Gisa's POV
I pet the foal's little head, letting her chin rest in my other hand as I kiss her forehead.
"BOO!" My little brother Isiac screams as he jumps on my back. I pull him off of me.
"Your going to pay for that!" I say playfully. He giggles, so I attack him with tickles.
"Stop, stop," he manages to let out. I stop for a minute then continue. He gets his feet under my stomach and pushes lightly up; this causes me to fall back.
"Aha!" he says, making himself comfortable on my abdomen. I gasp, trying to find some air.
"You win!" I say between gulps of air. He gets off of me. He takes my hand and leads me home. I enter my father's room. Kissing my father's head I sit down on the stool by his bed. I grab his hand. "How are you doing, dad?" I whisper.
"Better," he says weakly.
"Hmmm," I say replacing the dry towel on his head with a wet one. I get up and state, "I'll make some lunch." He mumbles something inaudible as I turn. I start slicing the vegetables and place them in the big pot of stew. "Isiac!" I call. "Lunch is ready." He comes into the kitchen holding a little journal that he takes everywhere. He loves writing little stories, quotes, or little thoughts about his life, but he does it in the moment. He claims that we can read it when he is done. I put the bowl of stew in front of him and carry the other one to my father's room. I hear him snoring lightly so I place the bowl on the nightstand. I walk back to the kitchen and take a seat at the table with my little brother.
"Today is the reaping," he says quietly. I nod, showing him that I heard. "Gisa!" he says quietly. I look up at his worried eyes.
"Yes?" I ask.
"You have 36 slips!" he says, not able to continue.
"I won't get picked, that's 36 against hundreds." I say.
"That's what Mother said," he says. I almost choke on the stew.
"You were young, how do you remember?" I ask him. Our mother was 13 when she had me, and 17 when she had Isiac. When she was 18, she was reaped into the hunger games, I had no idea that Isiac remembered her that much. He looks at me and points to his book. I nod, showing that I understand. I clap my hands together. "Let's go!" I say. "DAD!" I call into his bedroom. I hear a faint answer. I walk closer to his room. "Come say bye to dad," I say to Isiac. We go to his room and each kiss him on the forehead.
We reach the square, tired from walking that long of a way. I walk him to the 12 year old roped off area, I wouldn't let him take any tesserae. If he was picked I would go crazy.
"I'll meet you at the bakery after the reaping." I tell him.
"For what?" He asks me confused.
"You would have survived your first hunger games, Don't you think that's something to celebrate?" He nods. "Bye, Gisa, I'll see you at the bakery." He gives me a hug and then I squeeze his arm reassuringly. The sun is in my eyes when I am standing in the 16 year old area. I am much taller then any of the other girls. I am 5'10' and people make "fun" of me for that. Talia the escort comes on stage.
"Welcome, and happy hunger games… May the odds be ever in your favor." She takes out a slip of paper from the girl's bowl. "Gisa Roth!" I walk up stage, not even caring until I see my brother's face. His face is a mix of anger, sadness, and guilt. When I reach Talia I act as if I was going to take her hand, she takes the bait and reaches forward. I quickly move my arm to the microphone. I take hold of the cold metal. "What is she doing, what is she doing!" Talia is yelling, not even helping the peacekeepers. I bring the microphone down on to the stage trying to smash it. Just before it falls against the stage the Peacekeepers take of hold of me and take me in to the justice building. So much for "I won't get picked, that's 36 against hundreds".
Justen's POV
"And I got Tulip in the house with me tonight, everybody say MOO!" Tulip, my parents' most ancient milk cow, simply stares blankly at me, and as do the rest of the goats and cows around her. I'm out in their field, where I spend all of my free time, practicing my singing for when I'm a star in the Capitol. "She probably thinks she's too cool for me," I chuckle into a branch from the nearby bush. "But I know how much you all love me. Isn't that right?"
Once again, I am greeted by silence. Whatever. This livestock will be struck so suddenly with the brightness of my fame, their eyes will get boiled. Or something like that.
When I saunter back inside, I immediately grab my prized can of hairspray, and begin to squirt it indiscriminately all over my head.
"Hey, mom, what's shakin'?" I ask of my mother, a short woman who always looks as tired and run-down as our milk-cows.
"Please, Justen," she pleads weakly. "Speak to me normally, just for a little while."
"But Mom-kins," I murmur awesomely. "Sooner or later, the cows will moo when I sing to them. And then the Capitol people will find out about me, and we'll be stars, all talking even weirder than me."
Her brow furrows, and she frowns at me.
"For your own good, Justen, I hope you get reaped. It'll teach you a lesson. Ah, why couldn't I have gotten a normal baby boy? Of all the sons I could've gotten, why this one?" she sighs, then walks away.
A little while later, I'm all dressed, complete with platform sneakers that make me look taller than my five feet, three inches. My hair is sticking up like steel wool, and my eyebrows are freshly dyed approximately eighteen shades darker than my hair. I get money to buy my clothing essentials from letting little farm kids throw stuff at me. 1 coin per object, only refunded if they hit me. And with my cool dancing, I can always dodge them, except for that little brat with the awesome aim and the chicken eggs...
I can tell my mom will try to say something exhaustive and maternal, so I sneak out the side door to our cozy farmhouse. I practice walking on my hands on the way to the public square, causing the previously mentioned little brat to point at me and giggle. Just act like you're too good for him. If you act cool, you are cool.
The public square is alive with nervous energy, and I think how much fun this would be if two of us weren't about to be slaughtered. I notice that my group, the eighteen-year-olds, all looked bored. True, we have the most slips in the ol' bowls, but we've had to do this six years in a row, and honestly, we're all sort of over it. After the super-long-super-boring speech-- some girl gets called up and tries to smash in the mic. Hey, find your free entertainment where you can. But then, the boy's name is called.
"Justen Numbskull!" the escort trills. Oh, *bleep*...
I try my hardest to show my unbothered swagger as I stride casually up to the stage. I know that I don't stand a chance in physical combat, but maybe if I can make the audience love me, I'll get enough sponsors to sit on my butt and let the other tributes kill each other. Sounds pretty good to me. Yep, that's definitely the way to go.