Barron Hendrix (15)
The light and heat from the forge was about the only kind that wasn't dangerous for me. The furnaces were like tiny suns to make up for the one I didn't see much of. I worked here by necessity, but I was glad at the way it turned out.
My pale skin was a novelty and even started a trend in my District, but it was less than ideal. People here were dark because the sun was ever-present and unforgiving. All my friends could go out at high noon and do whatever they wanted. If I so much as ran to the market when the sun was out, I came back burned and sore. I was so fragile it soon became clear field work was impossible for me. So the others sent me to the forge to make tools for people who didn't incinerate when placed in direct sunlight.
A blacksmithing forge was about the most functional place possible. Nothing here was pretty or light or delicate. We dealt with heavy anvils and crude tools and dark, sooty smoke that smeared my skin so I almost looked normal. The soot couldn't hide my watery, unnatural-colored eyes or white, washed-out hair, though. In the old days, people would have thought I was a ghost. But the people here were used to me, and I was glad I could be a useful part of the District.
I didn't often go places other than the forge or my house. I didn't like being stared at. People would come up and talk to me, but I always tried to shut that down. I knew they didn't really want to be friends with me. They wanted to be friends with the freak. It wasn't fair I looked like this. My parents were both dark, like everyone around here. Something went wrong with me. Usually, when things like that happened, nature took care of its mistakes.
It was almost Reaping Day. For once, I was the same as everyone else in Eleven. Reaping Day was the worst day of the year for me. But of course, there was another factor for me. It wasn't enough I had to stand in front of that bowl and see if it was my year to die in the Arena. I also had to wait through the ceremonies and anthems and organization that seemed to stretch on for hours. I could feel my skin crisping and burning as we all stood in rows. I carried aloe leaves in my pocket and as soon as the Tribute was announced, I ran home with the soothing leaves pressed to my skin and hid inside away from the awful, burning sun. There was one other thing that set me apart from everyone in Panem. The graveyard Arena would have been perfect for me.
Scarlett Cardell, 17
Even jailbirds don't get out of the Reaping. We do get out for the Reaping, though. In a few minutes I'd be released for my annual respite, if it could be called that. As I waited, I was looking out the window at the others getting ready. I ached inside when I saw Blossom Kincade. She was already crying, and her father was half-dragging her to the center. When I first went to jail, she was too young to worry about the Reaping. It was her first year, and I wished I could go out and tell her it would be okay. I couldn't go out at all, of course, and even if I could, I wouldn't be able to tell her that.
It was for kids like her that I was in jail. Three years ago, I started sneaking to the border of Eleven and Twelve and tossing food over the fences. The children in Twelve found out and snuck out to meet me. It was insanely dangerous, and I was lucky I didn't get any of them killed. It didn't take long for me to get caught when one of the children's mothers thought I was kidnapping them and called the Peacekeepers. I'd been in jail for two years since then, and I'd started looking forward to the Reapings just so I could see the outside again.
The jailer walked with me to the Reaping in case I tried to escape. I wasn't that daring anymore. I saw some of the children I used to play with and waved at them, but their parents shot me dirty looks and clutched the children closer. They still believed the unfounded, hysterical charges of kidnapping. It was only because of the complete lack of evidence that I hadn't been executed right away.
Snapdragon was a sight for sore eyes. After gray and more gray in jail, it was nice to see her garish, juvenile dresses and suits. She favored loud, mixed prints and didn't see the problem in having half her gown be fitted and half be draped. It made her look like a half-melted candle.
Everyone gasped when she reaped Barron. Even a jailbird like me knew about him. He stuck out like a dove among ravens. As soon as he got onstage he retreated back under the awning and into the shadows. His sensitive eyes were streaming just because of theglaring sunlight. Snapdragon, who was used to people of all colors, didn't see the fuss and went to pick the next name.
"Scarlett Cardell!" she said. My heart fluttered and a jolt of adrenaline charged through me. I wondered if the reaping had been rigged, but there were worse criminals in jail than me. I was so stunned I must have looked brainless next to Barron. I didn't notice when Snapdragon announced us.
After all the shock wore off and I was just numb, I thought about what it meant for me. I was going to be out of jail and in the world for the first time in years. If I won, I likely wouldn't be going back to my cell. I could start helping people again. Victors had a sort of immunity. If the crime wasn't against the Capitol or a Capitolite, they didn't care. If I won this, my entire District would benefit. I had to do my best.
Barron is an albino with a poofy Afro. He is of normal height and weight. Scarlett has red hair, freckles, and olive skin (she wasn't originally designed for Eleven, so she doesn't match the Eleven look). She has a big scar across her face.