I wake with the first rays of sunlight that glint in through the small, round window set near the peaked roof. Blinking a few times, awareness begins to settle in and I slowly pull away the blanket and sheet to sit up. It's awkward as I must lean away from the sloping wall that is actually the roof. But sit up, I do, and without knocking my head against it for only the second time this week. I rest my arms on my knees as I stare across the room at my brothers who are still fast asleep.
Nothing could wake them. Not even a mine explosion. Only one force on Earth seems capable of making them leap from their beds and that is our mother. Fortunately for me, I don't mind mornings, except when I hit my head on the wall, and am usually already downstairs helping Father by the time the apocalyptic force better known as Mrs. Mellark happens.
They're both my elder and we're each separated by just over a year. Ryen is the oldest at nineteen and despite the fact that he is out of school and should be working now at the bakery full-time, he takes no pleasure in baking and willingly sleeps until the screeches of our mother force him to wake. He may have no skill with flour and yeast, but he's amicable like me and does well manning the storefront allowing father more time to bake. I think he also enjoys the opportunity to flirt with every merchant daughter in the district.
Matzo is eighteen and anxiously awaiting the end of school. Although none of us know what he plans to do next. In District 12, we are fortunate to have even one option aside from coal mining and he has made it perfectly obvious he has no desire to work in the bakery. It is a point of frustration to Father who has done all he can to provide us with better lives, but Matzo takes after Mother and together they despise the bakery and the life that comes with it.
I get up and move about the room getting dressed to the symphony of their snoring and climb down from our attic bedroom. I pass by my parent's room with as quiet of steps as I can manage as I make my way to the stairs that lead directly into the bakery's kitchen. Only Father is up by this time and it's best to not disturb Mother if it can be avoided.
Heading down the stairs I can already smell the scents rising up to greet me from the warm oven. While we were all permitted to sleep in this morning, Father is already up and working on what few orders we do have for the day and what little stock he thinks we'll manage to sell. Today is special though. Today there will be cookies made specially for us.
You'd think being the sons of a baker we'd have cookies to the point where they became unappreciated and ordinary. But Father rarely makes cookies or cakes at all unless it's a special order for one of the Peacekeepers or someone from the local government. So cookies are still considered a treat. For in District 12, the sons of the baker may have no tesserae and full stomachs but only because they are full of stale bread. Usually only a birthday warrants such a special batch to be prepared. But the only national holiday warrants them too.
He looks up from his work as I walk into the kitchen and smiles. I find my apron hanging from a hook and quickly put it on. It's stained so many various colors from fruits, icings and char that it's hard to believe it used to be white. Only Ryen's is white and it is a stark contrast to mine and father's.
My father is a large man, his arms heavily muscled and burned from years of work before the oven. His hair is blonde like mine and he uses the back of his wrist to push back a few strands that have fallen into his eyes. As I watch, he kneads the dough without thought, his hands doing all the work from muscle memory alone. "You're up early," he comments. "Reaping's not until two and you know business'll be scarce today."
"Habit," I reply with a small shrug of my shoulders. In truth there is no one I'd rather spend every morning with than my father. I started helping him in the bakery since before I could even reach the counter on my own. He'd set me on the counter beside him so I could stir ingredients and by the time I was five I'd learned to knead.
"Breakfast?" he asks lifting one well-floured hand to point to the counter where a small assortment of loaves are resting on clothes ready to be wrapped and delivered. They are the culprits of the warm, yeasty smell I caught coming down the stairs. On the end is one more loaf that even from here I can tell that it's crust is dried and flaking off.
I go to pick up a knife and cut off a slice and my father makes a noise in the back of his throat. I look up and he shakes his head and nods to the slightly steaming loaf of cinnamon-raisin bread next to the stale one I was about to slice into. "Isn't that for Cray?" I ask surprised. Our head peacekeeper has a bit of a sweet tooth.
"I made an extra one, but if you'd rather have the stale loaf I was gonna have you feed to the sow, be my guest," he teases. My hand still rests on the crumbling crust and I smile as I pick it up and start for the back door. While it is not unusual for my father to make sure we eat a plentiful, and fresh, dinner tonight, a special loaf of bread for breakfast as well is a first. I'm certain it's because Ryen is finally too old for the Reaping. It must be a weight off my father's shoulders.
The air still has a slightly damp smell to it as the dew has not yet been burned off by the sun. Our sow is oblivious to my presence as she possibly sleeps more soundly and loudly than my brothers combined. I distractedly break up the stale loaf of bread and drop it into her trough as my eyes are finding the edge of the meadow and the perimeter fence just over some of the low neighboring rooftops.
That fence is supposed to be electrified, but to do that our district would have to either burn more coal for energy or suffer frequent rolling blackouts. Still it keeps the wolves and bears from walking through the town square. I smile imagining just this happening and old Cray too flustered to act.
As I gaze at the fence, a lone figure is moving along it. She is slim in build and wearing nothing but shades of brown making her hard to spot in the early light. But I would recognize her anywhere with her long dark hair pulled back in a braid. She ducks into a clump of bushes and only for the briefest of moments do I spot her as she dashes into the forest beyond the fence.
I sigh, my hands now empty, and brush the crumbs off onto my apron before going back in. I don't cut into the raisin bread my father has specially made figuring I'll at least wait to share with my brothers. Instead, I move about gathering bowls, utensils and the ingredients I need to make icing. I love when my father gets orders for cookies and cakes. Since I was six, he's been teaching me the basics and since I've been twelve he's let me do all the icing. Customers are even willing to wait until I'm out of school to finish the work.
By the time the first batch has cooled, I have a palette of blue, orange, pink, and green and begin to form flowers on the tops of the cookies. My father is watching me, so intensely that he has forgotten to keep kneading the bread. He seems to remember himself after a few minutes and delves back into his own work.
"Think we'll see any squirrels in time for lunch?" I ask breaking the quiet. We have probably only a few more minutes before the rest of the family is awake and joining us. Mother hates squirrel but that hasn't stopped father from trading for it now for years. He just does it when she's not looking. I look up from the pale purple katniss bloom I have created and gaze back at him. I try my best to look impassive but somehow he always sees straight through me.
He shakes his head in the negative but looks up and gives me this knowing smile and I can feel my cheeks burn hot. "Doubtful. We're too close to the square for her to risk a trade today. I saw her friend Gale even before you were awake. Gave him one of the fresh loaves for a squirrel he must have gotten yesterday evening."
I merely nod at first, forcing myself to look down at the cookies so he can't see the flash of disappointment cross my features. I try to remind myself that Gale coming by this morning meant that he was going to share that loaf with her when they met up to go hunting. "If she does come by..." I start hesitantly and father immediately looks up with interest. "Maybe we could give her a little extra? I'm sure her family would enjoy a special meal tonight just like we do. I think it's her sister's first year." I know I'm playing on my father's vested interest for Katniss' mother, Mrs. Everdeen, but I know he'd do it for me anyway too.
It is at that moment that the rest of the house starts to come to life. I spare one last glance over my shoulder to see Father's silent response-a warm smile and I smile in return. It pains us both to know that there are dozens of families like the Everdeens in the Seam. Dozens more who aren't even able to scrape by as well as Katniss has managed since her father died five years ago. It is not an uncommon sight to find someone who has either starved or frozen to death on those streets. As much as both of us would want to feed them all, we also have our own health to consider first. So we do what we can, when we can.
Ryen is down the stairs first, followed by the sounds of Mother still attempting to raise Matzo from his death-like sleep. He looks half frightened and is bustling about with great vigor and purpose around the kitchen but accomplishing not much of anything. I smirk as I watch Father hand him a slice of the still warm raisin bread and sends him out the door with the morning deliveries. Father then brings us each a slice and sighs as he settles onto a stool next to me.
He eats his slice slowly as he looks over the cookies I've already finished as if he were critiquing a painting. I've learned my perfectionism from him. "Exquisite," he comments picking up the cookie bearing the katniss bloom. He holds it up to his mouth as if he were going to eat it and upon seeing my semi shocked expression stays his hand at the last moment. He laughs as he replaces the cookie on the drying rack.
We have some unspoken agreement to not discuss my feelings towards Katniss Everdeen. Much like we do not speak of my own father's unrequited love of Mrs. Everdeen. Both are for safety sake because neither of us would want Mother to overhear any discussion of any Everdeen, especially if she were to be armed with a rolling pin. But that does not stop my father from teasing me nearly incessantly in his own way. I think he's trying to prod me into not giving up as easily as he once had.
The morning passes productively. My father having to give Motzo closely directed orders, Mother working on a meat pie that would be our supper after the reaping, and Ryen keeping an eye on the shop for the very rare customer. The closest we got to busy was at lunch when Capitol film crews came in to get something to eat. After a bowl of Father's squirrel stew, Mother orders Motzo and myself upstairs to bathe and dress 'respectably'.
We return downstairs by a quarter til two dressed in what Father jokingly calls funeral clothes. I can't help but feel the term is applicable, even on Reaping Day. We work seven days a week and therefore dress clothes have no use to us aside from attending a funeral. The grey pants and light blue shirt are practically new even though they were handed down twice.
Father leads us out the front of the shop, locking the door behind us. The square is already nearly packed as District 12's 8000 citizens attempt to fit in and some of the people have filtered back into side streets to watch from temporary screens that have been attached to the sides of the tavern, butcher shop, shoe shop, and apothecary. But Matzo and I need to make it to the very center of the square, right in front of the large stage that was assembled over the past few days in front of the Justice Building.
Our parents and Ryen make their way through the crowd and some of the childless adults give them a better spot. I glance around seeing that there are the usual roustabouts collecting the usual bids and frown. It's a horrid practice but somehow people believe it takes some of the reality out of it all. It's easier to pretend their not betting on or against their own neighbors' sons and daughters.
Eventually Matzo and I make our way to the front to check in. Our fingers are pricked for a blood sample and then we're ushered into the left side of the square and organized by age. I stand just a few yards back from my brother and take a deep breath before looking back to catch my father's eye. He smiles, but it's fraught with worry.
And why shouldn't it? Two of his sons are among those eligible to be reaped for the Hunger Games. There is a chance, however small, that one of us will be selected and sent to fight against 23 others to the death. The annual Hunger Games is the Capitol's way of reminding the districts of just how much we are at their mercy. As if starving to death in the streets wasn't memorable enough. So now, 74 years after a rebellion when there is nary a soul, especially not in this district, that was even alive then, I must stand here and pray I do not hear my name.
Once again, I am silently grateful I have never needed to take out tesserae. My name is only in that bowl five times. Looking over to the girls' side I spot Katniss standing nearly in the same row. She has apparently made it back from the forest with more than enough time to spare. She looks beautiful in a blue dress and her hair is intricately braided up onto her head. How many times is her name in there? How much grain and oil has she had to beg off the government at the cost of putting her name in so many more times than mine? I quickly do the math and realize it must be about twenty.
Delly Cartwright stands near to Katniss and waves to me mistaking that I'm looking for her in the crowd. I manage a weak smile and quickly look away. I don't want to catch her eye again when she realizes who she's standing directly behind. Delly is like the sister I never had. She smiles and has nothing but kindness for everyone. She also is one of the only people who knows my feelings for Katniss.
I cannot even imagine going to the Games. We are from the poorest district and are so poorly equipped to even have the survival instincts needed to not die of starvation or thirst during the games that only one victor has ever been crowned in District 12. It is painful being forced to watch classmates be sent to their death and then forced to witness their deaths on national television.
Not only can I not imagine going myself, I can't imagine my brother, my friends, Delly...or Katniss. Again I glance her way but her eye is drawn to Gale who stands near my brother. I fight down my conflicting emotions, mostly jealousy and allow a mask of calm to slip into place as Mayor Undersee takes his place on the stage. There are two other seats up there. One is for the escort of District 12's tributes, Effie Trinket. She is insufferably happy and excitable. The last chair is for Abernathy Haymitch, the town drunk and one of only two people to return to district 12 from the arena.
Effie has now appeared on the stage as well. As usual, she appears a little too excited to execute her duties and equally scary. Her face is painted so terribly pale she looks like death itself and her pale pink wig this year clashes with a light green suit. Only in the Capitol could anyone possibly believe this is high fashion. Then again, only in the Capitol is the Reaping an exciting event and not a funeral.
The Justice Building's clock strikes two ominously and the mayor mechanically stands up and begins to read. I've met him a few times, but I know his daughter, Madge, just slightly better. She does the shopping for the household and frequently stops into the bakery. I sense the same leveled fear in the mayor as I do my father for even his daughter's name is in one of those two glass bowls five times.
I'm barely listening as he talks about Panem's history. I'm staring past him at Effie who in turn is staring at Haymitch's empty seat. But the mayor drones on about the natural disasters that destroyed North America until the survivors began to war over the remains. The Capitol was the result, bringing supposed peace and prosperity to all. I try not to scoff because I highly doubt that could be true if the Dark Days were the result. The Dark Days is what the call the rebellion of the thirteen districts against the Capitol. It took the utter destruction of District 13 to bring the other twelve to their knees and the Treaty of Treason was written to insure no further civil wars.
And it's because of the Treaty of Treason that I'm standing here now. That one document has sent hundreds of children to their death by spelling out the rules of the Hunger Games. Each district must offer up two tributes-a boy and a girl-between the ages twelve and eighteen in order to remind everyone that the Dark Days are better off behind us. Those tributes will then be trained and put into an arena to fight until one person remains. The victor is then supposed to serve as a beacon of hope, of survival.
The mayor is finishing up and reads of the list of winners from District 12. But it's not really a list with only Haymitch's name on it. It is now that the drunk finally arrives, shouting obscenities and weaving dangerously as he attempts to climb the stairs onto the stage. He barely manages to land in his chair and looks confused by the staggered applause from the square. He turns and hugs Effie and there are quite a few snickers that trickle throughout the square now.
Perhaps if this is what hope looks like, it's no wonder all of our tributes have lost. Sure winning means a hefty "salary" from the Capitol, a house in the Victor's Village that rivals the mayor's in size, and food for the entire district for a year. But is it really worth it if you wind up like Haymitch? Drunk and alone?
Mayor Undersee is devastated. Haymitch has once again managed to make District 12 the laughing stock of Panem. He recovers and quickly introduces Effie having her come to the podium that stands between the two large glass bowls.
She nearly bounds up. Whether to escape Haymitch or in the excitement to perform her duties I'll never know. "Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be ever in your favor!" I have to hold my hand up over my mouth to keep from smirking when I see that her pink wig is slipping off to the side like buttercream icing left too long in the sun. But considering the timing and despite the humor of watching Effie and Haymitch interact, I stifle any and all amusement. She then tries to convince us of how glad she is to be here, an honor she claims.
Effie has now stepped off to the right slightly, her hand hovering over the glass bowl holding thousands of slips of paper. "Ladies first!" she shouts as her hand dives inside and ruffles about and pulls the first name. I glance to the side wondering which classmate I will no longer see in school again.
Moving back to the podium, Effie unfolds the slip and reads the carefully printed handwriting into the microphone.
"Primrose Everdeen!"