District 9 Reaping:
Sequoia:
Over break I always want to sleep until noon. But on Reaping Day, I have to get up early. I get into the shower before Sierra and hear her pounding on the door, but I ignore her. I let the hot water run over me and run my hands over my face. I didn't fall asleep until early this morning and I wish I'd thought to go to bed sooner.
Mom comes to my door. "Sequoia. Hurry up. Your sister needs to shower, too."
I roll my eyes and rinse my hair before stepping out and wrapping myself in a towel. I look in the mirror at myself. When I was little, I used to try to rub my freckles off because I hate them. I still hate them, but unfortunately I know now that trying to rub them off is impossible and stupid. But, still. I wish I could.
I open the door and push past Sierra who sticks her tongue out at me. I am too tired to respond and instead head to my room. On my bed, Mom had laid out my yellow dress. I hate yellow, but if she chose it, she'll be upset if I don't wear it. After slipping it over my head, I pull my hair into a ponytail and make my way down to the kitchen.
I'm not very hungry, but I have to eat something, otherwise I'll be famished by the time the Reaping is over. I sit down at the table and start picking at some sweet bread. On TV, Mom has the other Reapings playing. It's District 4 right now. I turn my head away not wanting to see it. I don't know why Mom always seems so fascinated with the Games. It's as if she's from The Capitol. Most of us can't bear to watch, but it's as if she can't turn away.
"Morning, sweetie," she says as she floats in the kitchen. Her hair is loose and she's wearing a long skirt and flimsy shirt. Everything about her says free spirit. "Are you excited for later?" Her eyes sparkle and I physically force myself not to roll mine in response.
"Oh, you know. Best day of the year." I take a bite of my sweet bread to avoid any more questions.
Dad walks in and smiles at me before kissing my mom on the cheek. Donovan Parker is a very dainty man, but you'd never know it. Dad laughs with a big booming guffaw and always has a cheesy joke to share with anyone who will listen. Sometimes, I wish I didn't have to. The polar opposite of my mom, which, I guess, is why they're married.
"How you feeling, sweet pea?" he asks as he walks over and sits down beside me. "Nervous?"
I shrug. "I don't know. Not really. I mean, it's such weird odds, you know?"
"May the odds be ever in your favor!" Mom spouts as she hears us.
Dad and I both laugh. "Yeah, that, too," I say with a smile.
But, I have seven tickets in this year, now that I'm 18. Sierra has four. What are the odds that this year Mom and Dad will lose one of their babies to The Capitol? I've never lost a friend to the Reaping, but it's always someone I've known in passing. That girl who sat next to me in English last year that I never talked to. Not once. Or, when I was twelve the cute guy I would stare at across the schoolyard. I always wished I'd had more time to "make a move" as the case may be, but I never did. But what if it was my sister? Or my best friend?
Sierra walks in, looking like a doll, her make-up done, hair curled, and dress pressed just-so. For all the effort she put into her appearance, I bet she could be a great scientist or mathematician if she would put that effort into something more important. She sits down in the empty seat at the table.
"So, Mom," she asks, taking one of the other sweet rolls. "Anything exciting yet?"
Mom's eyes light up as she turns 'round and dries her hands on a dish towel. "Well, there was a volunteer in Two and he and the person who got Reaped got into a fight that last year's victor had to break up."
Sierra's eyes widen. "Oh, I hope they show it tonight in the recap! I bet it was super fun to watch."
I look down at my hands. I've never understood why violence is so attractive to some people.
The timer on the stove dings and all of a sudden we all become more subdued. That means it's time to head to the square and get ready. Sierra and I stand and go to put our shoes on while Mom and Dad start turning off lights and the TV.
Harper:
I wake up to my mother shaking me. I open my eyes slowly and the morning light floods in. I bury my face under the soft blanket, but my mom takes the blanket from my grasp, and forces me to get up. I make a noise that sounds like a mix of a cow, and a dying pig.
"Harper! Reaping today! You can't sleep in-it's already 10:30," Mom gripes. She is standing over my bed. I groan again. Mom is always on my back. It's annoying, but at least it has a way in me: it annoys me, and i do as she says when she annoys me.
I sigh, roll out of bed, and pet Soot, my German shepherd. Soot was a stray, and when harvesting grain on my day job I found him, brought him home, and took care of him. Mom still doesn't entirely want me to keep him, but I love him, and she can't argue with something I love.
I stand up, and head to my so-called bathroom. I turn on the shower and get in. The water feels good on me. I let it roll down my face and hum the song Dad and I sing when he weaves grain stock with me.
"Far, far, away, there's a meadow,
that's far, far, away, you and i could sit, day to day,-
far far away, we will be free, evil,...
far far away, you and i, we sit i a meadow-"
"Harper! Hurry up! Do you want to eat, or not?!" hollers Mom. My mom is too serious with the Reaping. It seems that I can't have any fun anymore, particularly on reaping day, but I don't blame her for that.
"Mom! I'm almost done! Lay off, okay?" I holler back. Mom huffs, obviously mad. She drives me up the wall, sometimes. You wouldn't be able to tell that she was in her late 30s, because of her older appearance. Swan Anderson. My mother. Her greying hair, blue eyes, and tessere of wrinkles.
I roll my eyes and step out of the shower. Mom rushes me to my room to get dressed for the Reaping. I put on my white farming shirt, a pair of overalls, and a suit jacket. The jacket is a muddy brown one that Mom found at a market, and bought for a price, i personally wouldn't: fifty cents.
Mom is cooking breakfast on a our small wood stove when I burst into the kitchen. She carefully takes the small slices of bacon and slides them one by one onto a frying pan, along with eggs. My mom looks at me silently, a sharp contrast how loud she was when she woke me up.
"Hey, Mom. What time's the Reaping?" I ask. She looks up. I expect her to yell at me, but surprisingly, she answeres calmly.
"At noon-thirty, but don't get your mind wrapped around it. Oh, yes! The Reaping is on the television!" she exclaims, and turns on the TV. That's when Dad rips into the kitchen.
My dad has scruffy strawberry hair like mine, but a bit more, uh… scruffy? Anyway, Mom and Dad are like totally different. Mom has her grey, er, bit older-looking hair, but Dad is still older than her, and has red blond hair. He hugs Mom.
"How are you, Swan, baby?" Dad remarks. Mom smiles at Dad. Somehow, they have been married for ten years, and are still together. They have got into some really tough fights though.
"Ah! The Reaping!" he exclaims, and turns to the tv, and sits down at the table. Dad can be absent-minded sometimes.
"Harps, do you want crispy bacon, or really meaty beacon?" Mom asks. My mom is always asking strange questions, as she is a perfectionist.
"Um… I don't really care, Mom. Are there eggs too?" I ask. Mom nods, with a smile on her face. I reach my hand over to the warmed up loaf of bread. I take a piece, and dip it in honey, and take a bite of this special treat Mom makes on Reaping Day.
"Breakfast is served!" Mom says, and brings a plate of unnaturally thin slices of bacon, and some eggs that she got this early morning from our chickens. The "feast' might not have been a Capitolist's image of a feast, but this is the most food, I've had all year. I mean, really, Mom? If some children are pulled off to the arena, and, well...die, we have a nice feast to celebrate it? Wow, Mom. Slick. Even so, it smells so delicious I don't stay upset for very long.
"So, Harper, you nervous?" asks Dad. I force a grimace onto my face. My dad has finally torn his face from the dang TV, which is on a commercial break from doing the District Four Reaping. As i recall, the tributes were Evan Hollander and Pearl Celest.
"I hope the odds are in my favour," I joke, half meaning it. My parents laugh. One thing I have never said about my father, Ashton Anderson, was his brother volunteered for him. He was reaped for the hunger games when he was a kid and his brother had no choice but to volunteer.
"Eat up, Harper. The odds can't be in your favor if you miss the Reaping," Dad jokes. Mom doesn't seem to like the idea, and hustles over to us and takes our plates. The TV was now doing the District 5 reaping, and Dad seemed to disappear again, back into the broadcast.
"Go get your moccasins on, Harper. I'll deal with your father," Mom remarks, in a slightly annoyed tone. I run to the door of our small house, slip on my shoes, and stare out the small window by the door. The waves of grain that my parents farm wave slightly in the morning breeze. Soot licks my hand that is hanging by my side.
"Soot, eww," I squeal, and shake out my hand. Soot licks it again. I open the door, and Soot runs out, and wees. I plug my nose. "Seriously, dog," I groan as he plods back into the house.
Mom and Dad come out of the kitchen and get on their shoes and grab their coats. "Come on, bud," Dad says, wrapping an arm 'round my shoulders. "We wanna get a good spot."
The sun is warm in the town square. Unlike some of Panem's other districts, District 9's square is surrounded by buildings on only 3 sides. The final side is a wheat field that stretches as far as the eye can see where most of the families work all day every day. Peacekeepers line this square as the population makes its way into the square. Those who are late will have to extend into the wheat field, making sure not to step on any of the new-growing wheat plants.
Families stream in from the residential portion of 9, some with only one child, others with up to twelve. On the big farms, there always seems to be a need of more hands. In other districts, this seems almost crazy. Why risk losing your children that much more?
Harper and his family who live closer to town arrive in the square just before noon. The rows are already starting to fill and Harper looks to see if any of his friends are in the roped-off area for 13-year-old boys. He swallows, wondering vaguely if any of his friends will get chosen this year. His eyes wander to the stage where he sees the severe-looking mayor of 9, a Hammond Abir. His sharp features fit nicely with his sharply tailored suit and hawk-eyes. Harper feels a shiver run down his spine as the hawk eyes scan the crowd.
Next to the mayor sits Frostine Rivernell. Ever since Harper can remember she's been the head of Hunger Games proceedings in 9. She looks kind of funny to his eyes in her deep blue pant suit with her white hair and pinkish skin. All those Capitol people look funny to his eyes. Why mutilate your body like that?
There's an empty third chair beside Frostine and Harper wonders where Ash Harte is. He was the most recent victor of the Games from 9. He was Reaped at 18 about six years ago. Harper doesn't remember much about the Games, but he remembers when Ash came home there was a big party and he ate so much junk food his stomach hurt for a week afterwards. There hasn't been a victor since Ash and there hadn't been one for about twenty years before him.
Harper's parents leave him at the registration table. He winces as they prick his finger to sign him in, but then walks solidly to his roped-off area. He sees the familiar face of his friend Wotcher and goes to stand by him and wait for the proceedings to begin.
Sequoia and Sierra are the last children in the registration line. Just as Sequoia looks up at the stage, Ash Harte, heartthrob of the Capitol and her own personal fantasies, makes his way on stage and flashes his award-winning smile at first the camera then Frostine who squees and jumps up to hug him. Sequoia smiles and turns back to the line.
Sierra chuckles. "You really still think he's cute?" she teases.
"Oh, hush, you," Sequoia reprimands, but in her head she says, 'yes.'
She and Sierra part ways after they are registered and plan to meet up by the far end of the square after the Reaping is over to wait for Mom and Dad. Sequoia makes her way towards the group of 18-year-olds. Her best friend Alarma is already waiting. "Is it just me or has Ash gotten hotter since last year?"
Sequoia laughs. "Oh, no, I totally agree."
A hush falls over the crowd as Frostine steps up to the mic. "Well, District 9, good afternoon!" There are a few murmured, "good afternoon, Frostine"s from the crowd, but for the most part it remains quiet. "Happy Hunger Games and may the odds be ever in your favour! This games promises to be the best yet, if you ask me. And I have a good feeling about this year's tributes. So, why don't we find out who they are, eh?"
There are a few excited shouts as she walks to the boy's side of the stage and reaches into the big glass ball. Frostine always prefers to choose the men first. Most of the other districts do "ladies first", but she's all about being different.
She makes her way back to the mic and pops open the small paper. "Harper Andersen."
Harper's eyes widen. "Wha…?" Wotcher looks at him. "Dude, that's you. Go!"
Numbly, he makes his way out of the roped off area and down the walkway to the stage. He's surprised his legs are working enough to get him there as his brain is still trying to wrap itself around the fact that he has been chosen. As he gets on stage, Ash beams and offers him a handshake. Frostine smiles at him with her pearlescent teeth. He hears a wail and turns.
There, out in the crowd, being restrained by two Peacekeepers and his father is Mom. She's sobbing, crying out about how dare they take her baby, that they have no right. He feels tears prick his eyes and he turns away, trying to pretend to be strong. As the Peacekeepers drag her away, Frostine adjusts her hair and turns back to the mic. "Now for the ladies, then!"
Sequoia is still reeling from how small the male tribute looks. He can't be much older than twelve. She almost misses her name being called. "Sequoia Fielding."
"Oh, my God," she breathes. There's another moment of awkward silence before she disengages herself from the throng of people and makes her way on stage. Her mother doesn't wail for her and have to get dragged away. Maybe she isn't even crying. She probably thinks it's some kind of honor that her daughter has been chosen. Sequoia softly shakes hands with Ash and Frostine before walking up and shaking hands with Harper. He's so young, she thinks.
"Happy Hunger Games," Frostine says again. "And may the odds be ever in your favour! Between you and me, I think this could be 9's year!" There's a subdued cheer from the crowd and then it's over. Harper and Sequoia both are shepherded from the stage by Peacekeepers. Sequoia sees the boy start to cry, tears running down his cheeks and resolves herself that if either of them are going to win, Harper's mom is going to see him come home.