Fun Fact of the Chapter: Emily, the first tribute reaped, was also the first tribute submitted.

...

Emily Raine, District One

Everybody tells me I have it all.

I guess, from the outside, I do. Stunning looks. Lots of friends. Popularity. Boyfriends. Money. I've never had to work a day in my life. Heck, I've never even had to train for the Games, although I do know how to use a bow and arrow. I come from a long line of victors, and I have everything anyone could possibly want.

Except happiness.

It's selfish of me, I know. Some kids in the district would kill—quite literally—to be in my position. But I really can't see why.

Sure, my life is as "perfect" as it can get.

But it's not right for me.

I roll over onto my side, kicking the down comforter off the bed. Reaping Day morning. Ugh.

My uncle is always scared to death that one of the kids in the family will get reaped one of these days. I guess it makes sense—relatives of victors are more often reaped than not—but even so, some Career will no doubt volunteer before I can go to the Games. District One is full of them, and I'm only 14 years old, after all.

So today I'm more concerned with the fact that I have to wake up at 6:30 in the morning to get ready than the actual fear that I'll get chosen. 6:30. One of the more disappointing aspects of my already disappointing life.

I brush my hair out, an unusually easy task because of its silky texture, arranging it so it falls in golden cascades down my back. I slip on a gauzy dress that fades from orange to pink near the bottom, and slip on some matching high heels. District social standards mandate that I must dress up for the reaping, even more than I do usually. Don't know why—it's not like I'm going to the Capitol anyways.

My eyes rove around for a second and catch sight of the silver bow and quiver of arrows leaning against the wall in the back corner of the room. The only weapon I know how to use, but a formidable one. And, if I wanted to, I could probably kill with it...

I shake my head slowly, putting on a small smile. I'm not going into the Games. Not this year, not any year. I know of at least twenty girls dying to take that place, and it's a pretty large district, besides.

On a last-minute whim, I snatch the weapon from its spot and sling it over my shoulder before heading downstairs for breakfast.

"Are you bringing that to the Reaping?" says my brother Shade, nodding at my bow. "'Cause you can't, you know."

I roll my eyes.

"I tried," he continues. "One year. Got a beating from the local Peacekeepers. Not fun."

"What about the Careers?" I ask, slightly confused. "I mean, don't they bring weapons? For support and stuff?"

Shade snorts. "Oh, my naïve little nugget." He pats my head and I scowl. "Don't you know that Careering is still technically outlawed in the districts, and that being caught with a weapon means severe punishment or death?"

Shade's memorized the Peacekeeper's rulebook and constantly cites it, claiming that one day he'll convince the Capitol to let a District One-er take a job. Needless to say, he hasn't gotten it, which leaves him hanging around home and generally being a nuisance.

My whole family's a nuisance, actually. As well as all of my friends. Don't know why I bother to stick around...

I sigh and eat my breakfast—bacon and eggs, fresh from District Ten—and then we all get in the car and head for the Reaping. A car is a luxury even in District One, and swarms of impressed people crowd around it while we're trying to drive. I've gotten used to the stares.

My sisters and I sign in—Shade's too old for the Reaping, at 24—and I head off to the 14-year-olds section. Or more like it rushes up to greet me. I smile emptily and wave, flitting about from group to group, listening to people gush over my dress, gushing over other girls' dresses. It's almost as if the Social Butterfly Happy Perfect Emily is inhabiting my body while Normal Worried Depressed Loner Freak Emily sits back and sulks for a moment.

Just more proof to show that my life is pointless.

Eventually we settle down and listen to the mayor of the district greet us and read us the History of Panem. Earthquakes, floods, fires, genocides, the list goes on. Poor, poor Panem. Great, great Capitol.

Not that I don't like the Capitol, it's just...

Our escort, a plump lady in a sparkly orange dress and a lime green wig, introduces herself as "NERA VERONA!" and screeches, "HAPPY HUNGER GAMES, DISTRICT ONE, AND MAY THE ODDS BE EVER IN YOUR FAVOR!" I personally don't see why she has to scream everything at the top of her lungs; it gets annoying.

"Ladies first." She brings her voice down dramatically, to add suspense, I guess, as she walks delicately over to the bowl on the left and fishes out a slip.

"EMILY RAINE!"

...

Well, that was unexpected.

I walk up to the stage, putting on my most calm and collected face. Somebody's going to volunteer. Of course they will. This is District One.

"ANY VOLUNTEERS?" Her voice is loaded, she knows what's bound to happen next.

...

Wait a minute...

Where are the volunteers?

I scan the crowd for the twenty girls I was sure were at least going to try. They're all standing there in a group, watching me watch them. My eyes flicker over to the eighteen-year-old section, where many of the hopefuls will never have a chance to compete again. Nobody shows even a hint that they're going to spring forward.

"WELL, THEN." Nera looks as happy as a kid in a candy shop, twirling across the stage to shake my hand. "WE HAVE OUR TRIBUTE! EMILY RAINE, EVERYONE!" She looks at me a little closer. "YOU WOULDN'T BY ANY CHANCE BE RELATED TO SPARK RAINE, FIDELLA RAINE-THENN, OR ANY OF THE OTHER 'RAINE' VICTORS OF DISTRICT ONE, ARE YOU?"

I clear my throat, trying to keep calm. "Yes, yes I am."

She claps her hands together, walking over to the boys' bowl. "GOOD, GOOD, GOOD!"

I take in a deep breath. What the—what just happened? Were there actually no volunteers? Am I really a tribute? Am I seriously in the Hunger Games?

No, it can't be...

Nera picks a boy and reads out his name, and a vicious-looking 16-year-old volunteers for him, grinning widely like a shark. I don't bother to pay attention; I'm too busy processing what just happened.

And then it finally hits me.

I'm a tribute in the Hunger Games.

And I will most likely die.

Unhappily.

Nera calls for the boy tribute and me to shake hands while she reads something—no last-minute volunteers, much to my disappointment—and then we're off to the Justice Building.

My family comes and visits, awkwardly assuring me that I'll do great and that I'll come home, obviously trying to hide their fear. I tune out most of their encouragement.

After them, my uncle Spark rushes in frantically, telling me that he'll try to get the schedules mentor to switch so he can mentor me, muttering how he knew this would happen someday, and that he shouldn't have—something. I really don't pay attention to that, I'm still partially in shock.

Then comes a string of friends and acquaintances and boyfriends, all congratulating me and assuring me that I'll do great. I manage to gain control of myself for a moment and ask one of them, "Why didn't anybody volunteer?"

The friend, a girl named Malden who's been training since she was six, replies, "We were told not to, not if you or anybody from your family were reaped. Dunno why. Orders from the Capitol."

After everyone is gone, that remark rolls around in my head. I've been set up. The Capitol wants me to die, probably because of something Spark did.

It's not fair. It's not fair. It's not fair.

I board the train, laughing and waving and smiling and being pretty for the Capitol audience, feeling even more hollow than I was before.