Author's Note—Thank you so much for the response to Chapter 1! I'm thrilled so many people are excited by the prospect of this story.I'm excited to share it with you. I'm having a lot of fun writing it.
For those of you who are wary of Gale's involvement, yeah, he's here…but I am not following the triangle from The Selection. His affections are one-sided. This is Everlark all the way.
Thank you to iLoVeRynMar for plotting and pre-reading and reassuring and motivating me. ILY. All mistakes are mine.
This chapter is dedicated to Pookieh. Congratulations on the new arrival, my dear. :) LY.
~*~Chapter 2-The Application~*~
My mother harasses me incessantly over the next three days about the application. Every chance she gets she pesters me as to whether or not I've completed the damn thing. Each time I give her my sweetest smile and lie that I'm working on it, but I know I'm not fooling her. I've never been a proficient liar, and conversely, my mother has always had an uncanny knack for seeing right through me to the truth.
On the fourth morning after the envelope arrived, she bursts into Prim's and my bedroom, throwing back our threadbare curtains with a flourish. A weak shaft of sunlight slants directly across my face. I turn and bury my face in the pillow with a muffled groan of protest.
"There are three days until your Reaping application needs to be submitted to the Justice Building," she barks. "Have you even started it?"
My silence only exacerbates her patience with me—or rather, the lack thereof.
"I don't know why you're not taking this more seriously," she huffs, tugging back my sheet. I curl up like a sow bug and scowl. "Whatever you've done with that application, Katniss Everdeen, you will complete it. Today!" She gives me a look to say she means business and spins on her heel. Stopping to linger in the doorway, her cloying smile imitates the one I've been flashing at her. "And you're not leaving this room until you do. Get up, get dressed, and get going."
Her footsteps retreat. I sigh and roll onto my back, flailing my arms out to either side of me. I start when I see Prim standing over me, a devious smile on her usually angelic face.
"I could do your application for you," she suggests.
I think she's kidding. But she might not be kidding. Her clear blue eyes, so like my mother's, dance with mischief. I regard her carefully and weigh her offer. It is incredibly tempting to let Prim take that burden off my hands. It probably wouldn't even take her that long! She's always finished with her studies before I am.
But then I think about my sister sitting there, her meticulous handwriting filling the lines with answers I could never dream up. They'd probably be the exact kind of responses that the prince would be looking for. What then?
"Where is the application, Kat?" Prim's voice rouses me from my reverie.
"Oh, um, it's in there." I motion to my dresser. Prim arches a pale brow at me. She crosses the room and yanks open my underwear drawer. I hear her rifling through my bras and panties, until she pulls out the sheet and displays it to me.
"Primrose!" We both turn at the sound of my mother's voice. "Leave your sister alone! She has work to do."
Prim gives me a rueful smile and hands me the application. "Good luck." She grabs a slim paperback book from her nightstand and skips out of the room.
As if to add insult to injury, my stomach growls loudly. I'm missing breakfast. I hope Prim will take pity on me and sneak me up some of whatever my father has prepared. I know Lady was milked yesterday and there's probably fresh goat cheese. Dammit. Now I'm craving cheese buns.
I set the application down on the small desk Prim and I share, and after I dress, I sit down on the end of my bed. Tucking my knees to my chest, I gaze out the window. The day is overcast. The thin disk of sun struggles to sporadically peek through the clotted clouds. The air smells of honeysuckle and impending rain. I'm debating sneaking out to the woods again when a movement below catches my eye. I see Gale Hawthorne making his way up to our front, his toolbox in his left hand.
Nearly all the girls at school find Gale attractive. And I suppose he is, although I've never given much thought to him in that way. He's tall and muscular, with dark, wavy hair that always looks like he just rolled out of bed. His eyes are nearly the same shade of grey as mine, as is his olive skin. We look like we could be related, and at times it feels like we are related. Maybe that's why I'm not falling at his feet, like the other girls. It's also probably why so many of those other girls glare at me and whisper behind my back. Gossip flies faster than mockingjays in the halls at school. I know there are rumors about him and me. I just don't care enough to dismiss them. Let them talk.
Gale's a good guy though. He works hard to support his family, helping his mother by earning what he can when he's not toiling away in the mines—the same mines where his father and my father used to work together, right up until the cave-in that killed Mr. Hawthorne and left my father maimed but alive. Both of our families received small settlements. They paid for Mr. Hawthorne's funeral and my father's prosthetic legs. My father can no longer work or do many of the rigorous activities that he used to enjoy, but at least we have him. The Hawthornes are not so fortunate.
The accident is what brought our families even closer together. While my father recovered, my mother spent most of her time tending to him. There was only so much that I could do, being in school half the day. Prim was far too young to really be of much help, though Prim being Prim, she tried valiantly to play nursemaid to my father. So my parents hired Gale's mother to do much of the cooking and cleaning around our house until things could settle into our new normal. We were lucky to be able to afford that, thanks to the modest payments my mother got from the district for her services as a midwife. (The chatter about 12 getting a formal birthing center has never come to fruition. As far as I know, outside the Capitol, only 1 and 2 have them.)
Recently my parents have also started paying Gale a small fee for odd jobs around our house: fixing leaky pipes, cleaning gutters, shoveling snow—things that my father would have done with ease before the accident. Over time, he's learned how to do some of these tasks with his new legs, but there are just some things that require a younger, more able body.
I can hear my mother's melodic voice as she welcomes Gale and a moment later I hear the front door close. His presence here makes my decision for me—the woods can wait for later and I'll extend an invitation to him to join me. When he can get the time, Gale enjoys the forest as much as I do, and if I bag something good, like a doe or a small buck, he can help me lug it to the Hob to be sold.
My lips lift reflexively at the thought. I leap off my bed, duck under the disheveled comforter, and grope my hand around until it finds purchase with the subtle bevel in the wood floor. I pry the board up and start groping again. There's always a danger that I'll find something furry, like a mouse (alive or dead), but it's only happened a handful of times.
Today there's nothing but cool metal. I ease the box out of its hiding spot and set it in my lap. The hinge is starting to rust and the lid doesn't completely close at the top right corner, but the box fits inside the niche perfectly, so it has to suffice.
I open the box and smile at the contents. The bounties of my many trades with the patrons of the Hob lie inside. My parents wouldn't approve of my black market dealings, chiefly because what I do is illegal and I could face severe punishment if caught. But the risk will be worth the reward, once I have enough squirreled away. It's just going to take awhile.
A noise outside startles me. Hastily, I shove the box back into its place, fit the loose board back, nearly trapping my hand in the process, and then I rush to slide into the desk chair. I glare at the application for a full minute before I begin. I lean my cheek in my hand and start to read through the directions.
There's a long introduction about being honest and "letting your answers come from your heart," which is followed by a warning that all of those answers come from "the applicant and only the applicant." In fact, there's an oath to sign that will affirm I was the one to complete the application in its entirety. So much for Prim's offer. Failure to comply with these guidelines, the fine print says, will result in nullification of the application and/or risk of removal from any subsequent stage of the Reaping competition.
Finally I reach the start of the application itself. Name and date of birth are easy enough. I pen Katniss Everdeen in my neatest handwriting and glare at the numbers of my birthdate as I fill in the three blank spaces.
The third question asks my district of residence. Another easy one. I jot down '12' and place the pen between my teeth as I skim Question #4: "What do you like best about living in your home district?"
Chewing on the end of the pen, I have to think about that one. A myriad of things that I don't like about 12 flit through my brain: the mines, the pervasive stench of the mills, the curfews (though all the Districts have those), the frequent hunger when the weather is bad enough to prevent deliveries…the list keeps unfurling in my head. There is very little to actually like about living in 12. But it's still home. I guess that's my answer. I remove the pen from my mouth and begin to press it to the paper.
A knock interrupts me. Before I can utter a word, my mother opens the door and fixes me with a critical look. Her expression softens when she sees I'm sitting at the desk.
"Making progress I see?"
"I've answered three questions," I reply smugly. "And started the fourth." Her face falls and her blue eyes narrow.
"You've been up here for nearly an hour and that's all you've done?" She sighs exasperatedly and opens the door wider. Gale loiters in the hallway behind her.
"Gale is here to do some work in the yard, but before he starts, your father wants the track on your closet fixed. It won't take Gale long." She turns to him and explains that I am in the middle of something very important and asks him not to disturb me as I work.
"Absolutely, Mrs. Everdeen," he says. Satisfied, my mother gives me one final warning with her eyes before she leaves the room. Gale gives me a wide grin and sets his toolbox down near my closet.
"Hey Catnip," he says. "What's so important this morning? I've never seen your mother so high strung, except for after the accident." He crosses the room to peer over my shoulder. I gape at him a little. Does he really not know about the applications being sent out? I guess it's possible. Gale has two brothers, and his only sister Posy is just a toddler. There would be no letter and accompanying application going to the Hawthornes' home.
His face shifts like a thunderhead when he sees the Mellark crest at the top of the page. He shakes his head. "You're actually filling out that stupid thing?"
I twist and glare at him. "I don't have a choice. I'm of Reaping age." His grey eyes flicker, but he remains silent. There's something unsettling in his expression that smacks of accusation, and it irks me. I leap from my chair and jab a finger down at the directions. "What part of 'required by law' do you think implies that I have a choice, Gale?"
"There's always a choice."
"Right," I snap. "Like if your name came up in the draft you'd have the guts to tell King Wheaton—"
He takes a step closer to me and cuts me off. "My name can't come up in the draft if I've already signed up."
My jaw drops. This is the first I'm hearing of this. Gale and I tell each other nearly everything. One thing he has never been shy about is sharing his deep-seated anger towards the Mellark family and the monarchy of Panem. I've listened to him rail about King Wheaton countless times—like how he can allow his subjects to be treated differently simply based on where they had the fortune or misfortune to be born. Gale's ranted about disadvantages and lack of opportunity for hours. So to hear him say that he'd willingly sign up to defend all of that—well, it strikes me dumb.
"You're putting your name in for military service?"
He shrugs. His eyes glint a little. "Like I said, I can't be drafted if I'm already in the candidacy pool…Point is, this way they're not deciding my future for me."
I crinkle my nose, confused. "But they kind of are. It's still ultimately leading to the same thing, whether you sign up for it or they choose you for it. You really want to be a Peacekeeper?"
He narrows his eyes at me. "I know I don't want to work in the mines forever. My options are limited here. And again, it's about choice. And this—" He plucks my application off the desk and dangles it in front of my nose. "This is not your choice."
I snatch it back from him. "It is my choice, Gale. I'm choosing to answer every question on this application as myself." I set the sheets back down on my desk, then plant my hands on my hips and face him again. "Besides, you really think they're going to choose me?"
He stares at me blankly. "Who?"
Rolling my eyes, I respond, "The King. The Queen. Prince Peeta." I find it hard to believe that Gale is unaware of how this entire process works. He may have been ignorant as to the timing of the Reaping, but he knows far too much about the inner workings of the monarchy. His rants are always balanced with fact and opinion. Gale would make a great politician actually, if he didn't hate on the District mayors and councils too. (Well, and if the king would ever actually appoint him—highly unlikely given his lack of pedigree.)
"Prince Peeta," Gale scoffs, his face hardening, his eyes like granite.
"What about him?" I ask. Gale shrugs, still grimacing. "Did you watch the Report last night?"
"Did I have a choice? Damned Peacekeepers were parked outside our door for a good fifteen minutes."
It's my turn to shrug. The Peacekeepers that patrol in the districts are part of the Panem National Guard. The most elite of these guards serve in the palace itself, protecting the royal family. Gale is of the opinion that the men who wind up in palace are the ones who couldn't cut it in basic training for the various branches of the military. It's been years since Panem faced a threat from abroad—King Wheaton is actually well liked among our allies. But Gale claims that it's only a matter of time before one of his own tries to seize power, or that a silent enemy emerges from the shadows and attempts a coup.
"I thought the Prince seemed…I don't know, kind of nice. It was the most I've heard him talk."
Gale glares at me. "Are you kidding? The guy just sat there flashing that big white smile. He didn't say anything of substance!"
"So you listened?" I joke, reaching out to shove his forearm playfully. "Gale Hawthorne actually paid attention to a Capitol Report?"
He ignores my teasing. "And what kind of guy needs a stupid competition to land him a girl?"
A sudden thread of compassion for the prince wends through my veins and I feel compelled to defend him. "It's not his choice! He was born into it. He's not the one who made up the Reaping rules. He just has to play by them."
Gale catches me by surprise when his other hand snags my wrist and he holds me in place firmly, though not hard enough to hurt me. "What would you do, Catnip? What would you do if you are reaped?"
I search his eyes, which are so penetrating that a little shiver runs through me, not unpleasant, but also unsettling. Shaking my wrist free, I walk over to the window and gaze out, more to break away from his intensity. I hate it when he gets like this, all hypothetical on me.
"It's not going to happen, Gale," I finally say. I sense him moving behind me, but I continue to look out the window at the lacy, sun-dappled shadows creeping across the lawn, the rays having broken through the cloud cover. "Like I said, I won't be the king or the queen's choice, and there is no way the prince would choose me, so it's really just the random draw I have to contend with. And there must be a hundred girls of Reaping age in 12."
"You sell yourself short," he murmurs, gently touching my shoulder. I jump at the contact. "You have a lot to offer a guy."
I snicker at his words. Like I have anything to offer Prince Peeta. Even more so now, after seeing him last night, I'm convinced the winner of the crown will be someone who can do exactly what he did: seduce a crowd of millions with a brilliant smile and some well-placed humor and charm.
"It'll all be over in a bit." I turn and gasp a little, nearly bumping into Gale. He backs away, but again that steely gaze roots me to where I stand, and for the first time I can remember I feel a little uncomfortable in his presence and I can't say why.
"And then maybe some other things can finally begin," he says.
I cock my head. I'm not sure what he means by that, but something tells me it has to do with what Prim was alluding to—the fact that he, like the other boys of 12, and every other District for that matter, will be permitted to court freely soon. The reminder that someone will be courting me is disagreeable enough to make me cross the room and stop beside my desk, looking for a distraction.
"I need to get working on this, or I'll never get to eat today. You should really start on those doors. My mother is going to wonder what it is you're doing in here."
He purses his lips, as if he's contemplating something, and then he walks to his toolbox, bends down, and start rummaging around. I watch him for a moment, as he scrutinizes the door and resumes hunting through the box.
"Oh, hey!" He looks up at my interjection. "If I get this stupid thing done, you up for a little trek to the woods later?"
He grins, screwdriver in hand, the tension suddenly gone from the room. "Absolutely."
It doesn't take Gale long to fix the closet door. I'm almost done with the first page on my application when he straightens up and makes a big production out of sliding the door back and forth, back and forth. The sharp squeal has been silenced. I thank him, but he seems reluctant to leave the room to go attend to the other tasks I know my mom has lined up for him. When I remind him that I have things to do if he wants to be able to go to the woods, he hastily puts his tools away and makes a quick exit. I turn my attention back to the application.
Some of the questions ask simple things, such as my favorite color or favorite food. I'm not entirely sure why the prince would need to know such insignificant details, unless perhaps he has an aversion to, say the color black, and will weed out any girl who answers that. (Prince Peeta doesn't strike me as the kind of boy who lets much darkness into his sunny existence.)
About an hour later, my head starts to throb. I'm about halfway through the application, and the questions have progressively become more probing and more personal. I halt and set down my pen when I reach #33. Just as I've laid my head on my arm and let my eyelids droop, my bedroom door opens again, and I jerk upright.
"Were you napping?"
"Ah…no." It's not a lie, since I had barely closed my eyes when my mother came in, but the skeptical look on her face tells me she isn't buying it.
"Well, I'll cut you a break for a little while." She looks me up and down. "Put on some shoes. We're going into town."
"What? Why?"
"Because you need a new dress."
I slump down in my chair, unable to hide my displeasure. I hate shopping. Not that I have much opportunity to do it that often. Prim and I have fairly meager wardrobes. We're required to wear uniforms to school, and most of the rest of our clothes are functional rather than fashionable. Fancy is just a luxury we can't afford and I've always been okay with that. I only own two dresses. I just assumed I'd be wearing one of them when I file my application and have my picture taken.
When I grumble that exact statement under my breath, my mother tells me to be downstairs in five minutes.
"Why can't Prim just pick something out for me?" I grouse. But the flinty look of rebuke in my mother's eyes effectively silences any further protest from me.
I jam on my boots and trudge down the steps, locking eyes with Gale as I reach the landing. He's on a stepladder, fiddling with the socket in the small entryway.
"So much for the forest," I mutter. The disappointment that fills his grey eyes is palpable and his hand drops from the light fixture.
"How long can it take to find a dress, Catnip?"
I shrug and lean back against the wall to the left of the front door. "Who knows? But I didn't finish the application, so that's what I'll be doing when I get back here. It's just not in the cards today. Maybe another day."
Gale's eyes resemble storm clouds again when he glances down at me. "Another day," he echoes, but the words sound hollow.
The morning that the applications are due at the Justice Building dawns bright and clear. My first thought when I stumble out of bed and glance out the window is that the sky is the same shade of blue as Prince Peeta's eyes. Then I remember that Prince Peeta is the entire reason I need to get dressed up and posed for the cameras and paraded around—all in heels. I hate heels. I pull the curtains closed and slump against the wall.
Prim sits up and rubs her fists over her eyes. She blinks and a giddy grin splits her face.
"Oh my gosh! It's today!" She throws back her sheets and jumps to her feet. "Are you excited? I'm excited! Oh, you're going to look so pretty, Katniss! I can't wait to see you in your dress!" She runs to our closet, yanks the dress off the hanger, and whirls about, thrusting it at me.
The dress is nothing I would have chosen on my own, and I still think it was frivolous of my mother to insist on buying something that I'm going to wear for all of a couple of hours. It's a lovely shade of blue, that's about the only thing I'll say I like about it. (My mother had insisted on blue, as she insists it will brighten my grey eyes.)
"Whoa." I hold my hands up. "I don't have to get ready just yet."
"Oh, yes, you do!" my mother sings out as she breezes into the room. "Go wash your face and brush your teeth. We've got work to do."
'Work' turns out to be my hair. My mother forces me to sit while she methodically separates my long tresses into chunks and combs and sprays each one. Then she begins weaving them into an intricate knot of braids. She tugs and she pulls and she sprays some more. I wince and grit my teeth; each yank makes my scalp scream for relief. It takes nearly an hour, but when she plucks the last pin from between her teeth and jams it above my left ear and smiles, I exhale happily.
"Are we done?"
She and Prim exchange a conspiratorial grin. "Hardly," Prim snickers, holding up a makeup palette. "We're just getting started."
"Mom, no," I protest. "I don't want that stuff painted on my face. That's not me!"
"Katniss, this isn't about what's you and what's not you. It's all about how you present yourself."
I slump down in the chair, mentally preparing myself for more torture. Prim stands to my left, then cocks her head at me, and comes around to stand on my right side. She frowns and strides over to the window, tilting her head again.
"The natural light is much better over here," she declares, nodding towards the chair. "Let's move that. Come here."
With a loud huff I stand up and drag the chair across the floor, ignoring the reproachful glare on my mother's face at the scraping sound. Prim smiles at me.
"I'm going to make you so beautiful," she promises, winking at me. Her blue eyes sparkle with happiness. It feels cruel to point out that no matter how hard she tries, I will pale in comparison with the glamorous girls that Districts 1 and 2 will offer up.
Prim prattles on blithely as she sets to work on me. Occasionally she pauses in her chatter to bark a command at me. I open and close my eyes countless times, tip my chin in about six directions, suck in my cheeks, purse and press my lips, all while sitting as still as possible. At least that is one thing I've always been good at; it's always served me well in my hunting.
After nearly an hour, Prim steps back and sighs contentedly, then tells me not to move and she rushes out of the room. She returns in a minute, a mirror clutched in her right hand. She pauses dramatically and thrusts it up in front of my face.
"Look," she orders.
I stare into the smooth reflective glass and gasp. I'm not sure how Prim has managed to do it, but she has clearly worked some kind of sorcery. I don't recognize the girl looking back at me. My grey irises sparkle like quartz stone, and Prim has lined just my top eyelashes with a soft smudge of charcoal that makes my eyes appear wider. She's blended several different shades of shadows on my eyelids, creating an effect that manages to be both demure and sexy. Whatever she did with that torture device she used on my lashes worked, because they're long and full and lush. It immediately makes me think of Prince Peeta and his eyelashes, and I blink, testing if they do indeed get tangled up when they're this long.
Prim's also done something to my skin, because it glows as if I've been in the sun for a bit. A faint rosy sheen colors my cheeks. My lips shine with a pale pink gloss.
I'm stunned. And when I finally locate my voice, buried under layers of disbelief, the only thing I mutter is, "This isn't me."
Prim sets her lips in a thin line and exchanges a knowing look with my mother. "Of course it's you, Katniss."
"You did a lovely job, Prim," I say quietly, turning my head to watch the light catch the tiny facets of shimmer in the blush my sister used on me. "But I don't look like this. It's false advertising."
My mother snorts loudly. "Please. Don't be ridiculous. Your attitude is really starting to wear thin. Every girl in every district who is eligible to be reaped is doing the exact same thing we are right now. The prince isn't stupid. He will know that the girls who want to be picked are going to do everything in their power to increase their chances."
I swallow and stare at my reflection. The girl I'm looking at is beautiful. For a brief moment, I can honestly say that there might be a chance that Prince Peeta would study my portrait and see something there that he likes. But that thought dims quickly, and I'm back to the nagging notion that even if he were to choose me, the girl that the photographer will capture on camera at the Justice Building in just a few hours will not be the one who would arrive in his palace. The other girls probably know how to coil their hair, and apply makeup, and play up their best features, without the help of their sisters or mothers.
"Kat, I really didn't do that much," Prim says quietly, placing a hand on my shoulder. I meet her big blue eyes in the mirror. "You look natural. You're much prettier than you give yourself credit for." I felt her hand squeeze me. "C'mon, let's get you dressed."
I close my eyes and nod numbly, shuffling towards my bed, where my mother has laid out the dress. My cheeks flood with heat when I see the undergarments she's also arranged there.
"You know they're not going to see what's under my dress," I grumble, glaring at the cream-colored scraps of lace.
"It makes you feel even prettier," she replies, with a wave of her hand.
I scowl and wait for her and Prim to make their exit. When neither makes a move to leave, I plant my hands on my hips and narrow my eyes.
"I can manage to dress myself."
My mother shakes her head. "You'll ruin your hair if—"
"Mom. We can at least let her put on the underwear in privacy." Prim grabs our mother's hand and urges her towards the door. Sticking my tongue out at my mother's retreating form, I catch the beginnings of a smile tugging up Prim's lips, and she shakes her head at me as she quietly closes the door.
My fingers are clumsy as I undo the bow on my nightgown and the soft cotton swishes to the floor. I shudder reflexively and feel my nipples stiffen into buds. Impulsively, I walk over to the mirror and gaze at myself again. Biting my lip, I quickly release it, needing to be careful not to ruin Prim's handiwork. I take a moment to let my eyes roam up and down my half nude body, drumming my fingers against my pelvic bone.
My boobs aren't huge, and I'm not so naïve or inexperienced to know that guys like big breasts. I've definitely caught Gale leering at the chests of some of the better-endowed girls in 12. But I suppose my breasts are nice enough—at least they're symmetrical and they're pretty perky. As I press my palms over them, they fit easily within my grasp, but not with too much room to spare. I knead them gently, and wonder what it might feel like for someone other than me to touch them like this. Would it feel different?
That thought makes my cheeks burn anew. Damn. What is wrong with me?
Hastily, I grab for the bra and shove my arms through the straps. I adjust the cups in place and reach around to close the clasp then trade my practical cotton underwear for the tiny pair of panties.
Well crap. My mother was right. The lacy lingerie has an immediate effect on me. I do feel prettier, sexier almost—and I have never ever ever in my life seen myself as sexy. And I'm pretty sure that no one else would ever use that adjective to describe me either. I think about the girls in the district who always seem to attract the attention of boys—girls like Madge Undersee. Is this part of their secret, part of what fuels their self-confidence?
The notion that I'm to be courted in the very near future seeps into the forefront of my mind, like sinister fog clouding my normal thoughts. I can't allow myself to keep thinking like this, so I pluck the dress from my bed, slide the zipper down, and step into it just as there's a sharp knock on the door. I've barely grunted out a "yeah," when my mother and Prim barge back into the room.
My mother smiles as she studies me. "Let me get that zipper for you," she says quietly, motioning for me to turn around. I suck in a breath as the teeth catch and she zippers me up. It's tight, but not constricting, accentuating my slender waist and the slight curve of my hips. I tug at the bodice, a little uncomfortable with the dip in the neckline that lures eyes to my cleavage, but my mother swats at my hand.
"Relax, dear. It's meant to lie like that."
"Oh my gosh, Katniss!" Prim gushes, clapping her hands together in delight. "It's perfect on you. You look so beautiful."
I offer her and my mother a tiny smile, until I see the heels my mother has produced from behind her back. I heave a loud sigh, and bid my poor feet a silent apology.
We arrive at the Justice Building largely without incidence. I only wobble on my heels a few times, and just once do I catch one of them on a cobblestone in the main square. Fortunately Prim's reflexes are nearly as sharp as my own, and she grabs my elbow to steady me before I can pitch face first into the street. They're also not hurting my feet as much as I expected them to, though I imagine the longer I wear them, the worse it will get.
A large crowd has assembled outside the massive white-brick edifice, nearly all of which is young men. I guess I shouldn't be surprised that the male population of 12 would be gathered here. Every eligible female of reaping age will be parading past them, and since courting can begin almost immediately after the three tributes are announced, what better way to get a glimpse of who is about to become available.
Of course there have always been rumors, names whispered barely a breath apart, suggesting that some couples have not waited for the reaping and have been carrying on illicit courtships prior to this. It's incredibly risky to do such a thing. The punishments for being caught are extreme, and evidence of a sexual relationship could lead to execution. I can only recall one couple that was dumb enough to find themselves pregnant and who didn't take care of things before her condition became obvious. Both were sentenced to public flogging, and the entire district was forced to assemble and watch. He received his fifty lashes first, but when it came time for her to be bound to the post, he had staggered back to the platform and insisted on taking her lashings for her. Her screams of protest were ignored, and after fifty more cracks of the whip, his listless body was dragged away, bloodied and barely twitching. He died two days later of his injuries. Four months later, she delivered a healthy baby boy and within hours of his birth, she promptly slit her wrists in the bathtub. I never heard what became of the baby.
"Gracious!" my mother exclaims, scanning the sea of masculine heads. "Look at all these boys, Primrose!"
"Mom!" Prim blushes. She pleads with me with her eyes.
"She's 12, Mom," I reply, locking gazes with my mother.
"It's never too soon to make a good impression, that's all," she sniffs in response.
Prim grips my hand tightly and tugs me towards the front steps. "Let's go inside."
As we mount the stairs, I glance to my left and my eyes sweep the crowd one more time. I pause when they land on a familiar pair of grey irises. I can't say I'm surprised to see Gale here. He's no different than the rest of the boys, and I imagine he's anxious to find a girl to settle down with. As he makes eye contact with me, his eyes crinkle with smile and his mouth curves upward. He gives a slight nod of his head and his lips part as he mouths something to me. I suck at lip reading, and I can only shake my head in return, unable to decode what he's trying to say. His lips twist and he begins to repeat himself, but Prim gives my hand a yank and I follow her, my mother close on our heels.
As we reach the door, I hold out my arm for the Peacekeeper and wait for the shrill chirp of the scanner as it passes over the tracker buried beneath the skin, just below the crook of my elbow. Prim and my mother do the same. Our identities are confirmed, and then a second Peacekeeper commands us to stand still so he can wave a wand along each of our limbs while a female Peacekeeper pats us down. As she finishes the security clearance, she orders us to move to the left and jerks her head to the doors behind her.
The Justice Building is an imposing, sterile place. I've only been inside it once, years ago when I accompanied my parents to file my father's claim against the mining company. All I remember about it were the stark white walls, unadorned, save for a portrait of the royal family and a plaque listing all the men who have served as mayor of District 12.
I step inside, my heels clicking quietly on the polished floor. I'm sure on any other day the sound would reverberate through the cavernous space, but today there is too much bustle, too much excited chatter buzzing through the room. Everywhere I look, girls are primping and adjusting, smiling into handheld mirrors, tousling their curls, and reapplying lipstick, while their mothers fuss over them. I look up at the vaulted ceiling, where the sunlight streaming down through the skylights gives everything beneath it a gilded glow.
"You'll need to be getting in line, miss," a curt voice commands. I swivel my head and meet the unfriendly eyes of another Peacekeeper. I glance around him and see that there are five different lines, each leading to a long table. Each table is manned by a cluster of stern-looking women.
"Does it matter which line?" I ask.
He glares at me coldly and points to a screen above the table directly in front of us that reads "K-O." My eyes sweep to the left, and I see "A-E" and "F-J." Alphabetical.
My mother starts to follow me, and the Peacekeeper's arm shoots out, halting her movement.
"She must file her papers alone and complete her interview alone," he rasps, and then directs my mother and Prim to an area in the southernmost corner of the room. Before they walk away, Prim gathers me into a tight hug, much to my mother's chagrin and hushed warning that my sister is wrinkling my dress. When Prim releases me, my mother thrusts my application into my grasp, and then she gently cups my cheek and holds my gaze.
"Katniss, this is your future. Don't sell yourself short. You are a beautiful girl and you have just as much to offer the prince as any other girl."
Her words echo Gale's, and there's such sincerity in her voice that I almost believe her myself. I muster a weak smile and nod, and she brushes her thumb under my left eye, bringing the tip back to show me the eyelash.
"Now you're perfect. Go."
It feels like an eternity that I wait my turn, inching forward slowly as an hour ticks by. In the meantime, I peer up at the portraits on the walls. They've been updated since the last time I'd been here, and there is one new addition—a solo painting of Prince Peeta. In it, he sits on an intricately carved throne, and he's dressed in all white. It strikes me that it's very similar to the way he appeared on the Capitol Report just a few short days ago. His face is stoic, serious, but there's a kindness in his cerulean eyes that softens his entire visage. Try as I might to avoid the lure of it, I find myself periodically staring at his picture and getting lost in those impossibly blue orbs.
"Next!"
I stiffen as I realize that "next" is me. With a deep breath, I straighten my posture and approach the table.
"Name."
"Katniss Everdeen."
The woman touches a flat screen on the table and she taps it several times with her index finger. She spins the screen to face me and orders me to press each of my fingers on the surface of the tablet. Obediently, I do as she asks, and once my prints have been recorded, a chime precedes the screen fading to black, and then my name appears in large bold print.
"Application."
I hope I'm the only one who notices the slight tremor to my hand as I place it down and slide it across the table. A second woman snatches the packet and begins to scan each page with some kind of device.
"Before we take your photograph, Miss Everdeen, we're going to need to ask you a few personal questions. When was the date of your last physical?"
I wrinkle my nose, as I try to remember what I wrote on the application. "Um…it was around my birthday. So…May 8th or so?"
"You're aware that your medical records will be made available to palace officials if you are reaped. And if necessary you may be required to undergo further physical examination."
"Uh, yes, I am aware. I read the application."
Her eyes narrow and her tone becomes frostier as she bluntly asks me the date of my last menstrual cycle. When I don't answer right away, she gives me a condescending smirk and repeats the question.
"When it started…or when it ended?" I stammer.
She sighs, her expression clearly indicating she thinks I'm daft. "Let's try this again, Miss Everdeen. When did your last menstrual cycle begin?"
"A week ago Tuesday," I reply quickly, having doing the math as I was attempting to decipher what she was asking.
"And how long do they last?"
"Four or five days."
"Are they regular, your cycles?"
I hesitate. Regular is not an adjective that I'd use to describe them. I've only been getting my period for two years now. My mother had told me that I came from a long line of late bloomers, and she had been right. At first, things had been erratic, but for the past three months, I've noticed a more predictable pattern starting to take place.
"They have been," I say cautiously, anticipating a follow-up question, but the woman taps her screen and then looks directly at me.
"You're a virgin, Miss Everdeen?"
I was fully prepared for them to ask that question, but it still catches me by surprise and has me blushing furiously. I nod the affirmative and she taps the screen once more.
"And you are aware that your signature on your application, and your prints that are now on file are your confirmation of that fact?"
I nod again.
"And you're aware that if at any time your virginity comes into question or it is revealed that you have been dishonest about your status, the penalty for such treason is execution?"
Though I have nothing to hide, having never kissed a boy, let alone done anything even remotely intimate with one, my stomach twists. I swallow as I voice my acknowledgment.
The third woman picks up a small device of some kind and motions towards the camera. "Very well, Miss Everdeen. Please step to your right in front of the white screen."
I do as I'm told, nervously smoothing down the waist and skirt of my dress. I run my tongue over my teeth, not certain how much of the lipstick Prim applied remains on my mouth but wanting to be sure none of it has wound up marring my smile. It needs all the help it can get.
The photographer issues command after command at me, and I try to follow along, turning my body and angling my neck as best I can, but she quickly becomes frustrated with my posture or positioning or both. She plants her hands on either side of my jaw and forces me to move my head into the pose she has been striving for, then she orders me not to move. Her demeanor shifts instantly as she readies the camera. Her tone is thick with artificial sweetness when she tells me to look straight ahead and smile. I feel wooden and stiff and fake, and I try to coax my mind to go to a place that makes me happy, to extract a more naturally happy expression on my face. I think about leaving here and going to the meadow, how wonderful the grass will feel beneath my bare toes, how warm the abundant sunshine will feel on my skin, and I smile broadly, a delicious calm relaxing my muscles. I hear a series of clicks, and the photographer gives me a toothy grin.
"That was perfect, Miss Everdeen. Just lovely."
The first woman ushers me away from the screen and waves a scanner over my arm, then presses a button on the wand, declaring that I am done and my application is complete. She reminds me that the results of the Reaping will be televised one week from today.
But when she wishes me luck and bids me goodbye, she sounds anything but genuine.