It was just another day like any other...
Nothing was going on as I sat in my history class with a couple friends. We laughed and joked around, making fun of the substitute teacher who was currently at the front desk asleep. Mrs. Cathaway's face was hidden by her long, curly red hair, but her not-so-soft snoring was hard to miss as she laid on her bare, pale arms.
After my friend, Darren, made a spectacular joke about her flying off of her chair, I gave a glance over at her. I had just perfect timing, too, because as I did, I saw a squirrel scurrying across a tree branch in the window behind her. The squirrel stopped, brought it's hands up to its' face to do something with a nut, and it continued on its way.
I smiled, the warm, sunny spring rays shining brightly through the window. The rays seemed to warm the whole class, but not even if I stayed in that room could it have kept me warm through the news I'd learn of later that day...
Darren, Amy, Christie and Sapphire jolted my attention back to the table when they started bouncing erasers off of the desk and laughed at where they landed. One got the most laughs when it soared across the room and bounced off of Mrs. Cathaway's head. At first, I was struck froze, thinking she would wake up and start yelling at the class, but instead she stayed asleep, although I didn't know how.
"Give me a pencil," I whispered. A pencil was thrust into my hand by my blonde friend, Amy, and as I took it, I turned my seat a little bit so I was facing the door. "How much you wanna bet I can make it land in Mr. Passer's room?"
"Not a chance!" Darren's blue eyes, that held a tint of red, held a look of amusement as I brought my hand back, destined to prove him wrong. I bit my lip a little as I moved my seat again, hoping to make this shot.
"Give me five bucks if I make it?" I ask.
He looked back and forth between where I sat and Mr. Passer's room. "Ten," he declared.
My face was filled by a smile, and as my hand slammed down on the desk, the pencil released from my grip, it bounced forward, past Sapphire and- without further adieu, it bounced several times off of the floor and into Mr. Passer's room. I, myself, wasn't one hundred percent sure it would go all the way through the hallway, but it did!
I stifled a laugh, "That's ten bucks, buddy!"
Darren shook his head slowly, although he was smiling, too, as he leaned forward off of his seat and pulled out a crisp, clean-cut ten-dollar bill and placed it in my hand. His ashen-colored skin slightly glistened in the sunlight and a fang poked out from under his lip.
"I'll win it back in another bet," he says.
I doubted it, highly, but I let him have his hopes anyways.
"You can get it back just as soon as you let your mom shave your head again."
Sapphire, Amy and Christie all erupt into fits of laughter as Darren's eyes turned cold. "That's not cool!" he says.
"She was drunk!"
"She was hilarious!" I retort and join my friends in their laughter.
About a year ago, the five of us were at Darren's house. It was a weekend and we were all going to stay over late because his mom wasn't home and we were having fun playing video games. Well, when midnight strolled around, since usually his mother didn't get home until about two, she actually stumbled through the door and into the living room. The stench of liquor was very strong and she was extremely unstable.
Earlier in the day, before his mother left, we were all joking about him getting his brown hair cut. It was really long, past his shoulders, and he really got ticked when we joked about it.
So, now that his mother was home, stumbling into the living room of their house, she held a pair of scissors in her hands and started yelling gibberish. Whenever she was drunk, she was highly difficult to understand. However, she looked angry at the four of us girls sitting in her living room with her son so late at night, so she started pointing the scissors at us, and we took that as our cue to leave.
The next day, Darren Hallander came in to school with a third of his hair shaved, a third of his hair still long, and a third of his hair sticking up in spots
Everybody laughed at it, and although we knew it was mean, we couldn't help it! We really couldn't. Everybody who saw it laughed, and I could have sworn I saw him laugh once when we saw his reflection in the window of a door.
Amy and Christie started to laugh harder when Darren's face turned red. The two twins were absolutely on the brink of losing it. Both of them were leaned forward, their arms holding their stomachs as their long, blond hair fell in front of their faces. It took a while before any of us could regain our breath, but every time we looked at Darren's scowling face, the laughter was brought on again and again. Eventually we just stopped looking at him. Finally we could breathe again, but my sides hurt and I could bet theirs did, too. Amy and Christie Steatzel focused on me like I focused on them, all of us trying to avoid laughing again. The only real way you could tell the two skinny, pale girls apart was by their eyes. Amy had soft green eyes that were the color of faded peas, and Christie had hazel-brown eyes.
I had hazel eyes, too, but mine were more a mix of gray and green.
Sapphire was the only one who actually laughed quietly, but her face was just as red as the rest of ours. Her thick black hair complimented her light tan skin and chocolate brown eyes. We were all in the habit of calling her Reese sometimes, after the Reese's candy.
I pulled my act together better when an announcement crossed the school.
"Rosalyn Blythe to the office, please. Rosalyn Blythe to the office!"
"Great," I muttered sarcastically as I pushed my chair back and stood up. I stepped behind it, grabbed my bag, slung it over my shoulder and kicked in my chair with my foot. "Wonder what I did now."
We share a smile as I walk towards the door of the classroom. The others students, and my friends, watch as I leave, all of us obviously wondering why I'm getting called, even though it's mostly none of their business.
As I walk down the hallway, I keep trying to think of reasons I'm getting called to the office. I mean, I haven't really done anything wrong lately, so, I keep coming up blank. Now, I'm not saying that I always do something wrong. I'm a good kid, all-and-all, but I do have my ups-and-downs with teachers more and more often nowadays. By the time I reach the door of the office, all I can conjure up is that I let a bad word slip out of my mouth and a teacher turned me in for it. That would only result in two days of detention.
As I twisted the doorknob and opened the office door, a blast of cool air hit me in the face. I walked in to the dimly lit room and took a seat in one of the lounge chairs pushed back against the wall off to the side of the large mahogany desk.
It takes a while, but eventually the front door opens and a thick, pale woman waddles in, smelling like hand soap. She's the receptionist, Ms. Whaler. Ironic name, right?
She doesn't see me until after she sits down at the desk. She doesn't even have to ask for my name; we've had more than enough encounters for her to know who I am. Usually upon seeing me, her face would scrunch into a glare or a scowl, and I don't blame her. I always give her cocky attitudes when she talks to me because the way she looks at me makes me feel like everything I get called to the office for means I should be put in jail, but I've never done anything that bad . . . that any adult has witnessed, anyways.
It struck me as odd, though, the look I saw her giving me. She wasn't scowling, mad or even disappointed at me. In fact, her eyes held some form of sympathy, which, she never held . . . for anybody.
"Go right back to Mr. Denzel's room, Rosalyn."
I don't reply, but I stand up and take my bag with me back as I make my way through the next door, down a long hallway. I passed about twelve offices or so before I come to the final room. I knock on the door, grab the handle and push the door open, but I'm shocked when I see that Mr. Denzel isn't alone.
No- he's not even in the room.
At all.
In fact, I only see two gigantic dudes, both dressed completely in white. One man had dark skin while the other was pale, with only a slightly tan hint. Although I never see men like them in the school building, it takes me less than three seconds to decipher who they are.
Peacekeepers?, I ask myself. Why are they here? Although I ponder, I can't decide.
"Who are you?" the pale guy asks. Both men have short hair but their eyes are covered with dark glasses.
"Take a seat, Rosalyn," a familiar voice says behind me.
I turn and see Mr. Denzel, and instantly find myself wondering, What the heck did I do to make the Peacekeepers come here?
I take a seat in the only empty seat in front of Mr. Denzel's desk. I want to ask if I'm in trouble, but if I'm not it would seem suspicious so I stay quiet. I lean back in the seat and cross my left leg over the right, trying to look as though I don't know what's going on. Truthfully, I don't.
Mr. Denzel takes a seat behind his desk, and I notice he doesn't make eye contact with me like he normally would when I come to his office. Actually, he would be looking at my eyes as soon as I enter, to see if I looked guilty of committing a crime in school. I started to feel a cold sensation in my gut as he looked at the dark-skinned Peacekeeper. Mr. Denzel held his hand out, and part of me thought he was going to end up with a gun in his hand.
No, actually. The Peacekeeper handed him an envelope and I felt my nerves easing a little until . . .
"Take this home," Mr. Denzel said. He pushed the envelope in front of his desk and held it out to me. Finally as I reached forward to take it, his eyes met mine and they looked sad and almost distant.
"Can I read it?" I asked.
"No," said the dark Peacekeeper. "Not here, anyways. Take it home and give it to your parents." His voice was really deep.
I feel a bad sensation in my stomach again. I ignore it, though, and stand up to leave the room. Mr. Denzel stops me though.
"Wait," he said. I turned to look at him and he sighed. "Rosalyn, I just want you to know that you've always been a good kid, okay? And . . . good luck."
Good luck? I question silently. I don't know what he means, and I know it shows in my eyes, but I nod slowly and go to turn back around. Not before one of the Peacekeepers, this time the pale guy, talks to me after grabbing my wrist. I never said he was gentle, though.
"Put that letter in your bag and let nobody see it or know about it."
"If somebody asks," Mr. Denzel started, "you tell them you got in trouble for cussing."
I nod and leave the room.
I wait until I'm out of the office's view.
Then I run to the bathroom.
The first thing I do in the empty bathroom is run into a stall, throw my bag on the floor and rip the envelope out. I look at the front of it very closely, looking for an address, a zip code or something of the sorts to give me an idea of where it's from.
All it says, though, is 'From the Capitol to Rosalyn Blythe'.
The Capitol? What could be so big that the Capitol sent me a letter?
My mind starts racing as I think of everything it could possibly be. They definitely aren't congratulating me on my grades, inviting me to a party outside of District 12 or anything like that. Maybe they know about the fights I've gotten into or the rare nights I spend among the gamblers in the Hardo? It's not like I gamble or anything, but people give me a few coins if I wander by, looking like a lost, innocent girl.
None of these thoughts extremely worry me, until I think . . . the last thought that crosses my mind makes me tear the envelope open.
Please let me be wrong, please let me be wrong, please let me be wrong, please! My mind is screaming on the inside, my heart pounding, my palms and underarms starting to sweat. I can feel the heat from my forehead, too. The collar of my shirt started to feel like it was restricting my throat, keeping me from getting fresh air into my lungs.
As I ripped the final piece of the envelope away that was keeping it inside, I tear the note out and quickly unfold it. It takes me but two seconds to read the first line, and in that first line, my hopes are ripped away. Tears line the brinks of my eyes, my body suddenly going cold.
It reads, "To the District Twelve female tribute of the 81st Hunger Games:" and then I feel it. I feel all the contents of my stomach, from breakfast and the lunch I had before History, spilling out of my stomach and in to the toilet behind me as I crumpled the paper in my hands.