top and waist, falling in waves to my knees. The sleeves were lace, and went to just below my bony elbows, and the collar was lacy too, the lace starting low and going to my neck.

I looked in the mirror above my sink. Same Mags. Straight, ash-blonde hair that goes to my mid-back. Big, blue-gray eyes. Slight overbite, skinny, not-curvy-enough-to-be-sixteen. Tiny hands. Tiny feet. Tan. Muscled.

I bound downstairs, stopping to put on my sandals, and then run to the beach. Father's boat is just coming in, and I see that he and Millie are already dressed in their reaping clothes, Millie in a long, fitted red dress and Father in his good jacket and tie.

I helped them take in the catch and Millie braided my hair to make a crown on top of my head – which Mother would've done, if she hadn't died giving birth to me.

Millie looks so much like Mother that I can tell it breaks Father's heart to look at her. But, although I have Father's skinny body and blonde hair, I have Mother's eyes. Father never looks me in the eye.

Finally, it was time for Reaping Day. It was the last year Millie would be entered. I was sixteen, so I had two more years. I remember the first Hunger Games. It was when I was five years old – this one was the eleventh. The tributes from District Four were Clary and Donnell. Donnell was a weakling. He died in the bloodbath. Clary was with the Careers, until there were only five left and her blonde teammate pushed her off a cliff. The blonde girl won. She was from District One. Surprise, surprise. Her name was Ruby Wynne. A few years later, she mysteriously died.

Father sat Millie down before we left, and gave her the talk about what to do if she got pulled. "Remember," I heard him saying to her, "they're not other human beings. They're pawns. And they're gonna kill you."

Every year Millie got the same talk. This was the last year she'd ever get the talk again. I felt a small sense of relief steal over me, numbing the stinging feeling I got whenever Father gave her a talk like that, because I never got talks like that. It was my fault that Mother died. Father didn't hate me, or blame me for it, but I knew that he'd never truly be as proud of me or love me as much as he did Millie.

I stood with the other sixteen-year-olds at the ceremony, and soon was found by my friend Henna. Her long red hair was in braids coiled on the sides of her head, and she wore kohl around her friendly brown eyes. Henna was always the pretty one. "Mags!" she greeted me. "Happy Reaping Day!"

I smiled back at her. I've never been one to talk much; everyone knew that. When I did talk it was quietly, and quickly. I just didn't have much to say. I preferred to keep things to myself. I didn't mind the occasional conversation, I just wasn't a social butterfly.

"Are you nervous?" Henna asked. "Who do you think they'll reap this year?"

My sister, I almost say, and then, "I don't know. I'm not nervous, particularly. No more than usual."

Henna smiled, showing glowing white teeth. "I suppose you're right. I'm about to die of fear, though. What if they reap Mikey?"

Mikey Odair was probably the most beautiful boy anyone in our District had ever seen. He was golden-skinned, bronze-haired, tall, and muscular, with the most amazing sea-green eyes. He and Henna had been together for two weeks now – a long time for both of them. Henna was so in love with him it was ridiculous, and he loved her back – you could tell. They were an adorable couple.

"He won't," I reassured her. And even if he did, he'd charm his way out of it, you know he would.

She smiled at me again, and I smiled back, quieting down because the ceremony was starting.

And Orion Winterworth was wearing a tutu.

Orion Winterworth, or just plain Orion, always has been and always will be the District Four escort. He was big on the androgynous beauty thing, and so sometimes he'd come to the Reapings in the weirdest getups – stockings, lacy shirts; once he came in a wimple and black habit. But now, he was wearing a tutu.

His tutu was a splendid tutu – red and blue with little stars and glitter sprinkled throughout. He wore fishnet stockings underneath, and a large, lemon-yellow robe that looked like it may or may not be from a bath company. He wore red stiletto heels, red lipstick, bright blue eyeshadow, and his sparse brown hair stuck out from underneath a curly blonde beehive wig. His tattoos on his cheekbones were inlaid with gold this year, as opposed to last year (bronze) and the year before (copper). "Welcome to the Eleventh Hunger Games," he announced in a reedy voice. "And," he drawled, "may the odds be ever in your favor. Now, ladies first." He picked a slip of paper from the ball. I held my breath. "This year's female tribute is… Millie Cohen."

What?

"Wait!" I heard myself shout. "I volunteer as tribute!"