"Welcome, welcome," Effie Trinket's voice says over the microphone as the district's people file into the reaping area. "The time has come to select one courageous man and woman to represent District Nine in the seventy-third annual Hunger Games." The line I've seen her repeat for years and years has been engraved in my head by now, especially the cheerful tone in which she says it.
But this is my first time here, squished in close to all the other girls, their hair braded fancily like mine and their dresses spotless. This is my first time here, with my heart beating fast and knowing everyone here, everyone whose name is in that glass ball, has a heart beating at the same speed. This is my first time here, with that nauseous feeling in my gut and my forehead breaking out with sweat even though it isn't hot.
Not for the first time, I wonder if I'll be picked. Even if this is my first year being part of the reaping, I've had enough nightmares of this moment to make me feel like this is at least the eighteenth time I have to suffer through this.
I scan the crowd, not looking for anyone I know by name, but for the person whose life is about to change the most by this time tomorrow – the person whose name will be called in Effie Trinket's cheerful, pleasant Capitol voice.
I think about my mother, father, and little brother far away, on the sidelines of the isle whoever is selected will walk down once his or her name is called. But all I can hope now is that this won't go the same as all the nightmares I've had have gone.
A breeze blows by and I realize how stiff I am. I stand like a tree branch, my legs tense and my hands clenched into sweaty fists at my sides, nearly shaking from nervousness.
"Ladies first!" Effie trills from up front. Her sparkly pink heels make clacking sounds that echo through the still air that the suspense makes silent.
My heart is hammering madly inside me now. I bite my lip and taste blood, but I can't stop.
Her hand sweeps over the slips of paper, and then she swoops down like a bird diving in for the kill and snatches up a folded piece of white paper. I find myself holding my breath, as does everyone else, and all I can do now is hope, hope, hope that it isn't me. It won't be me. It won't be me. It won't be me.
She opens her mouth, and speaks clearly into the microphone a first and a last name.
The dictates each syllable separately, clearly. "Thyme Willows," she calls, and my breath catches in my throat.
I feel myself freeze, and wonder when I will wake up. But then, every eye turns to me, and I know this has to be real.
I stiffen my lip and force myself to walk. My heartbeats still hammer in my chest, but now they hammer unevenly, uncomfortably.
Everyone goes silent, an upset look in their eyes as there always is when a twelve-year-old is picked.
With every eye of District 9 on me, I make my way, slowly, still half-frozen, to the stage, where Effie ushers me up to the girls' side. And then I'm there, standing where so many District 9 tributes stood before me, nearly every single one killed off by some murderous child from another district.
I barely hear it, but through my trance I hear another name – "Kurt Fields." The second tribute approaches the stage. I try to make myself calm down, focus, clear my head. I set my jaw and decide to think about what this means later, but for now, just… stay cool. Don't show weakness.
Kurt is about sixteen, maybe a little older. He has brown hair and brown eyes, but pale skin that's lighter than mine – I get a small tan from working outside every day.
I tell myself to stand straight, to look tough. I can't be scared. I won't. I refuse to show any fear.
I'll have plenty of time to show that later.
"Ladies and gentlemen – our tributes from District Nine!"