When I wake up on the cold stone floor, I'm momentarily confused as to why I can't see Jerome, waiting for me to get up, smiling down at me. Then I remember. Today is reaping day.
I let Jerome have the bed, of course. Being older, I gritted it out on the floor with a blanket as he got mattress, duvet and all. Now I'm starting to wish we owned three beds.
I lift myself up off the floor (which does take time) and slip a jacket over shirt. My leather boots at this point have molded to my feet, so I just tuck the laces inside them for now. Before I leave, I scribble a quick note to my father on a piece of paper.
Out getting food. Don't worry about us. We have our good clothes on; be ready for this afternoon.
I purposely put 'this afternoon' instead of 'the Reaping', because I know it'll just worry him more. Grabbing a stack of playing cards left on the counter, I head out to the Hob. Magic, the thing that keeps me alive and sane in Hell, more commonly known as District 12. Sounds crazy, but it works, trust me.
Sure enough, when I get to the Hob, Jerome's already there. I watch him crouch low so he cannot be seen, waits for a Peacekeeper to pass, then hey presto. He now has some coins sitting in his palms, and the Peacekeeper's pocket is lighter than it was before. He's an amazing pick-pocket; the Peacekeeper doesn't notice a thing. Half the time I'll wonder where a specific card has gone in my pack, only to see him cheekily turning it in his hand, a wide smile playing on his lips.
Jerome is my younger brother. He was born with slight of hand, so pick-pocketing came naturally for him. He looks out of place in the Seam, with his blue eyes and dark brown hair that falls in front of said eyes with ease. His only problem is what I like to call 'sort-ass syndrome'. He's the shortest 15 year-old in the school. Whereas I, being the tallest 16 year-old, have what he refers to as 'tall-ass syndrome'. If he wasn't my brother, my fist and his face would have become the best of friends. I think the feeling's mutual, even though I'm a year older. Which sucks.
The only way you can tell we're siblings is that we have the same bright blue eyes. We stand out when surrounded by other people, because the grey Seam eyes are the norm in District 12. I even have the bog-standard black hair of the Seam, not technically long, but not short either.
He approaches me, that same cheeky grin etched on his face whenever he's swiped someone of their possessions. He loves the adrenaline, the feeling of power of owning something that isn't his, the knowledge that he'll never get caught. Which is true, I'm the only person (not including our father) who knows about his abilities, and I'm the only one with fast enough reactions to catch him in the act.
"Hey," he says when he reaches me. Typical Seam greeting. Hey.
"Hey," is my answer. I raise an eyebrow when his hand goes in his pocket, and I hear the tinkling of coins against coins.
"3 swipes today. I guess the Peacekeepers are saving their energy for the Reaping," he sighs, "Worried?"
I scoff. "You wish." The truth is, I am worried, but more for him than me. He's not what you'd call 'active', seeing as we live in the Seam.
He looks at me. Contemplates me. I know that look anywhere. He's trying to see though me, but it's not going to work. I've had practice at covering myself up with a fictional mask, I've got good enough to hide my emotions so even he can't see them. After a while, he gives up. "I'll never understand you, you know."
"That's the whole point," I reply. I can tell by his facial expression that he doesn't know whether I mean the Games or my personality. I give him no nudge in the right direction, either. I can leave him to ponder that for himself. I pull out the cards that I stowed in my pocket, and start practicing. Jerome eyes my small party tricks with interest. He wants to learn, but I think covering as much ground as possible will get us more cash. You find a way to earn money or you die in District 12, there's no alternative.
There's an awkward silence between the two of us for a moment, then Jerome breaks his gaze. "This… I can't do this, Willow. I… I just can't…"
I consider putting my hand around him, to comfort him, but the idea's gone as soon as it came. There was never much of that between us. We weren't really like that. We were… different. "Look, Jerome, I don't want to do it either, okay? Nobody wants to. It's not right," I hardly ever open up like this, so I try my best, "it's those idiots at the Capitol we have to hate. We were forced into this… mess of a life. We just have to make do and bless the great lord that we're here, alive and well." Not well, says a tiny voice at the back of my mind. I push it away with difficulty.
People are pushing us out of the way. I was so rapped in my own mind that I didn't notice the time. It's time for the Reaping.
I start walking automatically, and Jerome jogs up to me, then matches my pace. We walk quietly for a few minutes, but then Jerome turns to me, "Look, if we don't both get out of the Reaping…"
I hold up my hand to stop him speaking, "No, we will both make it out. We'll be fine."
"But…"
"No, Jerome. We'll be okay."
We walk the rest of the way in silence.
I hardly notice being pricked in the finger. I hardly notice being herded into the pen. I hardly notice the betters and other parents looking at the kids like you would an animal which was about to go to the slaughtering house.
I only noticed Jerome.
I said to myself I wasn't going to worry about him. That the 6 slips with his name on them meant nothing. That the 20 slips with my name on them meant naught. But, of course, when did my brain ever listen? Never, I tell you.
Nobody really pays attention to the Mayor when he reads out what brought us the Hunger Games today. Why, for 71 years this year, 24 innocent kids were to fight to the death for the Capitol's amusement. The only thing that catches my eye is that Haymitch looks slightly more drunk than he usually is, if that's possible. I start to wonder how he got onto the stage without a signpost when Effie Trinket hops onto the stage. It's impossible to not think of a bright pink bunny rabbit. She hastily straightens her wig before announcing the words I hate most in the accent I hate most: "Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be ever in your favor!"
"Now, ladies first, shall we?" Her hand plunges into the silver ball as she rummages around and pulls out a slip. After fumbling with it for a moment, she unfolds it and reads the name there.
"Willow Darkhood,"
I gulp. Crap. That's my name. Oh crap. Take it easy now, Willow, one step at a time…
I make my way up to the stage, sneaking a look at the crowd as I walked. It's the children's' faces that burn into my mind; there's enough realization on them to tell that they recognize me. Not by name, no. But I'm the girl with the pretty magic tricks. The one that can help them escape Hell, if only for a couple seconds.
I don't realize that I'm still walking until I'm up on stage, staring blankly at the crowd. Oh, what I would give to still be down there, feeling pity for the poor sap that would have to go and fight to the death, never to return. But, of course, the odds don't seem to be in my favor for the time being. Me and the odds have never really gotten along well together.
Effie has a go at breaking the silence, "Now, for the boys, everyone!" Once again, her hand enters the glass ball, struggling for a minute, until…
"Jerome Darkhood,"
I don't think. I don't feel. I'm too dead inside to house thoughts and emotions right now.
