UPDATE! I'm glad that y'all liked chapter one, and the reviews I've gotten are prompting me to continue with it. Enjoy!
Chapter Two
One time, when I was blind in a tree, waiting motionless for game to wander by, I dozed off and fell ten feet to the ground, landing on my back. It was as the impact knocked every wisp of air from my lungs, and I lay there struggling to inhale, to exhale, to do anything.
That's how I feel now, trying to remember how to breathe, unable to speak, totally stunned as my sister's name bounce around inside my head. I feel somebody gripping my arm. It's a boy from the Seam, and I think maybe I started to fall and he caught me.
There must be some sort of mistake. It can't be Angela. Her name is in there once. Only once. Out of thousands of names, entered multiple times, only a dozen are entered just once, hers one of them. These names are supposed to have the best chances of being ignored. Yet, my sister's name has been called.
How can that be?
Somewhere far away, I can hear the crowd murmuring unhappily as they always do when a twelve-year-old gets chosen, thinking it unfair. And then I see her, the blood drained from her face, hands clenched so tight her knuckles are white with the pressure, taking stiff, small steps towards the stage. As she walks by us, I can see that her blouse has become untucked in the back, once more. It's this detail, the untucked blouse forming a ducktail that brings me back to myself.
"Ange!" I call out, or try to. The word gets stuck in my throat on the first try. I clear my throat and call out again. "Ange! Angela!" I begin moving through the crowd, not needing to shove as each and every person makes way for me, knowing that I am this unfortunate little girl's sister. I reach her just as her foot lands on the first step. I pull her behind me, protectively.
"I volunteer!" I gasp. "I volunteer as tribute!"
There's some confusion on the stage. District 12 hasn't had a volunteer in decades and the protocol has become rusty. The rule is that once a tribute's name has been picked, another eligible boy or girl may volunteer to take said tribute's place in the games. In some districts, in which winning the reaping is such a great honor, people are eager to risk their lives. But in District 12, where the word tribute is pretty synonymous with the word corpse, volunteers are all but extinct.
"Marvelous!" Daisy exclaims. "But I believe there's the small matter of introducing the reaping winner and then asking for volunteers, and then if one does come forth then we, um..." she trails off, unsure herself.
"What does it matter?" says the mayor. He's looking at me with a pained expression on his face. He doesn't know me really, but there's a faint recognition there. I am the girl that sells him strawberries from the forest. The girl that his daughter, Rebecca, might have spoken of on occasion. He girl who, five years ago, stood huddled with her mother and sister, as he presented her, the oldest child, with a medal of valor. A medal for her father, vaporized in the mines. Does he remember that? "What does it matter?" he repeats gruffly. "Let her come forward."
Angela is screaming hysterically now. She wraps her arms around my waist from behind. "No, Temperance! No! You can't go!"
"Angela, let go." I say, harshly, because this is upsetting me and I don't want to cry. When they televise the reaping tonight, everybody will make note of my tears and I'll be marked as an easy target. A weakling. I will give no one that satisfaction. "Let go!"
I can feel somebody pulling her from my back. I turn to see Sully standing there, a writing Angela in his arms, fighting her way back to me. She trashes in his arms like a toddler, but he simply smiles at me. "Up you go, Temper." he says, brightly but I can see the unshed tears in his eyes. I turn away from him and make my ascent up the stairs to the stage.
"Well, bravo!" gushes Daisy Wick. "That's the spirit of the Games!" She's pleased to finally have a district with a little action going on in it. "What's your name, Dear?"
I swallow hard. "Temperance Brennan." I say, my voice shaking and choked.
"I bet my buttons that was your sister. Don't want her to steal all the glory, do we?" I want to punch her so hard right now, but I resist. "Come on, everybody! Let's give a big round of applause to our newest tribute!"
To the everlasting credit of the people of District 12, not one person claps. Not even the ones holding betting slips, the ones who are usually beyond caring. Possibly because they know my from the Hob, or my father, or have encountered Angela, who nobody can help loving. So instead of acknowledging applause, I stand there unmoving while they take part in the boldest form of dissent they can manage. Silence. Which says we do not agree. We do not condone. All of this is wrong.
And then something unexpected happens. At least, I don't expect it because I don't think of District 12 as a place that cares about me. But a shift has occurred since I stepped up to take Angela's place, and now I seem to have become somebody precious. At first one, then another, until soon everybody presses the three middle fingers of their left hand to their lips and holds it out to me. It means thanks, it means admiration, it means goodbye to someone you love.
I am seriously in danger of crying now. But thankfully Hodgins chooses that moment to come up next to me and slings his arm around my shoulder. "That a girl!" he slurs, loudly, the smell of alcohol on his breath making me lightheaded. "What spunk!" He turns and points at a person in the crowd. "She's got more than you!" The smallish, eighteen-year-old girl he points at smiles slightly. He points to somebody else. "And you!" Another person. "And you!" He points to Daisy. "Definitely more spunk than you!" He removes his arm from around her shoulder and staggers up to the edge of the stage. "She's got more spunk in her little finger than all of you have in your entire bodies, combined!" He exclaims to the crowd, before succumbing to the alcohol and falling off the stage, dead-drunk.
Daisy scowls down at him and orders a couple of guards to help him up and remove him from her presence. They do as they're told and drag an unconscious Hodgins into the Justice Building behind us, all cameras trained on him, giving me just enough time to let out a small, choked sob and for Daisy and I both to compose ourselves as the cameras land back on us.
Daisy smiles brightly, as if unaffected by Hodgins's little distraction. "Well, that was...well, never mind what it was. Now, let us get back to the task at hand; the reaping!" She walks over to the boys' bowl and sticks her hand in, immediately plucking out one of the small, folded slips of paper and carrying it with her back to the mic, smiling brightly for the cameras as she unfolds it and clears her throat. "And your male tribute to take place in the 74th Annual Hunger Games is...Seeley Booth!"
Seeley Booth! Oh no! Not him! Because I recognize his name, though I have never spoken directly to the owner.
No, the odds are definitely not in my favor today.
I watch him as he takes to the stage. Muscular build, tall, spiky dark brown hair, brown eyes the color of warm chocolate. His usually tannish skin is pale and the cocky smile that I've often seen him wear around his friends at school is gone, replaced by a look of absolute terror. The shock is taking over his body little by little, his steps becoming a bit more shaky, his back stiffer, as he walks up the steps to the stage. Then he is standing barely four feet away from me, his face losing all the fear and emotion it possessed just seconds ago, now looking as if it had been carved into stone.
Daisy Wick asks for tributes, but nobody volunteers. He has two brothers, but one is probably too old now, and the other is young, still selfish. Besides, family loyalty only goes so far on the reaping day.
The Mayor begins to read from the Treaty of the Treason, as he does every year, but I'm not listening to a word.
Why him? I think. Then I try to convince myself that it's not my problem. Seeley Booth is the enemy now. Either I will have to kill him or he will have to kill me. Or somebody else will kill us both. Either way, his life is no longer important to me. It never has been. Not really. We've never even spoken to each other. Not on the streets. Not at school. Not even when I visit the bakery. Our only real interaction happened years ago. I doubt he even remembers...
It was during the worst times, during my own personal Dark Days, about three months after my father's death. The numbness of the loss had passed and the pain would hit me out of nowhere, doubling me over with pain, causing me to fall to the ground, my body wracking with sobs.
The district had given us a small amount of money as compensation for his death. Enough for one month of grieving, at which time my mother was expected to get a job. Only she didn't. She didn't do anything but lie in her bed, often huddled in a fetal position, mumbling incoherently to herself, crazy with grief. Once in a while, she would stir, as if suddenly energized by the need to do something, anything, but then that would pass and she would be back in her bed, curled up in the fetal position, as if nothing had changed. No pleading from either me nor Angela seemed to be able to change that.
I was terrified. I suppose now that my mother was locked in some dark world of sadness, but at the time all I knew was that not only had I lost a father, but a mother as well. At the age of eleven, with Angela only seven, I took over as head of the family. There was no choice. I bought our food at the market and cooked it the best that I could manage and tried to keep myself and Angela looking presentable, because if it had been found out that my mother couldn't care for us, we'd be taken away and placed into a community home. I've seen those kids at school. The sadness, the bruises and cuts all over their bodies, and the hopelessness they displayed...I couldn't let that happen to her. Ever. Sweet, tiny Angela, who cried when I cried before she even knew the reason. Angela, who brushed and plaited our mother's hair every morning before she went to school. Who still polished our father's shaving mirror because he'd hated the layer of dust that settled on everything in the Seam. The Community Home would crush her like a bug. I couldn't let that happen.
So I kept our predicament a secret.
But the money ran out and we were slowly starving to death. There's no other way to put it. I kept telling myself that if I could only hold out til May. May 8th, I would turn twelve, then I could go to the Justice Building and sign up for tessarae and get the precious grain and oil to feed us. Only there were still several weeks to go. We'd surely be dead by then.
On the afternoon of my encounter with Seeley Booth, the rain was falling in relentless icy sheets. I had been in town, trying to trade some threadbare baby clothes of Angela's in the market, but there were no takers. And although I'd been to the Hob several times with my father, I was not yet brave enough to venture in there myself, so I settled for walking through the alleys and yards behind the stores, peeking into garbage cans for food that somebody may have discarded. Even a head of rotted lettuce would have sufficed. But I found nothing, shivering as the rain soaked through my father's old hunting jacket. I was shaking so hard, I dropped my bundle of baby clothes into a puddle of mud. I didn't dare pick it up, for fear that I would keel over right there and never return to my feet.
I couldn't return home empty-handed, so I continued to scavenge, the hope in my heart diminishing with every empty can I found.
Finally, I reached the backyard of the Bakery, where the smell of bread wafted through the cracked-open back door, and a pen filled with pigs smelled of manure and filled with mud, which the pigs took pleasure in rolling around in.
I practically ran to the garbage can next to the small building, lifting the lid and peering in, my heart dropping at the rotted apple cores and other inedible objects littered in it. This had been my last hope. Tears began to stream down my face as the last trace of hope disappeared from my heart.
Then I felt a jerk as a handful of my hair was tugged, pulling me back with it. "What in the hell do you think you're doing?" A gruff voice growled in my ear, as the hand that grabbed me pushed me down to the muddy Earth.
I looked up to see the Baker's husband, a harsh old man who resembled Seeley a great deal, except for his eyes. Where Seeley's held a warmth and caring spirit, this man's were cold and uncaring. The piercing of these eyes caused my heart to jump in abstract fear. "N-nothing." I stammered.
"You stay out of my trash, you little Seam brat! I'm so sick and tire of you little bastards going through my trash every single day! Stay out of here, got it?"
I nodded and backed away quickly, until my back hit a tree and I was too weak to move anymore.
Then I saw him. The small, brown-haired little boy, my age, that looked so much like his father, yet so different, standing behind him, having come out the back door to see what all the commotion was about. He looked surprised to see me, and I could swear he was blushing, probably embarrassed for me, or ashamed of his father's treatment of him.
His father turned and ordered him back into the kitchen. I watched them leave, hopelessness filling both my heart and my empty stomach. I closed my eyes for a few moments, almost succumbing to my imminent fate.
Then I heard a loud slap, and the door to the Bakery opened just as Seeley was pushed out by his father, a large, red hand print covering half his face and two half-burned loaves in his arms.
"Feed those to the pigs, you useless boy!" His father growled. "No use for burned bread. Nobody would buy it, anyway!" Then his father was gone, and Seeley was ripping off pieces and throwing them to the pigs, who gobbled them up greedily.
Oh, how I wished he would throw some to me. Just a piece and I could gain the strength to go on! A piece would be all I needed...
He must have read my mind that day, because not two seconds later were there two loaves of bread, one partially ripped off, at my feet. I looked up, preparing to thank him but he was already gone.
My first thought was Why? Why would he risk a beating to give me this bread? He barely even knew, yet he risked his father's wrath to save my life. Me, a girl he barely knew.
My second thought was interrupted by the sound of my chewing as I gobbled up half of the first piece of bread, filled with nuts and raisins, and utterly delicious.
Then, gathering the bread in my arms, I stood and raced home, plopping the bread down on the counter, where Angela sat, doing her homework. She immediately reached for a piece but I slapped her hand away, making her wait until I had it sliced and on plates. Then we dug in. I even got Mother to eat a few slices in bed, before allowing her to curl back in for sleep.
We feasted on bread that night for dinner, and then for breakfast the next morning, packing away some for lunch at school, where I was on the lookout for him, the boy with the bread. But every time I caught his eye in class, or in the hallways, he turned away from me, blatantly ignoring me. Was he angry at me for getting him in trouble with his father? It was him who offered the bread! I never even asked, though I thought about it, sitting there cold and hungry, under the tree.
I never did get a chance to talk to him, to thank him for his kindness. I almost did when I saw him walking home that day, but then he got too far ahead, almost like he was walking fast on purpose, and I lost sight of him. I found this odd. Normally, he stuck around the school a bit longer with his friends. And on the day I wanted to thank him, he was gone. I looked down at my feet and leaned against the building. I had some time to myself before I had to pick Angela up from school.
That's when I saw it. The first Dandelion of Spring. And just like that, I knew things were going to be alright. That little Dandelion meant that hunting season was about to begin. It meant hope.
But, now, as I stand here, all my hope has vanished, because for the first time in my life, I will be forced to socialize with the one and only Seeley Booth, the boy with the bread, the boy who saved my life five years ago. How am I going to be able to focus on killing him with that little tidbit going through my mind?
The mayor finishes the Treaty of the Treason and motions for Seeley and me to shake hands. His are solid and warm, and send a thrill up my arm that shocks me so much that I almost immediately let go. But his hand squeezes mine before I am able to. Maybe it's just a nervous spasm, but there's something unidentifiable in his face. He let's go when his eyes lock on mine.
Then, we're turning back to the audience, our hands being clasped and lifted by Daisy's as the anthem of Panem plays. "Your newest District Twelve Tributes!" Daisy exclaims, over the music.
Of course, I think, there are twenty-two other tributes fighting with us from other Districts. Perhaps one of them will have the task of killing him before I do.
I hope so.
Though, the odds have not exactly been in my favor lately.
