The thing that creeps me most about the morning of the reaping is how quiet it is. No hustle and bustle of heavy footsteps outside. No kids crying from hunger. The reaping isn't until two. May as well sleep in. If you can.
"Ready for breakfast?" Mom asks, starting into the kitchen in her newly-patched apron. "I've got a surprise for you."
I nod silently, and she disappears into the pantry. She comes back a minute later carrying an entire loaf of bread. She's on the other side of the house but the buttery aroma makes my mouth flood with saliva. For several moments I'm stunned into silence.
"Where'd you get that?" I finally find the voice to say, incredulous.
"From Mrs. Landers. She burnt a batch of bread and left all of the blackened loaves outside for people to take. This was the last one she had."
"God bless her."
Mom nods slowly in agreement, then sits down on the couch, letting out the groan I've heard her make every day of my life. My usual reaping nerves must be nothing compared to what she's experiencing.
"Don't worry," I say. It's a hollow attempt at reassurance, but I figure it's better than nothing. "I'm not going to get reaped."
"Double the tributes, though," Mom says, almost tearing up. "I can't lose you. I'd die if anything happened to you."
I'm just about to give her a hug when she walks slowly out of the room. At first I hear the slightest of sniffles, and then the gasping and shaking of a torrent of tears. I consider trying to comfort her, but decide against it. Sometimes people just need to be alone.
"How's it hanging?" Carlo asks as we step into the line together. Of course, he knows exactly how it's hanging, and so do I. It's as though a thick mist has settled over the district, even stronger than the usual cloud of coal dust if that's even possible. But this kind of fog weighs down on the spirit, not the lungs.
"Fine," I lie. "Tired, though. I stayed up all night finishing the history project."
"Next!" the peacekeeper shouts from up ahead. A thin, meek-looking twelve year-old scampers out of line, and my feet move me a few feet forward.
I rock slightly back and forth, my stomach leaping inside of me. A cold sweat cakes my forehead, growing thicker and colder whenever the line moves. Finally, Carlo and I reach the front.
"Finger," he growls.
I hold out the finger and all I feel is a sharp trill of pain before it's all over. He smears the red splotch onto a small white card. I know Carlo is terrified of needles, and I pat him on the back when the needle enters his finger and his face crinkles up. The last thing we need is more terror.
Carlo and I sprint off together, in complete silence this time, both too terrified for words.
It feels like a million years have passed before Midnight Lacie steps onto stage, garbled stupidly in a long black gown scattered with gold sequins.
"She looks like a cow," Carlo whispers.
The nearest peacekeeper shoots us a nasty look when we both burst out laughing.
Midnight gives a not-so-short introductory remark and then steps to the side. Suddenly a holographic screen shimmers into existence and the video about the Dark Days starts playing. It's the first time true, visceral terror sets in. Like a rabid animal in my gut. Wrenching, squirming. Me and all of the other boys are trembling like leaves. My feet shake and little fleeting shivers run down my spine. I think back to yesterday's cafeteria incident with Maysilee and Esther. It's terrifying to think that was just yesterday, but it's even more terrifying to think that four of the kids in that cafeteria are going to be gone tomorrow and chances are very good they aren't going to be coming back.
The mayor of District 12 comes onto stage next, reading off of a note card in the most robotic voice I've ever heard. This is both a time for repentance and a time for thanks, he intones.
"And now for the moment you've all been waiting for!" Midnight Lacie squeals, clapping her hands over her head. "The time to select four of you lot to represent District 12 in the second Quarter Quell! Who's excited?"
Dead silence.
"Let's try that again. Who's excited?"
A kid I recognize bursts into tears. Fortunately, Midnight doesn't press it any further. She zips toward the girls' reaping bowl and draws a single slip of paper. The girls across the square are crying or hugging or squirming or just staring at the stage with wide, tired eyes.
"Maysilee Donner!"
My initial reaction is shock, the kind of shock that overshadows any other emotion your brain can conjure. Maysilee. Maysilee Donner is going into the Hunger Games. The crowd parts to create a circular clearing around the trembling girl, as though her misfortune is a disease they might catch. Two of her friends rush to her side and try to console her, but she just shakes them away, an icy-cold kind of hatred and determination in her eyes. Maysilee dashes the stage and I can't stop myself staring straight into her eyes despite my attempts to avert them.
Midnight dives into the usual post-reaping banter, asking Maysilee a bunch of random questions about her life and how she feels now that she knows she'll be going into the games. She just answers concisely, and I can't help but admire her tenacity. I already know she'll never let the cameras see her as weak.
Midnight approaches the girls' ball and draws a second name, and once more the square lapses into terrified silence, like glass that's under pressure and might shatter at the slightest touch.
"Valentina Silver!"
A younger girl's screams immediately pierce the silence, and two peacekeepers have grabbed her by either side before she can try to run. Valentina kicks and punches, but she's far too weak to overpower the peacekeepers and she finally resigns to her fate, crying softly to herself as the peacekeepers tug her to the stage.
After that it's time for the boys, and an even stronger wave of dread crashes into my throat, like poisonous acid building up in my stomach. Every part of my body feels far heavier than usual, like I'm on a planet with much stronger gravity. The square draws in a collective breath when Midnight draws the name of the first boy, and I'm praying and hoping and begging that it's not me, not me, not me.
"Steer Peterson!"
A boy mere meters to my left stamps his foot with frustration, then looks around at the staring faces and bolts to a ramrod straight position, as though trying to act as normal as possible, as though he can blend into the crowd so much he'll remain unseen. But he's already been noticed and it's hopeless to try and dodge his fate. Steer starts sadly to the stage. As he climbs the steps, he glances between Maysilee and Valentina, and something passes between their eyes like a mutual sadness that I can't put into words.
Midnight approaches the boys' bowl once more, and my heart rattles so loud I swear I can hear it. Blood thumps in my ears and something's weighing down on my chest.
I take a deep breath. The odds that that slip of paper contains my name are slim to none. In only a few minutes I'll be back home finishing my breakfast and talking to Mom. Tomorrow I'll go to school like normal.
"Haymitch Abernathy!"
My voice sounds weird through the speakers. For the first few seconds I'm completely still, having been punched in the gut by an invisible hand. Then the terror sets in, cold and squirming. No, no, no! How? Why? But there's no time for questions. My feet are moving ten seconds before my brain has time to catch up and before I know it I'm on the stage.
"I give you the tributes of District 12: Maysilee Donner, Valentina Silver, Steer Peterson, and Haymitch Abernathy! May the odds be ever in your favor!"
The sick thing is that a few people clap.
