CHAPTER 1: SAND GIRL
Today tension swims in the air, overpowering the regular calming aroma of the salty waves that crash on the border of District Four. As I sit on her creaky cot, I pull Arya's braid tighter and tighter. She tells me that it's what all the pretty girls in her class like to sport every now and then. Another strand in. Cross under. Pull tight.
"Ouch, Finnick, that hurts!"
"Sorry," I murmur, braiding tightly but making sure not to hurt my sister.
I use a ribbon that she gives me to tie up the braid; it's a bright pink one that Arya says was hidden in the sand while she was wandering along the shore. It's not that my mother didn't supply us with necessities and the occasional gifts, she taught us to be aware of our surroundings, as every once in a while you'll find valuables. She says that that's how our dad found her wedding ring, as they didn't have the funds for it at the time. Not many in District Four do; only victors, some fisherman, some townspeople, and Capitol Citizens that temporarily reside here can afford such expensive items. Arya says the ribbon is one of the most expensive ones you can buy. It seems that her friend, Marina, wouldn't stop complaining about how her mom wouldn't buy her one.
"Finnick, I'm afraid. What if they pull my name? I'll never make it out alive if they pull my name!" she cries, putting her head in her hands.
I suppress a laugh. This is the first year Arya is eligible to be reaped for the Hunger Games, the odds of her being chosen are slim to none.
"Then they pull your name, Arya. How many times is your name in that bowl? One, maybe two, if you did something bad without me knowing," I say, smirking at her. "You didn't sign up for tesserae and probably will never have to because our family lives pretty comfortably, and you're twelve. Think of how many slips are in that bowl. Hundreds! Even if you did get picked, you think they'd really let a little twelve-year-old girl represent District Four? We, luckily, have people that actually want to go into those games, Ar!" I laugh, pulling her into a hug.
She giggles and wriggles out of my embrace, saying that it'd mess up her braid. After a little while of talking about school and friends, two things that we almost never had time to talk about, she thanks me for braiding her hair then ushers me out of the room, saying she needs to get dressed. I leave the house, hoping to set out to the sea for a quick swim before I have to get ready. I walk through our crowded neighborhood, and am fairly surprised when I see that it's somewhat deserted. Kids usually run around here or swap seashell necklaces that they've made, but today it's eerily quiet, almost unsettlingly silent.
I walk through the market, my eyes sweeping over the arrays of different fish that are set out. I've found that I've just mostly gotten used to the smell, most who live in District Four do. When Capitol citizens come here, they constantly bleat about the odor, saying that it's unbearable and that no one in their right mind could ever live here.
As I venture past the market, the smell of brine subsides some hidden anxiety. The shore is almost empty right now, just a man swimming in the water, close to the coast, and a small girl sitting on the sand. I don't bother taking off my shirt or pants; I just wander into the water and float for a bit. It's nice, always a good way to relax. I step out of the water after a while; my clothes clinging to my body and dripping onto the sand. I've noticed that the girl sitting on the sand still remains, unlike the man, who already left a little bit ago. She's been eyeing me for the past few minutes, looking away like she doesn't even know I'm there when I sneak glimpses at her. I wander over to her, hoping to get clarification, because she doesn't seem to be another one of those googly-eyed, unintelligent girls that always seemed to stare off into the distance dreamily whenever I was around.
"Do you need something?" I ask, not intending for it to be rude, only for it to come off that way.
She rolls her eyes and looks away, possibly the slightest bit intimidated. I'm a lot bigger than her in size. Although I'm only 14, I've matured faster than all of the other boys in my grade. I'm taller, my voice is somewhat deeper, and I'm a lot bigger than most of them, which almost every girl I meet finds attractive.
"No, I'm good. Do you need something?" she asks eyeing me up in the down, not in a sexual manner, but almost as if she's sizing me up.
"Not really. Do you want to tell me why you kept staring at me? Not that I don't mind," I grin, "I'm just curious."
The girl rolls her eyes again; I can tell she's trying to stifle the smile that's trying to creep onto her face.
"Sorry."
"Don't apologize. What's your name?"
I look at the girl once more. She looks around my age, possibly younger. Her dark hair cascades down her willowy frame, it extends to about her elbows. She's not tall, quite short in fact. It doesn't like she's developed yet; she has no curves, kind of like a little boy, but maybe they'll make themselves known in time.
What really strike me are her eyes. Most District Four natives have varying shades of blue eyes or grey ones with the slightest green tint. Sometimes you'll come across an occasional chocolate or the rare jade, but nothing as to what I'm seeing before me. I've always been known for my eyes, the bright sea green being stereotyped as alluring as you don't always see it here, but her eyes are much brighter, have so much more dimension. There are so many different shades of the color, ranging from a mellow sea green to a dark emerald with even a small hint of cerulean.
"My mom tells me not to converse with strangers, why do you want to know my name?"
"I want to know your name because I'm trying to be friendly, and haven't you already broken that rule?" I point out, my grin getting wider and wider.
"Maybe my name will be called at the reaping today. You'll find it out then, Ocean Boy."
She smirks, standing up. Even though I currently tower over her, I feel like it's her that has the true gain. She already has a nickname for me and I don't even know her name. She starts to walk away from me as an indication that we were done with the banter.
"I'll see you at the Reaping, Sand Girl!" I call after her.
"Nice try, Ocean Boy!" She hollers as she vanishes into the marketplace frenzy, leaving me to dwell on our discussion.
By the time I get back home, my mom is out of the house; I suppose she ventured out to the market a bit ago, leaving my sister hone to get ready. Arya doesn't seem to have a big problem with it; she mostly just does her own thing. I find her in the main room of our abode sorting out her collection of seashells. I smile and walk to my room to get ready.
My room isn't all that big, but I don't mind. I used to share it with my older brother Maxwell when I was younger before he fled the house and never came back after a turbulent argument with my mother. My room surely isn't as cramped anymore but I occasionally feel the longing for someone to fill the absence in the house.
I put on my only clean, wrinkle-free shirt and an old pair of jeans that I have. I got up early and washed the shirt in the sea this morning so that hopefully it'd be dry before the reaping. It wasn't much, but I got the occasional compliment from someone about how it accented my eyes. I wonder now how the color would compliment Sand Girl's eyes.
I step into the bathroom and look at my reflection through a small shard of glass lying on the counter that we call our mirror and see my reflection. I look tired; my hair is tousled and messy and bags are starting to form under my eyes. My eyes are dull; not their normal sea green, but instead a boring olive that has lost its mischievous glint. I shoot myself an exhausted grin and head to the main room until it's time to leave for the reaping.
After waiting in a long line to get their fingers pricked, groups of peacekeepers herd up the children into their age group. I keep Arya at my side until someone pricks her; I don't want her wandering off as she could get in serious trouble. She is later rounded up by a peacekeeper and is sent to the twelve-year-old section for girls.
I duck my head and silently slip into the division for other boys my age. I try and spot Arya from where I'm standing, but it's not use. Either she's not where she's supposed to be or she's just incredibly short. I wonder what the consequences are for not being in the right section.
I haven't gotten a firm grasp of what really goes on in the Capitol, but based on Hyacinthe Flaceyl's outfits each year, I'm beyond terrified. Her skin has been stained a pastel pink this year, unlike last year's color, a midnight blue. Her once black hair has been colored teal with several silver strands running throughout it. It lies on top of her head, coiled into an intricate updo. Her makeup is fairly plain, save for the orange lips. She wears a skimpy orange and yellow dress that barely reaches her thighs. I swallow down the acidic bile rising in the in my throat.
The film informing everyone about why the Capitol is doing Panem a favor by creating the Hunger Games brings no meaning to District Four. Even some of the most lethal careers that have been training since birth will say that the games are sadistic form of torture that the Capitol inflicts on its own citizens. Some even call it inhumane and animalistic. I don't even bother watching the clip this year and instead try to spot familiar faces throughout the crowd, only to find none.
Hyacinthe prances up to the stage and taps the microphone, her smile just as fake as her skin color, as fake as the Capitol's sympathy for the deaths that they have caused each year.
"Ladies and gentleman, welcome to reaping of the 65th annual Hunger Games! The capitol has provided two lucky pupils here today the chance to experience what real luxury feels like! They will also get the chance to represent District Four, to make their district proud!" She claps her hands and shrieks with excitement. "Ladies first! The fortunate lady that gets to represent District Four this year is…"
She walks over to the glass bowl on the right, and swirls her cherry hand in the bowl, finding the perfect piece of paper. She plucks one out and clears her throat.
"Merise Conchia!" the she calls out, scanning the girls' section.
I hear a wail emerge from one of the younger segments, as a little girl around Laguna's age steps out into the isle, quivering, tears streaming down her face. I recognize this girl; she was one of Arya's friends as a child. They would constantly giggle as Max made them tuna sandwiches with some seaweed bread. They'd go outside and play for hours, until Arya declared she would never speak to her again because she didn't share her lunch with her. I thought that it would pass in a few hours, but she really didn't talk to her again.
"I volunteer!" yells a deep voice proudly, stomping up to the stage with a smirk and winking at some of the boys in my sector.
"What's your name, dear?" Hyacinthe asks, eyeing the girl a little warily.
"Cordelia Nautilan."
"Well then, why don't you come right over here," Hyacinthe leads Cordelia over to one side of the stage. "Cordelia Nautilan, the female tribute for District Four!"
We all clap politely as she makes her way over to the boy's bowl.
"The boy that shall represent District Four this year is…" She struggles to unfold the slip of paper with her long, fake, magenta nails. "Finnick Odair!"
My breathing hitches as those around me nudge me to move up. The males make no sound, but you can almost hear the sorrow that they hold in their eyes more than you can hear the upset wails of the girls. I put on the stone face that I had practiced years ago if this was ever to happen. I confidently walk up to the stage and shoot some of the girls crying a smirk as Hyacinthe leads me over to Cordelia.
"Finnick Odair, the male tribute for District Four! Lets give around of applause for these two!" she exclaims.
I wink at Cordelia we shake hands and the audience applauds politely, if to say we're already allies. The most popular tributes have always been the most charming ones, and I plan to put all of the charm I can muster up into right now. Her granite expression remains. As I look and smile at the crowd, my eyes scan over the twelve-year-old female section to find my sister's face, to tell her that it'll be okay, to tell her that I will come home, but she is nowhere to be found. All I see is Sand Girl standing in the sea of women, eyes wide and mouth agape.
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