My father's busy in the kitchen when I come downstairs. The scent of fresh baking bread is something my nose barely registers anymore. It's like my mother's high pitched voice, something so common I forget to think about it. Today, there's another smell in the kitchen, one that makes my stomach muscles tighten in an embarrassing sort of way. It's the scent of cooking squirrel, which is not too appealing, but to me it means Katniss Everdeen might've been here.
And I missed her.
Without saying a word, my father slides a plate on the table for me. He doesn't mention Reaping Day, but he sits beside me, not eating. He has a way of simply being near you. Words don't come easily for him. When he presses his hand against my shoulder I know there's a world of meaning in it. Sometimes love doesn't need a lot of explaining. It's just something that is, with or without the complication of sentences.
I don't want to eat anything, but I do it anyway. I can't tell him I love him back because words from me would underline the absence of his own. I eat the thin strips of meat because he can't protect me today. He can only make me breakfast. I can only eat it.
There will be other parents all over the Seam doing similar things, little gestures because anything more would be admitting the possibility of a goodbye. I'm from one of the more fortunate families in the Seam. My name is in the lottery no more than is necessary for my age. Five slender slips of paper with neat little hand-writing bear my name: Peeta Mellark. My brother, Keegan, will be entered the full seven times. Katniss Everdeen will be entered twenty times. I've watched her take tesserae every year with a growing knot of anxiety.
I spend the morning in the kitchen with my father and brothers, dusting off my hands on my apron whenever the chimes indicate a customer has walked into the front room. People by the usual things. A town person buys a simple cake. People from the Seam stick with loaves of bread. The day passes slowly and is over in minutes. We close early on Reaping Day.
My family walks to the Reaping together every year. I find myself in a clump of Merchant's children. Somehow the invisible line between the Seam folk and the Merchants is engraved deeply even here. My brother stands beside me, stoic and waiting. My eyes find Katniss in the crowd. She's surrounded by other girls with dark hair, all in a tightly knitted group as if numbers could protect any of us.
"You're going to burn a hole in that girl's head," Keegan mutters beneath his breath.
I shoot him a reproachful look, but make a point of not letting my gaze wander back to Katniss. Instead I find her sister in the crowd as the mayor begins his speech. It's two o'clock. In two years I'll be in Keegan's place, on the verge of being safe from the Hunger Games, unless my name comes out of the drawing before then.
The history of Panem is dry and repetitive. Even the mayor sounds bored with himself. I start to search the crowd, looking at the other faces, stopping only to imagine who will make the horrible trip to the stage. In other districts the crowd sometimes seems to quiver with anticipation, as if the blood baths of the games are true entertainment. I don't think their brutality is completely their fault. They've been encouraged to it. Still, I can't escape the image of parents weeping with pride as their children take the stage voluntarily. There's little that sickens me more.
Effie Trinket moves forward. She's pink from head to toe. She looks like a smear of something toxic on the gray and black landscape behind her. The Seam isn't known for glowing or bright colors. There's very little as out of place as a Capitol person in a District, with the exception of a small, terrified Tribute in the Capitol.
Haymitch Abernathy, the only surviving winner from District 12, gives Effie a hug. He engulfs her in his arms when she can't manage to sidestep him. He is a beige and white blur against all her pink. It makes me think of an eraser, but Effie is no less brightly colored when she finally fights him off. She is, however, distinctly disheveled when she takes over at the microphone.
"Ladies first!"
Despite myself my gaze goes back to Katniss and my mind is a looping change. Not her. Anyone but her.
And it's true. There's no one in the District whose name I want to hear less. In a minute when the boys are up the wish I'll make for myself and for Keegan won't be half as feverent.
My wish is granted and it's not because the name that comes out is Primrose Everdeen, Katniss's sister.
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Disclaimer: Everything is owned by Suzanne Collins. The series is brilliant and her work is exceptional. I adore the series and the characters. The books land high on my recommendation list.