By his name I'm assuming who he is, even though I've never spoken to who owns it, he's the brother of the boy I gave bread to, Gale Hawthorne. He's just twelve. He looks so innocent with his black hair falling like a waterfall over his forehead and his pail skin and big brown eyes. He doesn't look much like his brothers or sister. He looks the least like his brother Gale.
Somewhere far away, I can hear the crowd murmuring unhappily as they always do when a twelve-year-old gets chose, no one thinks is fair. His hands are clenched in fists at his sides, walking stiff, small steps up toward the stage, passing all of us.
"Rory" Gale cries out. He doesn't need to shove through the crowd. The other kids are making way immediately allowing him to walk in a straight to the stage.
Before he could get to his brother the guards block his way, but he fight's to get pass them.
"I volunteer" he gasps "I volunteer as tribute"
There's confusion on stage. District 12 hasn't had a volunteer in decades and the protocol became rusty. The rule is that once a tribute's name has been pulled from the glass ball, another eligible boy, if a boy is chosen, or girl, if a girl's be chosen he or she takes his or her place. In other districts volunteering is a great honor and so is the reaping, people are willing to risk their lives. But here in this district, District 12, where the word tribute is pretty much synonymous with the word corpse, volunteers are nothing else but extinct from history.
"Lovely!" says Effie Trinket
Rory is screaming hysterically behind Gale. He wrap's his arms around his brother like a vice. "No Gale! Don't! You can't go!"
"Rory let go" He says harshly "Let Go"
He turns around and Katniss has lifted Rory off the ground and he's trashing in his arms. "I've got 'im" she tries to keep steady and then takes him towards his mother. He steels himself and climbs the steps.
"Well, bravo!" Gushes Effie Trinket "That's the spirit of the Games! " She's pleased to finally have a district with a bit of action. "What's your name?"
"Gale Hawthorne" He swallows hard
"I'd bet my life that was your little brother. Don't want him to steal all the glory, do we?
What glory, I think. You call glory getting thrown in an arena with twenty three more kids to kill each other to death
"Come on, everybody! Let's give a big round of applause to our newest tribute!" Warbles Effie Trinket.
To the eternal credit of the people of District 12, not one person claps. Not even the one holding betting slips, the ones who are usually beyond caring. So instead of acknowledging the applause, he stands there unmoving while they take part in the boldest form of dissent they can manage, silence. This says, we do not agree, we do not condone. All of this is completely wrong.
"What an exciting day!" she quavers as she attempts to get back our attention "But more excitement to come! It's time to choose our other tribute!" clearly hoping to contain our tenuous excitement. She crosses to the glass ball containing the names and grabs the first slip she encounters. She zips back to the podium. I didn't have time to wish for my safety, I was too distracted by what Gale had done, and I bet everyone was, when she's reading the name. "Peeta Mellark"
Peeta Mellark.
The name bounced back and forth in my head, everyone looked at me. There's been some mistake, my name's been there only four times, Gale had more chances of getting chosen and he didn't. This is all wrong, no not me. The odds are on neither of our favor, now he has to fight against the boy that saved him from starving. Now, I have to fight against the boy that I saved from starving.
I was trying to exhale and inhale, I tried to remember how to breathe. My name was still stuck in my head as I walked towards the stage. I could feel all the eyes were on me. Yet I climb steadily onto the stage and take my place.
Effie Trinket asks for volunteers, but no one steps forward. I have two brothers, but one is too old to volunteer and my other brother is a wimp even though he's older than me but he won't volunteer. If my dad could I know he would've done it. I can see him being hold back by my mother and tears coming out of his eyes. That's when I came back to my feet.
Why him? I think. The odds are in neither of our favor today. Not in his favor because I'm the boy that gave him bread, and he's the boy I have bread, I practically saved him from starving. Now, we'll have to kill each other to death in the arena.
It doesn't matter. I try to convince myself. Gale Hawthorne and I are not friends. Not even neighbors. Our only real interaction happened years ago. The day of the bread, but I bet he doesn't remember, but I always will….
To this day, I can never shake the connection between this boy, Gale Hawthorne, and the bread that gave him hope. And a couple of time, I have turned and looked at him in the school hallway and caught his eye trained on me, only quickly hover away. Maybe he thinks he owes me something, I hate when people owe me, unless is important, or when I owe people. Maybe if he'd had thank me by this point, I'd be feeling better, and he would too, if he remembers and if he feels like he owes me. Because we're going to be thrown in an arena to fight to death, it's going to be hard. How am I supposed to ask him if remembers about the bread, exactly.
The mayor finishes his monotonous Treaty of Treason and mention for Gale and me to shake hands. His are scratchy and warm, must be from hunting, but even though I can feel collateral of what he wants. Gale looks at me right in the eye, I can see that his eye are really gray, and gives me reassured squeeze. Maybe it's because is just a nervous spasm.
We turn back to face the crowd as the anthem of Panem plays.
Oh, well, I think. There'll be twenty-four of us. Odds are someone else will kill him before I do.
Of course, the odds have not been very dependable of late.
The moment the anthem ends, we are taken into custody. Not handcuffed or anything like it, but a group of Peacekeepers marches us through the front door of the Justice Building. Maybe tributes have tried to flee before. I've never seen it before though.
Once inside, I'm escorted to a room left alone. It's the fanciest place I've been in, with thick, deep carpets and a velvet couch and chairs. I know velvet because my mother has a dress with a collar made of the stuff. When I sit on the couch, it can't help running my fingers over the fabric repeatedly. It helps to calm me as I try to prepare for the next hour. The time earmarked for the tributes to say goodbye to their loved ones. I cannot afford to get upset, to leave this room with stilted eyes and a red nose. Crying is not an option. There will be more cameras at the train station.
My brothers and my mother come first. I reach out to Delver and Malzin they hug me, my arms their necks, head between them, just like I did when I was a toddler. My mother sits beside us and wraps her arms around us. For a few minutes, we say nothing. Then I start telling them all the things they must remember to do.
Malzin is not to take any tesserae. They can get by, if they're careful, on selling cakes, brads and cookie dough I left on the ovens this morning, before coming. Delver will get her the cookies, Malzin the breads, and my mom and dad the cakes but they must be very careful to make them because people are strict and want things how they want. And also to use the recipes I left on the counter on top of the oven with the breads.
When I am done with instructions about the recipes and baking, and working well and staying in school, I turn to Delver and grip his arm, hard. "Listen to me. Are you listening to me?" He nods, alarmed by my intensity. This is the first time I've ever spoken to him like this, but there's always a first time for everything, and this is it. I know he won't bear to live if something happens to me. He must know what's coming. "You can't leave," I say.
My brother's eyes find the floor. "I know. I won't"
"Well, you have to help it this time; you can't clock out and leave my mom, dad and Malzin by themselves, they'll need you more than ever if they lose me. It doesn't matter what happens, whatever you see on the screen. You have to promise me you'll fight through it!" My voice has risen to a shout. In it is all the anger.
"We'll be all right, Peeta," says Delver, clasping my face in his hands. "But you have to take care, too. You're strong and brave. Maybe you can win."
I can't win. Delver must know that in his heart. The competition will be far beyond my abilities. Kids from wealthier districts, where winning is a huge honor, who've been trained their whole lives for this. There are boys who are two to three times my size and girls who know twenty different ways to kill you with a knife. Oh, there'll be people like me, too, people to weed out before the real fun begins.
"Maybe," I say, because I can hardly tell my mother to carry on if I've already given up myself. Besides, it isn't in my nature to go down without a fight, even when things seem insuperable. "Then we'd be rich as Haymitch."
"I don't care if we're rich. I just want you to come home. You will try really, really try?" Delver sounds deep.
"Really, really try. I swear it," I say. And I know, because of prim, I'll have to.
And then the peacekeeper is at the door, signaling our time is up, and we're all hugging one another so hard it hurts and all I'm saying is "I love you. I love you." And they're saying it back and then the peacekeeper orders them out and the door closes. I grab one of the velvet pillows and throw it against the doors, releasing out my anger.
Someone else enters the room, and when I look up, I'm surprised to see it's the baker, my father. But we do know each other a lot and he knows how I feel. I just run and hug him like there's no tomorrow
Dad sits awkwardly on the edge of one of the plush chairs. He's big, broad-shouldered man with burn scars from years at the ovens. He pulls a white paper package from his jacket pocket and holds it out to me. I open it and find cookies. These are a luxury we can't get the cookies we make, it's forbidden.
"Thank you," I say. Today he has no words at all. "Thanks dad." He nods. "You know no one can know about this, right?" I ask. He shrugs as if it couldn't possibly matter.
I just run to him and hug him. "Dad, no matter what happens, no matter what you see on screen" I sob "You'll all be strong and get over it, promise you'll let go"
He nods, I look at him "I promise" he cries.
"Listen," he says. "Getting a knife should be pretty easy, but you've got to get your hands on a spear. That's your best chance."
"They don't always have spears," I say, thinking of the year there were only horrible spiked maces that the tributes had to bludgeon one another to death with.
"Then make one," says my dad. "Even a poor spear is better than nothing."
I have tried copying my father's spears, the one he has in case of an emergency. Although of years of watching him I end up with poor results. It's not that easy. Even he had to scrap his own work sometimes.
"I don't even know if there'll be wood to make them," I say. Another year, they tossed everybody into a landscape of nothing but boulders and sand and scruffy bushes. I particularly hated that year. Many contestants were bitten by venomous snakes or went insane from thirst.
"There's almost always some wood," he says.
"Yes, there's usually some," I say.
"Son, it's just like hunting. You have the best aiming, your good at that, use your weapon, your strong too," he looks into my eyes
"It's not just like hunting. They're armed. They think," I say.
"You know how to kill." He says
"Not people, not animals, all I've ever shot are dummies you've made" I say.
"How different can it be, really?" he says grimly..
The peacekeepers are back too soon and dad asks for more time, but they're taking him away and I start to panic. "Dad, I love you, get over what you see!" I cry out, clinging to his hand.
"I'll try! You know I will son, remember I —" he says, and they rip us apart and slam the door and I'll never know what it was he wanted me to remember.
My next guest is also unexpected. Madge walks straight to me. She is not weepy or shuffling, instead there's urgency about her tone that surprises me. "They let you wear one thing from your district in the arena. One thing to remind you of home, will you wear this?" She holds out the circular gold pin that was on her dress. I see it's a small bird in flight.
"It's your pin?" I say. Wearing a token from my district is about the last thing on my mind.
"Here, I'll put it on your shirt, all right?" Madge doesn't wait for an answer; she just leans in and fixes the bird to my top. "Promise you'll wear it into the arena, Peeta?" She asks. "You promise?"
"Yes," I say. Cookies, a pin, I'm getting all kinds of gifts today. Madge gives me one more. A kiss on the cheek then she's gone and I'm left thinking that maybe Madge really has been a friend all along.
The trip to the train station from the justice building is terse. I've never been in a car before, rarely even ridden in wagons. In the seam, we travel on foot.
Gale Hawthorne, on the other hand, has obviously been crying and interestingly enough does not seem to be trying to drape it up. I immediately wonder if this will be his strategy in the games, to appear weak and frightened, to reassure the other tributes that he is no competition at all, and then come out fighting. This worked very well for a girl, Yojana Maysen, from District 7 a few years back. She seemed like such a sniveling, cowardly fool that no one bothered about her until there were only a handful of contestants left. It turned out she could kill viciously, pretty clever, the way she played it.
The speed initially steals my breath away. Of course, I've never been on a train, as travel between the districts is forbidden except for officially sanctioned duties. For us, that's mainly transporting coal. But this is no ordinary coal train. It's one of the high-speed capitol models that average 250 mph. Our journey to the capitol will take less than a day. In school, they tell us the capitol was built in a place once called the Rockies. District 12 was in a region known is Appalachia. Even hundreds of years ago, they mined coal here, this why our miners have to dig so deep.
The tribute train is fancier than even the room in the justice building. We are each given our own chambers that have a bedroom, a dressing area, and a private bathroom with hot and cold running water. We don't have hot water at home, unless we boil it. There are drawers filled with fine clothes, and Effie Trinket tells me to do anything I want, wear anything I want, everything is at my disposal. Just be ready for supper in an hour. I peel off my father's blue shirt and pants and decide to take a hot shower. I've never had a shower before. It's like being in a summer rain, only warmer. I dress in a dark green shirt and pants. At the last minute, I remember Madge's little gold pin. For the first time, i get a good look at it. It's as if someone fashioned a small golden bird and then attached a ring around it. The bird is connected to the ring only by its wing tips. I suddenly recognize it. It's a mockingjay.
Effie Trinket comes to collect me for supper. I follow her through the narrow, rocking corridor into a dining room with polished paneled walls. There's a table where all the dishes are highly breakable. Gale sits waiting for us, the chair next to him empty.
"Where's Haymitch?" asks Effie trinket brightly.
"Last time I saw him, he said he was going to take a nap," says Peeta.
"Well, it's been an exhausting day," says Effie trinket. I think she's relieved by Haymitch's absence, and who can blame her?
The supper comes in courses. A thick carrot soup, green salad, lamb chops and mashed potatoes, cheese and fruit, a chocolate cake. Throughout the meal, Effie Trinket keeps reminding us to save space because there's more to come. But I'm stuffing myself because I've never had food like this, so good and so much, and because probably the best thing I can do between now and the games is put on a few pounds.
"At least, you two have decent manners," says Effie as we're finishing the main course. "The pair last year ate everything with their hands like a couple of savages. It completely upset my digestion."
The pair last year was two kids from the seam who'd never one day of their lives, could fill their bellies. And when they did have food, table manners were surely the last thing on their minds. Me, I'm a baker's son. I bet Gale's mother taught him, his brothers and sister table manners, so yes, he looks like he can handle a fork and knife. But Effie Trinket's comments so much I make a point of eating the rest of my meal with my fingers disturb me. Then I wipe my hands on the tablecloth. This makes her purse her lips tightly together. Now that the meal's over, I'm fighting to keep the food in my stomach. I can see Gale's looking a little green, too. Neither of our stomachs is used to such rich fare. But if I can hold down my dad's week old food concoction of cookies, and breads, I'm determined to hang on to this.
We go to another compartment to watch the recap of the reapings across Panem. They try to stagger them throughout the day so a person could conceivably watch the whole thing live, but only people in the capitol could really do that, since none of them have to attend reapings themselves. One by one, we see the other reapings, the names called, the volunteers stepping forward or, more often, not. We examine the faces of the kids who will be our competition. A few stand out in my mind. There's a monstrous boy who lunges forward to volunteer from district 2, a Fox-faced girl with sleek red hair from district 5, a boy with a crippled foot from district 10, and most hauntingly, a twelve-year-old girl from district 11. She has dark brown skin and eyes. Only when she mounts the stage and they ask for volunteers, all you can hear is the wind whistling through the decrepit buildings around her. There's no one willing to take her place. Last of all, they show district 12, Rory being called, Gale running forward to volunteer. My name's drawn, and I quietly take my place. We shake hands. They cut to the anthem again, and the program ends. Effie Trinket is disgruntled about the state her wig was in.
"You sure know how to make a good presentation, especially while televised." Effie unexpectedly laughs.
"He was drunk," says Gale. "He's drunk every year."
"Every day," I add. I can't help smirking a little. Effie trinket makes it sound like Haymitch just has somewhat rough manners that could be corrected with a few of her advices.
"Yes," hisses Effie Trinket. "How odd you two find it amusing. You know your mentor is your lifeline to the world in these games, the one who advises you, lines up your sponsors, and dictates the presentation of any gifts. Haymitch can well be the difference between your future and your end!"
Just then, Haymitch staggers into the compartment. "I miss supper?" He says in a dragged voice. Then he yields all over and falls in the mess.
"So laugh away!" says Effie Trinket. She hops in her pointy shoes around the pool of vomit and flees the room.