I stare into the darkness, thinking about my conversation with Haymitch. Everything he said was true about the Capitol's expectations, my future with Peeta, even his last comment. Of course, I could do a lot worse than Peeta, but that isn't really the point though, is it? One of the few freedoms we have in District 12 is the right to marry who we want or not marry at all. And now even that has been taken away from me. I wonder if President Snow will insist we have children. If we do, they'll have to face the reaping every year. And wouldn't it be something to see the child of not one, but two victors chosen for the arena? Victor's children have been in the ring before. It always causes a lot of excitement and generates talk about how the odds are not in that family's favor. But it happens too frequently to just be about odds. Gale's convinced the Capitol does it on purpose, rigs the drawings to add extra drama. Given all the trouble I've caused, I've probably guaranteed any child of mine a spot in the arena.
-Katniss Everdeen, Catching Fire
I knew that morning, as I lay into bed, that today was the day. My father had told me several times not to worry, that I had next to no chance of getting picked, but there was a look in his eyes that told me he was saying it more to reassure himself than me. The kids in families that were more like us, rather well-off, were less likely to get their names drawn as Tributes for the Games. The odds are most definitely in their favor. However, most of these kids don't have two victors for parents, and definitely not parents associated with the word "rebellion". Today was the day of the Reaping. The starting ceremony of the 92th Hunger Games. And I am almost certain that this year will be my turn.
I get up, though aware that the cameras wouldn't be there until noon. This day is impossible to escape, so I figure I might as well get on with it. The living room is cold and I realize that the glass doors have been thrown open, I suspect, by my mother. She always takes the Reapings badly.
My father is sitting at the kitchen table, a led pencil in his hand, tracing what I assume is the outlines of a new painting. As he catches sight of me, he smiles and pushes a plate of buttered toast towards the spot where I usually sit.
"I baked them fresh this morning." He says, a grin lighting up his features. I sit down in front of him, and take a piece of bread, though with the maelstrom of nervosity storming inside me, I doubt I'll be able to swallow a piece of it.
My father has gone out to search for my mother, though I know the only person who will be able to find her is Gale. I don't bother telling my father so, because I know my mother doesn't want to be found. Staring at the empty porcelain plate before me, I wonder what the Hunger Games will be like. I've only seen one on Haymitch's television last year, though my parents didn't want me to. Haymitch said I needed to see what was waiting for me. The people whom I've talked to only gave me vague descriptions of what it's like to be in the arena, though I am sure their memories of it are very clear. I still see my mother, occasionally, grip the back of a chair, her knuckles turning white under the pressure, and I can hear her scream every night. My father, though, his reactions are different, more contained, yet there is something about them that are stranger than my mother's. He sometimes begins fiddling with an old piece of red string, and asks my mother whether things are real or not. Almost as if someone or something's altered his understanding of reality. I wonder, if I make it out alive, if my parents will ever tell me about what really happened during the 74th Games. But I doubt I will ever know, for I am certain I am not fit for these Games.
I get up and walk upstairs, to my poorly decorated room, and throw open the doors of my closet, figuring out that seeing as I don't have much time left before my mother's crew of stylists - Octavia, Flavius and Venia - come and prep us up for the Reaping, I should make the best of it. I quickly dress in my most comfortable attire, putting aside my hunting gear for packing. They would probably have countless amounts of better ones in the Capitol, but I feel I'll be more eased in mine. It'll be something to remind me of home.
Jona Hawthorne is already waiting for me at the limits of the forest. The sight of him is enough to bring tears to my eyes, for I know, somewhere inside, that this will be one of the last times I will see him. He is holding four dead squirrels in his hands, which will probably be eaten for dinner tonight.
"Laurel." He greets me, a cheerful tone in his voice, and hands me one of the squirrels, which I decline. We have enough food at home as it is, and Jona knows it as well as I do, though he would never accept any help from out part.
Jona and I met when we were about seven years old, when his family moved from District Eight back to District Twelve, for Gale's mother, Hazelle's, funeral. Both my mother and father pushed me to go talk to him then, but I refused, afraid of not knowing what to say. It was only the following year that I had begun befriending him, when Madge showed up at our doorsteps with an unconscious, bleeding Jona in her arms, begging for my grandmother to save her little boy. Grandmother was, at the time, the greatest healer of District Twelve, and she helped Jona recover from what she assumed had been a bear attack. I played a game of bridge with him that night, when neither of us could fall asleep, him because of the pain and me, because of my mother's cries. I beat him, but since then, we've been something like inseparable.
We don't talk any more until we get out of the Victors' village. I don't know why, maybe because of nerves, but I feel incapable of getting any word out of my mouth.
"Are you going, today? To the Reaping?" Jona asks, his eyes locked on the ground.
"I have to." I reply.
"You think this is your year, don't you?"
I nod.
"Nothing's certain." He says. By the look on his face, I know he hopes I don't get picked and that he'd much rather someone else gets chosen instead of me. I know that in his mind, I'm still the same eight year old girl that sat beside him and made him feel better when he was hurting. But something tells me he couldn't stand to watch me fight from a small television, and not being able to help. Truth be told, Jona would be better in the arena than me. He's stronger and faster than me, and has fingers able to create every snare imaginable. Much like his father. But he doesn't have Katniss and Peeta Mellark as his parents, and he doesn't need to worry about things like getting picked. At least, not as much as I do.
"Jo, you know I'll get picked." The words come out of my mouth as a murmur, and I clear my throat. "It was only a matter of time, and the Capitol's probably already planned to have me killed as soon as I step on the arena."
"They can't do that to you." He doesn't look at me.
"It's how they play the Game,"I say. "They couldn't hurt my mother because she was a victor, so now they'll go for me."
"They can't. They won't." He says, and looks at me. "More than half the Districts already love you, and the Capitol is afraid of another rebellion. If they kill you in an obvious manner, the Districts will revolt, Laurel, revolt against the Capitol. If they do kill you they'll make sure it's from something the Districts can't blame them on. Like infection or disease." We pass Greasy Sae's house, where there's an aroma of chicken stew lingering in the air. I try not to think of what Jona just told me, though I know he must be right. I'd much rather die of a gunshot than of contamination, for a fast death is always better than a slow one.
We arrive at the Hob and we pass by the rows of strawberries, rabbits and wild turkeys. I see children with ragged clothes on their backs and tangled hair, and as we pass them, playing dice, I feel a tinge of bitterness at the fact that we have enough money to last three lifetimes, and we can't do anything to help them. I stop as I catch sight of a small girl who is holding a squirrel in a hand and basket in the other, arguing with a bearded man on the price of the said squirrel. She does not look older than eight years old, and yet she is responsible for, I assume, gathering food for her family. My hand goes to the pearl necklace on my neck that I received from Octavia on my tenth birthday and with a rapid movement of my wrist, I snap it off my neck and drop it in her basket. Jona slides an arm around my waist and pulls me away from the scene, before I have the chance to do anything else.
"Don't worry about them." He tells me.
A crowd has already begun to form where the Reaping is supposed to take place, though it won't start for at least two more hours. I squint and try to make out familiar faces, when I hear my mother calling me from behind.
I turn around. My mother's eyes are red, an evident sign that she has been crying, though I find it somewhat dubious for my mother doesn't usually let way to her emotions.
"Everybody's here," she tells me. "Quick, quick, we have to go - Oh, hi, Jona."
"Hello, Mrs. Mellark." He responds.
"I'm sorry to disturb you two but Laurel really has to get ready for the ceremony. Say hi to your dad for me, will you?"
Jona nods.
Octavia, Flavius and Venia are already in our bathroom, setting up what seems like electrical torture instruments. The air is humid and heavy with the scents of various fragrances, and I see that the bath is filled with a pear-coloured liquid. Octavia lets out a small squeal and rushed to me as I walk through the threshold of the bathroom. I can smell her permanently perfumed hair as she wraps her arms around me.
"Oh, Flavius, look how she's grown! How long has it been since we've last seen her?" Octavia exclaims.
"You mean look how her eyebrowshave grown; they look like big, fat caterpillars resting above her eyes." He replies.
"And her hair," Venia joins in, "Look how dry and limp it is, just hanging there."
Octavia notices my discomfort and adds, "Oh, come on you two. Don't listen to them, Laurel, true beauty comes from the inside and you have plenty of that."
Flavius takes my hand and begins examining my nails, grimacing as he sees I've bitten all of them to stubs.
Venia clasps her hands together. "Okay, we only have two hours before the cameras arrive. Laurel- take a bath and try untangling your hair. We'll come back in half-an-hour." Flavius and Octavia nod, and leave the bathroom, followed by Venia, who closes the door behind her, leaving me all alone, staring at my reflection in the water.
"I told you we could end up fixing her in time." Flavius tells Venia, looking at me through the glass of the mirror. There is still fifteen minutes left until the ceremony, and the prep team seems satisfied with the result. Me, on the other hand, felt much better before their treatments. My skin feels raw and tender, and they've plucked what must be every hair on my body.
Venia had insisted on going 'light' with the makeup, so I could project an image of innocence and youth. My nails are now painted a soft color of pink and my hair falls into lose curls over my shoulders. I can tell they have done a good job, though, because when I look into the mirror I can barely recognize myself.
My mother peeks into the bathroom, holding some kind of silky material in her hands, and I can see that she has gone through about the same handling as I have. Like mother like daughter, I guess, is what the prep team wants to say, though I am nothing like her in reality. I don't have her courage or her moral strength.
My mother puts the fabric down on the counter, and I can now see that it's a dress, the same pale color as my nails.
"Hurry, Laura, put it on, we're leaving in a few minutes." She tells me, before leaving the room, not making a comment on how I look, gratefully.
"You look like a pearl," Octavia assures me, before opening the door leading outside. The Reaping is about to begin, and it's getting more and more difficult to ignore the raging anxiety possessing me. I am going to get picked, I know it, yet there is still the possibility, as slight as it is, that the Capitol would have done some mistake in their calculations, and would pick someone else instead of me. As selfish and egoistic as it sounds, I hope that's what happens.
The cameras bombarding us, my mother, father and I make our way to the ceremony. My hand is in my father's, an idea that Flavius had, to reinforce the idea that I was, supposedly, childish and innocent. I try to ignore the cameras, but it is difficult as they are surrounding us.
We finally arrive. The small crowd Jona and I saw earlier has grown into a massive cluster of people, the children, or possible Tributes, separated into their age groups from twelve to seventeen. I kiss my father on the cheek and hug my mother, knowing that this would be one of the last times I would be able to touch them, before I go and place myself in the group of fifteen year-olds. I recognize some people from school, but I don't have many friends seeing as I'm bad with people skills. I scan the crowd of sixteen year-olds, trying to find Jona through the mass, but found no trace of him. Either he was late, or he didn't want to show up and watch me get chosen.
Drearily listening to Mayor Nergan Sprintrose's speech of the dark days, I look over to my right and make eye contact with another dismal pair of eyes. Liea Dashwillow, a student in my grade, who can't afford to get picked, for her mother's very ill. Liea is her only child, and her mother will surely die if she was to get chosen. I look away quickly, promising myself that if I am to make it out of the Games alive, I'll insure the recovery of her mother, no matter the costs.
The District escort, Effie Trinket, who is wearing a bright blue wig this year, walks onto the podium. Her voice sounds over-enthusiastic as she taps the microphone to make sure it properly functions and says "Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be ever in your favor!" From that very moment, I've decided that I hate Effie Trinket. Everything about her is fake; her looks, enthusiasm, words, all of it are nothing but lies.
"Ladies first!" Every gaze fallows her as her hand descends carefully into the crystal ball - the Reaping ball as they call it - and her hands clings onto a tiny slip of paper. She pulls it out and clears her throat. The crowd falls silent as she reads off the name.
"Laurel Mellark."
Effie frowns and looks down at the paper once more. Someone in the crowd lets out a cry.
"Katniss and Peeta's daughter? Oh, what a tragic coincidence!" She goes on, squeaking in delight. "What a loss!"
I gather what little courage I have left and pull myself to my feet, my legs shaking as I walk onto the stage and place myself next to Effie. I glance quickly towards my parents and see that my dad has his arms around my mother, whose face is buried in his shoulder.
"Well isn't she a cute one? Definitely resembles her mother. What a loss." She says and shakes her head, though I know nobody is listening to what she's saying. Everyone is staring at me. "We can't send her out into the arena, now, can we?" Effie giggles but the crowd remains silent. "No volunteers?" Silence.
I close my eyes for a second, feeling all of the eyes on me, wishing I had never gotten out of bed.
Effie pauses for a second, to make sure nobody steps up as a volunteer. "Alrightie then, for our boy Tribute..." She trots up to the second crystal ball and draws out another strip of paper. "Our boy Tribute will be Jona Hawthorne."
My eyes snap open and I feel a wave of panic and nausea rush over me. Jona? Jona, as in my best friend Jona? This could not be happening. I frantically follow the spectators' gazes with my own, and it falls on one of the designated entrances, where a boy with disheveled dark hair stands, four squirrels in his hands. I feel my knees give way as the gravity of the situation hits me; there can only be one victor.
I will have to kill Jona.