~District 7 Reaping~

~Spruce Ashmark 16~

The birds perched up in the trees around the district herald the rising of the sun, singing their wordless song and bringing life to the day. Nature is self-centered like that. Today is a messed up day. That day that comes once a year when two kids get chosen to go fight for their lives; when at least one—and probably two— of our district's youth will die. Yet the birds sing as cheerfully as ever. They don't care about our problems.

My mother used to tell me that this is the best part about living in a district so close to nature. You get to experience how truly insignificant you are. Our entire world depends on what happens in nature—whether rain waters the trees or sufficient food is provided for the animals from which we get our meat in District 10–but nature is completely aloof to us. If every man dies, the trees will still grow and the animals will get their nutrients from grass and nuts instead of oats and packaged hay.

No birds died when my mother stopped tossing grain on the ground for them. The squirrels found other places to sleep when my father stopped building little houses for them. My parents died and nature moved on, just like they will do when I die and when my aunt and uncle die. Everyone I know will be gone and nature will continue as though we never existed.

The song of the birds is interrupted suddenly by a happy squeal accompanied by a blur of hair and limbs sprawling over my shoulder and into a heap on my lap. I laugh as my little sister wallows to push herself into a sitting position and stares at me with great, searching eyes still big and innocent.

Nature and children, it seems, are aloof to the problems of the human world.

"Good morning, Sprig," I greet, smiling as I push tangled blond hair from her face, and tuck it behind her ears. This time next week she will be four. I'll take her into the woods for the first time and let her see the squirrels racing up their trees and the birds flitting from branch to branch, singing their songs. I'll climb up into the low, sturdy branches of one of the trees and hang upside down to grab her and pull her up as well. That's the way my father used to do; scooping me into the crook of his arm and swinging me up. I used to feel on top of the world until I was a little older and realized there was still more to climb and explore.

I run my thumb along the neat little curve of her nose and get a giggle from my efforts. It warms my heart, chasing away the shadows that have been lurking in my head all morning. All week really, but they have made their way right up to the front this morning, impossible to ignore. But now they flit away, fleeing the sunlight that is Sprig's gaping smile and high giggle. This time next week I will show her the wonders of our district and the forest will ring with those sharp squeals of laughter. Then maybe it will feel like a happy place for the first time since my father's accident.

"Breakfast!" Sprig proclaims suddenly, probably her entire reason for coming before she got distracted tumbling around. She takes me by the hand and stands, tugging at me until I get to my feet and follow her out into the hallway and down to the our aunt and uncle's small kitchen. As promised there is a small breakfast of bread and squirrel jerky on the table.

My Aunt Ellie helps Sprig up into a chair, patting down the tangled mass of hair and smiling fondly. Sprig has that affect on people, even people hiding sadness and anger all pent up inside. That's a feeling I share with my aunt, I know. Maybe it's a feeling we all share in the districts. Everyone but the birds and little girls with big, blue eyes that haven't yet learned to look at the world.

~Brooke Mackinaw 12~

The sound of the sander on wood fills our morning. It drowns out the sounds of the other kids laughing in the streets, enjoying the morning off from school or work. No one comes into the shop—not that Mr. Winnow's carpentry shop sees much in-person business anyways—but the people gather around it, making the walls ring with the voices outside when the machines are off.

I finish the two-by-four I've been working on, turning off the sander and hauling the great piece of wood over to the stack forming in the corner, waiting to be shipped off to wherever the Capitol is in need of a new building. The saw is still running on the other side of the building as Mr. Winnow cuts long, jagged wood into the requested lengths, chips flying around him like flurries of brown snow. My best friend Carla is at her own station near mine, running her own sander methodically over a smaller piece of wood.

I pull off my gloves, and press down the stubborn strands of thick black hair that have escaped from my hair tie. I've almost contained everything again when the front door of the shop swings open. I can it see around the corner, barely visible. I jog over to where Mr. Winnow is working bowed over his saw, oblivious to the guest, who is now poking his head around the corner. He's from our district, not a fancy Capitolite looking completely out of place, and that makes my heart jump into my throat. When customers from District Seven wander into the shop it usually entails a local job. Working on the building of a place in Seven means better pay, and more importantly, much more difficult work than sanding boards. The skeletons of new buildings are usually dare-devil's paradise, unless you're a dare devil who's really afraid of heights. But what can I say when they ask me to climb up and fit boards into place? I'm much better built for it that Mr. Winnow, being light and agile. Besides. I have a reputation to uphold.

Mr. Winnow waves to the man and powers down his saw. Carla notices she's the only machine still going and shuts hers off as well, smiling shyly at the customer. The man smiles back. "Happy Reaping Day, young lady," he greets, tipping his head at her.

"What's happy about a day where two kids are going to be sent to their death for no apparent reason?" I demand, earning a warning look from Mr. Winnow.

"Brooke," he said, "Don't be rude."

"Wasn't being rude," I object, tossing my gloves onto a work bench. "Only asking a question."

"It's okay," The customer assures Mr. Winnow with a patient smile. "She's right, there's not much to be happy about today, but we have to find a little sunshine somewhere right? Have a little optimism?" He turns that friendly smile on me but I scrunch my nose.

"Optimism and pessimism are just people who don't wanna see the truth," I tell him. "There's the same amount of water whether you wanna say full or empty."

The man turned to Mr. Winnow, still smiling as broadly as ever. "A smart little one."

"Too smart for her own good sometimes," Mr. Winnow agreed, giving me a pointed glare, "but I do believe it's about time for her to head home to prepare for the reaping. You as well, Carla. Ask Mr. Mackinaw if you may borrow some water for a bath."

Carla nods, brushes wood dust from her shirt front and pants and tosses her gloves aside to lay beside mine. Then we head out, allowing Carla's father to deal with the fake happy man. When we come out people wave and smile. A boy from our class calls "Hey Brooke! Betcha won't try jumping onto the roof from that branch there!" He points at the branch in question, which is spindly, reaching out like a hand, creeping thin fingers over the top of the building. Mr. Winnow commented about how close it was coming the other day and planned to have some of the lumberjacks come out to take care of it.

"Later," I promise, eyeing the branch. "It's time for us to start getting ready for the reaping."

As we walk the long foot path back to my home at the edge of the district, Carla asks, "Why do you always do that?"

I look at her, frowning. I'm not doing anything except walking at the moment. "Do what?"

"Always tell people what they should and shouldn't think,".

"I don't tell them what they should think," I object.

She gives me a look as though she's wondering if I truly believe that. I don't know how she could think otherwise. I've never told anyone else what to think, only told them what I think and I tell her as much which only makes her look away, shaking her head. "You just told that customer back at the shop that he shouldn't say 'Happy Reaping'-"

"-Well he shouldn't. Why should we tolerate treating it like a holiday?"

"-And you told him that optimism is stupid."

"I didn't say it was stupid. I said that it's only people refusing to look at the truth."

"You're just too honest for your own good sometimes is all I'm saying," Carla insists. I say nothing more after that. There's no point continuing to argue if she won't listen to what I'm saying. I take my frustration at her out on a rock in the path, sending it skidding into the brush with my toe.

My dad is sitting at the kitchen table when we come in. I give him a hug first, then steal a piece of toast from his plate, laughing when he objects and reaches without passion to take it back. When he sees Carla he gives her a friendly smile and gives consent without hesitation to her using some of our bath water. So the three of us haul water warmed over the stove into a basin and I allow Carla to go first, despite my lingering irritation. My dad and I sit at the table together as she bathes and talk about my morning.

When Carla reappears I take a rushed bath in lukewarm water and hunt through my room for a clean pair of overalls. Instead I find a pair that are less spattered with mud than the others and deem them acceptable. When my father sees his mouth twitches as though he may say something, but he only pats a chair for me to sit so that he may wrangle my thick, black hair into braids.

By the time he's finished the sun is creeping close to its highest point and it is time for us to make the trek to the square. Carla heads out the door, but my dad holds me back. I frown as he kneels in front of me. "Brooke..." he starts, but can't seem to find the words for what he wants to say. So instead he pulls my into a fierce hug. I hug him back. He whispers into my shoulder, "You only have one slip. I made sure of that. You only have one slip...this is going to be okay."

I almost remind him that it only takes one slip. If it were anyone else I would have without hesitation, but when I pull back and catch the haunted look in his eyes the words stick in my throat. I can't be honest...not about this. Not to him. I kiss his cheek and say nothing.

The square is alive with color and voices. People mill about, parents give their children pep talks and teenagers in love hang on each other's arms or suck face in corners. It's gross, I wish a peacekeeper would break some of them up.

The kid that challenged me at the shop earlier finds me as I stand amongst the other twelve-year-olds. "I haven't forgotten," he assures me. "First thing when this is over."

The microphone squeals and the square quiets. I whisper, "First thing," to the boy as the mayor begins her speech.

Usually the pre-reaping ceremonies are drawn out and boring, but today the speeches and the video and the peacekeepers bringing out the bowls...it all seems to pass quickly. First time nerves, I tell myself. By the time the escort announces, "Ladies first!" And struts over to the bowl, Carla is holding my hand so hard she's liable to break it.

The Capitolite plucks the first slip she comes to, no show of mixing around the slips or diving her hand in to select the one at the bottom. I wonder briefly if it's rigged. If the peacekeepers put the name they wanted drawn at the top center and said, "Just grab the first one you find."

"Brooke Mackinaw!"

"Huh?" The sound comes out as instinct, not because of shock at getting drawn, that part hasn't even quite registered yet, but just because that's what you do when you realize you haven't been listening and someone has called you out. I stare, mouth agape, up at the escort and in my head my father's voice rings like a song. Only one slip.

And my own voice replies with the words I never said—and somehow in failing to say also failed to believe. It only takes one.

But what can I do? I've been drawn. I have to go to the stage, and walking on my own two legs would be far more preferable than being dragged by peacekeepers. So I take a step forward, than another, before I am forced to stop because my arm isn't following. Carla is still clasping my hand, even tighter now. I didn't notice the pain before, but now that I'm aware of her vice grip still on me I can feel the numbness in my fingers, the ache in my wrist and knuckles. "Carla," I say dully, "You're hurting my hand."

She lets it go, slowly, her eyes dazed as she stares at me. I nod shortly to her, then turn and make my way to the stage, head high. I meet as many eyes as I can, especially the victors and the escort as I mount the stage. The faces in the crowd are sad or pitying. Shakes of heads, whispers like a buzzing of bees. They think I can't do this. They think I will die.

And somehow that helps my hold my head higher. They're wrong. I can survive. I can win this. I will... I have to. For my father if for nothing else.

When I take my place on the stage the escort wastes little time moving on to select a boy. She dips her hand in this time, swirls the papers around. Maybe she hopes if she spends a little more time drawing the boy she will get a better tribute. The slip she selects comes from somewhere in the depths of the white and she starts unfolding it before she ever reaches her podium again.

"Spruce Ashmark!"

No one moves at first. There are several beats of complete stillness and silence. The escort clears her throat and tries again. "Spruce Ashmark?"

Rustling starts then. Kids who recognized the name begin looking around for the boy. And finally enough people find him that I can pick him out, and so can the peacekeepers because they begin to move towards him. It's funny. We don't think about it, but looking at the person just picked to die is like betraying them in a way. If we all didn't turn and stare at them, maybe the peacekeepers would never find them to drag away. But we don't think about it. We just want to have one last look up close at the kid that's going to die.

The peacekeepers have to take him by the arms and lead him to the stage. He walks in a daze staring blankly around the other kids around him: the safe. Those that will survive another year. When he stumbles up the stairs and takes his place next to me I can see the silent tears glistening on his cheeks. Part of me shifts around irritably. If I could stop myself from crying certainly he could. What a baby.

The escort turns back to the crowd, smiling broadly. "Well, There you have it ladies and gentlemen," she announces, "Unless anyone would like to take this opportunity to volunteer?" No one moves. "Very well, your tributes for the Ninety-ninth Annual Hunger Games: Brooke Mackinaw and Spruce Ashmark."

I squeeze his hand tightly when we shake, trying to tell him to knock it off and look strong, like a District Seven tribute should. He doesn't take the hint. He doesn't even bother wiping his face as the cameras show us one last time on the screens all around the square, his glistening tears like a great target right on his face. I don't really know why I care so much, he can't stick around if I want to live anyways. What should it matter to me if he lets everyone know how weak his is? So I set my face and look out at the crowd, and don't let how scared I am show for even a second.

"Don't let them see your tears. They're nasty little shits and nasty little shits aren't worth crying over."