DISTRICT EIGHT REAPING:
Velvet Wilkinson, 15, District Eight
I didn't get any sleep last night. Not that I expected too.
The nightmares came early and kept me thrashing all night. They were just as surreal and terrifying as they usually are the night before Reaping Day. When I woke up, the palms of my hand had deep scratches from where my nails dug into them during the night. Both hands have dried blood from where the skin is pierced. It's not the first time this has happened, and I bandage them up like I always do. I can't but help but think how poor the timing of this injury is. Bandaged hands won't make me look any prettier on reaping day.
My mom is asleep in her armchair when I get dressed. I'm sure my nightmares and thrashing kept her up too, but she'd never mention it. She already feels too bad about them. She knows why they come, and that there's nothing to do to stop them. It's already too late for that.
Running is the only thing that calms me. I spend all of my free time jogging up and down the crowded streets of District Eight to clear my head. It's the reason for the lean muscles that line my legs. Ones that sometimes disappear whether or not we're going hungry that week.
If it hadn't been so late at night when the dreams started, I'd have laced up my shoes and gone for a jog. I'd do it now, if it weren't reaping day.
My reaping dress hangs over the back of one of our tiny wooden table chairs. Mom and I don't have a dresser or clothing rack in our tiny apartment. We keep what clothes we do have in tiny wicker baskets under our irons beds. But this dress, the one I made especially for reaping day, is too nice for that. I don't want it to get wrinkled. I spent too many hours and broke too many rules for it to look anything other than perfect.
It's white and made from the nice material we use in the factories to make peacekeeper's uniforms. I had to smuggle stray, 'unusable' chunks of fabric from the factory for weeks before I had enough to make it. Technically speaking, the Peacekeepers would consider what I'd done theft, but I don't. The fabric would have been thrown out anyway, they always have bins full of scraps that are cut wrong or too short, ones they ship back to the Capitol to be incinerated.
If the Capitol wants me to look pretty while watching someone chosen to be murdered, well then, they can't be angry I've taken their scrap fabric. It's not as though I could afford it otherwise.
The black fabric for the collar and the waist was made from some of my old clothes, one's so threadbare I couldn't wear them anymore. I slip the dress on carefully and make sure it fits okay and sits right. I'm a little thinner than the last time I took the measurements so it hangs a little too much on my shoulders, but still it's beautiful.
I comb through my hair quickly. It has long split ends that I haven't had the time or energy to deal with it. Carefully I take the fabric shears to it. Little chunks of fiery red hair to fall into my hand as I cut the bottom into a straight line. When I finish, it sits a few inches past my shoulders, perfectly straight.
We have some left over grainy bread from yesterday and I nibble on a piece of that, and leave the other half for my mom. After I finish eating, I pick up Tweed's dress from where I left it on the table the night before.
I'm actually impressed with how it turned it out. I took me months to sneak enough of the satin red fabric from the factories for it. We only use it when people in the Capitol custom order gowns and dress shirts. We had an excessive amount of orders this year, and I managed to sneak an entire yard and a half of it, piece by piece.
I spent days on it, meticulously hand stitching everything with one of my few rusty needles and leftover thread. Even the belt is handcrafted, made from purple ribbon scraps I collected over time.
Tweed doesn't know I've made it for her. She probably would have tried to stop me if she had known. She would have pressured me to sell it to one of the other girls in this District. This time of year, it's how I feed myself and my mom. Wealthier town girls and their mothers always buy my custom dresses around Reaping Day. The know I steal the fabric, but they don't seem to mind. If anyone ever came around asking where I got it, I'd lie. But no one ever does. That, I guess is the only thing I can thank my father for. Peacekeepers fear other Peacekeepers too, especially ruthless one's like him.
My mother yawns as she walks into our poorly lit kitchen. Her brown hair is piled messily into a bun that sits on the nape of her neck. She's wearing her favorite pajamas, the one's I've patched more times than I can count.
"Good morning, sweetheart." She brings me to hear and places a kiss on the top of my head.
"Morning Mom. I left some bread for you." I tell her. "That's all that's left until the market opens again tomorrow."
She shakes her head and gives me one of her wide smiles. "That's all right. We'll manage."
Her mangled right-hand hangs uselessly at her side, her remaining fingers are curled into a permeant, immobile claw shape It's the lingering reminder of the accident at the factory, the one that permanently disfigured her.
I still remember her screaming that day, even though it was more than seven years ago. Two of the other women from the factory had dragged her home, while she clutched her bloody hand and screamed. There had been a malfunction on one of the industrial sewing machines, and it had taken a chunk from her hand. There was nothing we could afford to do to fix it. One of the local doctors did his best cleaning it up, but that was it.
We had already been poor at the point, and with my mom's new injury she couldn't work. At only eight years old I was forced to take a job at the textile factory, or we couldn't eat. The people who ran the factory knew how desperate we were and took advantage. I only make a fraction of what the adults too. The meager salary from the textile factory and my secret illegal reaping dress earnings are how I feed my mom and me. Some weeks, it's enough. Some weeks, we're hungry. That's why I take out tesserae. The risk of the Games is worth not starving. I don't like to think about how many times my name is in that stupid bowl. It's the reason the nightmares don't go away.
I prepare my bag by the front door. In it, are two reaping dresses I made for Taffeta and Telmy Bryant. Their father is a wealthy merchant in the District, and the money I'm going to make from this sale should feed us for at least a few weeks. I plan on delivering them now.
"Is this the dress for Tweed?" My mother asks. She struggles to pick it up with only one good hand.
I nod. "Yeah, do you like it?"
My mother nods earnestly, a dreamy look on her face. "It's beautiful. You've outdone yourself."
"I'm going to drop it off at Tweed's and then deliver the Bryant girl's dresses. We should be able to afford a decent dinner after that."
"Thank you, Velvet." My mother runs her good hand through my hair and stops. "You cut your hair?" I nod. She lets out a loving sigh, "It looks lovely. It usually does. You're lucky you have your father's hair."
I stiffen immediately. "That's all I got from him," I say bitterly, "We certainly don't get anything else."
"Velvet," my mother says warningly and I know immediately to stop. There is no way I will win this argument. It doesn't matter what I say. My mother will always be enamored by the idea and memory of my father. What does it matter that he abandoned her while pregnant? Who cares that he let her carry the burden of a child alone? She ignores any of his faults, even though he never speaks to her.
I could probably live with it if I didn't have to see him constantly. He's a Peacekeeper and District Eight isn't very big. I see him constantly and he barely looks at me. He's always flirting with the young women of the district, the ones half his age, while his ex-fling and daughter starve to death before his very eyes. We cross path constantly, and we never acknowledge each other's existence. We are practically strangers.
"I should go," I tell my mom. "See you at the reaping."
She nods. I grab my bag and head out of the door. Tweed only lives two doors down. I knock twice on the door and her older brother Seam answers on the second knock.
"Hey Velvet. Tweed's inside," Seam opens the door and lets me in. He and Tweed look so much alike sometimes it scares me. They both have the same bronze hair and dark chocolate eyes.
"Thanks," I tell him, "I won't be long, I just have to drop something off."
"That doesn't matter. You know you're welcome to stay as long as you want," he says. I can see he's already dressed for the reaping.
Seam is seventeen, and works at the factory, hauling the giant crates full of supplies to the hovercrafts and trains. We see each other a lot at work, and sometimes if he has time to join me for a run, he will. His younger sister is my closest friend, and that has made us close too.
"What happened to your hands?" Seam asks gesturing to the white bandages across my palms.
"Annual Reaping Day nightmares," I sigh. "Not the best day to get them, If I get reaped, the audience will know I'm a stress case."
Seam knows me well, he knows my constant fear of being in the Games. He has similar fears. He and Tweed still have two working parents, so they don't have to worry about tesserae, but still their names are in there quite a lot.
Seam runs his thumb over one of the bandages and shakes his head. "I wouldn't worry about that. If you are reaped, and I don't think you will be, the audience will probably think you're tough. I'll tell everyone you kicked my ass."
"Thanks, I appreciate that," I tell him.
"Anything for you Velvet," Seam chuckles, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively. I elbow him in the ribs.
Tweed hears us, and emerges from her room. She's still in her pajama's but her hair has already been styled carefully. She's only thirteen, but somehow, she's more mature than half the girls in our district. Poverty has taught her a lot about growing up, and I've never once noticed our age difference.
"I brought you something," I tell her excitedly and hold out her dress.
Her face falls immediately. "Velvet, you shouldn't have. You know I can't accept that."
I shake my head, "Yes you can. I'm not taking no for an answer."
"What if I refuse?" Tweed asks.
"You won't" I tell her with an eye roll. "It's way too pretty. You can't resist."
Tweed sighs, and her brown eyes crinkle. "Thank you, it's beautiful." She picks it up and twirls it around for a second.
"I have to drop off the other dresses for the Bryant girls, too" I tell her.
"Give me a minute to get dressed and I'll head out with you," Tweed says, and disappears into the other room. She emerges a minute later in the dress. It fits her like a glove.
"You're a genius," Tweed spins for me. "Come on. Let's go deliver the other dresses."
"I think I'll join you guys," Seam says quickly, and Tweed casts him an annoyed glance. "God, Seam. Get your own friends."
"Nope, I like yours better." He winks at me.
They say goodbye to their parents and the three of us head out of the apartment building and head for the Bryant's house. It's on the other side of the square and as we pass by, we see all of the festivities being set up for the reaping.
Tweed scans the crowd of citizens and peacekeepers and frowns. "Oh goody, look whose already here."
I follow her gaze and my eyes narrow when I see who she's talking about. Leaning against one of the light posts is a tall, broad-shouldered Peacekeeper, blatantly flirting with the short-skirted Capitol escort. It's Sean Wilkinson, my father.
I sigh, he couldn't deny our familial connection even if he wanted too. We have the same honey colored eyes, and freckles on our cheeks. Identical, full mouths. Our hair is the exact same shade of dark red, the only two people in the entire District with that color. They say it's because he's originally from District four, where that's more common. I wouldn't know, I've never spoken more than three words to him. He is the man who let us go hungry. Who abandoned his girlfriend after he found out she was pregnant.
He looks up and sees me watching him. His gaze lingers for only a moment before he turns back to the Capitol woman. What an asshole.
"Come on," Seam urges, "let's just go." He and Tweed both know how I feel about him and his neglect.
I listen and leave the square. I have enough to worry about with the Reaping. I don't need to worry about my absentee father too.
Junez Croster, 16, District Eight;
I can't stand my brother.
I know that's a horrible thing to say and I should be ashamed, but I'm not. I don't care. Who says you have to love someone simply because you're related? My brother is a bad person, and I really hate him.
It's reaping day, arguably the worst day of the entire year to between the ages of twelve and eighteen in Panem. It's literally the day you could be sent to your own death. I think that should excuse me from any lip from my brother Rasta, but being who he is, he is he snapped at me the moment I got up. I had barely been up five minutes when Rasta demanded I bring all of our old wooden crates to the city square. The District needed more to line the reaping square and were offering everyone one coin for every pound people bring. Rasta and I have four, and he wants to bring them all myself. It doesn't matter to him that I'm nervous about the reaping, or that I wanted to go for a jog before it's starts. No, Rasta wanted me to bring the crates, so now I'm bringing the stupid crates. That's what happens when your parents get crushed by industrial sewing machines and leave you with only your brother for a guardian.
Rasta has too much power, and he abuses it. I can't count the number of times per week he hits me. I swear he'll smack me across the face for being five minutes late. If it weren't for my younger sister Loraine always watching, I'd hit him back. There was one time last fall, when I lost my part time job, that Rasta beat me so hard I could barely hide it at school. I had to lie and say a Peacekeeper saw me stealing, an offense that's punishable by public beating. After that, most people at school steered clear of me. They think I'm trouble.
It doesn't help that I look so different from them. My skin is darker than the rest of the districts, and my hair is darker too. Most of the people in Eight are so pale, you can almost see their veins.
When I was fifteen, Rasta shaved lines in my eyebrow in an effort to make me look tougher, and it worked. No one tries to hang around me anymore.
It's not just my looks that turn people off. I'm surly, moody and keep to myself. When I am out in the District, I'm usually looking for a way to get food. I do what I have to survive. If that means digging through other people's trash for dinner, I'll do it. That doesn't make people like me very much but I don't really care. Rasta spends all of his money on white liquor. Someone's got to feed Loraine and me.
Sometimes I wish my brother wasn't twenty-three. I wish he were still eligible for the Games. If anyone deserves to be reaped, it's him. Twenty-three tributes making his life hell for a change would be a good dose of Karma for him. I wonder how he would do with a beat-down.
I get dressed before I bring the crates. Loraine has just barely woken up and is rifling through the kitchen, trying to find something to eat for breakfast. There was an entire basket of apples yesterday, but Rasta probably traded them for more liquor. I'll have to see if I can scavenge something around the District after the reaping.
The square is full of Peacekeepers when I drop off the crates. One of them gives me a hard time and tells me the crates are in too poor of a condition to accept, and they only give me one coin for all four of them.
Rasta's going to be angry, but there's nothing I can do about it. I drop the coin in my pocket and decide to wait in the square for Reaping to start. I like to people watch. No one ever talks me in this stupid District, so watching them is the only way I ever learn anything about them.
There's a group of girls from my class at school who have just arrived in the square. They barely look at me when they pass. They're all pretty, town girls. The kind who have never once been hungry in their lives. The kind who never talk to me. The girls who don't really have to worry about going to the Games. Reaping Day is just an excuse to wear their pretty dresses and have some cake at home.
I wish I could afford to think like that. I've taken out tesserae every year and I know my name is in there more times than I can count. Odds are definitely not in my favor.
I hate the Games, always have. They're just an excuse to keep the poor people of the District hungry and punish all of us for things our ancestors did 59 years ago.
I don't know why they bother with the whole shebang of the Games anyway. Why make the people of the Districts fall in love with all of the tributes by parading them around and interviewing them, only to throw them into a death match a week later? It seems like a lot of trouble to me. They could make their point and save a lot of time by just rounding up twenty-four of us and taking us out immediately. But they'll never do that. They enjoy watching us murder each other too much. This is for their enjoyment.
Eventually the square starts to fill up and I take my place among my peers. I know being late won't serve me. The Capitol's escort this year is a pretty, young woman in a tight, short skirt. She makes a big show of the whole thing and it takes almost twenty minutes for her to pull out the name of the female tribute. When she reads it, she does it very slow and dramatic.
"Velvet Wilkinson!"
I recognize the name. Wilkinson, that's one of the Peacekeeper's here. The redhead. I know because he's beaten me loads of times for digging in the trash. A Peacekeeper's daughter's reaped? Interesting. Then I remember the scandal, the one that only the old people here talk about. Wilkinson knocked up some girl named Gingham and then left her and the kid to starve. It was a really big deal a few years ago.
The girl, Velvet, slowly climbs up onto the stage. I know her immediately from her fiery red hair and the freckles on her cheeks. She's pretty. I see her all the time at school and occasionally we'll pass each other when we're running. She's fast and can usually lap me. I've never spoken to her.
She wears a nice dress but she looks too skinny underneath it. Her mom had some kind of accident, I remember, and only she works. She must not be getting very much because it looks like the girl has skipped more than a few meals. Her cheeks are hollow and her arm looks like a tiny tree branch.
Standing on the stage, she's surprisingly calm for someone who's just been basically sentenced to die. Then again, she's definitely a tesserae kid. She must have known this was coming. Or feared it at least. There is definitely fear in her large, brown eyes. I see she has bandages on her hands and wonder if she's been in a fight. Maybe she's tougher than I'm giving her credit for. Suddenly, I hope she wins this thing. She's the kind of winner Panem needs. Someone who could actually benefit from the winnings. Not just another rich kid from District One.
I don't take my eyes off of Velvet. I'm so caught up watching her, I almost miss the male reaping.
"Junez Croster!"
Well, shit. I was so busy hoping Rasta could have a way to enter the Games, I didn't consider that there was a real possibility I would reaped. This is my karma, and I'm pissed.
I swear and complain the entire way I stomp up the stage. When I get close to the microphone, the escort has to pull it away from me so all of Panem can't hear my profanities.
I don't care one bit. If the Capitol wants to put me in a death match to kill me, they can hear my swearing.
From beside me, Velvet looks at me with her wide brown eyes. She looks terrified. I guess I do look scary to her. She probably thinks I'll kill her.
When the escort announces our names again, I turn to the audience and narrow my eyes. I want them and all of the rest of Panem to know exactly how pissed I am.
I am going to make the Capitol pay.