It felt like a terrible lie, the way the sun was shining today. It warms the ground and the outside, but most importantly, the bakery. It was too early for the bakery to be open yet, but Peeta and I work on the cakes. We work in silence, ignoring the people wandering by, although today, there are a good deal less than on any normal day.
Peeta and I get along well enough. Our relationship is not an exceptionally close one - we rarely speak while we work - but we tend not to argue, either - something that cannot be said for Peeta and Emmer. The five years between us is a gap that still matters, but differently than it had in the past.
Bang, bang. A knock interrupts our work. I look up, but my father steps towards the
back door first.
"Come in," my father quickly shepherds our guest into the small shop. I recognize him immediately; he often comes to trade fresh meat with a girl in Peeta's grade.
"Would you like to trade, sir?" he asks quietly, "I have squirrel and rabbit."
Part of me wonders what he must go through to get this meat; obviously he leaves District Twelve's boundaries, but the weapons and skills he must need... For me, such deeds are unthinkable.
My father nods, "How about a loaf of bread for a squirrel?"
My father's generosity surprises me. My mother, who condemns such illegal actions, is not around today, but even so, this trade is not terribly fair.
"Father," I begin to interrupt, but my father shakes his head silently at me.
"Sure," the male says, before my father can change his mind. A quick reach into his bag reveals a large squirrel, and he wordlessly hands it to my father. In return, my father gives him a loaf of our signature bread.
"Thank you," he says quickly, before dashing out of the back door.
"It's a rough day for people like him," my dad explains. He opens his mouth, as if he may say something else, but he closes it before he speaks again, writing off the thought.
Suddenly, I am reminded of the cruel act that will take place today. The reaping. Nearly every year, two poor, starving Seam kids get called, and every year, the kids fail to return alive. The occasional merchant kid gets thrown in, but they do not return, either. For a second, I fear for my brothers lives, but a reminder of the odds calms me. Both have the minimum amount of entries they could have; neither have ever been required to request tessera. This year is Emmer's last time to have his name in the bowl, and Peeta only has two more. The odds seem to be in their favor.
"Peeta, are you working?" I tease quietly. His frosting on his cake has not changed in the least since our visitor has left.
He jumps slightly, "Uh, um, yeah. I'm fine." Quickly, he picks back up his icing tube and continues frosting.
I can't help but laugh slightly at Peeta's flusters, and I grin at him. The day, I remind myself, will all soon be forgotten.
By lunch time, business has picked up to a steady flow for reaping day. People are dressed nicely, and more families have come in than usual. Small children clasp their parent's hands, staring up at me. I try not to pay too much attention to the older children and teens, as I know any of them may be forced on a train to the Capitol in a few hours.
Peeta and Emmer have gone home to change, as the reaping is soon. I glance at Peeta's half-finished cake and sigh at his progress. Peeta is a good decorator, gifted at his skill, but today he is unnerved. I am quick to blame it on the prospect of what this afternoon brings, and the terror for twenty-four kids the next few weeks will bring. In my opinion, my youngest brother has always been on the sensitive side. My youngest brother has always been a bit on the sensitive side.
"Hodgson!" my mother enters the front door of the bakery with a cry.
"Excuse me," I say to the lone man in the store-front. As the hours creep closer the reaping time, the volume of customers slows down. A quick glance at the clock tells me that only thirty minutes remain until one, the dreaded time.
"You close up shop at twelve forty-five, do you understand?" my mother tells me, "Make sure you lock the doors. We don't need any break-ins during the reaping, do you hear me?"
I doubt anyone will try to break-in during the reaping, but I do not disclose this to my mother. Instead, I nod obediently, out of habit. My mother has not hit me in years, but the fear has yet to wear off.
She leaves quickly and tiredly, similarly to the way she arrived.
"I'm sorry about that," I return to the customer, "Is there anything I can help you with?"
The man shakes his head, "I don't think so, not today."
"I understand," I reply glumly. Of course not today. Or any other day, I can't help but think. The starvation in District Twelve has just become a fact of life. Those in the Seam will starve, and merchants will not.
From my window, I see children start to check in with the Peacekeepers sent to oversee the reaping. The general atmosphere of the square has a subdued feel to it, one fitting for the day. I spot Emmer, with Peeta right behind him, checking in. Without saying goodbye, they separate to their assigned areas: the eighteen-year-old section in the back for Emmer, and the section designated for the sixteen-year-olds for Peeta.
Closing up shop in a hurry, I rush to find my parents, surly and quiet during this time. Although they may not say it, I know they both want the male name to be anything other than Emmer Mellark or Peeta Mellark. Their love for us is silent, but deep down, it exists.
The clock in the square dings twice to remind us of the time; the mayor steps up to begin his annual speech. I tune out, desperate to see my brothers in the square. I locate both of them, and turn my attention back to the stage, where Haymitch Abernathy stands drunk and confused. As the crowd claps, I do too, if only to hide my disgust. Effie Trinket steps up next, and begins her frivolous speech about the honor and the games. I avoid looking at her.
"Ladies first!" she cries, and her hand submerges into the bowl of names. The crowd quiets immediately, all desperate to hear the forbidden name.
"Primrose Everdeen!" she calls out in her awful accent.
I don't know the girl, at least. She is not a friend's sister or a cousin or anything of the sort. But then, a familiar voice calls out.
"PRIM!" it screams, "PRIM!"
As she emerges from the crowd, I recognize the owner of the voice immediately: the seam girl who often comes to trade hunted animals and plants. Primrose Everdeen must be her sister.
"I volunteer!" she cries as she shields her sister, "I volunteer as tribute!"
Guilt washes over me as I come to terms with what the girl is doing for her sister. It is an act of love and kindness, one that I would not have done for my brothers, even if the opportunity had arisen.
The male who had traded the squirrel with my father earlier today comes forth from the crowd and grabs Prim. He deposits her by a woman who must be her mother only a few people away from where I stand.
Effie Trinket grins, "Well, bravo! That's the spirit of the games!" She surveys the girl before asking her name.
"Katniss Everdeen," the girl musters.
"I bet my buttons that was your sister!" Effie exclaims happily, "Don't want her to steal all the glory, do we? Come on, everybody! Let's give a big round of applause to our newest tribute!"
Nobody claps. Not that I blame them. Maybe because people know Katniss, know how hard she works and the responsibility she must take on. Even I, a merchant, know the struggles she faces.
All around, people raise three fingers, a kind of salute. I do the same, because I respect Katniss Everdeen for mindlessly saving her sister from a near certain death. Haymitch once again stumbles forward, and I block out the conversation they have. I care little what the drunken man who is supposed to mentor Katniss has to say to her. I have no respect for him, victor or not. He is supposed to help our tributes return, but year after year, he comes up short.
Before I know it, Effie is reaching in for the male tributes name. This one takes my breath from me, as I know that there is the small chance it could be Emmer or Peeta.
"Peeta Mellark!" she announces.
Beside me, my parents both gasp.
Before this incident, I had never been into the Justice Building before. I hadn't planned to, either, until I got married. Yet here I was, about to wish my youngest brother goodbye for what would probably be the final time.
There is only an hour allowed for Peeta to say goodbye, a Peacekeeper chillingly informs us. My dad had run back to the bakery, but my mother insists on seeing Peeta. Emmer and I wait outside in the nice hallway. We sit silently, the same way Peeta and I often work. All of a sudden, I wonder who will do the cakes. It had always been Peeta's job, even as a young boy. Life without Peeta seems impossible, almost. A distant thought. We may not be close, but his presence is a constant in my life.
My mother suddenly exits the room and the Peacekeepers motion for Emmer and I to go in. My father has yet to return.
The room Peeta is being held in is nicer than the hallway, full of velvet cushions and fine finishes. When I manage to look at my brother, he is crying.
"Peeta..." Emmer starts.
I know that what he's trying to say is: I'm sorry for not volunteering but you have to understand...
But he doesn't. Because we both know Peeta wasn't expecting Emmer to volunteer.
"I... I guess this is goodbye," Peeta mumbles.
I try to smile, "Who knows? Maybe you'll make it home."
Peeta shakes his head, dejected, "No, Hodgson. I'm not coming home. We both know that."
"You don't know that," I try again, but Peeta continues shaking his head.
"I'm not coming home. Let's not deny it, okay?" Peeta is slightly angry, such a big difference from his normal, happy, carefree personality.
Several minutes of silent pass, as we all try to figure out what to say next.
"You... you've been a good brother, Peeta," Emmer finally speaks. His voice is shaky and unsure, "I'm sorry it has to be like this."
"Yeah, me too," Peeta murmurs.
Emmer looks at me expectantly. We both know that it is my turn to speak, my turn to say goodbye. But before it happens, the Peacekeepers open the door and grab both mine and Emmer's arm.
"Wait!" Peeta cries.
"Sorry, time's up," the Peacekeeper shrugs. The door slams behind him, and I catch a last glimpse of Peeta, tears welling up in his eyes.
"I'm sorry!" I cry suddenly. But it's too late. The door has slammed, and the opportunity is lost.
The Peacekeepers return to their guard by the door, and as we're being pushed out of the Justice Building, I know that I have just seen the last my brother.
AN: Well, this is my first fic here. I've written others before, but never Hunger Games, and I've never published anything on this site. It is also my first time writing in a male's point of view, so hopefully it's okay. This idea just kind of came of mind as I was reading others. I was always so curious about Peeta's two brothers mentioned, like, what? Once or twice in the entire three books? So this is my take on the first reaping day through the eyes of the elder.
Obviously some of the dialogue belongs to Suzanne Collins, but I tried to change it up as much as possible.
As for the names, Peeta is obviously a play on pita bread, which I thought was clever. So Emmer is the name of a type of wheat found in Italy, and Hodgson is the name of a brand of flour. Hodgson's Mill. I thought that it was pretty clever, but who knows?