Chapter 4: 50th Reaping

About two weeks later, I am roused from sleep by the rest of my sprawling family in the Fairchild compound. The girls are squealing - actually squealing! - as they do the hair of those who will represent us today. Being 16, I let myself be primped and preened. Honestly, you would think I was in the Capitol already, and in the hands of my stylists!

For today is the Reaping for the 50th Annual Hunger Games, or Second Quarter Quell. So this year is special, for every twenty-five years, there is a special twist added to this competition in which all 12 districts send one teenage boy and one teenage girl into an outdoor arena to fight to the death. Last tribute standing wins and becomes a Victor, mentoring future tributes.

My ditzy family heads for the square outside the Justice Building, chatting as though we are going on holiday. I refrain from grimacing. How can they be so festive when twice as many tributes have to be picked, per the Quell twist? Not long after I met Haymitch, the Reading of the Quell Card was announced as four tributes had to be sent in this year instead of the usual two.

From where I stand with the Merchants crowd of the 16-year-olds, if I look further down the line, I can spot Haymitch. His eyes find mine and he gives me his characteristic smirk. That is about as close to a genuine smile as I'm ever going to get from him, but it still makes me flush more than I should be in public. Occasionally, I spy my boyfriend (we've been seeing each other in secret ever since our hasty coming together at the Slag Heap) shifting his eyes over to the 12-year-old boys. Gregory is standing with them, but from the look on his face, he doesn't seem to know what's going on. Poor little guy. If he's Reaped, he'll die for sure. And Haymitch will be destroyed.

The Mayor finally takes his place at the podium. He starts by reading the Dark Days speech, explaining the existence of the Games. As if we need to know why it's necessary. This spiel is standard procedure. Then, he gets on to reading the names of Past District 12 Victors.

In the history of the Games, we have sent 98 tributes into the arena. Only one has come back alive. One. "The Victor of the 16th Hunger Games: Cassiope Fletch!" A middle-aged woman who is probably only just 50 herself stands and waves to polite applause. My parents were young peers of hers when she won. I saw a re-run of her Games - a frozen tundra - on TV once and she had more grit than any District 12 tribute has ever had. It seemed to me to dispel some rumors: that Cassiope's win was given to her so that District 12 could have a Victor, and thus, a mentor for future tributes.

Mitzi Hoops, our District escort from the Capitol, bounces on stage as if this is a party. "Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be ever in your favor!" She pulls out one name from the Girls' Reaping Ball. "Fern Avery!"

A little 14-year-old Seam girl tremblingly takes the stage. Mitzi falters for a moment, until she remembers that she has to pick another girl. "Maysilee Donner!"

Off to the side, I hear my mother gasp. The Donners are close family friends of ours. I watch as Maysilee - a striking blonde - bravely embraces Lillian Foley, the daughter of the apothecary before taking the stage.

Mitzi moves on to the boys. "Grant Tylka!"

A 13-year-old boy tries not to cry as he mounts the podium. I know the Tylkas too. They are swineherds, raising some of the finest pigs for market and district feasts. And now, one more boy...

"Haymitch Abernathy!"

My world stops.

At least it wasn't Gregory, as I watch my boyfriend of only a few weeks take the stage for the most awful Games in memory. I want to scream at someone, anyone to volunteer, but no one does. Only Career districts - like Districts 1 and 2 - ever have volunteers. To volunteer for District 12 would be tantamount to suicide.

And I watch as two family friends and the love of my life are escorted into the Justice Building.

The line for Maysilee is the longest. And unfortunately, my family and I are stuck in the queue.

I find myself glancing over to the line that must be for Haymitch, for I see his mother and brother ushered in. I have to get in there to see him... but how?

Thankfully, my family is next in line to see Maysilee, right behind the Foleys. I give the pretty blonde girl a hug and encourage her that she can win. As soon as I have said goodbye, I lie to my father and tell him I really have to go to the bathroom. He acquiesces begrudgingly. I hope I don't look too rude to the Donners as I run out the door.

I find it maddeningly annoying that there is no one else in line to see Haymitch. I know people think he's a troublemaker, and maybe a few are sadistic enough to be glad he got Reaped for an almost guaranteed death sentence, but at least show some respect!

Strangely, the door is open just a crack, so I can peer in and see that Gregory and Mrs. Abernathy are still with him. Haymitch is talking to his brother in the most gentle tones I've ever heard from him.

"Nothing's gonna scare you while I'm up on TV, right?" he asks. Gregory must like TV, for he gives a little giggle. Poor boy. If only I could be as ignorant to where Haymitch is really going. It certainly isn't stardom, though he might be on the Jumbotron that broadcasts the Games for a time. "Yeah... Goodbye, Gregory."

At goodbye, Gregory looks confused and reaches for his brother. "Brovey..."

Haymitch looks genuinely pained as he runs a hand through his little brother's hair. "Brovey has to go..."

I shrink back as Gregory and Mrs. Perri are hustled away. She gives me almost a sympathetic smile, and I am struck into silence. Does she know? And if so, does she approve of the dangerous relationship I have with her oldest son? But I put it out my mind as Peacekeepers usher me in and mercifully remember to pull the door to this time as I fling myself into Haymitch's arms.

We kiss for a long time, and I caress Haymitch's face, drinking him in. I sob freely, and he holds me quietly. "I love you," and I choke on the words, so debilitating they can be.

"Rose," he says quietly. "I know who your family will be rooting for... and it isn't me. Just follow their sheep ways, understand me? Whatever happens, don't cry for me. Understand?"

I tell him yes, though it's insincere. If he thinks I'm going to just release him, think again!

I am finally forced out of the room, and I am relieved to see my family is still with the Donners. No one has seen me.

But I see someone. And though I would normally feel trepidation to approach District 12's only celebrity, I march right up to her.

"Please, get Haymitch Abernathy out of there, Miss Fletch," I demand. "I don't care what you have to do. Just get him out alive."

Cassiope sighs heavily, no doubt because she has now three other tributes, three other families - and not just one - with the same wish. "His mother thinks as you do."

Did Mrs. Abernathy ask the same request of Cassiope? I admit, my entreaty is a little bold and perhaps even arrogant of me, but if there is a chance my boyfriend can return to me, I will seize onto it with both hands.

My family finally emerges from the Donners' holding cell. I lie and say that someone else was ahead of me in line for the toilet and took forever. My father buys the story as is and we leave the Justice Building. As we return to the compound, I almost feel guilty that I didn't make a similar vouch for Maysilee to Cassiope Fletch.

We all have to return to the Square that very night to see the tributes get off the train. The Careers - eight of them now, and possibly twelve (District 4 sometimes allies with them) - only need to get off before my heart is in my throat.

So many tributes... so many! When Cassiope Fletch ushers off her group last of all, I keep my eyes trained on Haymitch. I have to smile endearingly at how unimpressed he seems by everything. If he thought school was a dump for intellectual rejects, his poor brother probably has an IQ higher than the entire Capitol put together.

Cheers split the air at the sight of our tributes, competing between Merchant and Seam. It is like a sporting event between rival teams. The Merchants are rooting for Maysilee, while the Seam is backing Haymitch. There are supporters for Fern and Grant, but it must be just their immediate families, for I don't think their backers clear more than single digits. And there's a reason for that: the age of those little ones. No tribute under the age of 15 (and even to win at 15 is rare) has ever won the Games. Ever. Fern and Grant are going to die; it's just a fact at this point.

We see the Tribute Parade next. I wince for our tributes, all four stuffed into one Chariot like sardines in a can and dressed up to look like coal dust. The President gives his speech, and the tributes are whisked away into an apparently brand-new Training Center.

Training takes place over the next three days, and the day following will only be interview prep, so cameras aren't allowed near the tributes. So we only have to meet in the square for coverage in the evenings. After the first three days, Training Score after Training Score is broadcast. None of the Careers get below a 10. A few even nab 11s. I have never seen a perfect score of 12 in my entire life.

For District 12, the little ones both get 7s. Maysilee pulls a 9. But I have to refrain from letting loose a squeal when my boyfriend gets a 10, landing right amongst the Careers. My father swears and throws his hat in the dirt.

The final night are the interviews with Caesar Flickerman. Since there are so many tributes this year, the event gets very boring very quickly, so I entertain my younger cousins until District 12 is reached at last.

Maysilee is first, coming off as shy but likable. Fern and Grant more or less come off as cute but dead kids walking. Haymitch is last of all.

"So Haymitch, how does it feel knowing there will be 100% more tributes than usual?"

Haymitch just shrugs at what Caesar must think is a really deep question: "I don't see how it'll make much difference. They'll all be 100% as stupid as usual, so I figure my odds will be roughly the same."

The Capitol audience eats it up as he smirks. Even I have to stifle a smile. It is vintage Haymitch. Cocky. Arrogant. Even indifferent. My father growls. "Smart-ass little shit! I can't wait when he dies!"

If I didn't have my wits about me, I'd yell at him, for the only reason he's offended is that Haymitch has only ranked his intellect above everyone else's, thus rising above his social station as a Seamer.

I go to bed that night praying for my love.