Reaping Day

I know she will call my name.

I know it before she has even opened the slip of paper.

I already know it the moment her hand reaches into the pool of names.

And I'm right.

At reaping day, none of us has to help in the bakery. My brothers and I usually go outside, at least when the sun is shining. Today, it isn't any different.

I am not any different.

I feel nothing. Like every year, I just lie down in the grass behind the bakery, dreaming under the protection of that old tree all morning.

Of course, I remember her.

She sat right here, in the rain, cuddled under the same tree, the same sky.

I don't dare to think her name; because I don't know how many times her name will be in the reaping pool today.

What I know for certain is that she did sign up for tesserae. She would rather sacrifice herself as a tribute in the Hunger Games than letting her mother and sister die on starvation.

That's impressive.

No, not just impressive.

I don't know the right words to describe it.

Anyway, it's one of the things I admire her for.

But there's already enough for me to worry about. Because my name is in the pool, too.

Like the last couple of years.

One time.

And the odds have always been in my favor, every single year.

So, after lunch, everybody starts to get dressed. I've learned not to think about how wonderful this day could be without the reaping.

It's the one day every child in the whole District looks nice and clean, if it weren't for the terrified expression on their faces.

It's also the one day my mother seems to truly care about me.

She never shows it that much, of course, but I know she does.

When it is time to go, she stands in the doorway of our bakery next to my father, waving us good-bye.

I don't manage to look at my mother. It's not that easy to forget the violence she uses every time I make a mistake.

Especially the day I burned the bread for Katniss.

On my way to the square, I catch a glimpse of my reflection in a shop window, and I wonder if she would like me in my reaping clothes. I decide that, in this new white shirt and with my hair combed back, I don't look too bad.

If Katniss would like me or not is maybe the last thing that matters today.

When we arrive in front of the Justice Building, the square is already very crowded. The whole system goes on automatically, and quickly I find myself standing in a row along with the other boys at my age.

I didn't see Katniss. I didn't even get the slightest glance of her.

But I keep worrying.

For me, it's like every year. There's no difference.

For her, it's worse.

She could be reaped, actually.

On the makeshift stage, I can see the two glass balls containing our names. In one of these balls, there is a tiny slip of paper with my name on it. In the other, there is hers. On more than just one slip of paper.

I hate that day.

I hate our escort Effie Trinket as she appears on stage in those stupid Capitol clothes, with her stupid Capitol accent.

I hate the showing they do every year, with always the same pictures of the districts' rebellion against the Capitol.

Then, it begins.

I don't think I feel anything but aversion and a little excitement.

Theoretically, it is possible for me to be reaped.

But I push this thought aside when Effie Trinket turns to the girls' ball.

She takes a slip of paper, walks back to the microphone and opens it.

It's Primrose Everdeen.

Primrose Everdeen!

Katniss' sister. I didn't know she's already twelve years old. It must be her first year being eligible as a tribute.

It takes some time for the little girl to make her way out of the crowd.

I can't see much of her.

I'm too busy trying not to think at Katniss, anyway. But my plan doesn't work.

The next moment, I hear her voice desperately calling out for her sister. I hear sorrow and pain and tears before I turn my head to look at her.

She's wearing a pretty blue dress and her dark hair is braided up on her head.

I can't see her face, but I guess it looks strong.

"I volunteer! I volunteer as tribute!"

That's all I hear, and the words keep echoing in my head while the world around me slowly begins to unravel.

I want to close my eyes and cover my ears with both hands and insist that this is all just a dream.

The reaping, District 12, Panem. Katniss in the Hunger Games.

But it is real. Everything is real.

And I can only think that, if Katniss is being strong, I'll have to be it, too.

So I watch her as she walks straight up on stage with her head held high. I observe the cold expression on her face and force myself to feel nothing.

I don't want to waste a thought on the day I fell in love with her, the day she sang in music assembly and all the birds outside fell silent.

I don't want to think of the day I probably saved her from starvation, only to be beaten for it by my mother.

No one except Haymitch has ever managed to come back from the Hunger Games alive.

I don't see much of a chance that Katniss could do it, although she might be strong and brave and –

All I try to do is not to worry too much about her.

Finally, Effie Trinket walks over to the ball containing the boys' names; my name.

That is the moment.

It seems like everybody has stopped breathing.

Suddenly, there's only me, Effie and the glass ball.

I'm energized, and I can do nothing but standing still and looking forward.

I even notice the dazzling color of Effie's finger nails as she moves her hand toward the ball.

And I know it.

I feel nothing, but I know it.

There's this sharp realization in my head; the realization that it's me.

Deep inside me, I can already hear it. I gather all my strength to stay afoot.

One second later, it happens.

Effie Trinket is calling out my name with that amused, excited, unconcerned voice: "Peeta Mellark."

This is usually the moment when I'm overwhelmed by every kind of feeling:

Anger at the Gamemakers for sacrificing two innocent children's lives for the Capitol's amusement.

Pity for the poor guy whose name has been pulled out of the reaping pool.

Except that's me.

I am that poor guy.

Soon, I'm going to face my own brutal death in the arena.

This recognition strikes me like a slap in the face; like ice water on my bare skin.

I have only a few more weeks to live.

I'm going to die in a lonely and cruel way while everybody in Panem will be watching.

So, there's no anger and no pity.

There's only pain.

I tell myself that I just have to move.

I just have to go on stage where Effie Trinket is waiting for me. And Haymitch. And Katniss.

I feel embarrassed as I notice that, for a moment, I almost forgot about her.

Katniss will be sharing my fate.

Not that this would make it any better.

It'll be a lot worse to have her as fellow tribute.

I know it when we shake hands, holding our gaze for a split second.

Then, I am staring into the crowd, seeing nothing. But I know what I'd see if I could. Relief and pity.

I know it from standing down there myself all those years, feeling exactly the same.

But today, it's not the same; not even for the crowd.

District 12 has its first volunteer, Katniss Everdeen.

Her eyes appear in front of me, and all I'm able to think is, she must not die.

I can't let Katniss die.

Even if that means I have to let go; even if death will separate me from her.

For me, there's not the slightest chance of winning.

I'm just a baker's son.

I'm no one.

I didn't even have the courage to walk over to Katniss that day in the rain, when she would've needed me the most.

All I've ever done is decorating cakes and carrying flour sacks.

And all I'll be doing from now on is trying to save Katniss.