Orange Skyla's POV:
Mother huddles next to the dead oven, muttering to herself. I can't quite make out what she is saying, just a few words: "Cold. So cold. So cold..." She clutches at the oven, pressing buttons. This might have had some effect a years ago, before Father was mugged and killed, when it still worked. But now, all it is a black box that my mother huddles next to when it is cold. And today, though it is the middle of the summer, it is cold. Really cold. Maybe 50 degrees. In District 11, that's crazy.
"Why don't you put on a sweater?" I suggest, approaching her carefully. She's mentally ill, if you haven't already gathered that. Sometimes it's better not to disturb her, but I don't want her getting sick like she does in the winter. Especially not like in the winter two years ago. That was the coldest winter I can remember. We both got sick. I thought we would both die, but in the end, we got better.
Mother stares at me, then buries her face in the cold black box that once served as our oven. I beg her to get into a sweater, but she has forgotten me. She is withdrawn from the world, uncomprehending. It is a great fear of mine that I will develope a mental illness like hers.
"Mother," I sigh, "it's reaping day. Suppose I get reaped, and you're sick. You'll die." I know I won't be picked, but it's my only leverage. And I'm not as certain this year that I won't be picked. I have thirty entries - one is mandatory, and four are tesserae. I'm still pretty sure that I won't be picked, though.
Mother mutters something about slips and bowls. She tugs the oven off of the shelf, and hauls it to the room. I follow her, and help her pull on a sweater. Then, she collapses on the bed, and I put on my reaping clothes: a white shirt and black jeans.
There is a knock at the door. I go to answer it. It's my friend, Jake, to whom I owe my life, I guess. When my father died eight years ago, when I was nine, Jake sustained Mother and me until I got a job, giving us food. Without him, Mother and I may both have died.
"Do you need help?" Jake asks, nodding toward Mother, who has come up behind me.
"Yeah, thanks," I say, smiling slightly, as I only do around Jake.
Jake and I help Mother walk to the square. There, we find a woman willing to help her through the reaping. We have to convince her that Mother won't be much trouble, but she agrees to watch her.
"Thanks, man," I say to Jake as we walk to our section.
"No problem."
Teal Gray's POV:
"Teal, it's time for the reaping," Mother says. "Please get your dress on."
I shudder as I remember the reaping. Why did the Capitol have to institute the Games? Why do they love violence and death so much? The world is bad enough without organizing more deaths.
"Mother, will I be reaped?" I ask, afraid to hear the answer.
"Did you say your prayers?" Mother asks. "Yes? Good. Then no, you will not be reaped."
"And I took no tesserae," I add. I wanted to get more food for the family, despite the heightened risk of being picked, but my parents didn't let me.
"You won't be picked," Mother assures me. "God will not allow it. And if you are picked, He will see to it that you win."
I smile gratefully, and slip on my yellow reaping dress. The dress my mother wore for her first reaping, and my aunt for her first.
I pick up my doll, Agie, and stroke her ginger colored hair. Then, I follow my mother to the door, where Father is waiting.
"Teal," he says. "Teal, don't be afraid, you won't be reaped." I see fear in his eyes, though, and know he will be devastated if I am.
The three of us walk to the reaping, and we sign in. Instinctively, I follow my parents to the side, but then I remember. This year, I am eligible for the reaping. For the Games. For death at the hands of the Capitol.
Father escorts me to my section, and we grasp hands. He wishes me luck, and I watch him leave.
A while later, the reaping begins - first the mayor's speech, then the Capitol video. And then the escort introduces herself, and goes over to the bowl...
I only have one entry. Surely she will not pick me.
She takes out a slip.
Someone's fate is already sealed. Someone's path has been set. Someone is destined to die. Who?
She unfolds the slip.
Not me, not me, not me, not me, oh God, not me, don't let it be my name she reads...
"Teal Gray!"
I stare at her, horrified. Teal Gray. That's...my name. Me. Oh, God, how could you let this happen to me?
I move to the stage, and as I do so, I drop my doll. I don't realize this until I reach the stage and see a limp form on the ground.
I spot Father's face in the crowd, streaming with tears. I realize that mine is, too.
"Orange Skyla!"
A seventeen-year-old comes to the stage, face completely blank, emotionless. He is tall, perhaps six feet. Compared to my four feet...I don't stand a chance.
I shake his hand, and whisper, "God be with you." He stares at me, then out at the crowd. I can tell that there is someone he can't bear to leave. I have never known this feeling before, nor the one of complete certainty that I will never return to a place. I know I don't stand a chance.
Oh, God, how could you do this to me?
