It doesn't matter who was actually chosen, how old they were, or how many times they had put their names into the bowl in exchange for extra tesserae. No one cares whether they were from families of gemcutters, metalsmiths, plasticians, or leatherworkers, like mine. All that matters is that when Bolgee Boh drew the slip of paper from the glass bowl of girl's names, I stepped forward and shouted, "I volunteer as tribute!" before he even had a chance to pronounce the name.
He's looking across the crowd at me now, beckoning with one pastel-blue gloved hand, and smiling, though nothing on his face moves except his mouth. "Wonderful! Outstanding! We have a Volunteer for District 1!" He says this with the unbounded surprise and enthusiasm of someone who hasn't said it every Reaping Day for the last six years. I am at the front of the group of girls of my Degree from the Academy. My hair has been combed and styled into soft waves, unlike the practical bun I am used to wearing. I'm also wearing pink lip gloss and a dark brown paste that makes my eyelashes look thicker. I feel as if I am wearing a layer of plastic wrap over my face, but when I come closer to Boh, I realize that his face is liberally coated with velvety blue and white makeup. I'm acknowledging the applause with nods, like I'm supposed to, but I can't help but wonder how all that makeup stays on him. They had to redo my lip gloss on several times right before the Reaping because I kept licking it off. He draws me close to the audio pickup. "What's your name, dear?"
"Dazzle," I say, looking out at the audience. There are at least five thousand people packed in the Amphitheater, with the rest of the District who had come too late to be seated inside organized into makeshift viewing areas in the adjacent avenues. The Amphitheater has been decorated for Reaping Day. There are bright flags and rows of delicate folded paper lanterns that have been strung over every available straight surface. Families are wearing their special colored fringes fastened to their clothing, and I see them as mixed masses of reds, purples, blues, yellows and greens. I know that I cannot expect to pick out individual faces from this distance, but I can't help but scan the yellows, hoping to see someone I know. I do not recognize anyone. Bolgee Boh puts his hand on my shoulder and gives me a congratulatory squeeze. "Let's give her a round of applause, shall we? Dazzle, everyone!"
Enough hands are slapping across knees and enough feet are pounding to make the stage tremble. I notice that a few clusters of people, particularly among the reds, are not moving, or moving so slowly that they might as well be sitting still. I feel some indignation at this. I worked hard for this day, to be chosen as the District volunteer for the Games! I wore bruises for years! When I wasn't strong enough with blunt weapons Filigree doubled me on them for weeks! Sick, sad, tired, I trained! Don't they know? I wonder briefly what might have happened to make the reds not like me. Did I do something? Had the yellows?
I don't have time to worry about it. Bolgee Boh is fishing into the boy's bowl, dramatically stirring around and pulling out a slip with a flourish. "And now, for our tribute from the boys! It's…"
He only gets out the first syllable of the name when "I volunteer as tribute!" rings from the group of the most senior Academy boys. My male counterpart marches up to the platform, looking neither right nor left. I know him, of course. He is tall and broad-shouldered, with eyes that are so light that they are almost colorless. He has very blonde hair that he normally wears cut close to his scalp, but the Academy told him a few weeks ago to grow it out so it would look better for Reaping Day. Many of the girls think he is handsome and try to get his attention, but he has knocked me unconscious too many times during training for me to share that opinion. Bolgee Boh says, "What a glorious day for District 1! Two volunteers! What is your name, young man?"
"Chrome," he says flatly. He raises his chin to the crowd, basking in the thunderous applause. I watch the Amphitheater carefully this time, and I see that the same knots of reds are silent. I know now that they aren't objecting to me, and since Chrome is a blue, I know they aren't angry with the yellows. But now I don't know what their silence can mean. A glance at Chrome tells me that he has seen it too, but I can't read what he thinks about it from his expression.
