We were all gathered in the middle of town, looking up at the stage that was built purely for the purpose of the reaping. The weather was suited to the crowd. Varied, changeable. You could see our faces on the huge tv, some of us thrilled, others anxious. I was supposed to look forward to this every year. It's what I have been training for for my entire life. I can't shake that odd feeling that they want me. That it's fixed. I know it's not true at all, there are many other boys here who would kill for the chance to be chosen. If anyone was fixed to be chosen it would be them. Despite this fact, I am still terrified. I start to breathe heavily, panicking. I know I will be chosen. I can feel it. My sister glances over at me with a questioning look, she could always read me. No, Finnick. You can do this, I tell myself. Besides, I only have one name in. Thousands of others have their names repeated over five times.
A woman steps on stage, clearly devoted to the capitol. Her hair is florescent yellow, her body tinged lilac, her face tattooed with spirals that frame her cheekbones. She welcomes the crowd enthusiastically. The crowd cheer at her. This is what it's like in District 4. Our tributes join the Careers, normally. We train for this. Many of us live for this. The victor's get fame and fortune. It's the only escape from life in the District's
The woman invites the mentors on stage. They are previous Hunger Games winners. I'm sure they do not want anything to do with it anymore. They step out graciously, waving politely.
It's time for the reaping.
The crowd stand with mixed emotions. Some of them tense with excitement, others with nervousness. They call the boys first. Always. The Capitol mutt presses a button which shuffles our names in a plastic sphere. When it has finished rolling, she puts her manicured hand in the barrel and pulls out an intricately designed sheet of paper. The woman's face twists into a manic smile. 'Finnick Odair!' She calls with faked animation.
I can hear my mother crying out. My father as the breath runs out of him. My sister turns to look at me with a devasted look on her face. I know she wants to stand in for me, but she can't. I know she knows what this means. I probably won't be standing in this spot again. Ever. She nods her head and looks at her boots. I can see the tears running down her cheeks.
I walk up to the stage and take the stairs. Meanwhile, a girl tribute had been called. She had wanted to be called. I can tell by the excitement radiating from her, how her family had given her congratulatory pats on the back and how she had managed to reach the stage before me. 'Ooh! Look what we've got here!' The woman cooes. 'A handsome one! Probably the handsomest 4 has ever produced!' I ignore the back handed compliment and continue to look out into the crowd, trying to catch my father's eyes, for support. But all of their eyes are glued to the floor. People had told me I was good looking before. I had never really cared for looks at all, yet I already know. This is what I'll use. I can fake it. The crowd loves a heartthrob.