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When I wake up, my sister is already gone. I curl up closer to my mother, whose breath is still steady with sleep, recalling vaguely that I slept with her instead of Katniss last night. Sometimes, when I'm afraid, I need to know that my mother is still there; that when I reach out with my fingers, I'll feel her warmth beside me. With Katniss, there is no question. My mother is not quite so reliable.
I yawn and sit up, rubbing my eyes. The safe cocoon of sleep is slipping away from me already, leaving a hollow foreboding that I know isn't going to go away until after the reaping. I swing my feet over the side of the bed, standing as quietly as I can. If can I keep myself busy until Katniss returns, maybe I'll forget. Maybe the milking and the cleaning will be enough to distract me from the terror that has dogged me ever since my twelfth birthday.
From the fact that I might be sent to my death today.
I shiver and reach for the shawl that hangs on a hook between the beds. It's mine; it's my mother's. Katniss said that after father died I would sit on the floor with it wrapped around my shoulders, breathing in my mother's smell for hours. I have no memory of it.
I move around our little house carefully, doing my best not to wake our mother. She's lucky; the longer she sleeps, the shorter this day will be for her. I don't envy Katniss, who's probably been awake for hours already. If this were any other morning, I would have woken as Katniss climbed from the bed that we share. Most mornings, when she wakes me, I open my eyes just a crack and watch her as she gets ready to go out and hunt the food that has become our salvation. It's only in the silence of the sleeping house, when she thinks no one's watching, that I see my sister's guard fall just a little. Some mornings, she stares at our father's photo for a long time before she leaves. Other mornings, she drags her feet like she really doesn't want to go. It's then that I'll remember that she's just sixteen, just a child, not that much older than me. But when she returns home in the evening, she returns as our sole provider, carrying the food that we count on to keep us alive. There's nothing childlike about that.
Mother wakes while I'm milking Lady. I hear her get out of bed and put a kettle on the stove for tea. She never starts her day without a mug of it in her hand. My father used to drink it with her, I think. I hope that she's continued the tradition because she enjoys it, not because she's trying to honour him somehow. I asked her once, but she seemed confused by the question.
I return inside with a pail of goat's milk. Mother smiles at me.
"Morning," I return the smile, pouring a tiny bit of the milk into her mug like I do every morning. She thanks me as I set the pail down on the table, a knot forming in my stomach. I was hoping that maintaining a routine would keep the fear at bay and help this feel like any other day. In fact, the little routines like the milk feel almost laughable. This is not a normal day. Treating it like it is doesn't change a thing.
If my mother notices the change in my mood, she doesn't remark upon it. We're close, she and I, much closer than she and Katniss. But there's still this unspoken promise between us that keeps us from being fully honest with each other. We can play games and cook and laugh together, but there are some things that we don't talk about. Some things that are better to just leave alone.
I pull out a brush and begin to work through my hair as my mother sips her tea. After a while, she comes over and takes the brush from me. It feels so good to let her brush my hair, like I'm a little girl again. I shut my eyes, wishing my hair was thicker, or curlier, or more tangled, just so that this could go on for a while longer, but I have my mother's hair. It's blonde and stick-straight and doesn't really need much brushing in the first place
After my hair is brushed and plaited into two braids, mother walks over to our closet and pulls out my outfit. It's a skirt and blouse that I remember Katniss wearing when she was younger. A memory surfaces, one of the few that I have from the terrible year after my father was killed in the mine: Katniss, wearing the outfit and standing at the back of a crowd of teens, eyes dark and determined. She wasn't afraid at her first reaping. She wasn't afraid, even though she had two entries when most other kids her age only had one. I wish I could be more like that. Instead, I begin to tremble as soon as my mother sets the clothes out in front of me.
"Go ahead. Put them on," my mother urges gently. I stare at them, feeling frozen. I can't put them on. These clothes are for reaping day. They're for when I'm eligible. That can't be now, can it? Can it?
Without saying a word, my mother comes over and begins to pull my nightgown over my head. I raise my arms robotically. My mother picks up the blouse and turns to me. Goosebumps raise on my arms. I'm cold, standing in just my underwear and a thin bra that I don't really need yet. My mother's eyes flit over me, darkening. I can read her look easily. I know she's thinking that I'm just a child, that this is not the body of a girl who's ready to get thrown into an arena to fight to the death. She's right, but I can't bear to see it on her face a second longer. I grab the blouse, pulling it on, and reach for the skirt a moment later.
I read in a book at school that the reason humans have survived so long is because they can get used to anything if they have to. I don't know how that can be true. Have mothers really gotten used to sending their children away to die? Have scores of people gotten used watching on screens as children are ripped from their families and trained to kill each other? A part of me hopes not. The thought of people evolving to be that cruel disgusts me.
The blouse is too big for me. Even a starving twelve-year-old Katniss had more weight on her than I do. A small part of me is grim enough to be grateful. On the off-chance that you do get picked, you will probably die very early on, before the fun starts. Mostly, the thought just serves to terrify me. My teeth chatter as my mother circles me, pinning the blouse in place.
Soon, my sister gets home. I stand by as she bathes and then help her into her reaping clothes: a pretty blue dress that must be my mother's, though I've never seen her wear it. Katniss looks very different with the dress on. I've never wondered if my sister was beautiful before; it's never been relevant to me or to her. But as I watch my mother braid her hair and pin it to the top of her head, I realize that she is. She's beautiful in that rare, fantastic way that makes people have to look at you. For the first time, I find myself terrified for her instead of for myself. What if it's her name that gets called? What if the Games take my sister from me? What then?
"You look beautiful," I whisper, looking at the Katniss in the mirror. I can't lose her. I can't.
"And nothing like myself." Katniss says, and hugs me. I breathe her in, desperate for some of her courage. I feel pale and insubstantial, like I might float away if she lets go. I don't know how to be brave like her. I wish I did.
"Tuck your tail in, little duck." Katniss presses at my back, smoothing my blouse into the skirt. I quack at her.
"Quack yourself." she laughs, and I pray, I pray, I pray that we're both going to come back home tonight.
…
The square is busy and loud. Usually I like it here. This is where the bakery is. This is where the kids play. The reaping transforms it into something dark and ominous. You see the worst of people at the reaping. Everyone's tense. No one smiles.
For the first time, I'm separated from my mother and corralled into a different area with the other twelve to eighteen-year-olds. Katniss squeezes my hand once.
"I'll see you after," she says, and I can't hear her over the noise, only read her lips. I nod. She lets go of my hand, following a few other kids her age to the front of the group. I stand at the back, hugging myself and staring up at the stage. In just a little while, this will all be over. I'll be at home, eating supper with my family.
Maybe if I think it enough, I can will it to be true.
I'm not listening through most of the ceremony. My mind drifts until I see a slim woman with huge pink hair start towards one of the two glass balls. It's time for the drawing. My heart starts to pound.
"Ladies first!" the woman chirps. I stop breathing as I watch her stick her hand into the ball. It's full of paper. There must be hundreds. Maybe thousands. It's not going to be me.
I'm a thousand years old once the woman fishes out a paper and unfolds it. I'm a million years old by the time she's finished clearing her throat. Finally, finally, she reads out a name. And it isn't me.
It's Katniss Everdeen.
Katniss Everdeen. My sister's name echoes through my head. I can't think. I can't breathe. Katniss Everdeen. There must be some mistake. Katniss Everdeen. No. No, you can't take her. Anyone but her. Please.
I crane my neck, suddenly desperate to see her. No one has to clear the way because she's already right at the front. I can't see her face, but I have a perfect view of her back. I watch her square her shoulders. I watch her start to walk.
I am not brave. I never have been. But I don't even hesitate before the words leave my mouth.
"I volunteer." My voice is small. Only the people close by hear me. I shove through the crowd, ducking under elbows, pushing through the mass that makes up my entire district.
I refuse to get used to this.
Finally, I reach the front. By now, I have people's attention. There, in front of the cameras, in front of the district, in front of my sister, I try again. My voice comes out loud and clear.
"I volunteer as tribute."