Chapter 1: 74th Reaping

I despise Reaping Day. Everything about it - right down to the very clothes I have to wear. The thought makes me claw at the collar of my shirt all the more vigorously, the collar that sticks out from all the powder in it and makes me look like a peacock. The boxing I get around my ears from Mom is worth the chance to scratch that itch, even as I am made to look like a fool whilst signing in with the Peacekeepers. A pinprick of blood, and I'm herded in with the other 16-year-old boys like a pig in a pen. As I'm jostled, shuffled into place, I keep my eyes out for it - a faded blue dress. Piercing, Seam-gray eyes. And that single, simple braid running down her back...

I suppose I should explain just what it is I'm doing here, on this blistering hot day in June in the sun with no shade, and appallingly not dressed for the elements that season brings. Today is Reaping Day for the 74th Annual Hunger Games - a yearly competition in which the 12 Districts of Panem send one boy and one girl between the ages of 12 and 18 into an outdoor arena to fight to the death. The last tribute standing wins, and becomes a Victor to mentor future tributes for the rest of his/her days.

That's the part we're coming to now The summary I've just given you nicely sums up the Dark Days - the rebellion of the districts which demanded the Games' creation. Now, Mayor Undersee is reading out the names of Past Hunger Games Victors. For my homeland, District 12, we have had exactly two. Two. Total. In 73 years.

"The Victor of the 16th Annual Hunger Games... Cassiope Fletch!" A grandmotherly woman stands and waves to the crowd, though only a few applaud her. I've heard many a story about our first Victor. They say Cassiope was weeks old when she watched from her cradle as the bombs fell on District 12. The bombs that ended the Rebellion. They also say she's half-crazy; has been that way for years.

"The Victor of the 50th Annual Hunger Games, or Second Quarter Quell: Haymitch Abernathy!" Never mind that he went in against a field worth two arenas. Never mind that it is rumored of how he killed at least 4 Careers personally. Our most recent Victor, from nearly twenty-five years ago, is viewed as a clown, as evidenced by the laughs his name elicits. As futher evidenced by how, with a glass of whiskey in hand, he merrily stands to wave... and plummets head-first off the stage, landing in a muddy ditch. Haymitch Abernathy. A paunchy, middle-aged drunk. Scarcely 40 years old. It's a miracle the alcohol poisoning hasn't gotten him yet.

Cassiope now leaps off the stage and tries to get Haymitch out of the spotlight - nearly impossible, as all of District 12's eyes and all of Panem's are on him. "Get up!" She hauls him into something between a body drag and a fireman's lift, as she impressively moves him back to his seat. For a little old lady, she sure is strong.

Effie Trinket, our district's escort from the Capitol, now takes the microphone, looking relieved, embarrassed and miffed all at once. I wonder if she's displeased at being upstaged. Probably - folks from the Capitol like to have all the attention. "Welcome, welcome! Today, we select one young man and woman for the honor of representing District 12 in the 74th Annual Hunger Games! As always, ladies first!"

After the performance we've just witnessed, I wouldn't want to represent District 12 in much of anything. But that doesn't stop Effie from pulling from the Girls' Reaping Bowl as though she is selecting a recipe.

"Parsley Fairchild!"

I barely have time to think about how the name isn't hers, before I move on to other musings. Ah, Fairchild. The largest family in all the Merchant sector, if not all of District 12. There's big money there, and many in the brood; my brother Rye's girlfriend, Julie, is a Fairchild. No doubt it will be her maiden name; they'll be married in a few years. In fact, Fairchild is probably what originated the features of all Merchants: porcelain skin, blond hair and blue eyes. Very Aryan. I'm almost certain that my mother approves of the match, which only makes me feel less hopeful; if she knew my choice of a bride, it would send Mom screaming for the hills.

My thoughts are suddenly interrupted by Effie announcing the male tribute:

"Peeta Mellark!"

I take the stage in a fog, staring around at the stage and Cassiope and Haymitch and Effie and Parsley as if still wondering where I am.

But I know where I am. And worse, what it means. It means I'll never get to talk to the girl of my dreams. I'll never get to be friends with her. I'll never get to one day just grab her and kiss her and ask her to marry me. Never have the possibility that she'd say Yes. Never get to moan and sweat as we make love in bed, then see her stomach laden with the beautiful Mellark babies we'd raise.

I've already shaken Parsley's hand, though I'd be forgiven for not remembering. I'm already in the Justice Building.

I am locked in an ornate, private room. I don't have time to take in the design or anything else about it, before a Peacekeeper is opening the door again and saying, "You have five minutes." My family is ushered in, including Julie Fairchild. I don't know of what relation she is to Parsley, but shouldn't my sister-in-law-to-be visit her instead? Still, she pecks my cheek in farewell. I go to embrace my father.

"Do you think she'll visit? Katniss," I whisper in his ear, saying her name like a prayer. For it is Katniss Everdeen, the poor Seam daughter of a coal miner, who I love. Dad's the only one who knows this, my greatest secret.

I sense Dad frown. "I didn't see her behind me," he says gently. "In fact, I saw her leaving with her family as we were getting in line. Although... she was having quite the argument with her mother as they were exiting. Almost as if she wanted to stay. And I saw her face as you were Reaped. She looked... concerned."

I idolize my father, and I appreciate what he is trying to do. But I don't suffer kindness in place of truth. I wouldn't be surprised if Katniss even knew who I was. Why would she care if I died? I communicate all this to Dad when I chide him, "Don't read too much into things."

"And don't start posing for your coffin now," my oldest brother, Leven, admonishes me. Rye lets out a bark of laughter at the morbid joke. "The Victor's gonna be you."

My mother now steps in. "Here, here, what's all this jabberwocky when there's work to be done? I know three shiftless bakers who'll be out of a job before they know it."

I note painfully how she said three and not four; she already knows I'm as good as dead! Dad fails to suppress an eye roll.

"Paula, say goodbye to your son," he orders.

"We'll miss you at the wedding," is all Mom says to me. Julie bites her lip nervously, displeased at having been dragged into this when my brother hasn't even officially proposed yet.

The guards take my family away, and soon after, return to escort me to the train. I was hoping that at least some of my school friends would come, if not Katniss. But I guess they must think I'm as good as dead, too.

I get on the train and in one moment, I am being removed from my home and my life. Probably forever.

Dinner that night is a quiet affair. Haymitch drinks until the liquor runs out, and Cassiope lets him. Effie does too, but makes her disapproval quite clear. At last, Parsley breaks the silence.

"So how do we win? How do we survive?"

I wonder if this would be a good time to mention to Parsley that she and I are related, or at least soon will be, by marriage. But I refrain for two reasons: one, because thanks to the Fairchilds, all Merchants are related, one way or another. And two, these are the Hunger Games. Family ties have no meaning in a fight to the death, and are even meant to be broken; I've seen the arena destroy ties a lot closer than the ones Parsley and I share.

Cassiope, meanwhile, smiles tightly, even as her voice is deadly serious. "Those," she tells us, "are two very different things. We can help you survive the Games, but no one ever wins. Not really. So that's Rule #1: Assume you don't win. Even if you survive."

Well, that doesn't make any sense. The Victor always is made to feel like a winner, at least on TV. He or she is given a crown and everything. Sounds like winning to me!

"Also," Haymitch adds quite earnestly, which makes both Parsley and I jump. I thought drinking was supposed to impair you. "You need to do exactly what we say. Cass and I are the ones who know the score. You do what we say. No questions asked. Then, maybe, one of you will get out alive. Got it?"

We nod. And Cassiope and Haymitch begin their mentoring. Unfortunately, that means I'm stuck with the drunk, as Victors - when possible - mentor their tributes based on gender. So I suppose that, if nothing else, this is how Cassiope and Haymitch are good for something, especially Haymitch. One District 12 Victor of each gender.

It comes as a shock to me that the media would care to film District 12 at all. Yet, we are mobbed the moment we step off the train, as if we had this thing already in the bag. As if we were a Career district. Those are Districts 1 and 2 that illegally train their tributes in special academies, then send them in at age 18. They win the thing almost every year. But Haymitch tells me all Careers have one fatal flaw. "Arrogance. And arrogance can lead to tributes - even Careers - doing very stupid things." Maybe that explains how the old geezer managed to take out four of them in his Games alone.

We start by meeting our stylists, who will beautify us and make us pretty for the Capitol up until the arena. Being a 13-year-old girl, Parsley is ecstatic at the chance to use make-up. I, on the other hand, am appalled. But then I remember Haymitch making us promise to do exactly what he and Cassiope said, so I bite my tongue.

That night, our beautified selves are paraded through the City Circle in chariots. A parade, of sorts. As Parsley and I go along in fiery accents (an idea from my stylist, Cinna), we notice how the Capitolites shriek and wave to us. We have gotten attention - attention probably not normal for an outlier district like us, and with the biggest losing streak of all. Still, Cassiope and Haymitch both seem pleased with our performance.

Training begins the very next morning, at the bottom floor of the Tribute Training Center; we'll be staying there over the next four days. I spend my time learning skills I don't know, per Haymitch's advice, and avoiding the ones I do know - like wrestling. Meanwhile, I get a good look at my competition. The girl from 1, Glimmer, is sexy and a bit of a flirt, but she mostly has eyes for the boy from 2, whose name is Cato. He looks like he could rip an entire person in half. The girl from 5, who I nickname Foxface after I'm unable to catch her real name, is sly and elusive. The dark-skinned boy from 11, Thresh, looks to be Cato's biggest threat to the crown. I approve of his refusal of the Careers' offer to join their crowd. I take no notice of Thresh's district partner, Rue, at first. At least not until I see her almost fly through the roped rafters like a bird on the wing.

The winner of these Games will be one of those five. Maybe add in Clove, the girl from 2, who is a master at throwing knives. One of them will win. Surely not little Parsley. And certainly not me.

At the end of the three days, we each have our private session with the Gamemakers. They control the arena and all its natural elements. Being the boy from District 12, I am slated to go dead-last. Here is where I show of my wrestling with an on-hand trainer. And also my camouflage. Might as well make all those years frosting cakes down at the bakery count for something.

I must have impressed the Gamemakers more than I imagined, for the broadcast that night gives me an 8 in Training. Parsley is right behind me at a 7, an excellent score for one so small. Both Cassiope and Haymitch seem pleased with our efforts.

The fourth and final day is spent preparing for our interviews with Caesar Flickerman. Haymitch coaches me. This is really the first time that he and I have been alone together. Apparently, a tribute can choose to be coached separately for the entire training process. But my mentors never asked. Haymitch says that Cassiope didn't have that luxury of giving her tributes a choice for decades. I don't mind. I've never considered Parsley threat enough that I would feel the need to hide anything from her via a separate coaching session.

Haymitch and I go for an uncontroversial angle: likable. He says I have a naturally self-deprecating sense of humor; it's probably the closest thing I'll ever get to a compliment out of him.

The interviews that night go by pretty quickly. Each tribute gets three minute in the spotlight - a rule that is strictly enforced by a buzzer. Glimmer plays the sexy angle. Cato is arrogant as hell; he seems to expect the Victor's Crown. Thresh gives little beyond one-word answers, and both Rue and Parsley draw the sympathetic sighs of mothers.

At last, it is my turn. Upon appearing beside Caesar Flickerman, I hear roars and applause, particularly shrieking from the women. It makes me wonder if Katniss is watching me from back home. Does she regret never speaking to me? Would she be attracted to me if I didn't have these duds on? Or would she be like these shallow women and only like me when I'm beautiful. These women who now shriek, even sob my name, aren't Katniss. And it disgusts me that they are not.

"My, my, Peeta! You're the most strapping young lad to come out of Twelve in years! Tell me: how do you like the Capitol?"

"You have interesting showers," I announce with a chuckle. "Say, Caesar: do I smell like roses? Take a whiff," I encourage when he seems thrown by the question. Pretty soon, the host and I are chatting as if we've known each other for years. At last, Caesar grows serious.

"Now, Peeta, tell me: is there a special girl back home?"

"Nah, no, there isn't," I laugh.

"I don't believe him for a second! Look at that face! Handsome lad like you, there must be some special girl! Come on, what's her name? Peeta: tell me."

"Well, there is this one girl that... I've had a crush on forever. But I'm pretty sure she didn't know I was alive until the Reaping."

The Capitolites moan. Unrequited love they can relate to.

"So win this thing, and when you get home, she'll have to go out with you. Right, folks?"

"We'll see, Caesar," I smile grimly.

"And we wish you... all the best of luck," Caesar shakes my hand as time expires. "Peeta Mellark!"

The nightmares come hard that night, and only the entrancing spirit of Katniss drives them somewhat away.