Hello, reader(s)~! Yeah, so here's chapter four. Enjoy your day.
Hunger Games and all affiliates are in no way owned or operated by me or any of my friends, family, and acquaintances.
"Come on, Lindy, we have to go, or else we'll be late! And you know what the mayor does to people who are late! Everyone else already left, and the Reaping starts in half an hour!" a voice hollered from the doorway.
"Shut your face, Bry! I'm coming!" I screamed in reply. Slathering water onto my face, I poured the bucket of slightly murky liquid back into the tub that stood next to the bathroom counter. Smoothing out my bubbly pink dress and tugging on one pigtail gently to make it more even, I ran out the door. Slamming it shut behind me, I hopped onto the paved road that ran through our little town in District Seven, Oak.
Originally, our District was only one town, stationed at the center of the District territory. However, our District had very few people and all of them needed to travel to the far reaches of the District for work. The paper and furniture factories are located in the middle of the woods, far away from the Center. All factory workers and loggers walked to their jobs, but eventually, people moved out of the Center and closer to the factories. And, of course, the Capitol couldn't possibly care less.
Two families became five, five became nine. Slowly, the little towns grew until they were worthy of names. And, because we're just that loyal to logging, guess what we named them after. That's right, trees. We have enough dang trees in our district, but then those random settlers had to go and name their little towns after trees, too. I think that the dictionary definition for this kind of behavior is "obsessed".
Looking to my best friend Bryan, I raised my eyebrows at his too-large, too-gaudy tie and stiff, white collared shirt. Unable to help myself, I burst into a fit of giggles. He glared at me.
"Race you!" he called, sprinting down the path. I sighed and ran after him at a slower pace, knowing he would run out of energy soon.
I managed to catch up to a very tired Bryan when the gong sounded in the distance. We looked at each other simultaneously and immediately began to sprint towards the District Center, my pigtails and his tie flapping in the wind. We managed to match each other's strides, and lope into the center of the District just when the mayor walked onto the stage. We split up and went to separate kiosks to get signed in, then made our ways to our respective pens-Bryan to the 16-year-old boys pen, myself to the 16-year-old girls pen. I gave him a meek smile, then began to bounce on my heels as the mayor finished his speech and cued the video. I absentmindedly twirled a pigtail while the video played. I watched it with a big, fake grin plastered on my face.
The mind-numbingly chauvinistic propaganda finally ceased, and a corpulent man with waist-long purple dreadlocks stepped onstage. He grabbed the mike stand in both hands and tilted it over, wailing, "Hello, District Seven!" into the microphone. He paused for a second, as if waiting for applause. None came. At this, stood back up and cleared his throat, obviously very taken aback.
He mumbled something unintelligible, probably his name, and walked over to the boys' bowl. Reaching in, he pulled out a tiny white paper, barely visible from where I stood amidst the teenagers. Calling out a name I didn't recognize, he had to repeat it twice before the boy could hear. A tall, awkward kid with a head too small for his body walked onto the stage, nearly tripping twice. I didn't know him by name, but I'd seen him a few times around school. He was a freshman who lived in Willow town, I think. Shaking my head and flinging my mind back into reality, I focused on what the Escort was saying.
"Time for the girls!" he said, his confidence back. As he reached into the bowl and brought out another slip of paper, my gaze wandered to the boys' pen adjacent to ours. I found Bry, staring intently at the Escort. He glanced over to me, smirked lopsidedly, then reverted his gaze back to the stage.
"Rosalind Peters!" the Escort called, his voice jolly and altogether too happy. He made a backwards shooing gesture with his hard, motioning me to get up on stage. How he knew who and where I was, I had no idea. "Come on up here, you lucky little duck!" he said with a grin. "Now, do we have any volunteers?"
Everyone looked at him oddly. District Seven has never, ever, had a volunteer before. Being Reaped was the equivalent of a death sentence. He looked nervous again, for just a second, but quickly regained his composure for a second time. "Well then, Rose-can I call you that? Do you like Rose or Rosie? Or maybe just Ro?" he asked. Without waiting for an answer, he continued to speak. "It seems you're the lucky little duckling this year! District partners, shake hands!" We shook.
"Yay!" he squealed, hopping in the air, happier than a Capitol kid on Christmas. It took every ounce of my self control not to slap that man upside the head.
Good day, children.