I have always been the average. As the third child of four, shining with nothing, except perhaps mediocrity, I was always doomed to pick the shortest straw in life's game of fate. I'm not beautiful, and of course that is quite disturbing. Some people have the luck to at least get an outstanding appearance, if not beautiful, but I'm not even an ugly duckling. I have no special talents, I am not a ridiculous fail. In summary, I am nothing but an indifferent loser. Therefore, I was doomed to pick the straw that led me to life's fatal games. Or rather the Regime's games. Games of bloodshed, instinct, greed, will to survive, but most of all – hunger.
The Reaping Day has come. I'm not really nervous about it, even though there aren't too many poor families that need their children to take the tesserae in The Four. In The Four, most families live like my own, between the rich and the poor. In my family, we can cook ourselves whatever we want for dinner, my parents can afford to buy us nice gifts for our birthdays, even though we are four children, and we do not have to sign up for the tesserae. We never worry about possible leaking from the roof, or not being able to buy new clothes when we have outgrown our old ones.
On the other hand, we don't ask for the new, up-to-date technological items that we happen to want, or wish for beautiful jewellery. Those things are luxuries. But even the poor people here don't live on the edge of their well-being. Of course they can't afford to eat meat, fish or poultry every day, but they have enough to eat to cover their needs, and even if their clothes aren't the most fashionable or well-fitting, they at least have something all right to wear.
I am standing with my older sister among the other girls. Juneberry's eighteenth birthday is in two months, and with her sparkling green eyes, I can tell she is going to be a beauty when she grows up – if she's not one already – just like my father. Skylar, my twin, has our brother by his hands at the border of the boys' cluster. Little Aubrey just turned twelve, and his big brown eyes are even wider with frighten. He's shaking, Skylar mimes to me, and I can see how Aubrey's grip around Skylar's fingers tightens as our representative from the Capitol enters the stage, which we're all in front of.
Bristan Milfoil is of average height, with thick dark hair stroke back in a delicate curve, like a soft crown on his head. It's decorated with light blue twirls all over, which brings out the color of his almond-shaped eyes. He is wearing an exquisite suit in midnight blue, with a shimmering velvet blazer, and to me, it looks like the content of galaxies has been widely spread out on it. To strengthen the effect even more, the corner of his eyes are colored with eyeliner so dark blue it almost looks black. His beard is cut in low swirls all over his sharp jaw line, probably to imitate waves. The theme of today is obviously the sea.
The humming from the low-voiced conversations about the tributes from the other districts, about other people's Sunday bests and about how handsome Bristan actually is, mutes as he grabs the microphone stand. He clears his throat, and then begins to speak.
"You are welcome, young inhabitants of District Four, to the 84th Reaping. Happy Hunger Games to you all!" He looks out over the sea of people with a grim, yet expectant gaze. "Before we begin, I have a word of importance to share with you." He clears his throat again, and starts off with a serious voice.
"Ten years have passed since the Conflagration caught fire. In District 12, a young girl let her obstinacy damage our whole country. Her lack of reverence and respect for the Regime, whose first priority is to make sure that the people in Panem live under tolerable conditions, turned our healthy welfare into a dreadful mess where the population was forced to live precisely on the subsistence level, if not below it. But the Regime is mighty, the Regime has the power, and the Regime suppressed the revolt to spare the people a fall. No one can rise against the Regime. To remind you of this, we will now begin the Reaping, where a boy and a girl will get the honor to represent their district in the Hunger Games." After Bristan's speech, it seems to me like he fixes his eyes into each and everyone of us. I remember Aubrey, but I can't see him – he has pressed his short, slight figure to Skylar's side.
He is too afraid to act like a big boy, and I am instantly spilled over with compassion for my baby brother. My attention is drawn to the stage when I hear Bristan once again.
"May the odds", he smirks, "be ever in your favor." Then he steps forward to pick a piece of paper, a piece of paper which will change the life for one of the boys in the cluster of people. In District Four, we always reap the boys first. Equality has never been a priority here, and it seems like Bristan isn't too much of a gentleman in his actions since I've never heard him utter the words ladies first.
The silence that follows when he unfolds the note is indifferent. Most of us are used to this.
There is nothing you can do once you are picked, just hope that there is someone who wants to shed blood and fight for eternal glory and a secure future for oneself and one's family. I am immediately interrupted in my thoughts when I hear the first tribute being announced.
"Azure Nightingale."
Though there was a silence before, it seems to me like it is muted even more. Not a sound is to be heard, until I catch steps on the gravel. Azure is a good-looking boy, almost a man with his 18 years.
His cocoa-colored skin looks soft and warm, a direct opposite to his eyes, which are black and cold, narrowed with what looks like anger, or perhaps a warning: "if anyone dares to pity me, you better stop." Since no one wishes to volunteer, Azure enters the stage with heavy, trampingsteps, and respectfully shakes Bristan's hand.
"Congratulations", Bristan says seriously and Azure nods once. "And to the girls." Bristan is now smiling with expectation. He quickly picks up a note from the glass bowl, without making it a big deal, like he did the first time.
"Acacia Speedwell."
That night, after the farewells to my family, with Aubrey crying, my mother with an ashen face, my father stiff and dogged (?) and Skylar's firm grip around my back as I hugged him good-bye, I lie awake in my compartment. I find it hard to sleep with all my thoughts swiveling around in my head. At first I think of Juneberry, she had been surprisingly calm when saying good-bye to me, showing no emotions except a few tears glittering in her green eyes. But then again, we have never had a close relationship. In fact, we have never had a relationship at all, only the appellation sisters.
In one way, she has always been my biggest concurrent. In another way, it's stupid to talk about my con-currents – how could I possibly have one when I'm so easy to victor over? I don't have any charm, I'm not witty, I'm not pretty or talented or exotic. The only thing that I am, is simply boring.
That makes my head turn even more. With my low self-esteem, I have always thought that I would end up really plain. Fate wouldn't have given me any chance to stand out, I thought. But now it has chosen to torment me even more. I am already boring, invisible, dull, mediocre. And still, I have to fight the Hunger Games. Nothing could be more unjust. I don't fall asleep until early in the morning, and I only get two hours of sleep until Bristan knocks on my door. Maybe he is bit of a gentleman anyway, because he doesn't open to door to peer at me. On the other hand, what is there to peer at?
"Acacia", he says, making my name sound like a song, "we will be in the Capitol in two hours. Me and Marcasite thought that it would be a good idea for you to get some breakfast."
"Sure", I answer as loud as possibly as my voice is filled with sleep, "I'll get up right now." When I hear his steps leave, I stand up and hastily make my bed. Then I put on my new dress, a little something my mother gave me before the departure. It is knee-long, in a pale, light green color, with short sleeves and a beautiful front piece, decorated with little pearly buttons.
When I've braided my blonde hair, I feel like I'm dressed for some breakfast in the dining carriage. Azure is already sitting in one of the wine-red chairs, stuffing food into his mouth as if he never had got to leave the table completely full and satisfied. I try not to stare at him with a nauseated look, but it is hard when he's squelching like that.
Instead, I say good morning to Bristan and Marcasite. Marcasite is the winner of the 77th Hunger Games, and judging from her looks, she should be married to Bristan. As beautiful as he is, he ought to have a wife who is matching him. Marcasite is tall and slender, with skinny hips and a tiny waist. Her legs are beyond this world with their length. Her eyes are wide and light blue, they seem to catch up with her mouth when it comes to shining – her cherry-colored lips are almost always open in a big, white smile. I can't believe Azure is eating like that when he could be looking at her. Even I am enchanted by her looks, and I like boys. (I think. I have never been interested in anyone, so how could I ever know?)
"Good morning Acacia", Marcasite replies politely and gives me one of her mesmerizing smiles. Even though she doesn't have that melodic capital dialect, which sometimes can be a little too melodic, making the speaker sound quite hysteric, she makes my name sound like it should – like it was worn by a beauty. Acacia sure is a beautiful name. Pity I don't match it. Her dialect makes me think of my home, and I immediately wonder how Aubrey and Skylark are. I don't care that much about Juneberry, and I know my parents will be fine. I mean, they have never shown me any affection in that caring way. I know they like me since I am their child, but I never searched for an intimate relationship with them, they didn't either. And above, they have little Aubrey, who's really sweet, they have Skylark, who's full of integrity, and they have Juneberry, who is the dream daughter; beautiful, smart and outgoing.
"Help yourself!" Bristan sweeps with his hand, smiling widely, towards the buffet table as if he is the one who hosted this feast. I grab a plate and find it a bit hard to choose between several kinds of bread, porridge, eggs and meat are tightly pressed against juices and fresh fruit and vegetables. After a while of deliberating, I load a full-grain roll, some porridge with grapes and apples, eggs and roast beef on my plate. I've got on the track ofAzure – he must be storing for the Games. Even though none of us have been starving, it's a good idea. No one knows if there will be any food supplies on the arena, or if one manages to grab a rucksack at the Cornucopia. When I'm done with my storage, Bristan says: "Please, have a seat. We were just about to discuss our tactics with Marcasite." I put down my plate next to Azure's, and sits down in the soft chair. But unlike Azure, I do have manners, so I don't slop like him. Instead I unfold my white linen napkin, put it in my lap, and cut my food in small pieces before carefully putting them into my mouth.
"Azure", Marcasite says and looks directly at him. If she is disgusted by his eating habits, she doesn't show it the slightest. "What are your talents? Is there anything you're good at, that could help you on the arena?"
"Umm", he begins, "I'm qua' gud a' 'estling."
This time, Marcasite can'tstop herself from remaining indifferent about his behavior. One of her very thin, well-plucked eyebrows is raised.
"You're good at wrestling?"
This time, with a little self-respect, Azure swallows before he answers.
"Yeah. I used to get into a couple of fights at school."
For some reason, I am reminded that he is the youngest of a number of brothers.
"And I have three older brothers", he says and smiles in a meaning way.
Marcasite smiles back at him but myself, I still have the picture of his slopping inside my eyelids. I guess what he has is charm. I have seen it, but I have never experienced what it's like to be charming myself. I simply don't know how to do. What to say, when to smile, even how to smile. When I speak, I mumble, I smile insecurely, and too long after. At least I'm aware of it. Could have been worse.
"So, I suggest that you work with some weights at the training center. Pressure yourself. Throw sacks, practice some good hits and knocks. Get used to some new fighting techniques." Azure nods, and returns to eating. Marcasite turns to me.
"Acacia. Do you have any specialty? Any surviving skills?"
Since I don't answer directly, there is a long silence. Bristan smiles at Marcasite, as if I hadn't heard her question. For me, the silence is hard, but purposeful. I don't have any skills. Any at all.
Marcasite tries again. "I don't think you heard me", she says nicely. "What are you good at?"
This time, the silence is shorter. I clear my throat, and says with quite a low voice: "I don't have any."
From the side, I can see Azure smiling scornfully at his scrambled eggs and sausages. I speak again, with a louder voice this time: "I'm not good at anything."
Bristan emits a stifling laughter, and Marcasite smiles again.
"Of course you are. Think a bit." It's starting to get really painful. They don't understand.
"I guess I could just focus on camouflage", I say quietly to my porridge. Marcasite keeps her smile, I can tell from the corners of her mouth that she is relieved.
"So you're good at disguising?", she asks me very friendly.
I look directly at her. What part of the "I'm not good at anything" was hard for her to understand? I hate this manic "everyone's good at SOMETHING!"-attitude which adults always keep to make us teenagers feel like we're not worthless; that there must be a little something, no matter how unimportant it is, which we are talented in.
"No", I say steadily, ready to continue, but I see Bristan and Marcasite exchanging looks. She is looking embarrassed, and him like I'm a hopeless case. I look at them both, before I stuff the last purple grape into my mouth. "I guess I could just camouflage myself and pass for the rest of the competition. No one would miss me", I say without a tone of bitterness in my voice, only matter-of-factness. I fold my napkin and throw it on my empty plate, where I've put the cutlery properly to show that I'm finished. Then I raise from my chair and head back to my own compartment.
"Yeah, I'm quite good at being invisible", I tell them with a faked smile, almost sounding cheery. I close the slide door behind me, and sink down on my bed.