"Peeeeta! bring me that flour!" My mom bellowed from the kitchen. I obediently lifted the sack above my shoulder and dropped it off at her feet. "Quit lagging around, you know we're extra busy on reaping day," she scolded as I washed my hands.

I began to roll more flour into the dough as it stuck to my hands. Being a baker, whether it was reaping day or not, doesn't allow for a day off. My mother was firm and we were all, my brothers and me, her employees.

At the Mallark house, there was nothing different about this day, but outside, which everyone pretended not to notice, was a wasteland. Everyone tucked inside their homes safe and sound; that is, until the Reaping begins when attendance is mandatory for those aren't dead.

People try and convince themselves that it's nothing. Some even make a celebration out of it. But no one's really fooling themselves… except for maybe my mother who genuinely doesn't seem to care. People in District 12 side step everything about the Games. When the tributes are called forth, people keep their heads down and wait for it to be over. Everyone attends the mandatory viewings of the Games when they get really "interesting" but they're all just trying to get through it until they can go back to their "life" while they starve to death.

But, we still had an hour before the reaping begins and we have to get as much done in that time frame as possible as even people from the Seam who can muster up enough cash will be purchasing food from the only bakery in town as they celebrate the fact that the odds were in their favor.

Garzo, my oldest brother, tosses a bag of sugar onto my shoulders as I buckle under the pressure. He grunts an apology and continues to the oven where he removes the rolls he had baking. This was the most my brothers and I would talk any given day; a variation of grunts to display the most basic emotions. Because they were both void of personality and possibly emotion, I grunt in reply and life goes on. I might have taken a moment to care about the obvious anger attributed with that specific grunt, but the bag of sugar meant that cakes had cooled and needed frosting.

I always frosted the cakes, as I was the only one who had attributed my grandfathers eye for detail, but they were always the most generic designs of a flower or a message of condolences. However, on reaping day, my father gave me one gift: I could frost whatever I wanted, however I wanted. That was gift enough, because, for a moment, reaping day went away and it was just me.

But it was gone in a flash and we were dressed in our best, being corralled into the square silently.

I stand in a group of other 16 year olds, all of which I was well aquainted with, and scanned the crowd. Which one of my peers would be fighting to the death?

As my eyes wander, I catch her eye, and she looks away, as is the order. Katniss Everdeen. Her braid sat neatly on the side of her shoulder instead of down her back and her face held its usual almost bored expression. But I could see something more under the surface; something that I knew she didn't want anyone to see. But I'd seen those eyes flicker with emotion when she thought no one was looking. I'd seen her in The Hob, eyes bright with life, so different from how they were now: focused. She kissed her sister on the forehead and blended into the crowd of girls so that I could only make out her hands that were folded precisely in front of her body. They didn't shake as so many others did around her.

I pretended to listen intently as I do every year. Instead of putting myself through the unecesary torment, I stare intently at Effie Trinket. I pick out the details in her outfit and bright pink wig that is slightly askew because of an interaction with Haymitch Abernathy - the only living tribute District 12 has, and a perfect drunk.

"Such an honor it is to be chosen as tribute," Effie chimes in her signature voice: too high pitched and too stressed in all the wrong places, just as everyone from the Capitol. She continued on with the same words she says every year and begins the reaping with the words "Happy Hunger Games, and may the odds be ever in your favor!" As she digs in the bowl that holds the names of every female from the ages of 12-18, I think of Katniss and how many slips she has in their from all of her tesseraes and how, maybe the odds weren't in her favor. I closed my eyes and waited.

"Primrose Everdeen!"

My head jerked over to Katniss. Her face was blank, unfocused. She grabbed onto Graham Clemens for stability which she obviously couldn't maintain on her own. I wanted to be there to hold her up, but she was falling and there was no way for me to catch her, so I watched as her little sister found her way to the path. Katniss moved swiftly to clear the distance between them, almost as if she wasn't aware that she was doing it. She lunged for Prim while Peacekeepers began to restrain her. Thrashing in their arms, terror enveloped her and a tormented sound escaped my lips.

"I volunteer! I volunteer as tribute!" Katniss's face was contorted and her breathing rapid. A lump began to form in my throat and dots stood out clearly in my field of vision. Katniss went from mad to composed within seconds and began to make her way the stage. Katniss and Prim had switched rolls as Prim screamed out her name and cried. As I watched Gale rip her little sister from her dress, I tried to remember that I had to breathe. I tried to think about the situation logically: she's charismatic, so she'll have no trouble getting sponsors, and she'll do whatever it takes to keep herself alive.
I was so busy thinking about how Katniss was going to handle the weeks ahead of her, that I almost didn't hear Effie Trinket ring out my name.