2
"Be home before curfew, Haymitch!" Mom's voice calls from the open kitchen window. I wave to show I heard, but I can hear Vernie's voice raised in excitement, and I know Mom's already got her hands full.
I jog around the side of our house and into the Seam. The dusty streets in this part of the district are black with coal dust from thousands of miners' boots. The buildings are streaked with it. As for the people… Dad says it's easy to tell how many years a man's been in the mines. You just count the coal lines on his face.
Coal dust settles on everything in the Seam. It gets into every crack and crevice, floats on the water, coats your lungs. That's why my family lives on the very edge of the Seam, closest to town. My mother is a laundress, washing clothes for the rich people in our District. Since it's District 12, only about five people can afford to have someone else do their laundry, but those five people like their linens to come back without a speck of coal.
Of course, we can only afford to live so close to town because of Dad's job. When I was little, I was proud to be the son of a mine captain. Didn't take long for the other Seam kids to show me where to stick my pride.
The streets of the Seam are nearly deserted, even though the evening is warm and clear. Through glassless window frames, I see a few families clearing up from their meager dinners. In one house, a man is shouting. In another, a woman is singing. Other than that, the Seam is quiet. The mines closed early today so that everyone can prepare for tomorrow. For the reaping.
I try to ignore the sick shiver in my stomach whenever I think about tomorrow. Worrying about it won't do me any good. I'm 16 this year, so my name is in five times, just like Bluet guessed. I know he's not the only Seam kid facing worse odds. Maybe I'd feel bad for them if they didn't shove it down my throat every damned year.
The Seam might not be the smartest place for me to be the night before the reaping. Bluet's probably looking for revenge by now, and he's not the only one who wouldn't mind taking a few tesserae out on me. But I'm not going to let that keep me home. Tonight, I'm doing just what the rest of the kids in the Seam are doing: meeting my girl at Lover's Nook.
I reach the edge of the Seam, where the hard-packed streets turn rough and overgrown. A few more steps and I'm in the Meadow, which is actually just a big field between the Seam and the forest on the other side of the fence.
The fence wraps all the way around District 12. Sometimes it's electrified, but with all the power cuts in Twelve, keeping the fence switched on is just about the last of people's worries. It's supposed to keep wild dogs, bears and other predators out of our district. Some folks from the Seam know how to get through, and they sneak out to poach game and plants from the forest. It's dangerous, not to mention illegal, and only pretty desperate people do it. It might be even riskier than taking tesserae.
Lover's Nook is on the far side of the Meadow, where the grass slopes down to the fence, giving at least the illusion of privacy. Couples go there to court, and do other things. The night before the reaping, it's usually packed – or so I hear. This is the first year I've had a reason to go.
I can see another couple making their way along the fence to the other side of the Nook, but they're too far away for me to see their faces in the twilight. I know that Marlys will be on the side nearest the Seam, at our spot.
I slow down as I reach the top of the rise so she won't know I was hurrying. Marlys gets annoyed when I make her wait, and she's cute when she's annoyed. Sure enough –
"Haymitch Abernathy, if you had been one second later, I swear I would've left."
I grin. Marlys' mouth is twisted in a scowl, but her gray eyes are twinkling beneath her straight, black bangs. Her hair is piled on top of her head, and she's so beautiful she takes my breath away.
"I would've followed you," I tell her, putting my arms around her waist. She flings my hands away with a smirk.
"Then you would've found me kissing Dill Spargo."
I give a loud laugh and a few of the figures in the grass stop kissing to glare.
Dill is a 13-year-old worm from the Seam who will eat anything for a dare. Mud, slugs – even a goat turd once, I heard. Some people eat bugs and weeds because they're starving. Dill just does it for fun. The thought of kissing that mouth would turn anyone's stomach.
"I didn't know I was seeing a girl with such low standards," I tease.
Marlys raises her eyebrows, like her comeback is too obvious to say.
She's right, though – she definitely lowered her standards to go out with me. She's easily the most beautiful girl in the Seam – the most beautiful girl in District 12, if you don't go in for that blonde, wispy thing the merchant girls have going on – which, by the way, I don't. And I'm just… Haymitch Abernathy. The mine captain's smartass son.
I actually don't think Marlys even knew who I was before I started getting in fights with Heath and Etter, her older brothers. Both of them are bigger and smarter than Bluet, and I usually lost, but Marlys and her friends looked impressed whenever I won, so I didn't mind too much.
Then this one time, about nine months back, Etter was pounding me into the dirt behind the school building, and Marlys jumped in and socked him on the jaw. I think he was more surprised than anything – Marlys doesn't hit very hard – but it was enough to end the brawl.
No one had ever stood up for me before. I was so stunned I didn't even care that my defender was a ninety-pound girl. I'm pretty sure I fell in love with Marlys then and there.
Marlys pulls me down onto the grass, apparently tired of being mad at me for now. I lean in to kiss her, and she lets me. It still feels like a miracle every time. Her lips are soft and warm, and she tastes like mint leaves, and for the first time all week, my stomach stops squirming over the reaping, and starts squirming for a different reason.
Marlys leans back and I follow. After a while, I get brave and start playing with the top button of her dress, and she doesn't stop me. I wouldn't go any further out here, anyway. It might be enough for some people, but no girl of mine is getting bedded in the middle of a field, surrounded by the whole damn school, practically. Especially not when that girl is Marlys Seney.
I jerk back as a horrible thought comes to me.
"Your brothers aren't here, are they?"
Marlys' laugh puffs against my cheek, soft and warm as her lips.
"No," she murmurs, wrapping one of my curls around her finger. "They're in the forest, stocking up on game. In case." She doesn't need to say in case of what.
Heath and Etter are the kind of Seam kids that climb the fence and take tesserae. Both of them are built like oxen. If they were from anywhere else, they'd probably have the muscles to go with their massive frames, but as it is, they sort of look like starving bulls. Even though we haven't fought since I started seeing Marlys, I steer clear of them whenever I can.
Marlys' body is tense beneath mine, so I take my hand off her chest and start stroking her hair, smoothing her bangs back from her eyes. She looks at me, and I know I have to say something.
"It will be okay," I promise, but it sounds so stupid and hollow I don't bother saying anything else. Marlys and I haven't talked about the reaping at all. What's the point? Talking doesn't change anything, and we're not the kind of people to waste time worrying about things we can't control. But now I wonder how many times her name is in the reaping bowl.
"Four kids," she reminds me. "What if it's us?"
"It won't be," I say, but of course, it could be. It's the 50th Hunger Games this year, and in honor of the Quarter Quell, the Capitol is taking twice as many tributes. "As a reminder that two rebels died for each Capitol citizen" during the Dark Days. Well, that's not exactly a revelation – there were thirteen districts back then, and only one Capitol. Of course more rebels died.
"Look, it'll be less than an hour, and then it'll be over," I tell her, but she's already shaking her head.
"No. Then we spend the next two weeks watching four of our friends die."
I can't think of anything to say to that.
When I get home, my parents are sitting together by the fire. Mom's skin glows like bronze in the light, and the gold in Dad's hair stands out more than ever. He's lighter than the rest of us. Some of the Seam kids used to say that Dad's people were merchant cast-offs, until I got big enough to shut them up.
All three of us know there's nothing to say. Mom hugs me for a while and we all turn in early. My brother Vernie is already asleep in our room, curled up like a question mark in the middle of our bed. He's nine years old, and although he's worried about the reaping, I don't think he really gets that it could happen to us. That my name might be called. I can't imagine what it's like for my parents, knowing that once I turn 18, they'll just have to go through all this again with Vernie a year later. I don't want to think about what that will be like for me.
I slide my hands under his body and move him to the far side of the bed before climbing in myself. Vernie's like a coal oven when he sleeps, and I kick our blankets off my legs when I start to sweat. Then I get cold and have to pull them back on. I doubt my parents are sleeping, but I don't go in to them, in case they are. Anyway, I'm much too old to go to my parents because I can't sleep. And even if I wasn't, Dad stopped coddling me a long time ago.
The first time I came home from school crying, Dad told me to toughen up. That I was a man, not a baby, and I needed to act like it. He didn't even ask me what had happened. He already knew. I was six.
A few months later, I came home with a split lip and bloody knuckles, and he put me over his knee. When I tried to tell him I was just sticking up for him, he told me that I should be above idle gossip and name-calling. That I was a mine captain's son, and I should be in control of myself, always. That was when I learned to clean myself up before going home.
He has his way of dealing with being a captain, and I have mine. He buries his pride, and I wear mine like a black eye – often literally. Neither method has won us many friends.
The Games make it worse. Every year, we watch two more Seam kids get gobbled up by the Capitol. They step out of our district and onto our television screens, looking slower, skinnier and weaker than all the other tributes. Most of them don't make it through the first night. Every year, two more families close their doors and windows, shutting away their grief. And every year, Dad spends the next few weeks stomping around like he wishes it had been me.
He'd never say it, but I know what he's thinking. He's embarrassed by our privilege, ashamed to face his workers knowing that his kids are safer than theirs. Ashamed that I'm better fed and stronger, and still alive. He acts like my name could never be called. It probably won't be.
Still, I can't help the terrible thoughts that creep up on me in the dark.
What if this time, it's me? What if I'm the one on the screen, the annual lost cause from District 12, nothing but a footnote at the end of the Hunger Games recaps?
I know I feel like this every year before the reaping. I'm sure every kid does.
Just like every year, I lean my forehead against Vernie's warm back and let his steady breathing lull me to sleep.
Reaping day dawns humid and overcast, and I feel about a hundred times better than I did last night. My family is all kind of like that – we get sullen and quiet when we know something bad is coming, but once the bad thing has arrived, we tend to tackle it head-on with a wisecrack and a sarcastic smile.
Mom has starched my best shirt and pants within an inch of their lives and I moan about it while I get dressed.
"I bet I could stay home and my clothes could walk to the reaping by themselves."
"Oh, hush," Mom says, swatting me with one of the mayor's linen napkins.
"He's right, Kinner," Dad says with a smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "You must really want our boy to be famous – the Capitol cameras won't be able to miss him in the whitest shirt in District 12."
"You have to rub him down with Dad's uniform, or the cameras won't know what district they're in!" Vernie pipes up, and we all laugh.
Dad's been getting more sullen all week. The other night, Mom's hands shook so bad she stuck herself with her own needle and got blood on Dr. Akenson's shirt collar. Since school let out, I've spent more time out of the house than in it. But we hide all that from Vernie. He's the baby of the family, and we all want to protect him. We spend the morning channeling our nerves into jokes and sarcasm, so that Vernie doesn't see how scared we all are.
One o' clock looms larger and larger, until finally, it's time to go. We leave the house and join the stream of people walking toward the Justice Building. The only sound is the low thunder of hundreds of feet pounding the dusty road. I try to find Marlys in the crowd, but I can't see her anywhere. I think if I could see her, I'd feel better.
A lot of people don't get me and Marlys. Everyone at school reckons she's just trying to marry into a better life with a mine captain. One girl actually said it to her face, and Marlys gave her a bloody nose. Finally, I just came out and asked her.
She thought about it for a while. Then she said, "When I'm with you, I feel like maybe this is just what our lives are supposed to be."
I'm not sure I really get what she meant by that, but it sounds nice, and it's good enough for me.
I say goodbye to my family at the edge of the square. Vernie hugs my waist and Mom tells him not to wrinkle my shirt before hugging me herself. Dad squeezes my shoulder so hard it hurts. I tell them that I'll see them in an hour, and try to ignore the way my stomach is twisting into knots.
High above our heads, camera crews skitter over the rooftops like giant beetles. The gray storefronts have been covered with bright festival banners that do nothing to break the tension in the air.
I sign in and go to stand with my age group. Everyone's ignoring each other, which is fine by me. I don't like these people, and I don't see the point of pretending otherwise just because four of us are being sent to die.
On the stage, Mayor Undersee is sitting next to Venetia Binks, District 12's moronic Capitol escort, and Larvina Candlewood, District 12's one and only victor.
Larvina won the 6th Hunger Games when she was 18 years old, and she looks every one of her 62 years. She lost both legs in the Games, and even though the Capitol gave her fake ones, she never leaves her wheelchair. Mom says she thinks that's dignified. Dad says it's idiotic.
Larvina looks like a lump of wrinkled flesh that someone dropped on wheels. Her dark hair is thin and graying, and her eyes and mouth are sunken in shadow where she sits onstage next to Venetia Binks. The two of them are working hard to ignore each other, and it almost makes me smile.
Venetia is the opposite of Larvina in pretty much every way. She's tall and Capitol-thin; you can tell her figure comes from surgery and pills, not hunger. This year, her skin is dyed dark pink. Gold tattoos outline her eyes, nose and mouth. Her hair is pale pink and sits on her head like a dollop of cream.
Of the two of them, I'd take Larvina any day.
The crowd has filled in and I'm starting to feel a little claustrophobic crammed together with the rest of my class. People who usually avoid me at school can't help bumping shoulders with me now. A few kids give me cool nods, and I force myself to nod back.
At two o'clock, the mayor goes to the podium to begin his yearly history lecture. How the world fell into chaos following deadly pandemics and natural disasters, leaving the survivors to scrap over the few resources that were left. How Panem rose out of the ashes – a civilized paradise made up of the Capitol and thirteen districts. How the districts betrayed the Capitol and brought about the Dark Days.
It's nothing any of us haven't heard before. We're not here for a history lesson, I want to say. We're here to find out which of us is going to die. Get on with it.
I twist around and manage to spot Marlys among the other fifteens. I can tell she's been watching the back of my head, and she gives me a tiny smile. I send her one back, along with a wink. Her smile gets a little wider.
I try to tune out the mayor, the crowd, and the big screen showing close-ups of our miserable faces. Instead, I think about the day I met Marlys, when she punched Etter for me. She helped me up and told me I could walk her home. I think I stared at her the whole way. When we got to her house, she told me when to pick her up the next morning.
After that, I walked her to and from school every day. I'm not sure how long we would have gone on like that if Marlys hadn't finally told me that I'd better kiss her or stop wasting her time. I chose the first one.
Before I can spend too long daydreaming about that kiss, Venetia Binks teeters up to the podium in her spindly shoes, hitching a grin onto her face. Her teeth are a shocking white against her lurid skin.
"Happy Hunger Games!" she bleats in her ridiculous accent. "In honor of the Quarter Quell, four of you lucky youngsters will have the privilege of representing District 12 in the 50th annual Hunger Games."
She pauses like we're supposed to clap, but no one moves. After five years of escorting our tributes to their deaths, Venetia doesn't seem all that surprised.
"Ladies first!" she chirps to the cameras. She plunges her hand into the huge glass bowl filled with girls' names.
Not Marlys, not Marlys, not Marlys, I chant in my head.
"Twylah Gopelrud!" Venetia calls, stumbling a little over the name.
A tremor passes over the crowd as people sigh in despair or relief. For me, it's pure relief.
Some of the older kids in front of me crane around to see District 12's first tribute, but I don't turn. The big screen onstage shows movement among the thirteens, but it's not until one of the cameras catches her face and blows it up onscreen that I recognize Twylah as the gangly, freckled girl I've seen around the schoolyard.
The square is silent as Twylah trudges to the stage. She's a real giant, but you can tell she's done all that growing without much food – her body is flat and narrow as a fencepost. Her pale arms and legs dangle well past the seams of a rough dress that looks like it's been let out as far as it will go. Her gray eyes are huge in her thin, speckled face.
It's hard to imagine anything more pathetic. Venetia barely tries to hide her contempt as she asks for volunteers. There are none.
Venetia is back at the girls' bowl, and I hardly have time to think not Marlys before it's "Maysilee Donner." One of the sweetshop twins emerges from the fifteens and goes to stand next to Twylah.
A murmur runs through the crowd – merchant reapings are rare. The blond townspeople are just a small part of District 12, and none of them have to take tesserae.
I let the whispers wash over me as my shoulders relax. It's not Marlys. And now we're halfway through.
"Now for the boys," Venetia says, but her enthusiasm is starting to flag. There aren't many likely candidates in the crowd.
Her hand goes into the boys' bowl, and the knot in my gut tightens.
Not me, not me, not me, not me…
"Bowen Cluff!"
Bowen is a dumb, pig-faced Seam boy from my year at school. He's one of the idiots that orbits around Cove Bluet's gang. I don't pretend I'm sorry to see him go.
Not me, not me, not me… I chant the words in my head as Bowen scowls his way to the stage. Not me, not me, not me.
Venetia's pink claw is back in the bowl, and I'm willing her so hard not to say "Haymitch Abernathy," that at first, I think I've just imagined her calling my name.
Someone gives me a little shove from behind and then my legs are taking me to the stage, even though I can't feel them, and I'm pretty sure my brain's not telling them to move.
My vision goes black around the edges and I force myself to breathe. Air fills my lungs, but it feels like lead.
I barely register Venetia calling for volunteers. Next thing I know, Bowen is grabbing at my arm. For a crazy second I think that he's going to start a fight right here on stage, in front of all of Panem, but then I realize that Venetia has told us to shake hands. My legs carry me forward another step and I shake hands with Maysilee and Twylah. Then we're inside the Justice Building, being taken into separate rooms.
This is the part where the tributes say goodbye to their families, I remember through a haze. This is the part where I say goodbye to my family. And it finally hits me.
I am a tribute in the Hunger Games.
