1.
I wake to the swift jingling of the bell on the bakery door downstairs. Still feeling drowsy, I rub my eyes with balled fists. My intention is to go help my father downstairs, but instead I find myself staring at the ceiling, thinking about the day to come. It takes a minute for me to remember what day it is. The Reaping. With a pang of anxiety, my mind flies through a collection of memories I share with friends and family. The people I know. The people I love. The people who I might lose today. I close my eyes and let the images fill my head. Baking a cake with my father and laughing as we toss handfuls of flour at each other. Holding a bag of icing as I'm teaching my friend Delly how to frost a cake. Having my oldest brother put his arm around me in support before lining up for my first reaping. Feeling the sting of my mother's hand on my face as I toss two loaves of bread at the tree across the yard...at her. I jerk open my eyes, and shake my head. I can't let myself think like that. For her to die is something unbearable to even consider.
I roll out of bed before I have a chance to worry again. I dress quickly, and head down the stairs, each one creaking as I descend. As I stride into the bakery, I see the customer whose arrival woke me, and my stomach sinks. The sound of my footsteps has made him look up, and I can feel the grimace on my face as his pale gray eyes focus on my blue ones for a moment, then wander back to the counter where my father is.
Gale Hawthorne. The eighteen year old heartthrob from the poorer part of District 12; we call it the Seam. I hear the girls from my grade whisper about him all the time, but that's not what makes the jealousy rage inside me every time his name is mentioned. I've only ever cared for one girl in my life, and she's only close with one person. Gale. I see them together nearly every time I pass the Seam on the way into the town square, and I can't help but wonder if there's something between them other than friendship. Of all the girls that stare and giggle stupidly as he passes by, he only seems interested in her. So when my father hands him a whole loaf of fresh bread in turn for a scrawny squirrel, I don't bother to hide my disapproval.
"Ahem," I grunt, leaning against the doorway and crossing my arms. Gale looks up, and a crease forms between his eyebrows as he meets my scowl. He thanks my father and leaves, the bell rattling noisily as he shuts the door behind him. My father turns and gives me a questioning look.
"A whole loaf for that bony thing? Aren't we feeling a little generous today," I mumble sarcastically in explanation.
"Son, you know what day it is," he says. "He's from the Seam, you've seen how many siblings he's got. He probably has a good chance of being drawn today and he's still out there hunting for his family. I think he deserves a loaf of bread for that, don't you?"
I smirk, unwilling to accept the idea that Gale might actually be a good person. "I'm sure there are plenty of others just like him today. Why should he be the only one with a loaf of bread to himself?"
"Well I thought he'd be out there with his girlfriend this morning, she's probably in the same position as him." I feel my body stiffen, my hands ball into fists once more, and I clench my jaw tightly. When I don't respond, he adds, "I think her little sister turned twelve last month, maybe she'll give some to her."
Pain is the first feeling that hits me before the rest of the emotions mix in with it. So it's not just me that sees it between them then. I force myself to swallow and breath out quickly through my nose. "Yeah." I smile unconvincingly, then turn and enter the kitchen.
As I'm removing a loaf of sourdough and replacing it with a loaf of pumpernickel, I remind myself that my father's right. I already had my suspicions about her and Gale, and I already feel better knowing that she'll get a share of the bread. Of course she will; even if she wasn't his girlfriend, Gale obviously cared for her as a friend, and he would no doubt be with her now. Despite my jealousy, I'm thankful that she has someone to look out for her.
I feel the heat of the flames on my face as I lean down to check the cookies on the bottom oven rack, and quickly remove the tray when I see they're burning. The heat and the smell remind me again of that day, only a few years ago, when I was the one giving her bread...
The rest of my morning is spent in the kitchen, kneading dough alongside my father and my oldest brother, Wren. Wren is nineteen, so he won't have his name in the reaping balls. My other brother, Nicholas, isn't as lucky. He'll be eighteen in a few days, but he still counts as seventeen, which means next year he will still be in the drawing. It's because of this, I think, that my father lets him sleep in instead of waking him to work with us.
After a while I move to the other counter and start frosting all the cakes. Reaping day is one of the bakery's busiest. After families return from the Justice Building, they usually come to buy cakes or cookies in celebration of their children's spared lives. All households who can afford it do, save the two belonging to the children who weren't so lucky. It's an unofficial tradition of mine to take over the bakery after the Reaping, and give my father some rest. Mostly I do it so that all those people who come in can see a beautiful cake and a smiling face, which, from my experience, is somewhat comforting on the most stressful day of the year. It has also recently occurred to me that my family makes most of its profit on this day: in other words, I benefit from the Reaping. It makes me sick to look at it that way, so when I remind myself of this concept, I set down my icing bag, excuse myself, and go upstairs.
Within minutes of locking myself in the bathroom, I hear a pounding at the door. "Peeta! Breakfast!" is all my mother says, and after her footsteps fade, I open the creaking door, and follow down the narrow hall to the dining room.
On the cracked wooden table are our usual chipped plates upon stained placemats. Our family's usual breakfast consists of stale or burnt sourdough with a glass of goat's milk, but because of today each of our plates is adorned with three pancakes, topped with yogurt. I give my father a grateful grin as I pull out my chair to sit; he must have woken earlier than usual to buy the expensive yogurt from the Goat Man. We sit in silence, my father at one end of the table, my mother at the other, Wren and Nick at the side across from myself. I don't bother to use my table manners as I pick up a pancake with my hands and take the biggest bite I can manage. My mother clears her throat at me and the table shakes and creaks gently when her fist comes down on it.
"Let it go, Pepper," my father says calmly, and when she hesitates, I set the pancake back on my plate, wiping my hands on the placemat. The fire in her eyes retreats, and my mother returns to her own plate. I look down, slightly ashamed. I know better than to provoke my mother; her temper was a bomb with barely any fuse. Especially after the short outburst, no one dares to speak for the rest of breakfast.
Having already dressed and eaten, I spend my extra time before the Reaping Ceremony locked in the bathroom, staring into the grimy mirror. I grip the sink with both hands, and look over myself once more. I've combed my hair into place with the best of my ability, but there are still a few strands curling into their usual spots. With the weather getting warmer every day, my skin has darkened, and my blue eyes are bloodshot and tired-looking for some reason. Stress, probably. I remind myself that of all the hundreds of thousands of slips in the reaping balls, only five bear the name Peeta Mellark, but this is no comfort; I'm not worried about myself being drawn, it's Nick, or Delly, or... I shake my head. No, not that again.
I try to distract myself by thinking about what things would be like if my name was actually drawn. Would I know my partner? Would we become allies? Would I be willing to kill her? What would the train ride to the Capitol be like? The Capitol itself? The Training Center? Would I like my stylist? What would she dress me like? What would I say during my interview? What would I show the gamemakers during my private session? What score would I get after training? What kind of arena would they put us all in? How many days could I actually make it?
I'm grateful that Nick is knocking on the door now; It isn't healthy to consider any of the questions I was asking myself. The only reason I can bear to think about those things was because I am almost absolutely sure that my name will not be drawn today. Five slips in a bowl of ten thousand, maybe more. Our ridiculous Capitol sponsor Effie Trinket, who draws the names, would no doubt say at least once today, 'May the odds be ever in your favor.' As far as I'm concerned for myself, the odds are quite in my favor today.
Unlike most other District Twelve citizens, I don't have to walk far to find my place. Stepping out onto the steps of the bakery, I can see banners bearing the Capitol seal hanging above all the doors on the shops, and a large projection screen is in place against the front wall of the Justice building, beneath it three chairs. Two of the chairs are occupied by Mayor Undersee and Effie Trinket, while the third remains empty. I assume it's meant for Haymitch Abernathy, District Twelve's only living victor of The Hunger Games.
He's a surly and grimy-looking man, and in all my life I doubt I've ever seen him sober. Probably off getting drunk right now, I think, trying to keep a dry smile from forming on my face. After seeing year after year of the annual Hunger Games played out, it's not hard to guess the nightmares a victor would suffer through afterward.
On the porch, I turn to hug Wren and my father goodbye, and return my mother's swift nod. Side by side with Nick, we make our way to the crowd awaiting the ceremony, and separate into our age groups.
I exchange a few dull smiles with friends, and wish them luck. There's nothing more to say; luck can only do so much for someone about to look certain death in the face. I suck in a deep breath, and blow it out through my mouth, nervously wringing my hands together.
Across the aisle, my eyes search for faces I recognize, and find Delly, who's staring right back at me. Her big blue eyes look fearful, for what I have no idea. Her name is only in four times, being younger than the rest of our grade. But still I give her an encouraging grin, and as I begin to look away, I see who I was really looking for.
She's not looking back, though. She seems to be mouthing words to someone a few yards in front of me. My eyes follow hers and my heart sinks as it did this morning. She's talking to Gale, of course. I force my eyes to retreat to my feet, and I try to sum up how many slips he has in the reaping ball today. At least seven, but with three siblings and his mother, multiple years of tesserae, I decide on forty-two. This brings some comfort to me; if I had a friend with forty-two slips in the reaping balls, I'd be worried too. This leads me down a worse train of thought: how many slips does she have entered?
Before I have time to add it up, The town clock begins chiming, signaling two o'clock. The mayor acts as if this is his queue, and he makes his way to the podium to read the history of Panem: of the struggles North America faced, how our Capitol rebuilt it from the ashes, how the reckless and ungrateful districts rebelled during The Dark Days, the destruction of Thirteen, the Treaty of Treason, and the Districts' punishment: The Hunger Games.
While Mayor Undersee is reciting this, as he does every year, I stare at my feet and resume adding up the slips she would have in the reaping balls. One slip every year, plus tesserae for three... twenty. Twenty slips. I feel like I'm going to be sick, so I straighten up and pay very close attention to the history I've heard a thousand times.
"It is both a time for repentance and a time for thanks," Mayor Undersee says, and then lists the two victors of District Twelve. As he recites Haymitch's name into the microphone, the victor himself stumbles his way on stage, drunk out of his mind. I try to stifle my laughter as he nearly suffocates Effie in a bear hug, tilting her wig to the side. The mayor gives Haymitch a shameful look, and rubs his temples. The Reapings in all Districts are televised everywhere, and no doubt District Twelve is being laughed at around the country right now. In a moment of desperation, he quickly summons Effie to the podium.
Effie nearly skips to the podium, eager to get the camera away from Haymitch, I assume. "Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be ever in your favor!" She continues with a speech about what an honor it is to represent our district, which every person in the crowd knows to be a lie. Effie would much rather represent a district that has a chance of winning, but until she gets a pair of tributes that put on a decent show, she'll be stuck with Twelve every year. I try to drown out her shrill voice, and finally allow the waves of panic wash over me.
"Ladies first!" Effie exclaims, and I'm surprised she doesn't sing the words, with the excitement nearly bubbling out from behind her white-powdered face. I shut my eyes tight, and even though she's all the way up on stage I swear I can hear the rustling slips of paper as Effie's hand fishes for the name of the next victim of The Capitol. I make a mental list of names I don't want to hear. Fern Wicker. Jane Arton. Delly Cartwright.
"Primrose Everdeen," Effie exclaims, stupidly swaying her hips as she reads.
I open my eyes, momentarily relieved. It takes a moment to register the name. I'm not particularly familiar with Primrose, but as my mind repeats Everdeen several times over, the truth hits me in the face, harder than my mother's fist. I close my eyes tight once more with dread, because I can easily predict what comes next, and it's not something I want to see. It happens so fast that I don't even have time to remember to cover my ears as well, and only a moment of hushed murmuring passes before I hear the bloodcurdling scream of the girl I love, calling the name of her little sister.
"Prim!" the word leaves her lips sounding half-strangled, and my eyes automatically find her, forgetting that this is a scene that I hoped to see nowhere but in nightmares. The girls in her section part for her to pass. "Prim!" She's racing to the stage, and the only sound in the square is her breathing and the crackling of dry gravel beneath her bounding feet. Then she's there, right in front of the stage, pushing Primrose behind her and wailing between gasps, "I volunteer! I volunteer as tribute!"