Every tribute has a story. Even the girl that means nothing, that no one knows.
I hear my younger sisters calling after me, pleading for me to stay as I scurry out the door. Not looking back, I take off down the gravel road, kicking up rocks behind me. I don't stop until I've reached the town.
People hurry in and out of stores, clutching plastic bags filled with clothes or food, some holding their child's hand and desperately trying to keep their grip on the squirming toddler. Children dressed in rags – or some in silk dresses or jeans – laugh and play by the fountain in the center of the market. Outside some stores, teenage girls squeal as a lady prances around with her dog.
Knowing I won't be noticed in such a crowd, I dart towards a random store. Slipping my leather jacket over my arms, I silently push open the door and find myself behind an old woman. While the cashier is busy arguing with a stubborn teen that insists the price on the shirt she wants to buy should be lower, I hustle to the back of the store and grab several shiny, bright red apples. Stuffing them in my jacket pocket, I snatch several packets of crackers.
A couple yards away, a clerk is guiding a wailing child to her mother. Now's my chance. I slink behind a rack and lumber down the aisle. Finally, I reach the check-out counter and simply walk out the door. I'm safe because most stores don't have security systems.
Once I reach my house, my sisters and brother are waiting right by the door. They stumble inside behind me and I dump the contents of my jacket onto the dining room floor.
My youngest sister, Calanthe, gapes at the fancy leopard-print shirt I stole for her. After slipping it on, she claps and beams at me, clasping her hands together. "Oh, Fox! Thank you!" she squeals, wrapping her tiny arms around my legs.
I smile half-heartedly at her. Though she doesn't know that what I do is wrong, I'm fully aware. "Of course, Calanthe. Anything for you." My voice cracks.
"Thank you, Froxen," my other two sisters chortle. Ivy, only seven, jumps into my arms and knocks me down. We laugh together for a few moments until I become solemn again.
"Remember, no one else will know of this, okay? It's our little secret," I say as my siblings quiet down. "If anyone finds out, there will be no more food, no more presents."
All four children nod soberly, even little Calanthe. "I promise I won't tell anyone," says eight-year-old Willow with her childish voice.
Although they promise, it is all just a game to them. Nothing but a fox's game.
As I lie on the rough-carpeted floor of my rickety old house, I contemplate my past and future. Five years ago, when I was nine, my parents disappeared. That's when I became the head of the family. My entire life I have been clever; I can easily outwit anyone. So every day I sneak through the market and grab whatever I can before returning home. Usually, I go alone. But sometimes I take my eleven-year-old brother, Roman.
Even at the age of nine, I was never caught. Slipping silently through the stores and alleys is my talent. No one knows who I am; I remain a mystery. Only my siblings know my name, who I am, who I have always been.
I am Froxen Rykett, and this is my story.