It's sunny on Reaping Day.
Well, as sunny as it ever has been in District 6. The sky is always darkened by the smoke from the trains, the people always stopping every few steps to cough and wipe the sickly tears from their eyes, muttering their apologies to their comrades. Today, though, the streets lay empty as I make my way to the Workyard, free of the constant hustle and bustle of tired people moving about. Many spend their whole lives between their homes and this place, a blur of rattling sighs and idle gossip. Then again, they don't seem to mind.
The sky is still red from the glow of the morning sun when the familiar chain-link fence comes into view, barely leaving any shadow on the concrete beneath it. Behind the fence, I can already see the trains passing by, funneling smoke high into the atmosphere, headed for today's destination. We'd spent all year rebuilding them, repairing them, and applying a shiny new coat of paint so that they were spotless just in time for the Games.
Soon, they would all be carrying two terrified tributes. All our hard work, reduced to vessels existing only to take scared children away from their families.
As a pang of guilt washes over me, I remind myself not to think about it. Feeling guilty is not going to make today bearable.
The air is filled with the faint sound of clanging metal coming from the Workyard, along with the occasional shout from one worker to another. Even from this distance I can see people working on some of the freight the trains, crawling around on them like swarming ants. Any other day, that would be me. After school, I work a shift as a mechanic on the trains, as do most of my family. Our wage only pays enough to keep one person sustained, so it's necessary that all of my time is divided between school and work.
Strictly speaking, we shouldn't be here on a 'holiday', but nobody is thinking of anything but getting those trains ready at this time in the morning. All of the Peacekeepers will be at the Justice Building, anyway. I do look ridiculously out of place. Workers are not excused from the Reaping and always end up scrambling in late and covered in soot, but I look quite dapper in my brand new clothes. They're already starting to look a little dirty, although just about everything around here does. It's impossible to work on trains all day without traipsing grease back into your house. It drives my mother crazy, but there's nothing to be done about it.
I climb the fence with ease, not even bothering to check the gate. It's always padlocked; rusted shut. I fall heavily on the other side and scrape my hands on the ground, but I'm alright. I admire the smears of blood left on the bleak concrete. At least it looks a little more lively now. Examining my hand, I wonder if I could have gotten an infection from the ground, but infected hands are the least of my worries.
To be honest, it wouldn't matter if I'd broken my leg. Nothing was going to stop me seeing Blaire today. I'd already gotten up three hours earlier than usual, wolfed 'breakfast' down in a hurry and been out of the door before either of my parents had noticed. Anyone who saw me passing might have thought I was trying to escape the Reaping. As though anyone would be that stupid.
Blaire is sitting on the ground when I reach her, and she gifts me with a genuine smile as I approach. "Hi," she says simply as I sit down beside her, clasping her hand in mine and giving it a gentle squeeze.
"Hey," I reply. She's dressed up for the Reaping as well, all decked out in some lacy garment with a black ribbon around the waist. I lean down to kiss her cheek and notice something powdery is covering it. Her mother must have made her wear make-up. "I missed you."
"I missed you too." She flicks me a secretive little grin before she unlaces our fingers and guides my hand to her swollen abdomen, where it rests, trembling.
"I thought it was too early to feel kicking," I remind her quietly. I had hoped that, somehow, we wouldn't acknowledge this today.
"It doesn't matter. She's still in here."
"How do you know it's a she?" I ask, surprised. It's been a she since the beginning, for some reason, though it's never been explained to me before.
"I just know," she answers with a shrug, glancing at me. Her blue eyes are usually full of life, but today they just look weighed down. Not tearful, just sad. "I guess we shouldn't act like it's a human. You're right. If I get chosen-"
I silence her with a groan and take my hand away. "Blaire . . ."
We sit in silence, me staring into the distance, her biting her lip bloody. Both of us have been worrying about this day for months now. So have our families, although their way of showing it is to berate us constantly for being so stupid. At sixteen, we're too young to be parents, but before, we were confident that we'd be just fine and that we were old enough to make our own choices.
Then we remembered the Games. They aren't a choice.
"You could win, you know," I say hopefully, breaking the silence. "You're smart, and you're brave. Just imagine how rich we'd be if you won."
"I'm not fit," she sighs, gesturing to her stomach. "Obviously."
"A kid won a few years ago just by being smart," I tell her, my voice almost painfully upbeat. "Imagine how much the Capitol would love you. And then you'd come home, and we'd get married. Right?"
"Right, Carmine." She doesn't sound convinced, and I don't blame her. I haven't even convinced myself. "I might not get Reaped, anyway," she adds, trying her hand at optimism. It doesn't suit her.
"Exactly!" I say quickly. Her name has been entered far more than the mandatory five times, but District 6 isn't small. Plenty of kids have been entered more than she has. "I'll do tesserae next year again, too. You can have everything."
She raises her eyebrows. "We agreed it was a one-time thing!"
"But the odds are in our favour, angel," I reassure her, mimicking the escort who always comes to choose the names on Reaping day. She chuckles. We always made fun of how he seems to say the same thing every single year. Saying he wants the odds to be in our favour, before drawing another unlucky person into their doom.
She nestles into me and we sit like that, half-hugging each other, slumped against the fence until the sunlight becomes genuine. I can feel her skin shivering beneath my finger tips, and she's sweating through that pretty dress. I don't know how to comfort her after convincing myself that she'll probably be drawn from that ball. She'll probably be dragged, kicking and screaming, up onto that platform. She wouldn't last five minutes in the games. I'd watch her die on a wide-screen television in front of the whole nation, murdered by some kid whose entire life was spent preparing for this event.
There would be no dignity for her.
There's a deep, low hum as a train from the Capitol pulls into the station. There's a big fuss at the platform and we know it's time to move. Hand in hand, we walk back to the town square, not saying another word. I love you would feel too cheap at this moment. Everything does.
The sound of false cheering seeps into our ears as we draw closer, and before we can even hug goodbye she's whisked away to stand with the other girls, and I'm left to watch her get into line, her eyes widening at the sight of the reaping balls, one containing each of our names.