Chapter Three: The Reaping

I've learned how to sleep through the distant purrs of the factories, but this time around, I close my eyes and do not drift off like usual. I try and try again though, like every year, and finally, sleep comes. However, sleep meant dreams, too, and the one I have is horrible.

It starts with the anthem of Panem, booming and larger than life. The kids eligible for the reaping are all line up in front of the stage. I see Nidle and Garett in their age group, but when I look over my area, it's only me and Iris standing. Vergil Wellwood appears, speaking in his snobbish Capitol accent. When he heads over to the glass ball and picks out a name, his voice is as clear as the first summer day: "Iris Trent!"

The ground below me starts to turn to mush, and I slowly sink. Iris starts walking towards the stage, an absolute dream in her red dress. Her face is etched with hardness. I call out her name, for her to wait for me, but no sound comes out of my mouth. As she walks, her feet leave behind footprints of blood—crimson blood that fills the air with a scent of burning cloth.

I am slowly sinking, doing nothing but scream voiceless screams and reach out my hands for her. Don't go, I yell, don't leave! When she climbs all the steps to the stage and rests besides Vergil Wellwood, Iris erupts into ash. With one last scream, the sky closes above me.

I wake up to Cliff's soft snores. My face is wet from crying from the nightmare. Is it even over now? I squeeze my pillow and pinch myself for good measure. Yes, it's over. Iris didn't get reaped, and I didn't sink in a pile of mush. Everything's alright.

For now, a nasty little voice whispers in my ear.

"Everything alright, Anya?" It's Mom. She's standing by the doorway. It's too dark to see what she looks like, but I now she has her worried face on.

I scratch my eyes. "Mom? Yeah. Just had a dream."

She walks silently over to my bed. In the moonlight, Mom looks younger. She's still beautiful, even with three kids and double shifts in the factories. Beautiful, like the stories about her go. The circles under her eyes have gotten smaller, that the Mom from two years before is nothing but a memory. She's still working hard, though, by the tired look on her face. I've told her not to work as hard as before, now that I help out with Cecelia, but she always tells me no, that we can't afford to rest in turmoil.

Mom pats me on the head gently. Her smile makes me feel comfort, though not enough to erase the nightmare completely from my head. "I can watch you until you sleep, if you like."

I shake my head but give her an embrace. Thank goodness she has meat on her body now. Everything seemed to go downhill the day Dad lost his legs, but we found a way out. We're still finding a way to live. "You need to rest, too. I'm sure the wardens will slave-drive us again after the reaping is done."

She kisses my forehead. "Come to me if you need anything, okay?"

I yawn. "Thanks, Mom."

I close my eyes, and this time, drift off to sleep easier than before. The dreams are running rampant, still. I dream of Weaver getting a hold of me, dragging me to the stage and forcing me to read out my name from the glass ball. I dream that Nidle is reaped, and before I have the chance to say goodbye to him, bombs rain down on District 8. The only solace in my dreams is the one where I relive my kiss with Garett, and later on, my kiss with Nidle. So many dreams and yet they all boil down to one thing: the reaping tomorrow.

By the time I wake up, breakfast is ready. The bed beside mine is empty, the sheets folded and the pillows propped. I can hear utensils clinking from outside. Everyone is already at the dining table, eating.

Mom adds a pinch of cinnamon to Bron's porridge. My younger brother wrinkles his nose. "Come on and eat, Anya."

I ruffle Cliff's hair before sitting on my chair. Dad greets me a good morning, and I greet him back. He is halfway done with his bowl of porridge, but his cup of tea sits undisturbed. "Did you get a good night's sleep?" He asks me. I know it's small talk, but I indulge him.

"Oh, the usual." I take a spoonful of porridge. It tastes bland even though Mom has probably put sugar in it. "Cliff snores so loud I have a hard time dreaming."

Cliff rolls his eyes. "Yeah, good morning too, Anya."

I wish every reaping morning would be like our usual mornings, where we banter with fun, tell stories from the previous days. But with the reaping looming over us, I cannot help but feel the banter we're having right now seems artificial.

Bron swirls his porridge with his spoon. "I hate tesserae."

Dad raises his eyebrows. "Well, your sister already got the share for the month. We can't let it go to waste."

Bron looks at me. "Cecelia gave you food yesterday, right?" He turns to Mom. "Can't we eat that today instead?"

Mom shakes her head. "We can't rely on everything Cecelia gives, Bron. We shouldn't abuse her kindness."

"And she's going to the Capitol, you dolt." Cliff tells him. I notice Dad look at him sternly at the word 'dolt.' "She won't be giving us food for a whole month."

Bron forces another spoonful of tesserae porridge in his mouth. "Boo." He grimaces after he's swallowed.

"You know what's cool, Bron?" I say. At the word 'cool,' his ears perk up. "If all the boys in your age group know that you like tesserae."

"But I hate tesserae!" He whines.

"As do most of them!" I point at him with my spoon. "But if they think you like tesserae, they're going to start thinking, 'Wow! Bron likes tesserae! He's so strong and brave for liking tesserae!'"

Cliff snorts. "Yeah, like that'll happen—" I kick him under the table. Mom hears the thud, and gives me a stern look.

"Trust me, Bron. All the cool boys in my grade like tesserae." Of course they don't. I don't even like tesserae myself. It's bland and scratchy when you eat it, but it helps our family get through. The last thing I want is Bron rejecting tesserae, even if it's the only thing left on our dinner table. "And people love them for it."

Without proposing another argument, Bron finishes the dreadful tesserae porridge. Dad gives me a grateful smile while Mom gives me a wink. We spend minutes talking. It's one of the things we get to actually do on Reaping Day, even if it does feel a little artificial. Cliff tells us how well he did on a test yesterday. Dad tells a story about a creature called a mermaid, half-fish and half-human.

Bron looks enticed. "Where'd you hear that?" He asks, his eyes wide as saucers.

Dad shrugs playfully. "From somewhere."

I have nothing to tell, so I pass on the baton to Mom. She tells us what happened at work yesterday, how one of the wardens liked the beadwork she'd done on a dress. Mom does great handiwork that some of the other workers ask her for lessons with it. You would think that in the factories it is the machines that do all the work, but nowadays, it's the rave in the Capitol to have hand-sewn items in their repertoire. Another hour passes with us just talking, laughing.

It's ten o'clock when Mom says, "Anya, you should take a bath. I'll lay out your clothes for you."

I don't object, even though I feel like vomiting the tesserae porridge out of my system. The nerves are working their way again. The walk to the bathroom is a short one, but this time, with my feet feeling like lead, it seems like I'm trying my hardest to get to the bathroom. When the water hits my skin, I shiver. I scrub hard to get the grime off my body, and wash my hair so it would smell nice. After all, Nidle might think of smelling me.

I enter the room as soon as I am done. Mom is there, laying out my clothes. She gingerly lays out a green dress on the bed. I've never seen it before, but I know it's not new. I've told Mom before not to buy me new clothes unless I really need them. We could use the money for other things, anyway. She looks up at me and says, "I'll come back when you're ready," before heading out and closing the door.

I feel like moving slower than usual, though I don't know why. After getting dressed in my undergarments, I sit down next to the dress. It's been ironed out, how it could've been I have the strangest desire to know. I focus on the details: it has long sleeves and the skirt would probably reach my knees if I wore it. I touch the dress and feel its softness in my fingertips. The skirt has pocket slits and on the waist are small belt loops. The neckline has small embroidered details: flowers and leaves and squiggly lines. All of a sudden, Iris' red dress comes to mind. That one really is beautiful, but this dress is beautiful in its own right.

I don't waste another minute. I wear it carefully. It fits like a dream. I don't need pins, or knots to make it fit on me. I roll up the sleeves until it stops at my arms, and the skirt stops at the middle of my knees. I twirl in front of the mirror, feeling elated and happy, until I remember what day it is, and the reason why I'm wearing such a beautiful dress. Reaping clothes. I am being happy over reaping clothes. A bitter taste rises in my throat.

Mom knocks on the door. "Ready?" I open it for her. When she sees me, she looks like she is going to cry. She cups my face in her hands gently. "You're so beautiful, Anya."

I smile sheepishly. "Thanks, Mom."

It's laughable how I look beautiful on the day where death lingers close to our homes. The thought makes me want to cry, but I manage to hold back my tears. I will not ruin Mom's good mood with my pity party.

"Let's fix your hair." She makes me sit on the bed and goes to work almost immediately. She combs it out gently. It feels as if she's massaging my scalp, too. "You've grown it out very well, dear." She says.

"You said once you liked long hair." I say. My hair doesn't grow that fast, though. It's taken years for me to get it this long, to the middle of my back. Mom ties it up in a higher-than-average ponytail, leaving a few strands loose to frame my face. When I look at the mirror, it's still me, although I must admit I am prettier. Nidle might just grow red in the face again. "Thanks, Mom. For fixing my hair. And the dress, too." I hear Dad and Cliff and Bron playing outside. Dad's laugh is definitely airy than before, in the early days of his accident. I'm so glad he can laugh like that now. I run my hands on the skirt of my dress. Only then do I realize what this truly is. "Was this your reaping dress?" I ask my mother softly.

She nods. "For the last three years of the reaping."

"Oh."

"Do you like the color? They call this shade avocado green."

"It's really beautiful."

"That dress was good luck for me." She smiles. She puts a hand on my shoulder. "It will be for you, too."

I want to tell her to not be so sure. But she's my mom, so I don't. "I bet it is." I smile.

There are tears forming in her eyes. I could feel my eyes growing hot. I don't want to see Mom cry. She puts a hand on my cheek and speaks, her voice firm and knowing and assuring. "You won't get reaped this year, Anya."

And I can't stop it anymore. A tear escapes. "But Mom," I say, my voice high and cracking, "I have thirty slips."

She takes me in her arms. Mom's embrace is warm, yet it doesn't make me feel safer. "The number of slips doesn't matter." Her voice is cracking too. She kisses me on the forehead. "Their odds won't be in your favor today."

I let myself believe her. After all, what's the point of trying to fight it? I'll just go along, like always, and blame the Capitol at the end of the day. I long for the day we won't be subjected to this kind of monstrosity anymore.

It is before noon when we head out. I'm in charge of wheeling Dad to the square. My brothers and I try to make him comfortable going down the ramp, but Cliff is being bossy.

"You need to do this!" He tells me. He sounds infuriated which makes me feel infuriated.

"No! He might fall that way!" I snap at him, and that's when Garett arrives.

"Need help?" He smiles.

"Thank you." I sigh. "Get out of the way, twerp." I tell my brother, and he does, with his tongue sticking out at me. Garett and I wheel Dad down the ground.

"Thanks, Garett." Dad says to him. "Is your father with you?"

"Yes," Garett replies. As if on cue, Killian appears. He offers to wheel Dad for me, and I accept. They're like best friends, the two of them. Mom holds Cliff and Bron by the hand. With this much people coming out of their houses, Mom would want the boys to stick to her side.

"You look nice." Garett tells me as we watch my family and his dad walk in front of us.

I have the stupid tendency to blush. "Thanks." I get a good look at him, too. He is wearing beige trousers and a light blue button-down shirt. The color of his shirt highlights his green eyes. Iris must've given the clothes to him. She knows how much this shade of blue looks good on Garett's skin. "You have a nice shirt."

He laughs, his dimples showing. "Iris picked it out. It's an old shirt of her dad's."

"Doesn't it feel weird? Wearing her dad's shirt?" I joke. I am actually amazed at how Garett and I managed to make things don't feel changed between us. Like that stormy day did not matter at all. Like it was just a part of my imagination.

This makes me think we're both good liars.

"It feels classy." He says.

We are close to the square when I Nidle comes up to my side. He is handsome in a simple white button-down shirt and khaki pants. His hair is pushed back, and out of the way of his blue eyes. Wait: is it just me, or did he look even more attractive after we kissed? I feel my cheeks flush, and when I tell him hi, it sounds more like a squeak rather than a confident greeting. I still try to play it cool, because Garett is watching.

"You did wear something nice," he says in his normal tone. I raise my eyebrows. Has he forgotten about what happened yesterday? Ugh, I feel sick. Embarrassed, really, but sick too. "Hey, Garett."

"Hey." Garett greets back.

My defense mechanism kicks in. "I'm not wearing this for you, stupid."

"Don't be so modest, Anya." He laughs, and we reach the square.

There are more peacekeepers today, littered all around the square. The Justice Building has been decorated with the lavish gold and red colors of Panem banners. It's laughable how the Capitol decorates the whole area to make it feel like an actual festivity rather than an execution block. The stage has been set up, and so has the rope that will fence us off from our families and the ones not eligible for the reaping. Dozens of kids are already lined up to get their blood drawn. A nauseating feeling in my stomach starts to form.

Garett leans towards us. "Happy Hunger Games." He says with a strained smile.

"Happy Hunger Games." Nidle and I say together. Nidle and Garett tell me their see-you-laters, and head off to the long table where the other peacekeepers draw blood. Before I can take a step towards the table for the girls' area, someone touches me on the shoulder. It's Mom, with a pained look on her face. She's trying to conceal it with a smile, and the outcome is horrible.

I can't bear to look at her anymore. "I'll see you later." I grunt as I head towards the table.

Afterwards, when my blood is drawn, I am herded into the line of female sixteen-year-olds, two age groups away from the stage. Unlike last year, I can see the stage more clearly now. Above it is a large television screen where the emblem of Panem dances. There are five chairs set up on the stage, and I know who they are for: one for the mayor, three for our three living victors, and one for the district escort. I remember our conversation at Iris' yesterday: what will Vergil Wellwood look like this year?

The large clock of the Justice Building says that it is fifteen minutes from one o'clock. That's when they start taking the stage, our victors. Woof, dressed in a simple dark blue suit, comes up, escorted by Cecelia. Woof's not as strong and sharp as he used to be. He's now a senile victor, but a victor nonetheless. Cecelia has to help him take a seat, too. Dad said once that it's a miracle that Woof is still alive. The age expectancy of our district doesn't go beyond seventy, seventy-five on a good day.

The most recent victor for our district, Zander Brean, takes the seat next to the mayor's. I only see him on days when Cecelia cooks this awesome soup of hers, and I find him to be pretty stoic. Cecelia says that Zander doesn't like interacting with many people, and that he chooses his friends carefully so he can count them on one hand. The people don't tire of him, though. He's still considered a hero in our town.

As soon as they are seated, Cecelia leans over to Zander and whispers something to him. From where I am standing, I see him smile in response.

I look over to my sides. All of the girls in my line look grim. We've had these looks ever since our eligibility for the reaping began. Not only because of the 'solemnity' of the ceremony, but mainly because of our impending doom, like soot filling the sky. I sigh and look at the pavement beneath me.

It takes a few minutes more before Iris squeezes herself next to me. "Happy Hunger Games." She breathes, before sucking in air to catch her breath. She's wearing the red dress which compliments her pale complexion and her brown hair which is tied up in an intricate bun. Us girls in the line probably look like washerwomen compared to her. I force back a smile and set my attention back to the stage.

Mayor Trent comes out of the Justice Building, and strides to the podium. He greets us all a pleasant afternoon when he reaches the microphone, and then begins his monotonous speech. The sound of his voice makes me want to yawn, but I distract myself by trying to peek over at Nidle's and Garett's line without giving too much away. The video of Panem's history begins playing on the huge screen, and that's when I hear a slight change to the mayor's voice: an addition of disgust. It's not easy to notice, but it's there. When a montage of the previous Hunger Games plays, I look at the floor. Will I be in the montage next year? I really hope not. I cannot help but feel disgust as well. "This is how we remember our past. This is how we safeguard our future."

He starts reading off of the list of the past victors of 8—some of them gone, some of them here, like Woof, Cecelia, and Zander, when Iris whispers under her breath. "Almost there."

"Vergil Wellwood, the escort of District Eight." He ends off, and a man with a poufy blue wig walks up to the stage, a big grin on his face.

"Happy Hunger Games!" The escort bellows. I take in how different he looks from last year, with the blue wig and pale, white skin, as white as a Peacekeeper's uniform. None of our guesses from our conversation from yesterday were right, but he stills looks horrifying. The only thing that remains recognizable from him is his face, but even that isn't enough to make him look normal. "Citizens of District Eight, welcome to the reaping for the Sixty-ninth Hunger Games!" He claps with so much fervor that several of the citizens join us. Maybe they don't want him to be embarrassed. I give a limited amount of claps: two or three at most.

"This year will be wonderful. I just know it." His voice is low and husky, something that would've been attractive if he just didn't look so weird. "Let's begin, shall we?" He strides over to the large, glass ball filled with thousands of slips. I can feel my heart falling faster and faster by the minute. "Ladies first." His tone is darker by then, kind of menacing. He digs his hand deep into the bowl and starts fishing for a name.

I close my eyes. How many slips did I have again? Thirty? And how many does Iris have again? Five? I want to laugh at how pathetic this all seems, how certain death can be determined by just a single slip. But still, there are so many slips that I start to wonder that maybe Cecelia and Mom are right: I won't get reaped. I'm wearing Mom's lucky dress, for good measure too. To be on the safe side, maybe I won't even get reaped at all. Maybe I can live past eighteen and start a family of my own, with Nidle perhaps. We would get married, live in a tenement of our own, have kids… Kids! Having kids would mean subjecting them to the horrors of the Games. I don't think I can have that. And would Nidle even make a great parent? He couldn't even be honest about his feelings with me until yesterday! Who's to say that he would indeed make a great father—

"No." Iris says so loudly that I almost jump. I haven't even realized how lost I was in my thoughts! I look around to see if someone has finally been picked, only to see people looking at me, their faces either plainly unknowing, or horrified. I turn to Iris to ask if I say something out loud.

But I didn't. Vergil Wellwood did.

"Anya Sowe!" He calls out again. In a flash of confusion, I look at the huge screen to see my own face staring back at me.

The flash of confusion disappears.

I have been reaped.

I've been reaped.

It surprises me how easily I can still breathe. Inhale, exhale. I can still hear Iris saying the word 'no' beside me when I start walking towards the four Peacekeepers that are waiting to escort me to the stage. Then, I am only conscious of the sounds of my steps on the pavement, the creak of the wooden floorboards when I step on them to get to the stage, to be set beside blue-haired Vergil Wellwood. My defense mechanism kicked in the moment I realized what was happening. I hear things, but I am filtering out the voices. From somewhere, I can hear Mom sobbing. She sounds so far away. Like, a few blocks away from the stage.

My knees are shaking, I can feel it. It feels like an earthquake is happening, or the sensation I get when I run too much and stand for a few more minutes instead of sitting down immediately. My throat has long gone dry. My hands are balled into fists. I am staring at the people below and beyond me. There's Lacey, the female bully from school who always spoke her mind about my friendship with Iris. She's jealous of us, that little bitch. I guess she's not jealous of me anymore.

There's Iris, sticking out like a sore thumb amongst a palette directly the opposite of red. She looks terrified. My eyes wander over to the boys' side. It's not too long before I see Weaver, his face still swollen from Nidle's punch. In the line before him is Garett who is looking at me, mouth slightly open, and then there's Nidle. Handsome, stupid Nidle, glaring at me with furrowed brows, as if he's asking me, "And what do you think you're doing there?" Like it's a sin to be here, on the stage, looking at him.

I can't even say sorry to him. My defense mechanism has left me passive. I can't cry even if I want to. I can't force the tears to come.

A warm palm touches my back. "How old are you, Miss Sowe?" Vergil asks.

The steadiness in my voice surprises me. How I can still think clearly leaves me baffled. "Sixteen."

"Glorious," he simply says, and he begins to walk to the glass ball filled with the slips of the males. "Are there any volunteers to take the place of Anya Sowe right here?" No one raises their hands, not even Iris. Of course, no one would volunteer for me. No one in 8 sees going into the Games as an act of honor: all that's there is death. But I still look at Iris, anticipating the moment when she would raise her hand. "Looks like I get to keep the beauty this year." Vergil chuckles.

"And now," he speaks in the same menacing tone before, "for the boys."

I want to laugh at myself. What was I thinking? Of course, there's no way Iris would volunteer for me. No matter how deep a friendship is, the Games can go ahead and destroy it. I've seen that story played out so many times now that I should consider it a foreign concept. It breaks my heart, but I understand. At the very least, I have to understand.

"Garett Stear!" Vergil announces.

I take it all back. I don't understand anything at all.

Garett doesn't need to hear his name again. Standing straight, he heads over to the custody of the peacekeepers and calmly walks towards the stage. It's as if he's been called to accept a medal of valor instead of being called to die. It's only when he reaches the stage do I grasp the whole situation.

I want to scream. Why me? Why him? Why us?

Vergil asks his age, and he says sixteen. No kids want to take his place, same as me. Not even Nidle. From my eyes, it seems like betrayal, not one of them standing up for us, but I have to forgive. I feel weak. Mom lied to me. Her dress isn't good luck at all. Cecelia lied too. She said everything's was going to be okay. They're all liars.

From faraway, it sounds like the mayor is reading the Treaty of Treason. When he is done, Garett and I are urged to shake hand by the district escort.

I've held this hand before. The familiarity of his grip makes me realize how stupid all of this is. How cruel all of this is. I manage to look Garett in the eye. He looks straight back at me. He doesn't say a word but I know what he's telling me.

"The odds were in our favor today."