A/N: Here is the District Five list, from favorite to least favorite (averaged from the reviewers' lists):
1. Cole Tenser
2. Melody Wright
3. Bell Titanson
4. Maddie Nightshade
5. Magali Pearson
6. Edelweisse Gellum
7. Ziggy Willow
8. Jason Grim
District 6: Mercedes Jones's POV:
In my dream, I'm riding with my father in his hovercraft. Neither of us speaks a word; we just ride in silence, looking out of the window at the beautiful, colorful city below us. It's the Capitol. As we ride over the heart of the city, Father grabs a parachute and goes over to the trapdoor in the floor. He opens it, straps on the parachute, waves to me...and drops out. I scream, breaking the unnatural silence, and rush over to the trapdoor. But Father's gone. The hovercraft begins to wobble in the air, and it begins to descend. I've never actually flown a hovercraft before, only seen it done. I go to the controls, and fiddle with them, and then -
Darkness.
I wake up, and remind myself that my father isn't going to go - no, he's already gone. And I don't have to fly a hovercraft. That was my father's job. He built the latest hovercraft, with several new installations that he'd only begun to discuss with us. The Capitol loved it, and they took him back to their city so he could make them more things. I haven't seen him for years. The only hint we have that he's still alive are the occasional paychecks he sends us.
A districter cherished by the Capitol, and brought to the great city. Quite a father, huh?
Mother relies on the money he sends us. She works day and night assembling engine parts. Between her wages and my father's, we're able to live in relative comfort, and we can afford a special...tutor, I guess you'd call him.
My mother, paranoid that Ford or I'd be chosen and taken to the Capitol as well, has paid for a victor to come every week and train us. So, here we are, in one of the poorest districts in Panem, our father is off working in the Capitol, and we spend our free time training for the Games.
We're not exactly your average District Five family.
I get out of bed and put on my reaping clothes. Four more reapings, and my mother will finally realize that neither Ford nor I was going to be reaped, and so maybe she should've saved the money. But I'm still fifteen, so I have a while until that day. That day when I finally graduate from possible-tribute-candidate-who-might-be-reaped-so- worry-about-me-and-put-me-in-lessons.
I know I'm not going to be reaped this year. I have eleven entries, as I've taken no tesserae. I bet some eight-year-olds have more entries than I do. And maybe even some seven-year-olds, and possibly some six-year-olds. Five-year-olds? Maybe.
Ford, nine years of age, has five entries. He's even more certainly not going to be reaped. The most number of entries he'll ever have is seven, when he's eighteen. We have nothing to fear.
When I finish brushing out my wavy brown hair, I walk down the corridor to the dining room. Ford is already sitting at the table, squirming and waiting impatiently for Mother, who I can hear in the kitchen.
"Hi, Mercedes!" Ford says. He lacks much of his usual enthusiasm, but his huge trademark grin is present, as always.
"Happy Hunger Games," I return. "May the odds be ever, ever in your favor." I give him a solemn look. "Because, as you know, odds mean life, here. Or they mean death, if you get the moldy ones..."
"The moldy what's?" Ford stares at me.
"The moldy odds," I say. "The ones that've been sitting out too long. You know. Moldy odds are bad."
"Uh...okay." Ford has known me for a while, and he knows that sometimes I am the most random, weird-joke-telling person ever. But sometimes I pull something that surprises even him. Those are my finest moments.
"Moldy odds," I muse. "I hope the odds today aren't moldy. For you or me. Or for anyone we know."
"No moldy odds," Ford agrees. "Speaking of odds...and moldy ones...what if I'm reaped?"
I stare at him. "Well, then you hope that your odds from then on aren't as moldy."
"I'm serious, Mercedes." He gives me a pleading look.
"Serious?" I look at him, disdained. "What's fun about being serious? It's true; you hope for better odds. But it's very unlikely you'll be reaped. Think about it. You've taken no tesserae. And if you are reaped, you've been training for a while. You might be able to win. You'll be fine. Dead, maybe, but fine."
I grin at him, and he says, "You can be extremely irritating at times. You know that, right?"
"I know," I say cheerfully.
He shakes his head. "You're crazy."
"You're boring."
"I'm sane," he corrects. "You're the one who's off your plane."
"I'm not off my plane," I insist. "You're off your plane if you think I'm off mine. I'm perfectly sane, thank you - I just see the world in a different way," I say haughtily.
"Whatever," he mutters.
"Happy Hunger Games to you, too."
He gives me an exasperated look. "Seriously?"
"No, not seriously." I give him a grin. It doesn't compare with his, but it's a grin all the same. As he turns away, shaking his head, I add, "And may you get the moldy odds."
Just then, Mother comes in, holding a platter of waffles. She looks slightly different than normal. And it's not just that she's wearing a dress. I can't name it. She sits down across from Ford, next to the empty spot. Father's spot. I can almost see him beside her, an outline of a tall man, and I hear his laugh, his booming laugh.
"I don't know about you, but I slept really well last night," Mother says brightly. "Eight hours of sleep! I haven't slept that long since last reaping! And tonight, too! I don't have work."
"Congrats," Ford tells her.
Only then do I realize what it was that I noticed when she came in, but couldn't put a name to. She doesn't have the dark rings around her eyes from lack of sleep, and she seems much brighter and more buoyant. Her night job was from ten to six, each and ever night. She also worked the afternoon shift from noon to six. She usually made us breakfast and did other morning chores, and then she'd sleep until eleven. Then she'd eat lunch, and go to work. That evening, she'd make dinner, and we'd eat it together. She'd do some other stuff, and then go to her night job.
She usually got about three to four hours of sleep each morning, when we were at school. For her, reaping day must be a relief, with no work in the day, nor the night before or after.
But no, she has us to worry about. As we know from her insistence that we train, she worries day and night about us. She'll sleep even better tonight, I'm sure, when she knows we're both safe and sound. No evil Capitol to take us. (Mwa ha ha! I've got your child! Na nana boo boo!)
We eat the waffles. They're really good, and Mother shines when we tell her this. We stick to healthy, happy conversation until Mother decides to bring up the reaping. Our favorite topic.
"I worried myself sick over you two last night," she says. "I had a nightmare. It was Mercedes, and then you, Ford. It was terrible."
I point my fork at her. "I thought you said you slept well."
"Yes, well..." Mother gives a low chuckle. "I didn't want your first waking thoughts to be about the reaping."
"They were," Ford mutters.
Mother smiles apologetically. "I know this situation is very hard on both of you. Ford, you especially. You're nine years old, and eligible for the Hunger Games. And Mercedes, you have more entries than you thought you'd ever have. I've worried, too."
"Mother, we aren't going to be reaped," I insist.
"There's always a possibility," she says. "And if you are, you've spent time with a victor, and trained, so you might be able to get some ways in, and maybe even win. But I don't think I could bear to watch you fight to the death..."
"You won't have to," I say, slightly impatient. "Why is this year different than any other? In fact, my odds of being chosen have gone down."
She just shakes her head. "Just - just finish up and we'll leave."
We obey, and finish the meal in silence. We then finish getting ready, and wait for Mother by the door. She comes soon, and we leave the house.
We live in the heart of the town, so it takes us just a few minutes to get to the square. There, Mother goes to sign in with the rest of the spectators, and I lead Ford to the other line.
When we get to the front of the line, a Capitol man is waiting with a black device. While I've seen it before, it's new to Ford. He steps back, his face pale. I push him gently forward, and he reluctantly gives the man his hand.
Ford cringes as his blood is taken. Jones, Ford. 9/YO appears on the screen of the device. I'm next, and Ford, Mercedes. 15/YO takes its place.
I lead my brother to his section. "Don't get the moldy odds," I remind him. He grins as much as one can on reaping day, and then waves me away.
"Am I embarrassing you?" I ask, a smile spreading across my face. "Does little Fordie not want to be seen with his big sister?"
He rolls his eyes at me and pushes me away. I nod, grinning, and go to the fifteen-year-olds' section on the other side of the square. There, I wait for the reaping to begin.
.
The Mayor's speech seems to pass in the blink of an eye. Soon, the escort is in his place, talking and talking.
"Yeah, so now we all know what exactly happened one hundred years ago to the year!" she says. "Thank you for that, Mayor. So, now for even more introductions! I'm Mary Jane! Was once Tiffie, but old is the new new back in the Capitol, you know! Didn't you wonder why I'm wearing an old fashioned dress? It's in! So, to the more important stuff, right? I get to pick four girlies and four, um, boylies! Hurrah!"
She does some crazy dance move, and moonwalks over to the girls' bowl.
"So, as you can all see, I'm going to pick the ladies first!" Mary Jane says excitedly. "Four of them! Lots of tributes, huh? Time to get reaping! I'm going to call up the first lucky lady, now!"
She draws a slip of paper. "Mercedes Jones!"
My mouth falls open, and I suppress a cry. How did she pick me? I only had eleven entries. Eleven names in that huge bowl.
I try to calm down. It's okay, Mercedes. You've been training for years. So what if Mother was right? You can dominate. You can win this.
I close my eyes, and take a deep breath. Then, I slowly make my way to the stage. I shake Mary Jane's hand, and she bursts right back into chatter.
"Ooh, we have our first girlie picked now! Wonderful!" She beams at me. "I'm so glad you could come! Isn't it such a wonderful experience, being onstage? And now you're even more the center of attention than I am! You're so lucky, wouldn't you agree? The odds are totally in your favor!"
An idea pops into my head. I grab Mary Jane's mic. "Hi, luckier people of District Six! It looks like I got the moldy odds, huh? Sorry, insider joke... Best of luck to you all! See you all in however many years in the Underworld! Of course, I may be there sooner than you, but that jut means I won the race, right?"
There are a few laughs, and I hand the escort back her mic. I've boosted my own morale, as well. Maybe I will win.
District 6: Jonan Spoke's POV:
Somethin' I need to tell ya: I's older than Meyla. I's a full hour older than her. So maybe she sometime more mature. That what most - fine, nearly all - adults says. She's more mature than you, grow up, Jonan, all o' that. But I's tellin' you right now, so you can remember it: no matter what they says, whatever you thinks, I's an hour older than she is. Don't give me a hard time.
It doesn' help my case that she taller than me, neither. But we's both eight, 'cept I'm 'n hour closer to turnin' nine. Seriously, nothin' bugs me more than other people sayin' she's my older sister. They think she nine, maybe ten. But no, I's still eight, if not seven.
We's so different, you would'a never thought we was twins. I's four foot six, she's four foot ten. She stands up straight, I slouch, and don't bug me 'bout it. She talk waaay too form'ly for 'n eight-year-old, and I's still a child in terms of vocab, they tells me. She suck up to adults, I can't. She does marvelously in school, an' I try, but I can never seem to match her.
I know I's supposed to love my sibling like no other, but really, how can I when she always showin' me up? I don't hate her or anythin', but she jus' annoys me so much, and always seems to be better than me. I know I's rantin'. Don't blame me.
An' how she have a normal BMI, when I's the skinniest person alive? Well, maybe not the skinniest, but really, I can't remember a time when I haven' been able to see my ribs.
Sorry. Eight years with her've damaged me beyond repair.
In that sense.
Sorry. Okay.
When I wakes up, I sees that Meyla's already gott'n up. Her bed's empty - an' perfectly made, as always, with absolutely no wrinkles. I's not joking. There no sign she's left 'sides her empty bed, and the absence of the faded once rose-red dress that she'd laid out at the foot of her bed las' night.
I 'spect she's looking fabulous right now, simply charming. Mother and Father and Aunt Trinda'll all fawn over her, and they won' be lyin'. Even I hafta admit she look good in any clothes. Not like me. Proper clothing jus' don't suit me. I looks like, oh, a rat stretched to human length an' stuffed into a messy wardrobe.
An' not even a babby rat. We has enough rats here in Six for me to know that while babby rats are cute, bigs are not. Not at all.
I struggles to brush out my messy golden-brown clumps of matted-down, sweaty hair. After a minute, I's gotten the long strands to untangle 'nough to almost brush my shoulders. But they be messy again in a few hours. The magic brush's charm never last long for me. (Somehow, though her hair go to the middle of her back, Meyla always seem to be able to avoid it.)
Then, I goes to my closet and picks out somethin' to wear for the reaping. I decides on a grey checkered polo shirt and dark grey pants. I wore them both las' year, an' as I hasn't grown much, they still fits easily. Not like Meyla's clothes from a year ago - she grown least an inch since then, and they was small and worn to begin with.
I puts on the clothes, and forces myself to look in the mirror. Sure 'nough, I looks like a rat in a messy wardrobe. These clothes is very old - Meyla wore 'em two years ago, and my father wore 'em when he was my age or so. Probly younger'n me.
I leaves the bedroom and heads over to the tiny room that serve as both our kitchen and our dining room. Mother and Father smiles at me when I enters.
"You looks nice," Aunt Trinda say without lookin' up at me. She's like that: sorta weird, separate from the rest o' us. Not like us. I guess she don't realize that I knows she hasn't even seen me yet. She's tried and failed to get a job, so my dad, her brother, let her move in with us. She do some household chores and stuff like that, but mostly jus'...lives. Ya know.
"Thanks," I says. "Glad to know ya looks at me b'fore tellin'."
She still don't look up.
"Sit down and leave her alone," Meyla tell me. "It's not nice to bully...people like her." She smile apologetically at Aunt Trinda.
Another thing 'bout Meyla - she don't speak the slang speaked by many o' us Outskirter kids. The slang that most of 'em lose when they grows up, but Aunt Trinda's keeped.
I glares at my younger sister, and sits beside her. She wearing the faded red dress, which now is pink. Her long, golden hair is pulled back by a red bow. Her blue eyes stares intelligently into my brown eyes. (Where she get those eyes from? Mother and Father both has brown, and so does Trinda.)
"Don' tell me what to do," I sayw grumpily.
"Don't talk to people that way," she return. "Then I won't tell you what to do." She smile at me. "Deal?"
"No."
"You're not being helpful," she tell me. "Here, have some cereal."
I considerw declining, but my stomach growl, so I takes the box of District Six Standard. I pours the old, crispy, wheel-shaped grey chunks out and into a bowl. I eats them quickly, and asks for seconds.
Meyla jump in immediately. "Really, Jonan, you know the rule. No seconds. Never. We don't have the money to get a new box every month."
I scowls at her. "I knows. Why you need to remind me?"
"Because you asked," she reply simply.
"I didn' ask for you to step in, actually," I argues. "So kindly mind you's own business and don' ya but into mine. Got it?" My voice raise at the end.
"Jonan!" Mother exclaim. "You don't talk to people in that tone of voice. Meyla is right, we can't afford for people to have more than one serving per meal. Don't talk to her as if she's the one doing things wrong."
"She the one just had to but in and show me down," I says, outraged. "She the perfect one. Why can't ya jus' leave me 'lone for once? All o' you! I's sick of being the second child!"
"Second child?" Meyla pipe up. "But you were born first, weren't you? I'm actually the second child."
"Not to everyone else you isn't," I says, dejected. I leans back in my chair and imagines that I's elsewhere. In a field of daisies, in a lonely tunnel, with no stripe o' golden hair to boss me 'round. "No, to them I's just the backup in case you fail."
Silence.
"Jonan," Father says, "go to your room. Get ready. It took you a while last year. We were almost late. Might as well get a head start."
"Always happy to," I mutters. I stands up and shoves my chair back in. I storms out of the room, and goes back to Meyla and my room, where I flops down on my bed.
District 6: Meyla Spoke's POV:
When Jonan leaves, we're all silent. Jonan can be...interesting at times, but he doesn't usually explode like this. I'm usually not sure what he's talking about. What does he mean, he's the second child? He was born first, a full hour before I was. What, does he think he doesn't get enough attention? Mothre and Father are always worrying about him.
Me, they think I have everything in hand. That I never need anyone to worry about me, to check up on me. How wrong they are. Do they really think I couldn't use any help? Any consideration?
Jonan doesn't realize how lucky he is.
Soon after he leaves, I also excuse myself. I brush my teeth, and adjust the bow in my hair. It's slightly uneven, and this gets to me. I'll admit it, I'm quite a perfectionist. I take several minutes to get it just the way I want it, and then I let Jonan into the bathroom. What did he do when he left? Didn't Father suggest that he get ready?
Ten minutes later, we're all ready to leave. I'm wearing silver sandals, the nicest shoes I own. This dress is the nicest dress I own, too. I own one other, but it's grey and plain and faded. It's decades old, and has numerous patches.
After Jonan pulls on his black boots, the five of us step outside, and Father closes and locks the door.
"We'll all be coming back here later," he assures himself quietly.
Jonan stares at him. "You thinks we be reaped? It...it likely?"
Father looks up, startled. "You heard that? Um..." He sighs. "You're not going to be reaped, okay? You two have eight entries each. Eight in the entire bowl. The odds of you being reaped are tiny."
"Under one percent," I agree. For some unfathomable reason, Jonan shoots me a glare. "Fine," I amend. "Under half a percent. Under a quarter percent, too, I bet. Sorry."
Jonan throws his hands up in a gesture of exasperation. "Why you always such a showoff?"
I stare at him. Me, a showoff? He was the one who wanted to know the likelihood of one of us being reaped. I helped him! And when I realized that I was probably far off, I corrected myself! How is that showing off?
I open my mouth and start to tell him this, but Mother intercedes. "Jonan, Meyla was just being helpful. She wasn't showing off. She was just answering your question."
"My question?" Jonan stares at her. "I didn' ask her any question!"
"You asked if it was likely that you'd be reaped," I say. "And I said no, and explained why."
He just glares at me, and turns and stalks down the block by himself.
"Well, then," I mutter.
"Jonan worries too much," Father says quietly. "You were right, Meyla. He...he's just jealous of you. Don't take anything he says to heart."
"How can I not?" I ask. "He's my brother, Dad. My twin."
He smiles at me, and says, "Let's get going."
"Going, going," Aunt Trinda says absently. She clutches Father's hand, and he leads her down the street. Mother and I follow behind.
For a while, we walk in silence. Then, Mother says, "You know who you remind me of most?"
"Who?" I look up at her.
Mother hesitates. "Your sister. The first."
I freeze. Amila is never mentioned. Never, ever. I haven't even heard her name for months. But she's plagued my thoughts, my dreams. Her dark gold hair, the one-of-a-kind blue eyes that I, too, inherited, her slim features and face.
"Amila," I say softly, almost in a whisper.
Mother looks away, and I see that she's crying. "Amila, yes," she murmurs. "It's been three years now. She would be fifteen, sixteen in just over a week. You...you were five that year. How much do you remember? No...no, please don't. But Meyla, that year, she wore...she wore that dress."
Tears stream down Mother's face, and though I barely remember Amila, my face is soon wet, too.
"You look so much like her." Mother's voice trembles. "So much. So much..."
Mother chokes, and is silenced. I touch her arm.
"I'm sorry, Mother."
She doesn't reply. We walk the rest of the way in silence. We live in the outskirts of the district, so it takes us a good twenty minutes to walk to the square, which is situated at the center of town, along with the Mayor's house, the Justice Building, and the District Clock.
When we finally reach the square, I part with Mother. She gives me a fierce hug, and I whisper in her ear, "I'm not Amila. I'll be fine."
Her hazel eyes are glazed with tears, and she just looks away. I go and hug Father and Aunt Trinda, and then I follow Jonan to the sign-in place. I'm three people behind him, which I'm sure he's glad about.
Ten minutes or so later, Jonan signs in and goes into the square. I'm son following him, and I go to the section across from his near the back of the square. He doesn't look at me, and I feel a pang of guilt.
I talk with my friends about the reaping, and tesserae, and life. One of them calls Jonan "cute". Really, Drenna? Cute? That's an old-fashioned word. I haven't heard it for a while, and you usually only read it nowadays, in re-print books. There aren't any books in circulation written before Panem times, but the Capitol, at Panem's creation, allowed books to be rewritten, so long as the Capitol agreed with the themes in it.
I tell Drenna this, and she admits, "I'm not really even sure what it means. Just read it somewhere. What was the book again? Life on the Plain, I think. A re-write. It's set in 1877!"
I've read this book before, but I don't remember the use of the word. We discuss the book for the next ten minutes. And then the reaping begins.
.
When the Mayor finishes his long speech about the Dark Days, our escort takes the stage. I remember her as Tiffie, but she at once tells us her name is now Mary Jane. "Old is the new new" in the Capitol, she says.
When she finally finishes rambling, she draws the first girl's name. My freeze up in anticipation, but the name she reads isn't mine. No, it's a fifteen-year-old girl. Maybe she knew my sister before she died. She looks scared, but cracks some line about moldy odds and seeing everyone after they die.
Then Mary Jane draws a second name.
"Ooh, so now we have out first girlie," she says for the second time. "And a funny one at that! But we're not half done, we're only an eighth of the way through the reaping! I'm now going to pick the second girlie. Awesome, right? Awesome! Well, I mean, I've already picked the name, so now I get to tell you who it is!"
She cheers, almost dropping the name. Then she blushes and picks it back up.
"Okay! Our second girlie is..."
Not me. I promised Mother. Not me, please not me.
"Meyla Spoke!"
The world swirls around me, and then everything goes black.
Flashback
It's reaping day in District Six, and it's the rainiest day that has been seen in years. Buckets pour down on the entire population of the district, who is huddled in the square at the heart of the district. It's reaping day in District Six, and the escort is ready to pick the young girl and boy to enter the Hunger Games.
"Amila Spoke!" Tiffie says in a high-pitched squeal. "Amila Spoke!"
There's a stifled cry from the back of the square, and then a twelve-year-old with golden-blonde hair tied back with a red ribbon and a rose red dress stumbles to the stage.
Money changes between the hands of those for whom this is but an annual game.
In the crowd, a woman and a man stand, hand in hand, tears pouring down their faces. Beside them, next to a third woman, there are two children, just five years old. They stare around in confusion. They do not understand what is happening. And then it dawns on one of them. The girl. Her eyes widen, aghast, and somehow, she knows she will never see her sister again.
A week later, a girl thirteen years old to the day lies on the ground beside a tall tree. The boy hailing from District Eleven, clad in brown, stands above her, a sword in his hand. She does not close her eyes, keeps them wide open, stares him in his eyes. When she speaks, it is not to him.
"Jonan. Meyla. I'm sorry. Do not forget. I love you for- "
The boy stabs downward, and the cannon blows.
Flashback end
When I come to, I'm being helped up by my friends. Their faces are white, and they stare at me in fear. I'm disoriented for a second, and then I remember. I've been chosen. With eight entries and a promise to my mother, I've been chosen. I, Meyla Spoke, will participate in this year's Hunger Games, as my sister did three years before me.
Arman Wolfe. That was the name of the boy who killed her. Sixteen years old. District Eleven. He died two days later, but he took Amila down with him.
Amila, Amila. Amila. Will I ever utter her name again? Or will she remain only a memory? A reminder of what we couldn't do?
Will my name be the same? A forbidden word, never to speak? Will Jonan remember me, or will I fade into the recesses of his mind? Will I live in his memories, or will he blot me out?
I clench my fists, and walk to the stage.
What was it Amila was going to say? Jonan. Meyla. Do not forget. I love you for- Forever. Forever, the word she never got the chance to say. She was killed, it was her thirteenth birthday. I love you forever. Even when I'm dead. Even when I'm no longer there.
I shake Mary Jane's hand, and I see my blue eyes reflected in her purple.
I see Amila's eyes as well, and I wonder what she was thinking at this moment, as she shook Tiffie's hand. Did she know she would die? Her odds were better than mine are.
The girl with the golden hair stands on the stage, and forces a brave look as she looks down at her district, her people. She wonders if she will ever return. She sees her family in the crowd. Her twin siblings. And as she is led away, away at last, she says -
"I love you forever."
District 6: Belladonna Darnell's POV:
"Outskirter," I say with mirth. "You little Outskirter, you little rat."
The little boy stares up at me with tear-filled eyes. He's probably never heard the term before. The little ones often seem to grow up never hearing class terms. There's the townie, which apparently is also used is several other districts. That's someone from the town of Six. I'm a townie.
Then, there's an Outskirter. We've used this term since the seventieth or so Hunger Games, when a tribute from some district called his prey it, right before killing her. That's what we call the poorest people of the district, who live right along the fence. I could tell from a mere glance that this boy fell into the latter category.
He is young, only five or six, and he wears an old, worn grey suit with numerous patches. He's grimy, and emaciated. We're not the poorest district, but you'd still be surprised at the condition of some of the Outskirters.
"You're a filthy Outskirter, aren't you." I give him my smile. The one that makes the little ones cringe.
He drops his head and fiddles with his shirt. "I dunno what you's talkin' 'bout."
"Well, that settles it," I say gleefully. "You're an Outskirter, aren't you."
"I's not an Outskirter." His voice trembles.
"Oh, so you're a townie?" I ask, amused. "The only townie speaking that slang?"
"Yes, I is," he mutters.
"Sure you are," I say. "Outskirter."
"No!" he cries. "I's...neither! Outskirters is bad."
"Correct," I agree. "They are."
"And I's not one!" he says, starting to cry. "I's neither!"
"Almost no one's neither, you liar," I say accusingly. "And the neithers don't speak in the Outskirter slang. You're an Outskirter, sure as anything."
"I's not!" he sobs. "Go away! Leave me 'lone!"
"You Outskirters are despicable," I say distastefully. I push him away, and walk back to my house at the edge of the town.
Flashback
The six-year-old girl stands at the corner of the kitchen. She wears grey pyjamas. Her black hair is pulled back into two tight braids. She did them herself. Her father couldn't, her mother wouldn't. In the center of the kitchen, her parents are deep in a discussion. They do not see their daughter.
"I hate to say this, Evelynn," the man says, holding the woman's hand in his, "but I fear we...cannot stay together."
The woman raises her eyebrows, but says nothing.
The man hesitates. "My dear Evelynn, you...well, we have a limited amount of money. And it seems that much of that money is disappearing to fund your...alcoholic intake." He smiles apologetically.
"Go on, Blast," Evelynn says softly. "I know where this is going."
Blast Darnell looks uncertainly at his wife. "Evelynn, we simply do not have enough money for you to continue buying your...beverages. If you insist on continuing to buy them, I fear we cannot stay together. I'm sorry. Of course, if you wish to stop..."
"I refuse," Evelynn snaps. "I'll leave you, whatever. But you won't be forcing me to stop. Never. If you don't make enough money for me, I'll happily leave you. You get the divorce application from the Justice Building, and we can fill it out immediately."
Blast lowers his head. "Very well. I shall get it tomorrow. I love you."
"And Belladonna is staying with you." Evelynn glares at her husband. "I don't care what you say. I don't want to be near that beast of a daughter. She clearly has problems, and I'm not going to be the person who has to cure her."
At the door, Belladonna does not visibly react. But she is boiling inside. Her cold black eyes narrow, and she stares at her mother with a look of hatred. She never loved her, but has never despised a person so much in her entire six years.
The following day, the divorce contract was signed. Evelynn Darnell disappeared, and hasn't been seen since.
Flashback End
I still remember that day as clearly as I remember yesterday. I hated my mother, hated her. I hated her not for leaving me - no, I was actually quite happy about that - but for calling me a beast. She clearly has problems, and I'm not going to be the person who has to cure her.
The next year, when I was seven, Father married Rosie, who was sent here from District One. She got into some kind of trouble back there, and chose coming here and leaving everyone she knew behind over spending the rest of her life in jail. I know she still misses her people.
When I was nine, Rosie and Father had Daphne together. Daphne is now six years old. She has Father's darkish hair, with a bit of Rosie's blond, and Rosie's icy blue eyes. Like me, she's small for her age. Unlike me, she doesn't have a strong, intimidating personality to make up for her small size.
I'm four foot eleven, but they don't bully me because of it. They tried at first, sure, but they soon learned not to. They learned it the hard way. It resulted in several bloody noses and bruises, none of which belonged to me, and even one broken wrist.
When I get back home, the others have finished breakfast. I ate it earlier, before they woke up. Rosie scolds me slightly, telling me I should've waited for them. She's let me wander alone, even in the early morning, since I was twelve or so. But eating alone? No, no. Never, ever.
I apologize, and she gives me a quick hug.
"Bella!" Daphne comes running over to me. She embraces me, and doesn't let go until I pry her off.
"Hi," I reply. "And it's Belladonna."
She just smiles up at me. I'm used to her rarely speaking. She's never been one to talk much.
"You do know that Kean calls me Bella now because he heard you call me it once, right?" I ask her. "And I can't stand it. I swear, he does it just to annoy me."
"Boys are like that," Rosie says, and she gives me a knowing look. "Especially when they like you."
"Stepmother!" I'm shocked. "If you think he likes me, I mean likes me, then you don't know Kean. Sure, we're friends. But if he ever hints that that isn't the case, I'll smush him. And he knows it!"
"So that's why he hasn't told you yet," she reasons.
"You're crazy," I say. "He doesn't like me, and I don't like him. Got it?"
"If you say so." She grins at me.
I roll my eyes, and say to Daphne, "Come on, you need to get dressed for the reaping."
Her face falls, and she gives me a frightened look.
"Yes, the reaping," I say. "You're six years old, and the rules this year are crazy, so you're eligible."
Daphne shrinks away from me, looking terrified.
"Look, Daphne," I sigh. "I know you're remembering those clips that are on TV. But that'll only happen to four girls In the entire district this year. I'm almost positive it won't be you. And we aren't going to the square yet, just getting dressed. Did you get out clothes?"
"She's wearing the yellow dress," Rosie calls. "The one you wore when you were her age. It's on her bed."
"Thanks!" I call back. I take Daphne by the hand, and lead her into the room we've shared for four years.
In the room, the yellow dress is on Daphne's bed. I help her into it, and she murmurs a quick thanks. She hurries off to the bathroom, and I get into the baby blue floral dress I wore last year. It was Rosie's, brought from District One. She wore it when she was twelve or so, she told me. It was one of the simplest clothes she wore, and one of the most extravagant that I own.
I put my black hair into pigtails. It makes me look even younger. I could easily pass for eleven, maybe even ten. But I'm fifteen.
I look in the mirror. I think back to the little Belladonna standing at the doorway of the kitchen nine years ago, in the pyjamas that Daphne now wears. My appearance hasn't changed that much over the years. At least, not in a notable or important way.
Well, besides my pendant, that is. The black and white yin-yang pendant that my father gave me after my mother left. To show me that there's always good inside of evil. In a world of darkness, there is always a pinprick of light.
I sigh, and go to the front door. I pull on my brown boots, and help Daphne into her sandals. Rosie and Father soon join us, and we walk down the street to the square.
It takes us just under ten minutes. When we get to the square, Daphne and I bid the adults farewell, and go to sign in. My half-sister is shaking now, and pressing into my side.
That's when Kean finds me.
"Heey, I see it's Bella and the sister," an obnoxious voice says.
"Kean," I sigh. I recognize the voice before even turning around.
"Hi, Bella," he says.
I draw back my fist and punch him in the arm. Hard.
He yelps and jumps back. "Not so rough, Bella - Belladonna! Don't kill me! You almost broke my arm there!"
I raise my eyebrows. "You're a foot taller than me, Kean."
"Eight inches," he corrects. "And I'm serious! Be more gentle! Try not killing me, for once."
"Why? You're too weak and pathetic to stand up to it?"
He rolls his eyes. "Aren't you friendly?"
"Very," I agree.
We get to the front of the line. Kean cuts in front of me, and the Capitol man takes his blood. Fitch, Kean. 15/YO flashes across the screen of the scanner the man holds.
Daphne is next. She whimpers and presses against me, but I gently take her hand and give it to the man.
"He's going to take a bit of blood, okay? It's going to sting a bit, but don't jerk your hand. It'll be over in a second," I whisper.
The man pricks her finger, and Daphne jerks. I shake my head, and comfort her quietly. Darnell, Daphne. 6/YO.
I'm next. I give him my hand, and he pricks my finger. My finger throbs, and I read on the scanner, Darnell, Belladonna. 15/YO.
"What did it say?" Kean asks me when I catch up to him. "Darnell, Belladonna, eight years old?"
I punch him again. "Don't be stupid. You know perfectly well what it said."
"Sorry, sorry. Bella Darnell, eight years old," he amends.
I punch him again, harder. "I'm content to go on with this. I'm not going to be the one with a sore arm."
"Fine, fine," Kean says. "Belladonna Darnell. Happy? Fifteen years old?" I nod, and he says, "Happy Hunger Games, Bella and sister."
He disappears into his section before I get the chance to punch him again.
I take Daphne to the back of the square, and place her in her section. "I'll get you when it's over," I whisper to her.
She hugs me, and I go back to the fifteen-year-olds' section. I wait there for the reaping to begin.
.
I fear for Daphne as well as myself. I bite my lip and clench my fists every time Mary Jane reads a name.
The first girl is an aspiring comedian. She slips some joke about moldy odds, and doesn't appear as scared as I thought she'd be right when her name was called.
The second girl faints. She's helped up, and goes to the stage, almost crying. I wonder how long she'll last.
"And now we're officially half done with the girls," Mary Jane says, "and one quarter done with the entire reaping. I wonder who will be next. A little five-year-old? An awesome eighteen-year-old? I have no idea, and I can't wait to find out! It could be any of you!"
She points a manicured finger at our side of the square.
"I'm going to take the name now," she says. "And I'm going to wait a moment to increase the suspense, and then I'll read it, and we'll all know who the third lucky girl this year is! And maybe she'll win! After all, we have four times as many tributes from this district. It's even more likely that one of them will win!"
I roll my eyes. Do the Capitolites go to school?
Mary Jane totters over to the reaping ball, and selects a name.
"I really wonder who it will be!" she squeals. "And in about ten, twenty seconds you'll know! Who's excited? I know I am! Ooh, this is soo exciting, isn't it? I can't wait!"
Finally, she unfolds the name, and announces, "Belladonna Darnell!"
The Darnell sinks in first. My first thought is, Oh, no, it's Daphne.
But the I realize that it's not Daphne - it's me.
I'm reminded of the night my parents decided to get divorced. I was helpless, angry, and my life was about to change forever. We're not that different, that Belladonna and me. And, like that night, I'm helpless, startled, angry...and my life is about to change forever.
I clear my face of emotions, as I walk to the stage, I turn my face to the camera. I give it a cold glare.
I won't go down without a fight. Just you see.
District 6: Alice Brendon's POV:
"You're wearing that?" My sister, fifteen-year-old Leanna, is usually quite understanding and charming. But she can't contain her horror when she sees what I'm wearing.
I look down at my red hoodie and jeans. "Yes."
Leanna shakes her head. "You look like a boy."
"You say that a lot."
"The point is," she says, "it was okay when you were little. But you're thirteen now, and it's better for you not to go around dressing as a boy."
"I'm as much of a girl as you are," I tell her. "And I act as much like one. It's just my clothes."
"I know that, I've lived with you all your life," she says. "You may act like a girl in most ways, but your clothes...Alice, really?"
"I'd have thought you were used to it by now," I say.
"Yeah, well, today's the reaping," Leanna reminds me. "This is the Capitol we're talking about, not the Districters. I mean, no offence to anyone, but you look like an Outskirter."
"An Outskirter?" I exclaim. "And then you say no offense? If you called one of the richer kids that, they'd probably beat you up. You know, it is an insult here."
"So, are you going to wear something else?" She perks up.
"No. Sorry."
She just shakes her head. "Well, this is what I'm wearing."
She holds up a deep blue dress. It's very feminine and pretty. It suits her well.
"Where did you get that?" I ask. I've never seen it before.
"The store," she says brightly. "The one by the square. Capitol Delight or something."
"You bought something at Capitol Delight?" I exclaim in awe.
"Yep." Leanna grins at me.
"Where'd you get the money?" The Capitol Delight, part of a branch throughout Panem, whatever that means, is where the richest townies go to shop. We're middle class, and while we live relatively comfortable lives compared to the Outskirters, we almost never have enough money for new clothes, let alone fancy dresses.
Leanna winks at me. "Saving and saving."
"Mother didn't buy it for you?"
"Oh, no, she did. I just contributed." She smiles.
Mother gives us whatever she can. She's great. (Of course, I appreciate my family more on reaping day, when there's the threat of me going away and never seeing them again.)
"Leanna! Alice! Breakfast!" Father calls.
I nod at her, and we walk to the table together. There, Mother and Father are both already sitting. Father wears a gray suit. It's the one he's worn every year I can remember. He saves the clothing budget for the two of us.
Mother wears a faded green dress. It's very long and modest, not like the fancy dresses you see on live Capitol broadcasts. No, we're not silly animals here. That's the Capitol.
They look like 'em, they act like 'em. It's sickening to watch their roars for blood as kids my age or older are trapped and murdered. I don't understand why the crave the death of innocent children.
I'm thirteen. What if it was me out there? What would I do?
I'm sick of District Six Standard. We have it almost every morning. Brittle brown car wheel after brittle brown car wheel. I see enough wheels in the factory. I don't like imagining to eat them.
I must be even quieter than usual, for Mother comments on it immediately.
"Are you feeling all right, Alice?" she asks me.
"I'm okay," I murmur.
She's silent for a moment. Then she says, "The reaping, right? You must be worried."
When I don't respond, she continues. "Look at it this way, dear. You have eighteen entries. Nine mandatory, nine tesserae. The bowl will have thousands and thousands of names in it. And you weren't chosen last year, so why would you be this year?"
I try to find an answer, but can't. Then I realize it was probably a rhetorical question.
"And I have twenty-two entries," Leanna pipes up. "I have a bigger chance of being reaped. And think of the Outskirters. Some of them have ridiculously large tesserae numbers, I've heard."
"Again with the Outskirters," Father sighs. "What do you know about them, beyond the fact that they live on the outskirts?"
Leanna grins, and I no immediately what she's going to do. Sure enough, she falls into an impersonation of the stereotypical Outskirter child's slang.
"Hi, I Outskirter. I poor, I no has money, I dresses like boy, I dresses in rag, I no talks good, I Outskirter." She grins at us.
"That's bit of an exaggeration," Father says knowingly. "They don't always talk that badly, they don't always dress in rags, or dress like a boy. Where did that come from, anyways?"
"Alice," Leanna says simply.
Father looks over at me, and smiles. "Really, Leanna?"
"Hey, I wasn't happy about it. She just...decided to."
"Guilty," I admit.
Fifteen minutes later, we leave the house. Even Mother, usually the most talkative of all of us, is silent. I try to imagine what she's thinking. Me being reaped? Leanna being reaped? Gory Hunger Games deaths? Our gory deaths?
I don't want to think about it, so I shove the topic away as best as I can. I don't succeed, though, and I end up imagining my own death at the hands of different tributes from past years, and a few that I make up.
Even a five-year-old from Two. When to they begin training, those brutal kids? Would even the youngest child be able to kill me easily? It's definitely possible.
What an embarrassing death that would be.
Finally, we get to the square. Leanna and I hug Mother and Father goodbye, and we go to sign in. When Leanna gets to the front of the line, the Capitol man grabs her hand and pricks her finger. Brendon, Leanna. 15/YO. I'm next. Brendon, Alice. 13/YO.
Then we go to our sections, and wait for the reaping to begin.
.
Three girls are reaped. I don't pay much attention, just absorb that it's not me or Leanna.
Mary Jane steps back to the podium and says, "Oh, n! We're almost half the way through our reaping! But we have one more girl left. Who, who, who will it be?"
She grins and picks a name. There's a horrible moment of silence.
And then, "Alice Brendon!"
Pure silence. And then it hits me, full force and terrible. I'm going into the Hunger Games.
Then come the tears. Pouring down my face, shaming me, saying, Look at me. Crying. Dead...
I stumble to the stage, hiding my face in the hood. Hoping they won't see me. But they'll see me. And they'll know to kill me, they will.
District 6: Tyrus Duncaine's POV:
I wake up late. Very late. Heck, why should I wake up early? The reaping's not until late morning. I don't need to worry about being late. I'd never be late. We Duncaines, we'd never be late. Only Ourskirter families are late like that. They have no life, no hope. But we live in the town. We're as rich as you can get in District 6. One of us, be late? Ha.
Half an hour until the reaping. No problem.
I get up, stretch, and put on ripped jeans and a graphic t-shirt. Oh, yes, I look tough. Like a Duncaine should look. Just look at me and tell me I can't win the Hunger Games. Exactly - you can't.
I glance in the mirror on my bedside table. I look very handsome, and I know it. The girls love me. With my dirty blond hair and green eyes, I look like Finnick Odair, even. Nah, probably even better than him.
I saunter out of my room, and go to the dining room.
Dad's already there. He's sitting at his normal spot, with his napkin tied around his neck, a fork in his hand.
"Hurry up, Colbee!" he shouts. "We're waiting, did you know?"
"Pancakes, coming right up!" comes Mother's muffled reply. "Be there in a second!"
Next to Father sits Trixie, my little fifteen-year-old sister. Like usual, her nose is buried in her book. I roll my eyes. She's a poor excuse for a Duncaine. She isn't my real sister, as far as I'm concerned.
Just then, Mother hurries in, holding a platter of pancakes.
"About time," Father grumbles. "I've been waiting."
Mother sets the pancakes down, and turns to look at me. "How handsome you are!" she gushes. "I just can't get over you!"
"You're just used to looking at Outskirters," I say. "They're taking over the district. I saw one of them in the Capitol Delight the other day. An Outskirter! Really!"
"Them Outskirters," Father says in disgust. "They think they can just walk into the number one store in the district? This is our territory! How dare they? They can't afford to buy from there. And even browsing - "
"They bought a dress," I say. "For the reaping? A dress? Ha!" Father shoves a pancake into his mouth and says, "Deh tik deh're ah gooh ah us? Dos dihrepetful Outkirters!"
He swallows his bite, and repeats, "They really think they're as good as us? Really? And of all people, better than the Duncaines, the most frequent buyers, the best family in the district? The strongest?"
He starts to laugh, and doesn't stop until he chokes.
"These are some good pancakes," he remarks. "Make some more, Colbee. I'm hungry. I'm sure Tyrus is, too. Aren't you, Tyrus?"
"I am," I agree. "Ravenous, in fact." I pick up my fork and attack the pile of pancakes on my plate. I must have gone through six in that first minute. But soon, the serving plate's empty.
Suddenly, a small voice says, "You guys didn't leave me any."
Father glares at her. "You should grab the food when you first see it, or it'll all be gone before you know it. It's not my fault you decided not to take the fod while it was available."
Trixie looks at him for a second, and then she turns back to her book.
"We thought we had the best combination of genes possible, especially after Tyrus proved to be the boy of our dreams," Father rambles. "So we decide to have another. But you - you were not what we had in mind. Toughen up, Trixie."
She doesn't respond.
"Colbee!" Father shouts. "Hurry up with the pancakes!"
"Two minutes!"
It's ten minutes later when the second batch of pancakes finally comes, and this time Trixie takes her share.
"I'm volunteering today," I say after I eat my first pancake.
For a moment, Father just stares at me. Then he lets out a booming cheer, and claps me on the back.
"Yes!" he cries. "Show 'em, son. Show 'em how we Duncaines do it. Smush 'em into the dirt, them tributes. You'll win, obviously, but do it thoroughly. You're better than them all. Show 'em that."
"Of course I will." I roll my eyes. "You think I'll be toppled by some Outskirter equivalents?"
"Actually, the Careers can be quite formidable," Trixie pipes up. "They do win nearly every year."
I whip around and glare at my younger sister. "The tributes," I hiss, "are always poor, lame Outskirters. Got it?"
She looks at me, biting her lip thoughtfully. "I'm pretty sure the Careers will be strong this year, like they are most other years," she says after several seconds of silence.
I bang my fist on the table. My cup falls over, and water pours out, drenching the tablecloth.
"Listen closely, little sister," I say quietly, dangerously. I lower my voice so Father cannot hear me, for I'm not sure what his reaction would be to what I'm about to say. "I will beat the life out of all ninety-five other tributes. They will be so weak, so inferior, and they will not have the guts or ability to resist. And it's possible that I could, oh, kill you as well, if you don't volunteer to go in also."
Trixie's mouth falls open. She's used to me being like this, proving that I'm the Duncaine that she ought to be, but I guess she didn't realize that I would make a threat to her life. Directly.
And mean it.
Oh, I mean it. If she provoked me to the point of me wanting her dead, really dead, I would not hesitate to make that threat. And then, if she didn't volunteer, I wouldn't hesitate to kill her.
"The point is," I say, louder, "I'm going to crush those Outskirters. They don't stand a chance against me." I smile broadly. "I wonder, are there any smart points coming from my little sister?"
Trixie shakes her head mutely.
"Good," I say.
That's when I remember the water spill. I glance down, and see the soaked tablecloth. I groan.
"Mother!" I bellow. "Fetch a cloth and get over here right now! Got a spill for you to clean!"
"Coming, darling," Mother says, rushing in. She holds a third batch of pancakes.
"Ooh, great," Father says, rubbing his stomach. He grabs several more as soon as the serving plate is placed on the table.
I stare at Mother. "A cloth, didn't you hear?" I say. "Tell me, are you deaf, and didn't hear me tell you, or are you blind, and can't see the spill right in front of your face?"
She gives me a blank smile. "Sorry?"
I pound the table in exasperation. "I said, are you blind, and can't see the spill, or are you deaf, and didn't hear me say very clearly that there was? Because clearly there's some problem."
The blank smile on her face doesn't waver. "You know I live to serve you, dear. I did hear, and I did see."
"So why haven't you gotten the cloth?" I ask. "No answer, huh? Well, then get it!"
She nods, and hurries back to the kitchen. She soon returns, holding a rag. Mother gets to work immediately, scrubbing and wiping and drying the tablecloth.
"Hurry up," I say impatiently. "I want to eat more pancakes. They're going to all be gone soon, so hurry up."
"I'm done," she says brightly. Then she grabs the last pancake on the plate, and says, "Oh, yes. I am hungry. Haven't had anything since lunch yesterday!"
The dinner had been spoiled and terrible, so I insisted that, to punish her, she couldn't eat any dinner.
I grab the pancake plate, and slide it over to myself. And...it's empty. I look up. Mother is holding the last pancake.
The rage sweeps me up. "Oh, you think I can go without breakfast, huh?" I demand, furious. "Give me that pancake this second, Colbee!"
She winces, as she always does when I call her by her name, and not "Mother".
To my surprise, Mother - Colbee - doesn't wordlessly obey. She says, "But, Tyrus, I haven't had anything to eat since lunch yesterday."
"It was your own fault dinner was too bad," I growl. "And your own fault that you grabbed a pancake that I reserved. Give it here, Colbee."
Mother hesitates, and then nods. "Okay. For you, my boy, I will do anything."
"Good," I say. I take the pancake, and down it in one huge bite. "Yes, I need to be well fed if I'm going to win the Games. Quickly, I mean."
Fifteen minutes later, I'm signing in at the square. Trixie is ahead of me. I glance at the scanner and read, Duncaine, Trixie. 15/YO. I'm next. I give the Capitol man my hand. He takes some blood. Duncaine, Tyrus. 17/YO.
I walk to my section, and stand in silence. And then Chase Pickman finds me.
"Yo, Tyrus!" a hoarse voice shouts. "Good to see you!"
I turn around. Chase is walking toward me, a false smile on his face.
"Happy Hunger Games," I say. "Your friend shall soon be a victor."
"Aw, man, you're volunteering?" Chase grins, and claps me on the back. "Show 'em how we do it here!"
"I'll be showing them how Duncaines do it," I agree. "They think they're better than me, they're wrong. They think they're going to win, they're wrong. I can't wait to kill them all."
Chase shakes his head. "Dude, they don't have a chance."
"They don't," I agree. "They have no hope in beating me."
"Claim the throne back for District Six," Chase tells me. "Got it, man? We haven't won for a few decades now."
"Oh, I'll win," I promise.
.
The four girls are picked. One faints, which is quite amusing. I'll take pleasure in killing her. Survival of the fittest. Of the best.
Then, finally, Mary Jane moves on to the boys.
"Aw, we're halfway done with this year's reaping," our escort says pitifully. She even dabs at her eye. "But at least we have four...strong...men waiting to be reaped." She grins at us, and I can tell she doesn't believe that we'll be strong.
Just you wait, Mary Jane. You'll see what I can do. Anything. That's my limit.
"I'll be choosing four boys, now, as you probably already know," she continues. "Of course you already know this. If you didn't, well...I don't even know! You've been living under a rock for the last few months! I'm going to take a name from the other ball this time, as I'm choosing a boy, not a girl...four of them, actually!"
She grins, and plucks a slip of paper from the boys' bowl.
"Now, our first male is - "
"I volunteer!"
I don't hesitate, or rethink my decision. Why should I? I need to show everyone, everyone, that I'm the best. That I can do anything. I know I am, and others will know soon.
I go to the stage, and see my destiny - riches, victory - unfolding in front of me.
District 6: Coby Roose's POV:
In my dream, Medrada is by me side. She always by me side. We stands in the big District Six square and waits for Tiffie to call the names like she do every year. Medrada cries, an' I cries, too. We nervous.
Tiffie call the girl first. She say, "Medrada Roose!"
Medrada leave me, and I cries, and says, "No, you can't go, Meddie, you can't, I needs you here! No leave, Meddie!"
I calls her Meddie, she turns around. I hasn't called her Meddie for weeks. Her nickname, we don't use. Medrada, Meddie. But me, I just Coby. I always Coby.
Medrada go up, an' Tiffie says next, "Coby Roose!"
An' I cries, an' I runs up to Medrada, to Meddie. An' she hug me, and I hugs her, and we cries together. An' we both be goin' in, an' we both be dyin'. 'Cause of the Capitol.
I wakes up shaking and crying. Meddie's sittin' up in her bed, rockin' clutchin' her knees to her chest. I looks closer. She cryin', too. She looks up, sees me watchin' her.
And she says, "Coby, I dreamt she pick me. She say my name, an' I went up and then died. In the arena. She kill me."
An' I say, "I dreamt she reaped you an' then me, and we both went in an' died. Bad, bad dream."
An' she says, "Coby, you only six. You's only got six entries. I, I's got twenty-four. I twelve, so I got lots more than you has. You's not gonna be reaped, Cobykins. You's safe."
"So's you," I protests. "You's not gonna be reaped like me. Jus' like me. We safe. Okay, Meddie?"
"Got it, Cobykins," she says.
"You's only twelve," I continues. "You's only got twenty-four entries, you. Eight...time three?"
"As it is," she agree. "We be fine. An' I be wearing a nice dress, Coby. Wanna see it?"
I grins, and scoots forward. "Show me!"
Meddie stands up, walks to the dresser we shares. She take out a black dress. Is a nice dress.
"Was Mom's," she say. "Is new, Coby! Is very new!"
"As it is," I agrees. "Where Mom gots it?"
"I dunno," Meddie says. "But was new. Is very new still."
She gets into the dress, an' I turn away. Momma say that what you do when Meddie changing. I obeys Momma. Always obeys Momma. Momma always know what to do.
Meddie look beautiful in her dress. I turns around, and Meddie says, "Show me what you wearing, Coby."
I goes into the dresser and pulls out the best shirt I have. It an old, faded grey button shirt. Next I gets the too-small black trousers. I puts them on, and Meddie looks.
"You looks handsome," she says. "You looks great, Coby."
"You too," I says, beaming.
She says I look handsome! I dunnos what that means, but I knows it a good thing.
"Is there brekfix?" I asks.
"I dunnos," Meddie says. "I hopes. Brekfix is good."
"We had it Friday," I says.
"Today's special," Meddie says. "Maybe we get the special treat. Brekfix is nice. I's always hungry, specially in the mornin'."
I scamper into the livin' room. Momma and Poppa's wakin' up, tuckin' their blankets into the couch. They looks up, says hello.
"Is there brekfix?" I asks. "The wheels?"
"You mean District Six Standard? Breakfast?" Poppa asks, a tired smile on his face. "I'm sorry, Coby. We...we ran out on Friday. We had breakfast, and we finished it off. I...I might be able to get another box in a few weeks. And then we can have breakfast."
My face fall. I says, "But Poppa, I's hungry."
Poppa says, "I'm sorry, Coby. We don't have any food."
"Townies has brekfix every mornin'," I says pitifully. I starts to cry. "They tells me. They says they have brekfix every mornin'! An' then they say that Outskirters has no money so we can't have brekfix!"
"By definition," Momma says, "we are Outskirters. And we don't have the money to have breakfast every morning. I'm sorry, Coby. I know you're hungry. We're hungry, too."
Poppa glances out the window. His face turn pale, an' he says, "We have half an hour until the reaping! Oh, great. We're going to be late."
Momma tells me, "Coby, get your shoes on. I need to get Medrada up."
"She up," I says.
I walks to the door an' puts my shoes on. They's black boots. They my only pair of shoes. Townies at school says they have three, four pairs of shoes. It not fair.
Soon, Meddie and Momma and Poppa also come. They put their shoes on, and we walks out the door.
"Where's we going?" I asks.
"To the square," Poppa says. "You...you know about the reaping?"
"The girl an' the boy?"
"As it is," Poppa confirm. "Except this year she'll be reaping four girls and four boys."
My mouth drop open. "Four and four? But I thought she pick one girl and one boy."
"Not this year," he say grimly.
When we gets to the square, I tries to go with Momma and Poppa to the big line where I goes every year. But Meddie pulls my hand, and makes me go to the other line.
My lip wobble. "I wanna stay with Momma and Poppa!" I cries. "No, Meddie, you're mean! I wanna stay with Momma and Poppa! Don't make me go here! No, please!"
"You have to," she say. "All we kids goes here. Not like last year. Next year you be goin' over there with Momma and Poppa."
We waits in the line for a while. When we gets to the front, Meddie puts her hand under a black tablet thing the man in white's holding. There's a flash, and a beep, and words appear on the black thing. Roose, Medrada. 12/YO.
Meddie grab my hand an' raise it. The man take it, an' put it next to the black thing. There's a beep, an' -
OW!
I yanks my hand back, an' howl in pain. Blood bubble up an' my finger hurt.
The thing say, Roose, Coby. 6/YO.
I snufflin' an' cryin' when Meddie take my hand an' lead me to the back of the square.
"You waits here," she tell me. "When this over, I comes and gets you an' we go back to the house."
I nods, and she leaves.
I talks with my friends, an' then the mayor say something into his microphone, and everyone bes quiet.
.
The funny lady, Tiffie, say her name's now Mary Jane. She pick four girls, an' then a boy. But the boy's a volunteer. She take another name, and I feels panic. What if it me?
"Jonan Spoke!"
It not, an' I sighs in relief. An eight-year-old go to the stage, tryin' not to look scared, but he is. Mary Jane ask is he's the girl who fainted's brother, an' he say yes.
Six out of our eight tributes have been chosen," Mary Jane say. "It's not time for me to chose the third boy! I wonder how old he'll be. If he'll win. It's very possible, folks! So, I'm going to take a name out of the bowl now..."
She walk to the bowl an' picks a slip. I shivers in fear, an' hopes she don't say my name.
"Our third boy this year is...Coby Roose!"
I freezes. But Meddie warn't picked, an' so I couldn't be picked. That what she said, right? An' Meddie aren't up there, but she...she say my name!
Tears streamin' down my face, I walks to the stage.
District 6: Carson Powers's POV:
The room where we all sleep, me and the older ones, is really loud when I wake up. They're talking, and the second-youngest, my seven-year-old sister, is crying. I tiptoe out of bed and put an arm around her to comfort her.
"Why are you crying?" I ask, confused.
"Today's the reaping," she says fearfully.
"What's the re-pin?" I ask.
"Reaping," she says. "The lady picks two kids to go and fight to the death! In the Hunger Games!"
"The Hunger Games," I echo. I've heard the term many times in the past, but I'd had no idea what it meant. "What's that?"
"This year, ninety-six kids, five to eighteen years old, eight from each district, are going to fight each other!" she says. "And they're gonna kill each other! The last one alive is gonna go back home. But only one!"
I stare at her. "I'm five. You said five to eighteen?"
"We're all eligible," my older brother says, coming over to us. He's fifteen. "Anyone between the ages of five and eighteen might be reaped. We're all in that age group. And if you go in, you die. Painfully."
I frown, and turn back to my sister. "But...but you said one person wins, didn't you?"
"I wasn't born the last time someone from Six won," my brother says darkly. "Here, we don't send in winners. We send in the walking dead."
"Zombies?" My mouth drops open, and I'm reminded of the gory stories I've heard late at night, when they thought I was asleep.
He laughs. "No, not zombies. But they know they'll be dead soon. They almost always are. Our tributes haven't even made it past the first day for the last few years."
"So...why do we compete?" I ask.
"We don't want to," he explains. "But just over a century ago, the districts rebelled against the Capitol. The Dark Days, right? And then, a century ago to the year, the Treaty of Treason was made and signed. Every year, each district has to send in a boy and a girl to fight to the death in the Hunger Games. Twenty-four tributes. It'll supposedly remind us of those days of war, terrible war."
"War, terrible war?"
"Just quoting the video they show each year, kid," he explains.
"But...before, you said there were ninety-six..."
"Oh, yes." He laughs bitterly. "This year, they've widened the age groups, and quadrupled the tribute count. Some stupid reason. Since it's the fourth twenty-fifth anniversary, they've decided to give us a hard time."
I'm utterly confused. "But...why do they do this? Kids could die, right? Kids my age."
"Don't ask me." He shrugs. "Because they're a bunch of violent morons that think that violence is the answer to violence? I don't agree with it. I might be reaped, you might be reaped, any of us could be reaped. Not Mother and Father, sorry."
I stare at him, horrified. "I might be reaped?"
He frowns at me. "Haven't you been told already, kid? You have two entries in the bowl. Me, I have twenty-two. Out of thousands and thousands. So we might be reaped, but it's very unlikely."
I look at him, scared. "But...what if I'm reaped?"
"Then you go in there, do your thing for as long as you can, and then you die."
I start to cry. "Really?"
"Look, kid, I'm not going to lie to you," he says. "You're little, and young, and inexperienced, and probably don't want to hear it, but if you're reaped, you'll die soon. I'd die, too. Maybe I'd make it a few days in, but I'd die soon enough."
"I'd die?" My voice trembles.
"Some other kid would kill you," he says. "Maybe it'd be quick, maybe you'd be lying there, bleeding to death, for hours and hours. There's no way of knowing."
"And...it would hurt?"
"As it is," he admits. "If you didn't die right away, it would."
"But I might not die, right?" I ask. "I might be the one who wins? I'm big and strong, you know."
He just laughs. "Sure you are, Carson. Look, kid, you're only five. You're not even four and a half feet. There'll be eighteen-year-olds in the mix, I'm sure. Some tributes will be two feet taller than you are. You'd be at the very youngest end. You wouldn't make it a day into the Games."
"But I might win, right?" I ask. "There's a chance?"
"Not more than a millionth of a percent," he says. "If you're reaped, you'll be dead within the week."
I absorb this, and then say, "But I won't be reaped, right?"
"It's very unlikely."
I nod, and say, "I'm going to get dressed."
I rifle through the dresser and pull out a blue shirt and yellow pants. I quickly change into them. One of my older sisters sees me and protests. But there's nothing she can do, and frankly, I don't really care.
I glance into the dirty mirror. I'm an Asian/Caucasian mix, which you can tell from a glance, apparently. I don't know what it means. The blue shirt and yellow pants look strange together, but I don't care.
I look at myself thoughtfully. My brother told me that when he was my age, this mirror was clean and shiny. I asked him what shiny meant, and he said it meant bright and clear.
I don't know anything that's bright or clear. I asked him what it really meant. He just rolled his eyes at me and told me that the little shininess left in Panem, outside of the Capitol, is being "wiped away", so I'd better find it quick.
He said he could tell little details, even, like the color of his eyes. But his eyes, they aren't that colorful. They're dark, like he says mine are. But now the mirror's fogged and dirty, and cracked from the time I ran into it. It fell down and broke, and we had to piece it back together, and glue it.
The glue seeped out of the cracks, so now the mirror's covered by crisscrossing white lines. Well, they used to be white. But the dust has settled on them, so now they're grey.
Like everything else.
Mother and Father give us each a tiny bowl of the car wheels. They call it "District Six Standard". Standard what?
When we finish, I's still hungry. No, I'm still hungry. Mother and Father tell me never to use the Outskirters' slang. Ever. We're basically Outskirters, but they've told me not to speak like the rest of the kids do.
But it's cool. When I grow up, and they aren't there to tell me not to, I'm going to learn it.
After breakfast, we put on out shoes and leave the house. We walk to the square, where my brother grabs my hand, and leads me to where the kids are signing in. I peek between two older kids, and see the two huge glass globes on the stage. My name's in there two times.
And if she picks me, I'm going into the Hunger Games!
Gory scenes from past year - mostly last year - fill my head. Me getting up in the night, seeing the screen, Mother finding me and rushing me back to bed before I can see even more.
And then I'd die.
I freeze. "I wanna go home," I whimper. "I wanna go with Mom and Dad."
I break free from his grip and make a run for it. But he catches me, and hoists me back into the line. By this time, I'm sobbing.
"Get a hold on yourself," he mutters in my ear. "You're not...probably not going to be reaped. Just sign in with me, and I'll take you to the back, and after the reaping, we'll all go home."
His words blur into a meaningless drone. And then I see the front of the line. The man with the black instrument. And the bloodred fingerprints on the ledger in front of him...
I let loose a piercing shriek, and several passersby turn and stare.
"No!" I cry. "I don't want to! You - you didn't tell me - "
He clamps his hand over my mouth. "You'll be alright. Just be quiet, okay?"
But I'm not quiet. I don't stop sobbing.
When we get to the front of the line, my brother holds my hand out. The Capitol man grabs it. He puts it my the black thing, and then pain shoots through my finger.
The man grabs my throbbing finger, and presses it onto his ledger.
I'm sobbing like crazy now, and I don't stop until my brother drops me off at the back of the square. When he leaves, my sobs fade to gasps, and then to sniffles.
And then the reaping begins.
.
My heart skips a beat each time Mary Jane reads a name. But at first they're all girls. I don't know any of them.
The come the boys. There's a volunteer from the front of the square. He's huge. I recognize him as the boy who always terrorizes us younger kids. He picks on Outskirters especially. As I don't speak like many of them, I escape his wrath most of the time, but even I am not safe.
Then there's an eight-year-old boy, who's sister was just reaped. He's an Outskirter, and I've seen him around. But not his sister, I don't think.
Then there's a six-year-old boy. He's a year ahead of me, but I know him. He's everyone's friend. Even mine, and I don't have any friends. I'm sorry he's reaped. I don't want my friends to die.
"It's now time to choose our eighth and final tribute," Mary-Jane says cheerfully. "And our fourth boy. I've already selected seven to represent this district, but one more is still to come. And then the reaping will be over. Terrible! And you'll all go back to your wonderful homes and eat a marvelous feast - don't you just love feasts? And chocolate cake is the best way to finish of a meal! Or maybe strawberry...or huckleberry... Oh, I don't know. And then you'll all watch the Games, and we'll all have a wonderful year!
"But right now I still have one more tribute to select."
Mary Jane goes over to the bowl and picks a name. I tremble.
"Carson Powers!"
My mouth falls open. My knees feel weak.
But my brother told me I wouldn't be reaped. He said - he said -
The tears come. They pour from my eyes, and race down my cheeks. They wet my shirt, and I wonder if I'll cause a flood. Because I don't want to die. Life may not be great here, but I don't want to die. No, no, oh no.
This can't be happening to me.
I sob and sob. My knees buckle, and I fall to my knees.
One of the boys behind me nudges me with his toe. He wants me to die. I don't want to die!
The Peacekeepers come and drag me to the stage. My hand is grabbed, and the Mary Jane woman jerks it up, and then down. I sob, and sob, and sob.
My brother's words come back to me.
If you're reaped, you'll be dead within the week.
I'll be dead within the week.
A/N: So, at the bottom of my profile, I'm including a section about my stories. If I haven't updated in a while, check there. I might post a reason, or say how far I am in the next chapter.
There's a sponsor system, and I'll explain it at a later chapter, maybe, or you can read about it on my profile. You can earn sponsor points, and then spend them. I'll give a sponsor point to each of your tributes for every few reviews you send in. So, review, even if your tribute isn't featured in the chapter.
Rate these tributes from favorite to least favorite. I'll average the results, and they'll go toward sponsor points. The overall favorite will get seven, the second favorite six, etc. The eighth (last) will get none.
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