Clove – Chapter 1
When I peer into the Training Center, it's empty. Of course. It's reaping day. Everyone must be at their homes preparing for the annual event. My shoulders hunch at the thought of the reaping. Not that I'm afraid. But it is the disaster of my life. The dark cloud that looms over me wherever I go, and I never seem to be able to shake it off. Never. Not with my parents meddling over it literally every day.
I walk slowly back to my home where my parents are surely fussing over my brother and what he will be wearing to the reaping. Because he has a better chance. A better chance of winning the Hunger Games and bringing wealth and luxuries along with him. He is just bigger than I am. Bigger and heavier. And apparently that means he is stronger.
I kick a pebble off the road in anger. Of course. The moment I was born, small and scrawny, my parents immediately cast me aside from any obliging future. But I knew better. When I signed up for training, I took advantage of my small size and light weight. Focused on long-ranged weapons instead of melee ones. Placed speed above stealth. Did everything I could to prove that I was more than the helpless little girl from the Belfur household.
As I round the corner, I decide to go to Leven's house. She's not exactly a friend, we don't spend time gossiping. The thing is that she doesn't ignore me during training. And when magically we start talking more, one day at school she comes and sits by me during lunch. Soon we started talking during recess. Finding a subject to talk about is difficult, but she's nice. And she's a skilled fighter. And I have to admit she's rather pretty too. Dark auburn hair that shone like water. Sparkling eyes that seem to never stop changing colors. She is one of the rich ones, living in Lob while I lived in Forph. But we didn't care much about that. We just talk about fighting skills and train together. But today bring reaping day and all, I think we won't be able to get any of that done.
I knock on the door softly, and almost immediately it opens. And there is Leven, standing there looking all beautiful in a blue and white frock.
"Look at you," I say to her, "Even one of the District 1 slobs won't be able to beat you."
Leven blushes slightly, "Come in. Mother made cookies."
I walk in her home, which is nice. But I think everything is too much. Too grand. Too formal. And too elegant. Though Leven is neither of these. She is elegant, but not proud. Which I like.
"Clove, are you planning to ever look slightly more formal?" Leven asks me as we walk into the kitchen.
"No," I say. "But Cleve will surely make sure I do."
Leven smiles, "Of course." She studies my face, "That's good you know. Someone who cares."
I grimace. The subject usually doesn't come to our brothers. I never mentioned it, I never can be sure how Leven will react. Her grief. Her mother. The way her mother sometimes enters a zone where she sees things only she can see, and shouts terrible things I don't want to think of. How the death of her son affected her.
Of course Mrs. Robins is normal on good days. But before she was the news in the District. She helped all the poor ones in Gost. She told legends and stories to all the children in school. No one knew how she came to know them, but no one cared. Those times were wonderful, I would go out to the schoolyards with Cleve and we'd listen to Mrs. Robins tell her terrific stories. It was a time I could relax and forget my worries.
It all changed when Leven's older brother Lite got reaped in the Seventy-first Hunger Games. He was eighteen and was also a living legend in District 2. Tall, strong, athletic, almost the whole district thought he would win. And he almost did. So close. If only he beat the District 1 girl, he would be victor. But she won. Barely. I remember the bloody and brutal fight on television, I was only twelve. Lite fought with his spear, and the girl fought with a long sword. It was terrible, both received, you can call, deathly injuries. The girl was disarmed finally, but the effort to kill her was so hard on Lite he fell splat on the ground. And they struggled that way, Lite's spear laying unnoticed along the side, the girl's dagger somewhere in the undergrowth. The fight was uninvited, and horrible, both punched and kicked and bit and slapped, until the girl punched Lite's wound with such force he died immediately.
It was too much on Mrs. Robin. Leven did grief, but she held on to sanity. Mrs. Robin stopped telling her stories. She stayed home most. Leven took over most of Mrs. Robin's duties.
"Yes," I say quietly, "I can never be sure if he will be reaped."
"Or you," Leven says with a smile, and we sit down in the kitchen and eat some of Mrs. Robins' cookies. This must be one of her good days. To be up and baking cookies.
"We barely have a chance," I say, brushing the comment off. It's true, our district is full of people wanting to volunteer. Volunteer for wealth and fortune. But of course they are volunteering for a chance of death also. In the Hunger Games, if a girl or boy's name is reaped, another girl or boy of the same gender may step up and take his or her place. This was how it worked the first few years, but when the Training Center started filling up, the number of volunteers grew since many kids had the confidence they could win. So there is a process in which those who want to volunteer has their name put on a list, and they go through many tests, physical and verbal, and the committee in the Training Center chooses the strongest volunteer that signed up. There is a boy volunteer this year. But no girl. So both Leven and I has the chance of being reaped for the Seventy-fourth Hunger Games.
I won't volunteer. It's not worth it. And why would I want money? I'm doing quite fine now, thank you very much. And Leven will probably never volunteer either. She's a amazing fighter and attractive, good for sponsors, but I can't imagine Leven volunteering. It's not her thing. And if Mrs. Robins lost her only daughter, she will surely be driven to madness.
I stand up, "Well, I guess I should be leaving now. Get dressed up for the reaping."
"Sure," Leven says hollowly, "Wear something more formal."
I flash her a small smile and leave the room. Leven sure has brought a heavy subject up. She must still be grieving about her dead brother. I grimace slightly. What would it be like to lose Cleve?
When I reach home, there is commotion going on. I catch phrases from my mother as she scurries by not noticing me, something about a missing tie that matches his outfit. So my parents are fussing over Cleve. I spontaneously go to my room where I try to find something to wear other than other than shorts and a tank top. Maybe jeans. If I didn't grow out my last pair. And a t-shirt…or blouse? I scan my carelessly messed up drawers looking for something that I can wear to look presentable.
"You should clean up some, y'know." The voice is a surprise, and I nearly jump out of my skin.
My younger brother, Cleve, stands at the doorway of my bedroom looking all gorgeous in a elegant pair of dress pants and dress clothes. Even though he's two years younger than me, he's always seemed like a older brother. Maybe it his height. Or that he's always looking out to me. He's giving me a sympathetic look, and I avoid it as I always do.
"I have more things to do than clean up after myself," I say sweetly, standing up. I'm holding some sort of blue blouse that looks large enough, and I quickly change.
"You could do for some new clothes." Cleve says wistfully, as if wishing his clothes were as small as mine. "Though anything looks good with your pretty face."
I throw my tank top at him, "You wish." I say, "Your biggy oldy sister has so much time to fix up her pretty face?"
Cleve screws his eyebrows together, and matching his dark curly hair, it must drive people crazy. "I'm just trying to be the best little brother I can be."
"And you are" I conclude. However much I despise my parents for favoring Cleve, I can't deny that he is a wonderful brother. He knows, of course, how our parents favor him, and always tries to give the best to me. Which makes him better. My thirteen-year-old little brother who is taller and bigger and buffier than me.
I find myself in a some brown tight pants that seems to work. Quickly I scan myself on the broken mirror in the corner, and I look alright. Not pretty. Not ugly. Just plain.
"You should care more of your looks," Cleve continues, "What if you're to go to the Capitol?"
I snort, and lay down on my bed, "The odds are not in my favor. I've got only four entries this year."
"You never know," Cleve says mischievously, leaning against the doorpost, "You can never guess the odds."
"You're just glad you're safe," I retort, staring at the shabby ceiling.
His eyebrows raise, "No. I'm just worried."
Those words hit me so sharply I sneak a glance up at my brother's face. He is actually worrying.
"Don't worry. I'm fine." I pause, and echo Leven, "Nice to know that someone's thinking of me."
"There's always someone thinking of you, Clove," Cleve says seriously.
I laugh it off. No one cares about me. The little girl from the Belfur's. The skinny, tiny one. "Good thing you're safe," I say again, "No girl is volunteering this year."
Cleve frowns, "Mother and Father wants me to volunteer when I'm seventeen. They want me on the Seventy-eighth volunteer list. If I don't make it, I'm on the Seventy-ninth."
This is news. But I am not surprised, "What if you don't make it then?" I ask coolly.
Cleve shrugs, "Then Mother and Father will kill me their own way."
I give a small laugh, "What about me? Will I still be your pretty older sister?"
My brother smiles, "'Course. Where else would you be?"
"Say, dead. In the arena."
"No way," Cleve says, "If you're in the arena you win. No one else can throw knives the way you can."
"So why don't I volunteer?" I ask.
"'Cause it's not worth it." Cleve frowns. "Now stop asking questions. Maybe we should eat some before the reaping."
I agree and climb off my comfortable bed. I follow my brother downstairs, looking unimpressive compared to him. Our mother starts fussing, but Cleve brushes her away. That's when she sees me. She takes a long look at my outfit and says, "You look lovely, honey," and I reply with a sarcastic smile. Nothing I can say.
Halfway through our lunch, I realize I should brush my hair. And maybe style it somehow. I dismiss myself from lunch and head back to my bedroom, and comb my tangled, messy dark brown hair. Undo all the knots. Tie my hair up. After a moments hesitation I find a ribbon from the bottom of the drawers and tie it for highlights.
I look at my reflection in the mirror. A little better. At least she looks more like the rest of the people from Forph. Forph was the name of her section in town. Somewhat rich enough to not risk tesserae, but not exploding rich like those in Lob. And not poor like those in Gost. Still, most families in District 2 is able to scrape up a few coins and not have their children sign up for tesserae. But it's still a unfair system. The poorer having a larger chance being reaped for the Hunger Games. Reasonably, the rich should have more since they have the money to pay the Training Center for Hunger Game's training. But of course the Capitol wouldn't dream of such a thing to do. Those rich, snoggy, and stupid feathery citizens from the Capitol.
The Hunger Game rules are simple. First you need to be reaped, or you can volunteer. The reaping system is still unfair, when you're twelve, you have one entry; thirteen, two, and so on. But here's the catch. If you're poor and starving, which most people in District 2 aren't, you can sign up for tesserae in exchange for more entries in the reaping bowl. And a tessera is just a supply of grain and oil for one person, a single year. Of course you can sign up for tesserae as much as you want, but really, in District 2, no one's starving. I guess that's how we beat those in District 11 or 12.
When you're reaped, you go to the Capitol, go through interviews and then training, and finally enter the arena. And the rules in there are simple. Fight to the death. Last one standing is the victor.
I sit around on my bed until one o'clock, until Cleve comes up and tells me it's time to go. I follow him numbly, and again I think of what Leven said, "That's good you know. Someone who cares."
Yes, but he will be volunteering one year. And I might lose him. The way Leven lost Lite. Or the way at least one family in the district is mourning over their dead child. Maybe that will be me one year. Mourning over Cleve.
I shudder as I walk towards the square with Cleve and my mother. I don't know where my father is, but he will probably be there in case Cleve is reaped. But that is nearly impossible. Cleve has only two entries this year.
Today the square is decorated with banners and streamers and camera crew everywhere. It's supposed to be merry, but how can anything be merry if you know in the next hour someone who might be a friend may just be walking towards their death? If not yourself, of course.
People silently file in to sign up. Cleve is ahead of me, and I watch as the Peacekeeper pricks his finger and a bead of blood drips out. His pricked finger is then pushed on a paper, which has fibers that can tell who the blood belongs to.
"Cleve Belfur," the Peacekeeper says, nodding at Cleve, giving him the invitation to head on into the square. He looks back at me and gives me a small smile before heading off towards the other thirteen-year-olds.
After signing in, I scan the square for the other fifteen-year-olds. We are probably somewhere smack in the middle. I aimlessly walk around groups of children, but who cares? As long as I get to my section before 2 o'clock, everything will be fine. I look back, and Cleve is already standing in the thirteen-year-old section, talking to another boy. I think his name is Ceale, but that doesn't really matter. When I turn back, I see Leven in front of me in her beautiful reaping outfit.
"We should get going, you know," Leven says with a hint of a smile. Oh. I guess Leven was my friend all along. Someone who cares, the way Leven says it.
I follow her through the crowd, and it's obvious she's already been in the fifteen-year-old section. How thoughtful of her to come back to me. I should be more nice to her in the future, I think. But nice? What does that mean? It's just something else about the Hunger Games. They make everyone heartless and violent. Bloodthirsty. But I had to sign up for training. Absolutely. Or my wrath at home would be more unbearable than ever. I needed training, so if I'm reaped, I can win the games, and come back to District 2 proving that I'm not just that little girl. I'm a violent one. One that can become a victor. One that has no heart.
I scan the whole square. The area where the twelve through eighteen year olds stand is roped off. Around it is where family members will stand, some biting their nails, and some looking extremely grave. Mixed in along with the parents are onlookers, who either lost all they care about, or just doesn't have anyone to love. They take bets on who the two kids will be, namely the overly poor ones who had to sign up for tesserae. They bet on the ages, where they live, what their reaction will be. Most of these onlookers are greatly disliked by the rest of the district, but suddenly I wonder what life must be like to them. No one to love, and no one cares about them. I shudder and I feel Leven's hand on my shoulder giving me a light squeeze.
"Don't worry," she says softly, "It won't be you."
I fake a smile, "Yes, I know." And then I point at the temporary stage where the seats that are sitting start to fill up. Victors from the past seventy-three years. District 2 has a quite a number, and there are two rows, with only four chairs in the row up front. Where the mayor, our escort, and the two mentors will sit.
"Oh," Leven says, her voice barely a whisper, "It's Enobaria and Brutus this year"
"Huh," I say, "Hopefully Enobaria keeps her fangs in."
Enobaria is a huge one in District 2, she won the Sixty-second Hunger Game as a volunteer when she was seventeen. I don't remember any details, except during the final two, she ripped her opponent's throat open using her teeth. It was the kind of action that drove Capitol citizens wild. After her huge finale, Enobaria had her teeth cosmetically altered to end with a sharp point, and tipped with gold. Some of the more recent victors won under Enobaria's instructions. Maybe there will be another one this year.
As the clocks strike two, Mayor Burke, a strong woman whose husband died in an unknown event, steps onto the stage and reads the same story she's required to read every reaping. The history of Panem. The disasters. The result of Panem, a shining Capitol ringed by thirteen outlying districts. Then came the Dark Days, where each district had their own uprising against the Capitol. In the end, twelve were defeated, and the thirteenth obliterated. The Treaty of Treason gave peace, and that was where the Hunger Games were born. To remind us that the Dark Days must never be repeated. To show us how totally we are at the Capitol's mercy.
The Capitol's way of reminding us this is making the Hunger Games a sort of festival, where the winner is showered with gifts and the is given a life of ease back home. The Districts must chant their names, as if it was a wondrous thing, not the fact that twenty-three other kids are dead. The victor's district gets presents throughout the year, while the poorer districts such 11 and 12 are battling starvation. There's a rumor that people die from starvation over there. It makes my rusty life at District 2 seem like a safe haven.
"It is both a time for repentance and a time for thanks," says Mayor Burke, finishing the required speech.
Then she reads a list of the past victors of District 2. This takes quite a while, in the past seventy-three years there've been nineteen victors. Fifteen are still alive. As Mayor Burke reads the name of the victor in a rather dead voice, they stand a moment to be acknowledged by the crowd. We just stare numbly, and I bet most of the kids are praying that they won't be reaped.
Enobaria and Brutus are announced last, since they will be mentoring this year. Of course all the other victors will try to help, but Enobaria and Brutus will be the lifeline for the tributes in the arena this year.
Alessia Reeky, our escort for as long as I can remember, jumps to the podium as if it's the most fun thing ever, and says her part, "Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds ever be in your favor!" Her freakish green curls waddle along with her head, and her porcelain white skin with a butterfly tattoo stuck on her cheek makes me stare at her, her usual speech seeming to echo a few thousand miles away.
Finally it's time for the drawing. Alessia Reeky goes, "Ladies first!" and bounces on those ridiculously high shoes to the girls' glass ball. There are thousands of slips inside, and my name is written carefully on four of them. Alessia digs her hand deep in the ball, stirs a few times, and grabs a single slip of paper.
She hops back to the podium, and smooths out the paper. Right before she says the name, I feel Leven's hand around mine and I give her a squeeze.
I never predicted how soon I would have to let go.