I sign up twelve times for the tesserae. My name has been place fifteen times in the boy's tribute bowl. I can only think of my name slowly being read out loud by Effie Trinket to the whole population of District twelve. I think to myself, there are hundreds of other names too, and I have only a slight chance I'll be chosen. My brother signs up too, his name placed seventeen times.
My brother, Cyrus, and I walk home together. My mind can't stop thinking of the hunger games. Soon we pass the house where Dahlia Augustine used to live. Two games ago, she was chosen. The whole district believed we would have a victor, but a Career caught her one night and slaughtered her with a sword. Her mom is outside, telling her children that it will be alright, but from her expression, she looks terrified. Every year she does.
Cyrus whips the tesserae up on his shoulder, and starts telling me who he thinks should be chosen.
"It would be hilarious if Tiberius Demo was chosen! He thinks he would win because he 'trains like a Career,' as if." Cyrus states.
"You shouldn't say that," I contradict.
"Why? What good has he ever done for me?" he shoots back.
"What does it matter if he's been a jerk? The reason is you shouldn't wish death
on anyone, even if it is only the Hunger Games!" Our conversation gets uncontrollably loud, and a few people stare with shock.
"Oh shut up you idiot! I hope you die instead!" he shouts. I hear some gasps from the neighboring houses, especially from Dahlia's house. I spin around running for home, leaving Cyrus standing on the side of the road alone. He starts running after me crying, "Cassius! Cassius! Stop! I didn't mean it!" he reaches for my shoulder, but I twist it, nearly breaking it. He falls to the ground, cringing in pain. I sprint home wanting only to leave this horrible, vulgar country.
While I run, I wish someone had never thought of the Hunger Games. Why
would people want to kill innocent children? Especially at the reaping when people can volunteer, but choose not to, too afraid to die.
When I reach home, I tell no one of the fight between Cyrus and I. I run upstairs, and choose my clothes for the reaping. I clean myself from the wheel sized bucket in our home, washing my brown hair, the natural color of the Seam. My hazel eyes shine from the gleaming sun. What a beautiful day to have such a horrific event scheduled for.
When Cyrus arrives home, he holds his wrist, and tries to hide the pain
from his eyes. He sneers at me, and walks to the backyard to fill the bathing bucket. Our family is nearly late for the reaping because of our fight. He hurries, then we walk to Town Square to attend the mandatory reaping.
We sign in at the square, Cyrus, Cleo–my eighteen year old sister–and I,
then take our spots in the correct sections. Soon enough, Effie Trinket appears, chipper and sparkly as ever, and makes a long speech about the rebellion, the Treaty of Treason, and eventually the creation of the Hunger Games. My heart pounds as she approaches the bowls.
Lucia Windhoek is chosen for the girls. Then Effie drowns her hand in the boy's
bowl, and retrieves a slip of paper.
Back at the podium, she proclaims, "Tiberius Demo!"
My heart pounds hard, and my face suddenly loses color. Everyone turns
towards the section Tiberius is in, his face too, is pale white. Slowly he starts towards the aisle, the peacekeepers keeping slow pace behind him.
"Hurry hurry! We've no time to waste!" Effie exclaims. He finally makes it to thesmall stage, and makes way up the stairs, Effie guiding him up. "Now, do we have any volunteers who might go in place of these youngsters? Hmmm?" She searches the crowd for a raised hand. "No? Well congratula–" she stops.
"I volunteer as tribute!" I yell, my hand raised high. A gasp sounds from the
crowd, and Effie, thrilled says, "We have a volunteer for the boys!" The boys from my group make way, and the peacekeepers lead me to the stage. Tiberius quickly walks down the steps and says, "Thank you!" Then goes back to his place in the crowd. Effie grabs my shoulder and drags me to the podium.
"What's your name, son?" she asks.
"Ca–Cassius," I stammer, "Cassius Vespillo." Deep in the crowd I see Mom and
Dad, their eyes tearing with sadness and confusion. Cleo holds her mouth to her face, and Cyrus's eyes rage with fury, and I can only think of how much he must hate me. Suddenly, I realize that: I've ruined my life, and I just betrayed my brother.
In her ridiculous Capitol accent she says,
"Congratulations to our two District 12tributes, Lucia Windhoek and Cassius Vespillo!"