I give full credit to the author of the true Hunger Games, Suzanne Collins
"UP,UP,UP!" I jump out of bed, smacking my head on the bunk above me; you'd think I'd be used to this by now, after six years. The rickety door slams closed as the peacekeeper storms out. I vaguely wonder which man is in charge of us today. My cowboy boots remain in the same spot as last night, propped against the side of the bunk. I slipped them on while running my hands quickly through my long blonde hair and throw it into its usual messy bun. Weston still isn't stirring above me, so I smack my fist up and into his mattress. "Alright, alright, Belle I'm up." He growls at me.
Scowling, I grab the least ripped pair of overalls and a too-big yellow t-shirt from the bin. Most of the things I wear are too big. My frame is too small to fit into the standard sizes handed out to each of us.
Our cabin is one of twelve milking groups. Our ages range from seven to eighteen. Once we've passed the reaping age we get moved into our main jobs, which vary from breeding, to butchering, and everything in between. At age six we get pulled from the houses we lived in with our families to be trained in milking for a year. Once we reach the age of seven, we begin the tedious job until we are eighteen. Then, we can move back into our old houses until we get married and assigned a new house. We still get to visit our parents after we finish our jobs each day.
I slam the changing stall door behind me. It's not me Weston should be mad at, it's the peacekeeper who comes in every morning at the crack of dawn! It's not my fault that he has to get up. In fact, he should be thankful that I even bother to make sure that he's up, rather than letting him get publicly whipped every morning. But that's what friends do.
I open the door, fully changed. Walking around to each of the bunks, I do my normal routine of making sure every other kid in the cabin is awake and getting ready. For the most part, the girls are usually up and going. It's the guys I have to push and shove awake each morning. It's also the guys that think it's okay to change wherever they please. I mean come on! There's stalls for a reason!
Making my way back to the door, I grab a t-shirt and throw it to Weston. "Let's go." I say, holding open the door as he walks and wrestles into the shirt at the same time.
"Fix your hair." I say. He reaches up and tousles the blonde waves, making them even worse than before, and shoots that crooked smile of his towards me. I sigh and shake my head, continuing walking down to the milking factory.
"Ah Belle, loosen up. Just treat it like any other day on the farm," But I can see the worried look in his eye as he glances over at me. "How many times again?"
"56, the true blessing of a big family!" I say, giving him a small, painful smile. I've been getting tessare for seven people each year since I was twelve, plus my own required number of entries. "What about you?"
"23," he says without looking at me. I can tell by the way he says it that it's not him he's worried for. "We'll be fine."
We're almost at the gate. I glance up at him and can't help but wonder what it would be like if he did get chosen. He's more than my best friend, not that I would ever tell him. With his blonde hair and blue eyes, he's had his fair share of girlfriends, each one sending a pain through me that I couldn't place until a couple weeks ago. He's been my job partner since we were seven. Since then we've become really close friends, helping each other out whenever the other gets in trouble. We're pretty known throughout District 10 for keeping a lot of the kids out of trouble. My normal rounds of waking the other kids up each morning has earned me a certain respect, and Weston's really good at talking the peacekeepers out of a beating. Beatings and whippings are pretty common around here. If you don't follow the rules, there are consequences.
Weston holds open the gate for me and we walk up to the rough factory doors together. They're wide open, which means that the factory's going to be hot today. As we walk down the rundown hallway, we pass a peacekeeper.
"Finish quickly today. Everyone needs to be done by 11:00. Reapings begin at 1:00." He practically shouts at us. At the end of the hall, we walk through the door to the cow pen and start on our assigned row for the day.
"Do you want cows or goats today?" I say. "You chose." He says. "Well its defiantly a special day because you never let me choose!" I say with a grin. He laughs lightly and grabs the bucket to his left. He knows I'll choose cows, they're my favorite. We make it down half of the line before the rest of the kids show up and in no time we are already started on the goats. Even though it is reaping day, Weston and I can't help but goof around as usual. I shove him down into the hay around a goat numbered 726.
"Hey!" he shouts throwing a handful of the yellowish brown hay at me. I giggle and grab a fistful myself but before I can throw it, he grabs me around the knees and pulls me down, knocking down a pile of buckets in the process. We're laughing so much that we barely hear the tires crunching down the gravely road outside. He quickly stands up, pulling me up with him as we peer out the small window near our pen. It's this reality that brings us back to the day's terrors. We finish up quickly and hurry down the streets to a small cluster of homes in the west side of the district. Weston turns left as I turn right. "Wait for me here!" I shout over my shoulder. "Nope!" He shouts back. I glance back and see that smile I love before he turns and jogs down a side street and disappears from view.