Zale Prentice, District 1
"Right, left, right, right, left, duck, kick!" At Trey's command to kick, I sent Trish's legs right out from under her, landing her on her behind. I now stand above her, with my club at a defensive position in case she decides to get up. But I see it in her eyes; she knows she has lost the fight. "Good job Zale, if you go into the games you definitely have a shot of winning."
I look at him with a face glowing with annoyance, "Like I've said before, to you and my mother, I'm not going into the games. There's too many careers just drooling for the chance to get in there, if I was reaped, there is no doubt someone would volunteer."
He throws his hands up in the air, as if to say he meant no harm by that statement, "Look, your mother just doesn't want to lose you like she lost her husband, if you died in the games she would be heart broken. Same goes for your mom Trish, I'm just trying to get you two prepared for the worst."
By now Trish has gotten back up from the battle and is regaining her thoughts, "Zale and I just think it's kind of pointless to be here training when we could be out celebrating the games." She says.
"Okay, tell you what," Trey pulls out his watch and thinks for a good ten seconds "I'll let you two out an hour early. But just because it's Reaping Day. And don't tell your parents about this, it'll be our little secret." He says with a smile. He then heads out the door of our makeshift training center.
We give a sigh of relief and hang our weapons on the rack. Trish and I agree to meet up in twenty minutes, which gives each of us enough time to get ready and walk to the café.
The training center is in my back yard so I only have to walk a few feet before I'm standing in the doorway that leads to our kitchen. My mom is by the stove cooking breakfast, and by the heaving of her shoulders, and the gasping and sniffing noise she makes I can tell she's crying. Oh, Mother!
Don't get me wrong, I do love her, but sometimes the constant worry of me getting sucked into the games and being murdered, gets annoying. Ever since my father, along with Trish's, was killed in a car accident, she is always freaking out about me getting hurt.
"Mom." I say. She turns around and tries to hide the tears, but she knows it's too late. I walk up to her and give her a tight hug, slowly stroking her back. "I'm not going anywhere, so stop worrying so much."
She then holds me back at arm's length and looks me straight in the eye, tears still rolling down her cheeks. "I'm sorry; I just can't stop thinking what it be like to lose my son. After losing your father you are all-"
"I know, I know, it's alright. Nothing is going to happen to me, just promise me you'll stop crying." I say.
"Okay, okay." She says, "I promise, go on and get ready."
We exchange "I love you's" and then I walk down the hall to my room, my plain, boring room. It's extremely bare, with only a few pieces of white furniture to decorate it. A single bed with white sheets, a small, white bed-side table that has only a lamp to accessories it, a white mahogany dresser, and a white, wood stool in the corner.
I take a pair of light brown dress pants out of my dresser, slowly closing the drawer. I then go over to my closet and take out my blue, button-up shirt that I only wear on special occasions. And what could be more special than Reaping Day?
Next I walk to the bathroom which sits adjacent to my room, along the way buttoning up my shirt. As I stand in front of the mirror I take in my looks, adding "brush hair" to my mental to-do list. It's astonishing how my appearance greatly resembles my room, in the sense of it being drab.
My ruffled blonde hair badly needs a trim, but I kind of like the long look. I then watch my faded green eyes travel down the rest of my face. I watch them take in my short, pointed nose, my thin lips that are always set in a horizontal line, and my pale face that has a hint of pink to it.
The mirror isn't large enough to see the rest of my body, but I already know what it looks like. I'm of average height, taller than my mother yet shorter than most men in our district, and I have a little bit of muscle. I still have a bit of developing to go.
I brush my teeth and hair, and then head downstairs. To my surprise, my mother is gone, but sitting on the table is a note, "To Zale, I went out for some prep time with Mrs. McCoy. I needed somebody to talk to before the reaping, I'll meet you there."
It doesn't surprise me really. Anytime my mother is having emotional problems, she goes over to Mrs. McCoy's house, who is Trish's mom. I look at the clock and realize it's already 1:15, forty-five minutes until the reaping. That's plenty of time to get a muffin and some coffee with Trish.
I walk out the door to find that it's perfect reaping weather, a little breezy with the sun peeking out behind the clouds. Me and my mom will probably have a picnic later after the reaping, which will be nice. I take my time strolling down the street to the café, taking in the beautiful weather conditions.
As I get into sight of Trish I start to wonder what people perceive of our constant interaction. Do people get the impression that Trish and I are dating? Surely not, we're just friends, we have been since birth. Our mothers were best friends when they were children, so we're practically siblings. Besides, Trish has a boyfriend, Jett. And now that I think about it, he'll probably be joining us this morning.
And as I get closer, my suspicions are confirmed because I can see those two holding hands, waiting for me outside the café door. Once they see me they both wave, and when I get into range me and Jett shake hands. "Good to see you again Jett, it's been a while." I say. Jett's a pretty cool guy, after you get over the fact the he towers over everybody he meets. His height can be intimidating sometimes, but he's actually pretty laid back.
"I know, it seems like forever." He says, and we make small-talk as we stride into the building. When we get to the front of the line I order a slice of banana nut bread and a cup of black coffee. The clerk hands me my breakfast as I walk over to an empty table, careful not to spill the hot coffee. Years of working in my family's jewelry store as the gem cutter, has given me incredible skills that help me to be as steady as stone.
I must have been extremely hungry, because by the time Trish and Jett have got their food and sat down across from me, my bread is almost gone. "So guys, ready for the reaping?" I say nonchalantly.
"Sure, I'm ready to see which two kids decide to end their lives this year." Trish says while Jett nods in agreement. Jett has never been the type to train as a career; he has the same mindset as Trish and I. There will always be a volunteer.
We continue to have a conversation on last year's games, talking mainly about the impressive chariot ride costumes, when the store owner announces that he's closing down for the reaping. All three of us get up and exit the shop, along with a few others that were enjoying their morning snack. We decide to head straight to the town square since we only have around fifteen minutes.
Our town square is giant, probably because we have a fairly large district. It's made entirely of stone, even the huge stage is made out of light grey earth. As we arrive I see my mom and wave, giving her a reassuring nod to let her know everything will be okay.
I then sign in at the registration table, afterwards heading to the roped of section of the square marked with a "15" indicating the age of the children in that area. I'm accompanied by Jett; Trish won't be fifteen until after the games.
The wait for the ceremony to start is agonizing, between the nervous chit-chat passed on by other kids and the frightened looks of the twelve year-olds attending their first reaping, I'm about to die! But fortunately I don't have to endure it long, because after a few minutes the crowd hushes as Mayor Grant walks across the stage signaling the start.
Mayor Grant is an odd man; he always wears the stiff grey suits that match his eyes. He's getting on in age so his hair matches also. He approaches the microphone that is evenly set up between to giant, glass bowls, each containing thousands of slips of paper. All containing a single name, one of the eligible children for the games. Four of them have my name written on it.
The mayor begins his speech that I hear every year, about The Great Rebellion, The Dark Days, and The Treaty of Peace. He then hands the mic over to a man named Cherriton Mayne, who is district one's escort. Cherriton is known for having ties with every important person in the Capitol. "Hello everybody, and welcome to the District One reaping of the 61st Hunger Games, and may the odds be with you!" he then walks over to the glass bowl on the right, which contains the names of the girls. "Let us begin with the ladies." He adjust his bright pink suit and starts digging around for a slip of paper. I can't help but stare at his snow white wig, the things they wear in the Capitol. He finally finds a slip that is suited to his liking and walks back over to the microphone. "And our lucky tribute is… Magenta Creen!"
I scan the crowd and watch a menacing girl from the seventeen area walk up to the stage, she carries herself with confidence that gives you the feeling that she was born for the games. She finally makes it to the stage and stands tall beside Cherriton. "Any volunteers?" he asks.
But by the look Magenta gives, you know not to volunteer. The look says "If you stand up, I'll make sure you don't make it the games." The crowd stays silent, which is a surprise; I guess even the toughest trainees aren't brave enough to take on the terrorizing reaped girl.
Cherriton then walks to the boys bowl, this time settling with a slip on the very top. As he walks back to the center, I take a look at my mom. She's squeezing Mrs. McCoy's hand, with a pained look. I can't believe it, she shouldn't be worrying. But I couldn't be more wrong, because the name Cherriton announces is "Zale Prentice!"
I gasp. I can't believe it! Out of a thousand names, he picked mine. I look to my mom to see she is hysterical; her face is bright red, streaked with tears. And she's crying, hard. I know she promised me not to cry, but right now I let it slide. I'm almost on the verge of tears myself. But I keep a brave composition, for the cameras. But it's hard, between the shock of being reaped, to the emotional break-down of my mother, and the constant shaking of my legs, I'm about to collapse.
I mean, how is this possible, this was not supposed to happen. The odds were with me from the beginning; my four slips of paper were surrounded by hundreds and hundreds of others. How is it that my name was the one Cherriton picked? But I don't have time to answer my own question, because soon the peacekeepers have spotted me out and are currently pushing me towards the stage. This is so wrong; I mean I was so confident that this wouldn't be happening. I even had a picnic planned
I have to remind myself to walk, and not look at my mother. I know the slightest glance her way and I'll be in the exact same state. To take my mind away from her, I find myself counting the steps up to the stage, one, two, three. And before I know it, I'm standing beside Magenta.
"Any volunteers?" Cherriton asks. Volunteers! I had totally forgotten. There has to be some desperate teen, just begging for fame and fortune. I see them every day at school; I hear their bragging to their friends about how they have what it takes. Maybe hope isn't all lost!
But once again, I'm wrong. Because instead of an eager hand raised to take my place, or an ecstatic shout, all is still, and the crowd is silent.