I roll over and try to get comfortable, urge myself to sleep at least a little on this harrowing night. It's no use, I need to be outside. Quietly, I slip on shoes and a jacket and creep downstairs to the kitchen at the back of our two story home. Our family quarters, like most of the merchants in District 12, are above our shop in the nicer part of town. I step lightly over the creaky floorboard just at the foot of the stairs and into the warmth of the kitchen. Feeling guilty about wanting to go outside instead of getting an early start on the day's work, I think about smuggling a roll out with me. The stale leftovers from two days ago shouldn't be missed, but I shudder to think of my mother's cutting remarks should she find out. It's bad enough we're going to miss a half-day's custom because of the Reaping, she'd say.
Just as I'm about to head across the stone floor toward the door, I hear a knock outside. I'm surprised to see my father rise from the table in the corner of the room. He'd been so still I hadn't noticed him. Not wanting to disturb him, I push back into the doorway out of sight and hear his low voice greet the visitor. Curious who could be at our back door at this hour, I strain to listen but can't place the voice, though it's familiar. Less familiar is my father's choking reply. His throat sounds tight, as though he were trying to cover for something.
"No, no. Nonsense," he replies to the stranger. "Take this loaf instead. It's warm and full of good things. And may the odds…I wish you luck today, son."
"Thank you, sir. And to yours as well." Now I know the voice. A tall boy from the Seam, he often comes to trade with my father. He'll bring squirrels he's hunted in the woods and trade for a few rolls or a stale loaf. I'm always amazed when my father brings them to be fried. How can the boy dare to go outside the fence? With weapons, no less? Though, if my family would starve without that law-breaking, I hope I would be able to step up as bravely as he has. And a bit of squirrel now and again is a nice change. Though his aren't usually as skillfully shot as hers. My father always laughs, "Right through the eye! How does she do it?"
I know why my father is up early. I step into the kitchen and put a kettle on to boil. He looks at me steadily, but I can see the anxiety in his eyes. Bringing two cups of tea to the table, I sit across from him but pat his shoulder affectionately as I put his cup down. He reaches up to clasp my hand as I come around the table, and suddenly his eyes fill with tears. My eldest brother, Jasper, is finally too old for the Reaping and is safe today. But Uri, my mother's favorite, and I will both have our names in the ball. Mine five times this year, and Uri's seven. My father hates himself at this time every year, unable to forgive the wave of relief when another family's son's name is called. My mother doesn't seem to have the same misgivings, making comments like, "Well, they have more mouths than they can feed anyway." I don't know which response is more honest.
Today, I drink my tea with my father and we silently share our vigil in the early morning. I know my chances of having my name drawn are slim, compared to many of the boys who live in the Seam. They are forced to enter their names multiple times each year in exchange for extra rations of grain and oil for their starving families. The boy who was at the door this morning must have his name in the ball at least 40 times this year. I think about how many times she must have been entered this year. I'm certain she would take the tesserae herself, not letting her sister add her name extra times, even though this is her first year being eligible. That must be 20 times a slip of paper bears the name Katniss Everdeen. My heart skips a little at the thought, but I comfort myself that there are thousands of slips of paper in the ball. She just needs to make it through two more Reapings after this one and she will be safe. But safe to do what? To live a life of poverty in the Seam? To work endless days underground in the black mines where a simple spark could end the life of everyone down there? I think of what I have to offer her. As the youngest son of a baker, my lot is not much better than hers. But I could give her a house, we could open a business together and raise a family in town, away from the dirt and misery and confinement of the Seam. I could give her a flying pig as well, really. It's equally likely since I have never once worked up the courage to even talk to her. Really, I've only interacted with her the once and I'm not even sure she knows who I am. I made such a stupid mess of that. No wonder she never even acknowledged it.
My squirming is interrupted by my father's scratchy voice. "Peeta. You know how much I…you know I don't…" As he struggles to find the words, I cover his hands with my own. "Yeah. I know. You too." It seems inadequate, but my father and I have always understood each other, and this time is no exception. As I smile into his blue eyes, there is another knock at the back door. "Everyone is restless this morning," he grunts as he rises to answer the door once again. The visitor this time is more unusual, but better known. "Madge!" my father welcomes.
The pretty blonde girl smiles shyly and offers a quiet, "Hello, Mr. Mellark. I hope it's not too early? I saw you at the table…"
"No, no," he assures her. He steps aside and ushers her in, offering her tea and a bun.
She politely refuses saying, "I've just come to talk to Peeta for a minute, if you're not too busy?"
Madge is in my year at school. She's the mayor's daughter and lives in the fancy house down the street. We don't have the same circle of friends, but we know each other. In fact, when we were very little, she declared her intent to marry me. I had scoffed and told her I was going to marry the girl who sings so the birds stop to listen, but she had laughed at me and said, "You'll never marry her! Every boy in town wants to marry her!" We had eventually agreed we made better friends than fiancées. I like her for her quiet, kind eyes and the patient way she cares for her ill mother. She tends to keep to herself, but I always enjoy when we get to talk. In fact, as she's one of the only people Katniss seems to hang around with in town, I often try and work in a sly question about whether or not I'm ever mentioned. Her kindness in letting me down easily is both appreciated and humiliating. Today though, she is distracted, as we all are.
"Hey, Madge. What's going on?" I step outside onto the back porch with her. The sun is coming up and I notice how the branches of the gnarled old apple tree dapple the light on the grass. The pigs are snuffling themselves awake and she spends a moment watching the newborn piglets root around with their wet pink noses.
"I don't know," she admits. "I just had such a terrible feeling this morning. Worse than other years. I got so restless, and as I was walking by I saw you and your dad and just wanted to talk to you all of a sudden. I'm sorry."
"Don't be," I soothe her. "You're always welcome, you know that. Do you want me to come with you for a while? I was needing a walk myself." She nods and we start off down the road toward the meadow and the fence that surrounds the town. As we talk of little things, each of us trying to avoid the obvious topic, I try to help her relax.
"How's your mom, today?" I ask.
"Oh, you know. Same. Reaping Day is always the worst. She misses my aunt so much. Last night, she gave me a pin that used to belong to Aunt Maysilee. I'm a little afraid to wear it in public, but my mom said it was for luck." I look at the golden pin she shows discreetly in the palm of her hand, and understand what she means. It's a bird, connected by its wingtips to a ring around it, but not just any bird. A mockingjay. The symbol is somewhat of a slap in the face to the Capitol, as the bird was a backfire on an effort of theirs to spy on rebels during the uprising. It's a beautiful pin though, delicate and strong at once. Suddenly, she stops and asks me to help her pin it on her white dress. "Let them see it," she declares.
"Wow, quite the rebel, are we?" I joke while fastening it to the lacy front. "I almost hope you get picked today. Take them down from the inside!"
She smiles and makes a fist she thrusts in the air, "For District 12!"
But it isn't funny enough to distract us for long. The grimness of the truth starts to cloud over us, but just then I see her, walking back through town with the tall boy. I instantly turn red and start to back up while Madge grins at my discomfort. "Want me to call her over?" she teases. "I could ask her to come walk with us?" As my flush deepens and I stumble over a denial her smile widens and she puts a hand on my arm comfortingly. "Peeta, she couldn't hope to do better. Why don't you talk to her?" But we both know I won't. She strides with such confidence, swinging a leather bag bursting with fresh greens, a basket brimming with bright, red strawberries in her other arm. The boy next to her has a line of fat, silvery fish and they make their way to the Hob. Wistfully, I watch her go. She's glowing from her time in the woods and her look of fierce determination makes me wonder how anyone will deny her any trade she asks for.
Madge sighs and pats my arm. "I better get going. Mother will need me. Thanks for the walk." As she turns to go, she quickly turns back and wraps me in an unexpected hug. I hug her back and her voice is muffled in my shoulder. "Good luck today, Peeta." Then she turns and is gone.
By noon, the square outside the bakery is starting to fill up. The people from the Capitol have set up banners and roped off the areas where the twelve- through eighteen-year olds will be kept, boys on one side, girls on the other. Cameras and speakers are being tested and the front stage by the Justice Building is blocked for spacing. Occasionally one of them will come in for a cheese bun or a little something sweet, and my mother is all ingratiating attention. She offers free tea with a roll, or even a cup of milk with an iced cake. I understand why she does this. Her fear reacts this way, by trying to placate and win favor, but it makes my skin crawl nevertheless.
To avoid having to wait on the visitors, I take longer than usual getting ready. Uri has already bathed and is wearing a crisp white shirt with his dark hair smoothed back and a glint in his eye. He is eager to wait on the Capitol folks, charming and flirtatious while showing a flair for compliments. I think he may have some misguided idea that if they like him, he is somehow safer? Jasper stops by our room and leans in the doorframe, watching as I lay out my clothes.
Uri's voice floats up the stairs, "Why yes sir, we just made it this morning. What a good eye you have, would you like a sample?" Jasper rolls his eyes and I grin back at him.
"Maybe he got the wrong end of the stick somehow," I say. "Maybe he thinks it's some kind of popularity contest and he's hoping to increase his odds of getting picked."
Jasper snorts and adds, "Maybe he's got it right. Since hardly anyone ever comes back to tell about it, how do we know?" This falls flat however. The truth of how unlikely a victor from District 12 is makes us both feel hollow for a moment. Tonight, two more families will face losing a child to an almost certain death. "Sorry," he mutters.
"Jasper," I lower my voice. "Why do we do this? How do we keep letting this happen?" I ask. His eyes widen with alarm and his head spins to the open door.
"Shush!" he hisses. "We're crawling with people from the Capitol! What would you do, stage your own uprising? Have our business burned to the ground by some 'unfortunate accident?'"
I swallow and turn guilty eyes to my brother. "Sorry. I wasn't thinking. I'm just so tense today."
"I know," he relents. He punches me lightly on the shoulder. "Chin up. It will all be over in a couple hours." But I know for two families in our town, the horror will just be starting.