As I walk out of the door, I am hit with a sense of dread. I try to shrug off the feeling but I can't help but feel nervous. The streets of district 2 are busy, with mothers wishing there children off, toddlers hanging onto older siblings and teenagers, walking towards the square. The streets on this side of town, the poorer side, are dirty. Overflowing rubbish bins, tipped over by the wind, the roads and paths just dusty ground, where previous years of footsteps have warn the dead grass away. It just has a sorrowful feeling to it. Where you get to the fork in the roads, nearer to the richer side of town, the roads are rock, beds of flowers and fresh grass are neatly sorted and there are large oak trees, as well as a great view of the mountains. The Justice Hall looms in the distance and already, a long line of teens flow out of the building and onto the steps. Sighing ,I join the back of the queue. It takes about half an hour before I even get in the bloody building and then another 20 to get to a desk. By this time I am extremely bored and fed up. Only four of us are even going! What are the chances that it'll be me? 1/4000 probably more! When I finally get to the desk, a stern looking Capitol official looks up at me, uninterested.
"Name?" They sigh.
"Clove Fuhrman." I reply, sounding equally as bored as I feel.
"Age?"
"15." The Capitol person types a bit on there computer before handing me a slip and motioning to where two peacekeepers stand at a door. Where I go next, I suppose.
"Next." They call, dismissing me and I wonder over to the door, clutching a small slip of whiter cartridge paper. I read it as I wonder over.
Clove Fuhrman - 15. F
Wow, I totally didn't know that! It takes maybe half an hour to three quarters of an hour until I get to the next station. Blood testing. Unsettlement fires up in the back of my throat at the vicious contraction in another Capitol persons hand. They grab my slip and read it. They poke me with the blood taking- evil looking - sinister contraction. Then they type on a computer and hand me back my slip. I follow the queue to the next station. It takes no longer than 30 minutes this time. I'm sat on a stall, told to smile, my slips taken and I can go home! I wonder back, the queue to sign in reaching the door instead of the courtyard. I feel for those people, I really do. It takes a while, but soon, I'm home.
"How was it, honey?" Mum asks as I come in and sit on the couch, between her and Clara.
"Boring. I spent way more time waiting than actually doing anything!" I tell her exasperatedly. "How about you?" I ask.
"I've been working." Mum says, showing me her red hands. "The town baker said he needed an assistant seeing as so many cakes for celebrating have been ordered and I said you'd help, you know for your dress. You don't mind, do you darling?" I shake my head.
"What about my rounds?" I ask.
"I told mummy I'd do them." Clara smiles, holding her rag sorry-excuse-for a doll. I ruffle her hair.
"Thank you. It means so much that your both working so hard so I can have a new dress! Honesty though, I could just wear this." I thank.
"Nonsense. If you're picked you need to look nice." Mum tells me harshly. I sigh and make lunch. Later that day I change into my nightclothes, seeing no point in getting changed to get changed again later. We eat a plain stew for tea, because we didn't have much left over money from my dress. We all sleep early that night. Little food and sleep does that to you, I guess.
*****************************************************Next Day**********************************************************************
I wake up early and take a quick breakfast. Then I change into my jeans and tee and head out to the bakery. I've only ever met the baker once, when I was about 6 years old and father had just died. The baker had known my Dad and gave me a cupcake that hadn't sold. It had been the nicest thing I'd ever tasted. A soft, vanilla sponge, thick, creamy buttercream icing and little fondant flowers. It was enough to make a dying girl smile. The bakery itself looks like it's come from a fairytale. It has a little flower garden out front, an aroma of sweet chocolate and cupcake stands in the windows. Clara had spent many days as a child wondering at the bakers iced marvels and then, I had joined her. Stepping into the bakery for the first time seems almost magical, an experience not many 15 year olds have. The baker, an old, kindly man, steps out.
"Hello, Miss Fuhrman! I was just putting the bread in the oven! Come through, please!" I step into the kitchen and the scent of baking fills up my nose. I sigh slightly. Bliss, pure bliss.
"Now, I was hoping you were good at decorating? Ever tried?" The man asks. I shake my head. "Come here. I will show you." The baker shows me how to fill a piping bag, hold the bag, hold the cake, ice simple decorations and package. The bell sounds, alerting the baker of a new costumer. "Forgive me for a moment, Miss Fuhrman, I will be straight back. Why don't you practice your icing!" He strolls around to the front and I put my training into action. I fill the piping bag with a thick, daffodil yellow icing. I position the biscuit and bag like so and carefully begin to pipe a simple flower, like the ones I had marvelled at as a child. I examine it and decide that it's good enough. I continue, icing smaller and bigger flowers in red, blue and pink also. The baker comes back in and looks at the biscuit.
"That is great! Would you mind icing some more while I work out front?" I continue. Flowers, butterflies, rainbows, birds, it gets more extravagant as I learn. In yellow, blue, pink, red, green, white and violet. I finish the batch, a fine dozen and take them to the baker. He shows me how to display them and leaves me to it as a new costumer comes in. In the afternoon the baker teaches me how to bake cakes, cookies and muffins. I begin to work as he helps along the way. While they cook I'm taught how to work with customers. Many can only spare enough for a handful of cookies or two muffins but you'll get the occasional order for a large Victoria sponge or chocolate gateau from the richer costumers. I'm also taught how to write down an order, speak to the costumer, take payment and contacts. I manage a whole order by myself. I'm paid my wage, £9 a day, an overly kind price and I walk home. With a loaf of bread, a thanks from the baker. Supper that night is good, soup with vegetables and fresh bread. We sleep on full stomachs.