Just two more hours until I can go home, I repeat to myself as I walk into town and towards the main square.
It never fails to amaze me how tidy the main square is for the Reaping event. I barely recognize it. The stage has been recently swept, our district emblem is shiny and polished, and there isn't an inch of moss or algae on the cobblestone floor and the numerous potholes have mysteriously vanished. The nearby bushes have all been pruned, plucked, and generally spruced. Snakelike wires weave through the crowd. That can only mean one thing – camera is rolling.
Don't we all want to look our best, I thought dryly. I feel absolutely awkward in the green cotton sundress. The lace collar is too tight around my neck and the undergarment keeps rubbing against my skin. The leather shoes are a size too small, unfamiliar and unyielding and I am certain my feet are blistering. Oh what I would give to show up naked. The ribbons attached to my hat are the most infuriating part of the costume. No matter what I do, they end up dangling in front of my eye, or tickling my ears or getting caught in the collar.
I twirl one of the green ribbons around my finger with every intention of yanking it off.
"And who is this pretty little girl? I don't believe we've ever met!" a familiar voice rudely interrupts, followed by a whistle. I know that whistle anywhere and grin.
" Oh and I've been trying ever so hard to keep it that way, " I retort, turning and facing the bemused expression of one Tane Cedar. I pause to take in Tane's outfit – his purple velvet pants are too short, and he has tried to compensate by pulling his socks over the hem. The amount of lace on his white shirt outweighs my dress and undergarment combined and his upper body is swimming in the oversized jacket. I almost choke. "What the hell are you wearing?"
He grins and twirls for me. There are actual multi coloured gems arranged in a circular pattern at the tail of his jacket. "Purple, in case you aren't aware my dear, is royalty. My father picked it out."
" Better to be a peasant than look like that." I can't stop staring at the monstrous sunflower attached to his lapel. He takes notice, unfastens it and pins it to my hat. And I let him. It's the least I can do to salvage his wardrobe malfunction.
"You really are too gracious with your compliments," he smirks. " You know what the best part of reaping day is. Timing how long it takes me to recognize you in that dolled up state. Strange thing is my record gets worse every year. Are those real ribbons I see?" his hand shoots towards my left to snag one, I dodge and slap his hand away, holding both ribbons in one hand in feign protectiveness.
"How dare you touch my hair!" I shrill in a Capitol accent, curling the silk between my fingers.
He laughs, both of us knowing the truth. I have no hair.
When Dalton failed to return from the games, the seams holding my family burst and unravelled. My mother fell ill, quarantined herself in her room, and no amount of crying, reasoning and begging could unlock those doors. Within two weeks, my father was fired for absences and sloppy work. He had zoned out while he was on safety duty and a tree had fallen and crushed three men to their deaths.
When the pains and hollowness in my stomach and heart became overbearing, I shaved my hair. That night I rummaged through my brother's trunk and traded my dresses, ribbons, cloth shoes for a plaid shirt, leather coveralls and steel toed shoes. At the break of dawn, I slipped unnoticed into an eager crowd of men, each one vying for a monthly contract at the lumber camp.
Lumber camp is an all exclusive male club, run under the iron fist of one Titan Demure who has quite the creative methods to keep his employees in line. For the initial week, I lived in absolute terror of being found out. I didn't converse and kept myself busy in the mindless process of delimbing fallen trees and retired to the cabins before nightfall. By the second week, I was insulted that no one took note of my clearly feminine delicate features, wide brown eyes and long eyelashes. In the third week, I felt invisible but safe.
It was around the time I was promoted to the tree topper position that my secret cover was blown with these three words by none other than the whistle punk, Tate Cedar.
"You pee funny."
He claims up to this day that it was pure coincidence we found the same bush. I claim it was pure coincidence my fist found his jaw.
I spent that entire evening shaking and staring at the cabin door, waiting for Titan to storm through and dismantle me into pieces. When dawn broke, I realized my secret was safe.
Peacekeepers are ushering us now towards the designated sections and Tate separates from me and heads towards the boys area but not before he manages, " Good luck Johanna". I walk to the cordoned off area with the "Fifteen" sign on it and stand at the back of group. I watch the leaves flutter in the breeze, and try to tune out the annoying nervous chatter of the girls around me. I regard their pale skin and thin soft bodies with disdain. No wonder why District seven never had any female victors. Unlike their male counterpart who spend their lives helping out in the logging crew, chopping limbs, rigging and falling trees, wielding axes and dragging timber, girls are taught to feed and press pulp into paper. And out of the sixty eight games, I've never heard of death by paper cut.
The mayor takes the stage and the crowd silences. He is decked in all black and I groan inwardly when I see the thickness of the cue card stack in his hands. I catch bits of his garbled speech - something about honour and sacred traditions, privilege, the Capitol. The crowd breaks into wild cheers and applause as our previous victors file onto the stage. There is an uncanny resemblence between the four males - they are gigantic, well muscled, with the same dark eyes and hair, and the same blank, stern expression. A wave of nausea sweeps through me when I recognize Konad - Dalton's mentor.
I take a couple deep breaths, forcing the surfacing memories back under and concentrate on the words spewing out of Jaques Jabba's mouth. He's been our district's escort for as long as I can remember. He is a short man, with an enormous pouch of a belly that expands on an annual basis. His gestures are overexaggerated and he has an odd habit of nodding his head vigorously when he is speaking, even during disagreements. It's quite bizarre, because the faster he speaks, the faster his head bobs.
I am so enthralled with his bobbing head, I don't notice the crowd holding its breath. I barely register the moment he puts his hand in the reaping ball and call out enthusiastically,
"Johanna Mason!"