Hi, everyone! This is technically my second fanfic, but my first is… Ugh. I have to get around to deleting it, I was around 13 when I wrote it and I was terrible then. I hope I'm better now, and I think this is a good idea. I know this idea has already been done, but hear me out. It'll get different. I considered making it a one-shot, but I wanted more detail. I know the Spanish is a bit strange, but it will make sense later. I hope you guys like it, constructive criticism (or even flames, if you must) are more than welcome. Thanks for reading!
I trudge out of my room, groggily rubbing my eyes with the backs of my hands. My mom is standing at the stove, cooking tesserae grain for breakfast. She turns and beams at me, doing her best to hide the fear in her eyes. I'm 17 this year, on reaping day. I have an awful lot of strips in the reaping balls, but I choose to ignore that fact.
"Buenos días, Aurora, ¿cómo estás?" my mother greets me.
"Inglés, mama. Inglés ahora," I mutter, too scared that we would be caught and possibly punished. We are speaking an ancient language called Spanish. A long, long time ago my family was what's called Hispanic. As changes started, my family continued to pass along the language and how we know it, even as non-Hispanic people married into the family to the point where I have the pale skin and red hair that has earned me the nickname "Foxy" by my friends, I can still speak this long lost language fluently. My mom and I have no idea if it's legal for us to know it, much less use it regularly. But I refuse to take the chance on such an important day.
"Fine, how are you doing today, sweetie? Did you sleep well?" My mother asks, seeming very earnest.
"As well as I could, given the circumstances. I'm doing fine, how are you?" I reply.
"Fine, fine. Come, eat breakfast, child," Mom ushers me over to the chair. I eat my breakfast and head upstairs to get dressed. I decide on my emerald green dress with sleeves going just past my elbows that hugs my figure. It's the only nice dress I own; my mom saved a long time then bought the cloth to sew it for me. We're very poor, since my dad died when I was very young. My mom works as a seamstress. She hates the factories and makes a good enough living with her sewing. By the time I'm done brushing my hair out, it's time to head down to the reaping.
"Oh. My. God. Look at you!" My best friend, Katy, exclaims. She's never seen this dress before, and it's clearly a shock. I suppress a smirk; I am, in fact, capable of looking pretty when I'm not wearing cheap, worn denim jeans and t-shirts. With my long, long red hair and amber eyes, I'm actually quite attractive.
"You're one to talk! Your dress is amazing, Kates," She's decked out in a sky blue number, tied at the waist with a white ribbon and a matching one tying her shoulder length black hair black. She's the only person I've ever met with black hair and blue eyes and pale skin, all in one person. It's a bit shocking, and combined with my (literally) foxy looks, we're known as "the freaks" by most people.
We walk over, sign in, and head to our spots in the 17 year old pen. We chat about anything we can think of. Her attempts at selling her artwork, my still perfect grades and the possibility of being the valedictorian and potentially making some money someday. Obviously I have a job at one of the factories, but I don't make scratch, really. That might change when people realized how amazing my memory is and how clever I really am. We'll have to see.
We sit through the usual Hunger Game boredom. The speeches, the video, the bouncy escort. Katy rolls her eyes at me, but I see the terror underneath the façade. The it comes: the actual reaping.
"Ladies first!" the escort, whose name I've never paid attention to, chirps brightly. All escorts say this, I believe they're required to.
Anyone but Katy, please just anyone but Katy I begsome higher being that I don't believe in. I couldn't tolerate life without my best friend.
"Aurora Goldleaf!" Well, I suppose I did say anyone. Katy's eyes grow huge, and she opens her mouth to volunteer. I clamp my hand over it before she can.
"I have a better shot, of the two of us," I hiss before walking toward the restless peacekeepers. I turn around to see her nod, determined to be strong but still allowing tears to trickle down her flushed cheeks. I turn and look straight ahead, no emotion on my face whatsoever. The rest of the reaping is a blur; I'm already thinking strategy, of my strengths and weaknesses. I can just barely hear some kids in the crowd whisper: "Foxy, look it's Foxy. She stands a chance, maybe we'll have a victor for once." This gives me a new confidence. I square my shoulders and coolly look out at the crowd, allowing my eyes to have the calculated look that makes me look smart and almost dangerous. Let the Games begin.