I can't concentrate the day of the reaping.

"Hold still," says my mother as she combs my hair back. I wasn't moving before, but now I am as still as a statue. She slathers the gel on my head, making sure every last hair is perfectly in place. "Presentable," she decides. I jump out of the chair and hurry out the front door as fast as I can make it before my mother decides that she needs to fix something else about me.

The day of the reaping always brings an intense atmosphere, and this one is no different. As I walk down the path to the square, my eyes scan the crowd for familiar faces. Kids I know from school pass by, faces pale and worried. Those from down in the Seam are particularly quiet and panic-stricken this day. It's sort of hard not to be at least a little afraid, even if your name is in only once.

My name is in five times this year.

But it's not really me I think about every year on reaping day. My name may be in five times, but some I know are in ten, fifteen, even twenty times. Or more.

I see her just as I'm being herded into the boys' roped off section. She's dressed in blue and her hair's been put up and she looks even more stunning than I remember, even with a sullen look on her face. Then, as if she can hear what I'm thinking, she looks over at the boys' section and I turn away. But she's not looking at me. I turn my head just a little bit and find the real reason she looked over here. There's a smugness about Gale Hawthorne that I really don't like. Or that could just be the jealousy talking.

And so the reaping begins. First the mayor speaks, reminding us all that The Hunger Games are the price of rebellion. I pay little attention. I've heard it all before. Haymitch Abernathy, the only living Hunger Games victor from District 12, interrupts by drunkenly wanders onto the stage and hollering about. The mayor looks distressed, but Effie Trinket soon hurries up to take over the microphone, looking ridiculous as ever.

"Ladies first!" I shift uncomfortably. My hands have started sweating. I just want this all to be over, but Effie takes her time picking a name out of the reaping ball. "Primrose Everdeen," she announces to the crowd.

I know before the little blonde girl gets to the stage what's going to happen. Out of the corner of my eyes I can see her sister move, making strangled calls for Primrose Everdeen. And I feel my whole body go numb even before the words "I volunteer as tribute!" leave Katniss Everdeen's mouth. And I stare at her on that stage, watch as the realization starts to flood her, and I'm feeling that same realization with her.

I almost miss the part where Effie draws the boy name from the reaping ball.

And it's me.

I'm the second tribute for District 12.

I have one brother still eligible for the Games, but I don't have to look at him to know he's not going to volunteer. No, I am going to die. And I know I'm going to die, because there is no way I will let Katniss die.

I'm sure the look on my face registers as simple shock, no different from any of those that have gone before me. That's the only solace I can have here, that no one in this crowd can read my mind. No one knows that I have had a crush on Katniss Everdeen ever since we were five years old. Maybe that is something that will die with me.

My head is racing as the mayor gives his last speech. When the time comes for me to shake Katniss's hand, I've regained some feeling in my previously numb body, and I've dried my palms, but I still can barely control myself as I look her in the eye. I'm surprised to see recognition in her eyes. We've never directly spoken.

Not with words, at least.

I give her hand a squeeze, my one effort to reassure her in some way. Once upon a time we'd had an unspoken communication. Once. If I'm lucky, she'll understand. But I'm not very lucky. The reaping is proof enough of that.