I was going to wait and do One first, but I got impatient, so here's Seven.
Sherman Betula- 17
Being poor in Seven wasn't as bad as being poor in lots of Districts. We had a lot of natural resources in the forests. My family didn't make enough money to live off from our work, but we had ways to supplement that. Since our District was lumber and not agriculture, no one cared if we took plants that weren't made of wood. Almost all our money went to clothes and house maintenance, and we didn't have to spend any on food. It wasn't appetizing to eat acorn flour pancakes and dandelion salad every day, but it kept us from starving and meant we didn't have to split up the family.
We got by, but everyone had to lend a hand. If I wasn't working to bring home funds, I was cleaning around the house or watching my sister Alnus. I kept busy and I kept productive. Other than the threat of death for me and my siblings, perhaps the worst part about Reaping day was the lost productivity. I had to spend nearly all day getting processed or counted or waiting in the crowd. It meant the rest of the family had to work even harder, and it made me feel guilty.
Minerva wasn't as jumpy as she had been when she first started. She'd been so scared of getting fired or Avoxed like the last escort that she barely said anything past announcing the names. She'd gotten more confident in the successive years, and she was starting to show her personality. She was still timid, but she was cautiously eager about the proceedings. It seemed she genuinely liked picking names- not because she liked dooming people, but because she saw each year as the year she might pick a Victor.
"Good morning, everyone! I hope you're having as nice a day as I am!" Minerva called from the stage. She started toward the bowl and was interrupted.
"I'm really not!" someone yelled. Minerva jumped and tried to find the face, but whoever it was was hidden in the crowd.
"Sorry to hear that! Let's have some names!" she said. "I'll pick the boy first, because usually the girls go first." She scrambled around in the bowl and picked a slip from the very bottom. I wasn't sure if I was more worried for me or for Alnus.
"Sherman Betula!" she called. I bent over and threw up, trying to avoid the shoes of the people around me. The Peacekeepers advanced in case I made trouble, but I scuttled to the stage as I wiped at my mouth. I didn't want them getting mad at my family.
I didn't hear anything my family said when they came to see me. I felt sick and terrified and too shocked to think. After they were gone, I thought about what would happen next. I was one of twenty-four children who all wanted the same thing. I had to get back to my family. Things were tight enough even with my income and help. If I wanted to get home to them, I had to be ready to do anything, even if it was doing something to other people. They were more important than that.
Camellia Spruce- 14
"Whittle while you work..."
"Never heard that one before."
Some people didn't appreciate humor. We could either sit ten hours a day whittling decorative knickknacks for kitschy Capitol gift shops in silence, or we could sit ten hours a day and be goofy. Life was too short not to be goofy.
"Knock, knock," I said.
Leif sighed. "Who's there?" he asked.
"Ash," I said.
"Ash who?" he asked in a monotone.
"Bless you," I said. Leif sighed again as though I'd dishonored his great relatives. Amanita tittered, and Leif gave her the side-eye.
"Sorry, it was just so dumb," Amanita said. For a moment I stopped joking as I worked on a hard cut. One time I told a joke right when I was carving a cat's eye and almost cut my finger off. Had I amputated the digit, the others surely would have thought I was joking and refused to call for a doctor.
"Always bears and cats and birds," I said. "No one ever wants a whittled camel."
"Are those them lumpy horses?" Amanita asked.
"Maybe horses are flat camels," I said.
"Maybe you should know what it is before you try to whittle it," Leif said.
"Maybe you should keep your comments in your pocket," I said. I finished the rough carving and got to work sanding the details into my piece. Some fancy Capitolites preferred the "rustic" look and some preferred the "refined" look, so we made a mixture of both at our homey sweatshop. I generally made a piece every two days, which gave me roughly enough money to not starve to death. It was better than working in the lumberyards, since I had biceps of butter.
The doorbell tinkled and a very strange-looking man walked into the store. He was probably a Capitolite, judging from the purple hair and rainbow eyes. We didn't see them very often, but around Reaping time they sometimes came to take a gander at the cute little District people and their cute little deathmatches. When they came, they wanted souvenirs, and that was where I came in.
"Hello, sir! Are you looking for some wood? If so, you're in the right place," I said with a winning smile. The man came over to watch us work.
"Oh, you must be the workers! How quaint," he said, with that goofy accent they had. "Can I watch?"
"Oh, we love being watched!" I said. "I'm almost done. Just a little more sanding to take the rough edges off." I put flourishes in my strokes as I rubbed sandpaper on my carved cat, acting like it was much harder than it was.
"Voila!" I said when I was done. I set the cat upright on a wooden table and admired it. "One of my better works."
"Is it for sale?" the man asked.
"Everything's for sale," I said, sweeping my arms around at the shop. "Except me. That's illegal."
"How precious! It's darling," the man said. I picked the cat up and held it upside down.
"For you, something extra," I said. I took out my smallest carving knife and carved my name on the bottom. "A signed original."
I'd never heard a grown man squeal before. After he was gone, it was my turn to squeal. I got a bonus every time I helped make a sale. With that kind of money, I could really barely not starve.
