When I open my eyes, the sun is just starting to shine through the tiny window above my bed. The bed across the hull is empty. My brother Collin must already be up for the day, cleaning nets and adjusting the sails. If I had tried to sleep in on any other day, Collin would've woken me sternly, but considering the events taking place this afternoon, we won't be heading out to sea today. It really doesn't matter if I decide to get a few extra minutes of sleep. It just gives Mother less time to fuss over me when we go ashore.
Collin and I haven't seen our mother in close to a month. We don't go ashore except to unload our catch for the day. We own one of the smaller fishing boats out on the ocean, with no room to store a week's worth of fish, and we usually aren't able to catch the fish that bring in the most money: shark and swordfish. We consider ourselves lucky to even own a fishing boat. My father's grandfather saved every penny he made to buy The Fortunate Sun, the fishing boat that now belongs to my brother. It was my father's, until he died of a disease they call cancer years ago. They say it can be cured in a day in the Capitol, but you have to be very wealthy. Very wealthy is something we are not. I can't complain , though. We're more fortunate than most in Panem. We always have food in our bellies, and we have indoor plumbing. Not to mention, we have the entire expanse of ocean. Money means nothing when you live your life on a boat, where no amount of coins can save you from a storm or buy anything more beautiful than a sunset.
I roll out of bed and quickly dress in a soft cotton tunic, black trousers, and leather boots that come to my knees. I don't like to get my socks wet. I braid my ashy blonde hair and run up the steep metal stairs to the top deck. A sharp, warm wind catches my breath and fills my nose with the smell of ocean: salt, fresh air, and sea food. The sun is fierce and bright above me.
"You act like this is your first morning on sea, sniffing the air like that!" My brother jokes.
"You know very well it may be my last," I counter.
"Help me finish with these nets and we'll go back ashore," Collin orders.
Ordering me around is his way of avoiding the subject. Today is the Reaping for the Hunger Games. Collin is past his Reaping years, but I'm still in my Reaping prime. Sometimes people volunteer as Tributes to fight to the death in the arena, and some years no one volunteers. I'm not terribly worried that I'll be chosen, but Collin considers it his job to protect his mother and his three little sisters, and the Reaping isn't something he can protect us from.
After we clean and untangle the nets and dock the boat, we run ashore. Our home is right on the beach. From our windows, we can see miles of beautiful ocean, and our front yard is a tranquil beach. Heaven on earth is what the Capitol has nicknamed District 4, and I have to concede they got one thing right.
When I open the door, I am greeted by the cheers of my little sisters and the smell of freshly baked bread. I kneel down and gather my sisters in my arms for a giant hug. My mother walks to the front room, a hesitant smile on her face. She doesn't want to be too happy, just in case I get ripped away from her forever this time.
"You better shower, Emily. You smell like a blowfish," she jokes.
"Maybe if I smell bad enough, they will reconsider me as a tribute," I reply.
My mother shakes her head and points upstairs. I run upstairs and hop in the shower. The water is warm and refreshing. I haven't had a shower in weeks, and I can tell by the way my hair is so full of salt, it's almost crusty. When I get out of the shower, my mother has laid out a brand new coral-colored shift for me and the pink pearl necklace she made for me for my first Reaping. It's been good luck so far. I get dressed and braid my hair into a sailor's knot. It's a five strand braid, a complicated but traditional style here in District 4. When I'm done, I look in the mirror. I look just like my mother: bright blue eyes, golden skin from spending my life outside, and dark blonde hair highlighted by the sun.
When I walk downstairs, my mother gasps, "That dress suits you. You look lovely."
I am not sure what to say. I have lived on a boat with Collin for the past two years, and he is not one to be quick with compliments especially about how lovely I look. Being lovely is not really something Collin would find useful or even notice. He is much too practical. He would much rather have a sister who can tie a knot and steer a boat than one who is beautiful.
"Your dress is so pretty!" my eight-year- old sister Annabella exclaims. "When I grow up, can I wear it?"
"Hopefully, by then, no one here has anymore use for pretty dresses," I say and pinch her cheek affectionately.
I mean no one around here ever wears anything half this fancy unless we're heading to Reaping. You have to look your best at a Reaping. Never want to lose a chance to make a good first impression on your possible future mentor and sponsors.
We quietly exit our home. Our neighbors are doing the same. Usually, we have friendly greetings for each other, but today no one has much to say. We know two of our own are being sent to slaughter today, and each of us is praying it's no one we care about.
When we reach the Village Square, peace keepers are already lined up around the edge. I get my name taken and am escorted to the middle of the pack. The eighteen-year-olds are always at the front, and the twelve- year- olds at the back. Everyone hopes that the oldest will be chosen because it's not really fair when it's a twelve- year-old. Like everyone else, I am hoping there are a few lunatics in this bunch who are planning to volunteer.
Baby Vena, the District 4 escort, prances onto stage in her high heels and ridiculous clothing. She has crimson hair this year. How festive. Her dress is made to look like a large flower, her legs are the stem, and her head coming out of the top of a ridiculous bloom. Her lips and eye lashes are painted red to match. I can never understand why these people in the Capital try to look so odd. Behind her are Finnick Odair and Mags. They are the only living District 4 mentors. That sounds pathetic, but most districts have one, or none. Most District 4 Tributes make it close to the end, but then they usually get killed off by a crazed volunteer from one of the first two Districts.
"Welcome to the 69th annual Hunger Games!" Baby trinkles in her high-pitched Capitol accent, all the while clapping like a fool. She is always much too excited for this. Oblivious to everyone's expressionless faces, Baby continues, "May the odds be ever in your favor!" Still no reaction from the crowd, so she walks over to the glass bowl full of names. My name is in there three times, which isn't bad, but still too many. "Ladies first!" she exclaims as she pulls a small piece of paper out of the first bowl.
The square is so silent, I think everyone stopped breathing. We are all waiting to exhale.
"The female tribute from District 4 is... Emily Halstrom!"
Everyone in the square lets out a collective breath. Everyone except me. I'm frozen. My heart has stopped beating, and I feel the blood drain from my face. I can't move. All I can do is hope someone will volunteer. When no one does, Baby repeats my name, a little annoyed that I'm not as excited about this as she is.
Finally the girl beside me nudges me, and I walk up to the stage. Baby gives me a huge smile, "Congratulations, dear!"
I think sympathies are in order, but right now I am too busy focusing on not falling over to tell her so.
"That was exciting! Now for the boys!" Baby reaches her tattoo- covered fingers into the boys' bowl, and pulls out another piece of paper. "Cormac Ohar!" An 18-year- old with shaggy hair and tanned skin fearlessly walks up to the podium. I've never met Cormac, but I know his name. His father is wealthy. He owns the largest fishing boat I've ever seen, and he goes sport fishing for sword fish. Cormac is very handsome, and if he has a decent personality, he will probably get lots of sponsors because of it.
Cormac and I have to shake hands. It's a sick joke really, because in a few months we will be at each other's throats. He smiles when he shakes my hand. Other than Finnick Odair, he has the best teeth I've ever seen. I try to smile back, but I suddenly feel shy and look down at my sandals instead.
After our awkward handshake, Baby escorts us behind the stage. Our families and friends are allowed to say their good byes, because chances are they won't be seeing us alive again. My mother and my little sisters are crying. My brother is silent. This is what he has been dreading since our father died: he is unable to protect me.
"I'll see you in a few months, Emily?" he says, to lighten the mood.
I smile through my tears, "Of course. Just pray that the arena has a lot of water."