Reaping Day dawned cold and grey, the mountains rearing up against the sooty sky. My dress feels cool against my skin, flapping unsettlingly in the breeze. I try to flatten the folds gently as I wait in line with my mother, desperately wishing that I had worn a suit instead. I have one sitting in my closet, neatly ironed, just begging to be used.
"Dresses show off your legs," my mother says, seemingly reading my thoughts. Her jaw is clenched, grey eyes dark and flat. "Hawk beat me because she wore one." I don't respond. She is a short woman, squat and brutal. The Games are, in her mind, the highest form of honor one can earn. Insolence would just get me a beating later. She always berates me when I get home from the Academy, reminding me that nobody likes a whiny child and that the Reaping will happen sooner than I think, that insolence will get me nowhere. I have to be fearless, brave. I have to gain muscle, get faster, or I'll be stuck in the quarry with her and my father and Isaac and then she just ought to kill me herself. I'm just such a loser-
None of that can affect me now. I stare straight ahead at the churning mass of people, ignoring the butterflies that are awakening in my stomach. This is the first time I had a fighting chance at getting in. Of course, I had already been Reaped once, as a scrawny little twelve year old, but Zela Marshall volunteered for me. I watched her bleed to death two weeks later. It was a shame: I'd known her at the Academy, and she was better with a spear than anyone else I know. I barely felt the prick on my finger, the brush of my mother's lips as she kissed me goodbye, the jostling of the other girls as I take a position on the far corner of the ring. They shrink away from me grudgingly, letting me take my rightful place. If fear means power, then I am queen in this group. They still remember the blood falling from Gretel's face, the sound of her body hitting the floor. It was an accident, of course, a training incident gone wrong, but they know better than to mess with me.
My eyes flicker to the boys' side briefly, once, twice, and then stayed there. I had been envisioning this moment for years, standing calm and cool, powerful, ready to strike at my chance for glory. Yet my eyes seemed to be drawn to the right, the mass of boys jockeying for position in their groups, searching for one in particular-and there he was, golden hair shining angelically in the grey sunlight. With a jolt, I realize that he was staring straight at me, hands tucked into his trouser pocket, white shirt seemingly too small for his shoulders. I wave briefly, casually, praying that my mother isn't watching. He turns around abruptly, jaw clenched, eyes unreadable. I return to staring back at the front, suddenly struggling to hold back tears. Cato was my only friend, the only person I'd let into my heart, and now he had to ignore me. But it was only standard protocol, I had to have known that. The Reaping is where you have to seal your heart.
Mayor Mila stepped up onto the podium solemnly. She was a grizzled woman, dark skin seemingly stretched out too thinly over her angled face, grey hair close-cropped, a massive pink scar putting an exclamation mark on the left side of her face. A former Peacekeeper, I think. "Welcome," she said, deep voice booming out over the crowd, "to the Reaping for the 74th Hunger Games". Her words washed over me as I focused on the task at hand, priming myself for action, for the signal to run forward. Bard takes over from her almost as soon as she hands over the microphone, practically bouncing in excitement. He gushes out empty words about how happy he is to be here, how the world can't wait for the excitement that's in store for all of us. I don't listen to him either: the bastard will never know that it's not fun. He's only an empty bird, singing out lies from the world of the wealthy. Thankfully, his chattering speech is short, and with sickening gusto, he begins the fun.