2
For a moment, I am relieved. It's not Katniss. Not Katniss. My brain was so focused on it not being Katniss that it didn't focus on others that I didn't want to get picked. But cold, hard realization sinks in as soon as I think this.
Prim!
I hear a series of small, choked gasps, and turn to see the source of the sound. It's Katniss, but her face is horribly disfigured with pain. When I see this pain on my beloved's face, I feel ashamed. Ashamed that I did not wish that Prim would not get picked. Ashamed that I had had that thought, that selfish thought that it wasn't Katniss who got picked. Ashamed that I can feel such relief when someone else, someone I love, is in such agony. For some reason, this makes all the difference for me. Everyone watches as Prim, the angel with the looks for it, Prim, the tiny wisp of happiness, Prim, the little girl who wouldn't stand a chance in the Arena, who would probably go on the first day, everyone watches Prim, the newest female tribute from District 12, make her way through the crowd and up onto the stage. Her fists are clenched tight, and her white forehead is beaded with sweat.
"Prim," says Katniss, disbelieving reality. "Prim!" she calls out, more urgently this time, starting to run toward the stage. The crowd automatically parts, like the doors of the elevator in the Justice Building, to make way for this poor, tormented girl, whose sister that she loves more than life itself has just been sentenced to certain death.
Before Prim can even set her foot onto the first step of the set of stairs that leads up to the stage, Katniss pushes her out of the way and breathlessly says, "I volunteer! I volunteer as tribute!"
NO. I manage to keep my lips tight and not scream this as loud as I can. Love is sacrificial. I understand this perfectly, and in a way, I am experiencing this firsthand. I am sacrificing my lover to save the person she loves. If I scream in protest like I so desperately want to, that would be greedy of me. It would be wrong of me to restrict the person I love from making choices of her own.
Effie Trinket says something, but I don't want to know what it is. What do her petty little words matter when my world has just ended? If only I'd talked to her once… just once…if only I'd made my move.
But then Effie says something that pops out in my head that breaks the hazy cloud of thoughts enveloping my brain.
She says my name.
At first, this makes no sense. Why would Effie Trinket, high and mighty Capitol woman, be addressing me? Then I realize- she has picked my name out of the millions of slips in the reaping balls.
Stupid! I was so busy wishing that others would not be picked that I did not wish for myself not to be picked. I know that it probably wouldn't have made a difference, but some small corner in my brain insists that if I had done just that, maybe someone else would have been picked.
I make my way up to the stage, trying to remain emotionless, like Katniss is doing. Effie Trinket asks for volunteers, and I'm hoping, praying that I look like her, almost bored, when no one answers. I wasn't expecting anyone to, but still, this silence is heartbreaking. Sterling, the strongest in the family, would have gladly volunteered to save me, his little brother. I can see the pain in his eyes that he can't save me, he's too old. But Alex is a whole different matter. Alex has always been the baby of the family, though he's a year older than me. He was born a month early, and as a result, he was smaller and weaker than he should be. Heck, I'm three inches taller than him. I've always been the one to protect him, from the monsters in our room when he was little, from the bullies at school when we were older. And I can see him crying into the shoulder of the boy next to him, he wants to do something, but he can't, because he's too scared.
The mayor starts to read the Treaty of Treason. His monotonous tone would put me to sleep, if I was not so nervous. But the droning helps sedate the butterflies in my stomach. It gives me something to concentrate on other than the fact that I, most likely along with Katniss, will most certainly die a painful bloody death in the arena.
Random thoughts are racing through my mind at a million miles an hour. My mother's face, my father's face, Alex, Sterling, Gale, Prim, Katniss's mother, Katniss… Katniss. She will die. I will die. She will die. I will die. She will die. I will die. This becomes my only loop of thoughts. She will die. I will die. She will die. I will die. She will die. I will die. She will die. I will die. There's no way out of it. She will die. I will die. She will die. I will die. She will- but wait! She doesn't have to die!
My brain starts to formulate a plan, a plan that ensures her survival- but then the mayor gestures for Katniss and me to shake hands. I hold my hand out and she slips her hand into mine, and once her skin makes contact with mine, it's like I've touched the electrical fence surrounding District 12. Except it feels a hell of a lot better. I squeeze her hand, to assure her that it will be all right, that she will survive if it's the last thing I do. And it probably will be.
As we turn to face the sea of people, people that I've known for all my life and that I will probably never see again, people that I love, my brain turns back to my plan. Panem's national anthem plays. I used to admire the tune, the booming majesty, but now, now that it's playing while my love and I are most likely to die, so prideful and full of joy, I hate it. Hate that this joyful music can be playing at this moment every year, when two innocent kids have just been most likely sentenced to death. Because, since District 12 is the poorest district, our tributes are normally those who have never had a proper meal in their life, the weakest ones. I mean, out of seventy-four years of Hunger Games, only two victors have been from District 12, only one is still alive, and he's infamous for his heavy drinking. That gives you a pretty good perspective of how good a chance District 12 usually has in the Hunger Games.
A crowd of Peacekeepers surrounds us and we are taken to the Justice Building. I don't realize what's happening, I'm so focused on my plan, until I realize that I'm sitting in a room that's probably the nicest- and most nauseating- room I've ever been in. I settle myself into the fancy velvet couch uneasily. All of this seems too pretty to touch. Digging my feet into the thick carpet with swirling patterns calms me a little bit, but then I realize something. I'm sitting in a room, on a couch, where seventy-four years worth of male tributes from District 12 sat. And the thing is, most of them are dead. I squirm in my chair, feeling even more uncomfortable than before.
My friends Hunter, Jarryd, Justin, Lucas, and Caleb walk in. "Hey guys," I say with a sad smile.
"Hey," say the twins, Jarryd and Justin say in unison. We all crack up. It feels nice to be laughing with my friends, even though we all know this is probably the last time we'll see each other.
"Soooo… any parting words for your dearest friend?" I say.
"Hey, don't think like that. You might not die," says Hunter.
"Well, he doesn't have much of a chance there. I mean, just look at him!" says Lucas, bumping me with his elbow.
"Hey, gentle wif the widdle baby! Don't wanna get him too roughed up before the Games have even started!" says Caleb.
"Hey, who got second in the school wrestling competition?" I say.
"You," they mumble.
"Who's beaten all of you jerks up at one time or another?"
"You."
"Who's awesomer than all of you put together?"
"… definitely not you!" says Hunter. We all crack up.
The Peacekeepers burst in, silently telling us that our time is up. As my friends stroll out, Lucas calls, "Try hard not to die! Need you, Peeta!"
"Will do!" I call back.
Next come my brothers, eighteen-year-old Alex and nineteen-year-old Sterling. We stare at each other. They sit down next to me and then spontaneously, Alex just bursts into tears and buries his face in my shoulder. Sterling pats his back. We sit there, Alex crying onto my shirt, Sterling biting his lip trying not to cry, and silent tears pouring down my cheeks.
Once Alex calms down, we reminisce about all the times we had together. That one time when Sterling won the wrestling competition at school and I came in second, and our parents gave us each a small cookie as a treat, including Alex. The times when we were little and would take our sheets and build them into forts. The times we would defend the kingdom of our back yard from the evil Mr. Pig. My fourth birthday, when I got a bag of sweets from Delly Cartwright and I shared it with my family. And now, we won't have any of those times ever again. In short, this sucks. The Peacekeepers enter the room and we're saying to each other, "I love you," over and over again. Why waste a moment when we have so few left together? Then the door shuts and I'll never see my brothers again.
My parents walk in, staring in awe at the elegant room. "Nice of you to come visit me here," I say to get their attention. They are jerked back to reality and look at me with shocked eyes, not sure what to say to me. "Well, sit down. Make yourself at home." I gesture around at the cushy chairs. My mother and father sit down together on the other side of the couch.
For a while, there's an awkward silence. Then my mother says, "Well, we might finally have a winner this year." This cheers me up slightly, the fact that my mom has believed in me after all, until she continues. "She's a survivor, that one." My heart sinks and I start to tear up. Of course. She didn't believe in me after all. She never has.
"Yeah, well, nice seeing you. When Katniss wins, I hope you remember me."
She says nothing back, and I see the slightly shocked expression on her face as the Peacekeepers escort her out. I feel triumph, but then the full impact of she said sinks in and I bury my face in the pillow. It depresses me to know that my mom never believed in me, but really, it's not that surprising. So I cry. I cry and cry and cry. I cry to let out all my sadness about everything. About my mother never believing in me, even when my life is about to end, about the way my friends so nonchalantly said goodbye, about the way my life is going to end. Painfully. Maybe I should just kill myself. NO, says my brain. You have to stay alive. For Katniss. That's part of your plan, genius. That's right, not only do I have to worry about my now inevitable death, I have to protect Katniss. So I wipe the tears from my face, wiping my old life away with it.