Chapter 1 : The Reaping
I'm scared. Of course, probably all of us are since today is the reaping for the seventy-first annual Hunger Games. I crawl out of bed in my chilly, drafty house in the Seam. Coal dust prints on the floor confirm my worst fears. My father is home. Another black eye today. I check my bruises from last night, get dressed in a peach-colored skirt and white blouse, put up my hair in a ponytail with two small braids hanging in my face.
Luckily, he's still asleep. I wake my little sister, Claire, and get her dressed as well. She's too young for the reaping, though, but she still has to go. I think about waking my father, but that might result in a bloody nose. So I just go outside for a bit, until time for the reaping. My father walks with us, and I sign in. Me being fourteen, my name is in there only fifteen times, but still, I could get picked. The eligible girls and boys are in separate roped-off areas, while the parents and young siblings and ones that are too old for the reaping stand outside of it. I take a deep breath, and hope that my name is not picked.
A woman with a long, blue wig welcomes us and the mayor reads the history of Panem and how the Games began. I tune him out, because I've heard it enough times to know it by heart. Once he's finished, he introduces the woman, whose name is Opal Young.
"Ladies first!" she says, and reaches into the ball and pulls out the first slip she touches. My heart stops as she reads it. Ember Festa. Me. I'm escorted up to the stage by Peacekeepers, and since this is live, I show no emotion as I step up to the stage. I stand there, looking straight ahead, ignoring my little sister's cries, because if I look at her, I'm sure to cry.
Opal fiddles around in the boy's ball for a while, and finally grabs one and reads it. "Gavin Redfield."
A tall, dark-haired and hazel eyed boy steps up, older than me but by two or three years. We turn to the Justice Building, tears threating to spill from our eyes, and are escorted inside.
I sit in a padded chair in the room where I am to say my goodbyes. No one comes for about twenty minutes, but finally the door opens and Claire, tears in her one eye that is not black, runs into my arms.
"Don't go, Ember." She cries, and I hold her in my lap.
"I have to, Claire. But I'll try to win, okay? So I can come home again." I say, trying to reassure her. She wipes her eyes, and when they come to take her away, she says, "Come home, Ember." Now tears are starting to spill, but I quickly dry them and stand, pacing around the room, until they escort me to the train that will take us to the Capitol. I've never been on a train before, and when I see the inside of it, I smile. At least I get to spend my last few days in luxury.
I go to my compartment to change, and as I take off the skirt, I find a wooden ring in a pocket, that fits me just perfect. I take a shower, figuring out the buttons, and dress in a black shirt embellished with silver sequins around the collar, and gray pants, which I have to use a belt with. I put my light brown hair up in the ponytail and braids that my mother taught me how to do before she died. I have her bluish-gray eyes and thick eyelashes.
I want her with me now, but I can't, so I just get over it and take a nap until Opal comes and gets me for dinner.
When I see the feast before me, I think, How in the world are we going to eat all this? I sit across from Gavin and Haymitch Abernathy, District twelve's only living victor, who is, of course, our mentor. And a drunkard.
I only eat a bit, because I know the consequences of eating too much, which might be a surprise, but still, I don't want to be sick. And I'm right. Gavin eats too much and he throws up for about ten minutes.
I, on the other hand, feel fuller than I have in months, maybe even years. After dinner, we watch the recaps of the reapings. The District 1 tributes, who win pretty often, look strong and well-fed. Scary, if you think about it. District by district, we watch the tributes walk up, some smiling and bowing, most just stunned and even crying.
The next day, we pull up to the Capitol, where colorful-looking people are lined up at the station, ready to watch us die. What if these were your sons and daughters, or even you, getting ready to be slaughtered in an arena filled with twenty-three other tributes? I think, angry with them for enjoying this. I don't go to the window, although Gavin does, but just to watch. He doesn't smile or wave, just watches, and turns around sometimes and wrinkles his nose at me then smiles so the people won't see what he thinks of them. I hold back a smile. I know exactly how it feels.
I've been in the Remake Center for nearly a day, getting ready for my stylist to examine me. My prep team has stripped me of all the hair on my body, except for a bit of my eyebrows. I hate it. It feels horrible, burning and vulnerable. I stand there, naked, waiting for my stylist. My prep team goes out, and my stylist, a young but flamboyant man, enters. He looks somewhat normal, although he could do without the purple eye shadow. His hair is an almost normal shade of misty gray.
"Hello. I'm Lake, your stylist." He has that Capitol accent, but it's not as strong.
"Hello." I say, looking him over. He takes in my entire body, not touching, just looking at it. He doesn't circle me, just stands where he is and looks. He tells me to put on my robe and have a talk.
"You're new?" I ask.
"No, actually, I've been here a while." he answers. I nod. We spend about an hour talking and he's not so bad.
"About your costumes," he begins, "We have something special. Something that you'll have to wait and see for yourself." He says, which takes me by surprise.
"Okay. I can't wait to see it." I say.
