Chapter 9 - District 9 Reapings

Name: Evangelina Lombardi

Age: 15

District: 9

I sit quietly in my seat, my head supported on my desk by my free arm, ignoring the chatter and laughing around me as I always do. My shoulder-length blonde hair hangs around my face, I try to make it cover as much as I can. The teacher is letting us work independently today, and for me that always means -

"Hey Evan! Where's your sister? Not - dead, surely?" It's Veronica talking in her spiteful voice, cackling at the end. They're making fun of me because my twin sister was Reaped and died in last year's Hunger Games. And for a while, I tried not to believe it, not to accept it. My twin couldn't be dead. She was only fourteen. And for a while, I yelled at anyone who told me otherwise. Of course, Veronica and her cronies take advantage of that. Even exactly a year later. On the day of the 24th Reapings.

"It's Evangelina, actually. Only my friends call me Evan," I shoot back, but calmly.

"Oh, okay then Evan."

"And you're not my friend," I remind her cuttingly.

"Only your precious twin was your friend, wasn't she? Your precious Emilia?"

"Yes. She was the only true friend I had." Normally I wouldn't tell them this but since I know what I'm doing today, I really don't care.

"Ooh, the only true friend I had..." Veronica mimics my voice in a squeaky way, making fun of me. I clench my fists but say nothing.

"What's the matter? Has the butcher's girl lost her tongue? C'mon meaty, speak up!" says Veronica right down my ear.

"I heard she only eats the old disgusting meat that no one else wants," says one girl snidely somewhere to the right of Veronica.

"I heard that she helps out in her father's disgusting butchers shop every day!" joins in another.

Veronica looks me directly in the eye. "I heard her sister was killed by her own district partner - on live tv."

I hiss. I can't help it, it just slips out. I was forced to watch her death on live tv, in school. She was very much a Bloodbath tribute, she hadn't had any training and she was very pale and slim, exactly like me. We both shared our emerald green eyes.

Pushing the thought of her out of my mind, I retort calmly but angrily. "You all know the first statement is completely absurd. The second one I'm not afraid to admit. I love helping out in the butcher's. And the third statement..." I pause. They wait hungrily, like vultures, for my reaction.

"You already know the answer to that," I finish quietly. Just then the bell goes and I am the first to swing my bag up onto my shoulder, push my chair in and head quickly for the door. I have no room for memories. Not today.

I break into a fast run fifty metres from the concrete block that they call a school. I can be an extremely fast runner if I want to, my slim but toned limbs and lean body helping me build up speed. I have an athletic figure with decent muscle mass on my legs and shoulders as well. I swing my rucksack onto my back as I run home, barely feeling the weight of it bouncing on my back. My home's not far away anyway, I live fairly close to the town square, which helps me on Reaping day.

But it didn't help Emilia, a snide voice tells me.

No, but I'm ready this time. Ready for anything, I tell it determinedly.

What if Max gets Reaped? What will you do then?

Even in my head I had no answer to that one. I shake my blond hair out of my face and try to pretend I'm not arguing with myself inside my head.

Arguing with yourself is fine, except when you lose. Then it gets really weird, my mind/voice/conscience tells me helpfully. I decide not to answer that one. It's something Emilia used to say.

I reach our house in no time. With it being District 9, it's nothing special. But my father is the town's butcher, so the front of our house is the small cosy front room that we use for our shop. Lombardi's Meat. It was my great grandfather's shop originally. It's been passed down from generation to generation, and now my father is teaching me and Max to run it. How to speak politely and helpfully to customers, knife skills in chopping meat and good preserving of meats for the winter. He used to to teach Emilia once upon a long time ago as well, when Max was only young.

I make my way into the side entrance of the shop, where our deliveries usually come in. Hunters from the district who get their best trades here bring us our produce. My father is a fair man; he pays them well.

At the counter there is no one to be seen. This doesn't surprise me. It's the Reapings. No one wants meat on the morning of the Reapings. Because there's always two families who wont be feeling like celebrating that night. This afternoon, maybe, once everyone's got over their worry and are relieved that it's not them, they're safe for another year, then they'll want meat. My father will be preparing for that rush of customers we usually get around this time. I remember Dad teaching us that last year, a week or so before the Reaping. When Emilia was still here. Before she was Reaped.

I dimly wonder where Max is, but dismiss his absence to probably being with our mum Monika preparing for his first ever Reaping. Max was only eleven when Emilia died, but he feels her death as keenly as me. He has more of her traits than mine, her patience and sunny optimism, her ability to stay calm under pressure and the way she could always smile and make everything all right. We looked the same with our blond hair and startling emerald green eyes, which Max also has.

"Hey there," I hear my father greet me as he walks in. He sets a slab of meat down on the chopping board and grins at me. "Not getting dressed for the Reaping?"

"I see no reason to celebrate the event that took my twin's life from me," I reply.

Dad nods. "You don't have to like it. Just accept it. There's barely a chance that you'll be Reaped. And we can't bring back the dead. As much as I want to desperately."

If only you knew, Dad, I think. If only you knew.

Dad starts chopping up the large slab of meat on the counter. Without a word I get a knife and join him, methodically starting to chop the meat into managable sections. I am skilled with the meat knives, I have used them all my life.

"Business is slow now, but after the Reapings..." my dad says, not finishing his sentence. We both know the peak times of when people come to buy meat. And the busiest time is after the Reapings.

"After the Reapings we will get money," I finish. I don't look up. Looking my innocent father in the eyes will cause me to lose resolve. And that's something I can't let myself do.

"That's right." A pause as my father finishes chopping the deer leg and puts the mutilated remains to one side.

"I miss her too."

I don't know what to say. Don't look up. Don't look up.

"She was so strong. Didn't even cry or protest or anything when she was first Reaped."

"I know," I answer shortly. Sometimes I wish she had argued more, made a stand against her fate. Not just put her head down and let it come.

"Then in the chariot..." Mark continues, his voice wistful. "She looked so beautiful. Not like my little girl at all."

We were identical twins, more or less. I tended to wear my hair down, shoulder-length and free, while Emilia was happy to spend longer in front of the mirror tying her hair up into elaborate hairstyles, her favourite being braids. I remember in the chariot parade she wore a long flowing cream dress with her hair braided on top of her head. She would have loved that outfit, I remember thinking that when I watched her in the chariot, unwavering and perfectly calm. She was beautiful. Beautiful and very different.

"I wish she could be here now. That she could have won..." my father says softly, his voice full of emotion.

"I'm sorry, Father. I should go - prepare for the Reaping," I say quickly, putting down the carving knife I hold and hurrying from the room, still avoiding looking at him. I can't deal with this now. The Reaping is in fifteen minutes, and I need to stay focused.


I don't need to be too fast. It's District 9, after all. We're not Careers. No one's excited about the Reapings, chattering about it with glee in their voices and a gleam in their eyes. No one's particularly terrified either. We're not a massively poor District, not like 11 or 12. Most of us don't even need to sign up for tesserae.

I hear from my place at the back of the crowd that the woman on-stage is announcing something, probably how exciting this year's Reaping is. Then she steps to the glass bowl and puts her hand in.

"Amélie Rogas!" is the name that's called. I take a deep breath. This is it.

Emilia, this is for you.

I see a tiny twelve year old trembling with terror, her eyes wide and nearly smile. She must be this Amelie, Reaped. She would have no chance in the Hunger Games. A Bloodbath tribute, no doubt. At least I'll be doing something good for someone's family.

I step forward, out of the crowd so I can be both heard and seen.

"I volunteer as tribute!"


Name: Samuel (Sam) Salazar

Age: 16

District: 9

I don't know why I'm so cautious. I'm standing tentatively outside the large concrete block that passes as a hospital here, feeling nervous. This building just seems to fill me with unexplainable fear every time.

But I have to visit my mother.

My footsteps are loud and clanking on the thin concrete floor. It's cold here, the heat seems to be leeched out by the freezing concrete walls. I force myself to look confident, to walk without faltering. My long slightly muscular legs help with my long stride, but it's difficult to maintain that easy gait when I know where I'm going. What I know is my duty to do. Just as my brother attempted to do before me.

I pause outside one door, but just one glimpse of the sunken eyes, the frail limbs and the endlessly shaking bodies in that ward causes me to hurry up again. The Hunger Ward, as we call it. Our hunger overall isn't as bad as District Eleven especially, but maybe I'm biased. I never really tend to go hungry since my father is the district baker. I consider myself as middle class as we can afford fairly nice clothes and a decent enough house. Yet I've never seen the luxury of the Capitol. I guess that's gonna change.

I reach the end of the corridor. I stop. Read the sign, as I always do, just to make sure this is the right ward. That I'm in the right place.

'High Intensive Care Unit (HICU)'.

Yup, the right place all right. I compose myself, yelling at myself internally to relax, to look calm and fearless. My brother always said I had a lot to learn. Well I'm learning now, Stefan.

I'm inside. A row of grey drawn curtains greet me, as they always do. In this ward there's no talking, no laughing. Just quiet moans every so often and endless beeps from monitors. I know exactly which curtain to pull back by now - after some unfortunate incidents trying to find my mum when I first came to visit her - and put my hand on that curtain, ready to pull them apart. Composing myself one last time. Putting on my mask, as I think of it.

"Sam?" a hoarse voice rasps from behind the curtain.

"Mum," I answer, putting on my well practised smile and pulling the curtain across, quickly slipping inside and closing the curtain behind me.

She looks worse than when I last saw her. Her sunken eyes and hollow cheeks, and her shaking limbs. She looks so frail in the giant hospital bed, so pale against the crisp white sheets. Well, grey sheets. It's District 9, after all.

"Sam," she repeats, her voice soft and croaking. Unlike my mum's old voice in all proportion. She is reaching out a frail bony arm, so thin that you can see the bone showing through the skin.

I force myself not to grab it, to hold it tight. I have to be strong. I am the last chance my mother has. "It's the Reapings today, Mum."

"My brave boy..." she whispers. "Isn't Stefan coming to see me? He hasn't been for so long..."

Lies. Put on your mask, Sam. "He's working, Mum." She doesn't know he went into the Hunger Games. Not by chance, either. To save her. To get medicine for her. Before he died.

"I'll be starting work too, Mum. I won't be able to come as often." Better to explain my absense on work than on the Hunger Games. She can't know I'm doing this.

"Like Stefan?"

"Yes - Mum. Like Stefan." My voice shakes and I turn away so she won't see the indecision in my eyes.

"You're a good boy. How's the bakery doing?"

"Dad is well. We're working well. More bread than ever." Keep to short sentences. Don't show her your fear.

"Good. It's been so long since I had bread like that..." her voice is wistful.

"One day, Mum. Soon you shall eat bread again, and laugh and sing and play."

"You're a good boy, Sam. So much like Stefan..."

"Yes. He was - is a true inspiration to me." Me and my brother shared our curly black hair, green eyes and tanned skin. He looked very handsome in the Games on his chariot. Charismatic in the interviews. Deadly in the arena. And eventually cold and stiff in death.

"You don't worry now," she tells me. "Don't worry about me. Keep working."

"I will Mum. I'll make you better. One day."

"Good - boy..." She is drifting into sleep now.

"Bye Mum," I whisper, before leaving the sleeping body inside the grey curtains. Will I ever see her again? I intend to win the Hunger Games, to save my mother, but so did Stefan. He was murdered by a Career halfway through the Games. Will I be any more successful than he was? One things for sure, I am now an only child. I am my mother's last hope. If I don't win, don't win the money to help my mother, she will die.

I make my way out of the grim concrete block of the hospital, musing to myself. I am scared, there's no denying that. I'm not trained, though I do have some skills with a scythe and a little with knives from helping in the bakery. I'm good at hiding and climbing, but I'm not a fast runner. And if I admit it to myself, I don't really want to kill people. I'm not a murderer.

I debate going to some people's houses to drop off some bread and spare food, as I'm liked at school by everyone who knows me. I'm quite kind, which might make me a target in the Games. And, since I've had to look after my mother since she fell ill when I was young, even before she went into the hospital, I like to take care of the people in need in the community. They need food, and I try to supply some. But I realise it's nearly Reaping time now. An hour, no more. People will already be gathering in the square. So I guess it's time. Time to volunteer.


I am very surprised. I knew I was volunteering, but I wasn't expecting anyone from the females to volunteer. There's hardly ever a volunteer in District 9, let alone two. I recognise her, she's the butchers daughter. We tend to know each other, just in passing as we're both in trade, sometimes trading in the market if there's no Peacekeepers around. What's she doing volunteering?

She's quite pretty. She's standing on the stage now, smiling slightly. I can hear a shocked gasp from the crowd and assume someone's not been told about her volunteering.

"I'm Evangelina Lombardi. I'm 15 and last year, my sister Emilia was Reaped. I'm doing this both to avenge her death and to prove people at school wrong. I am worth something." Her voice is calm and calculated.

Oh. So that's why.

I prepare to run up to the stage, to shout my intentions. I remember this time last year, knowing my brother was going up. The fear I had. The knowledge that he could die.

"The male tribute is -" I hear, and jolt out of my daydreams, blinking. "Brendan De -"

"I volunteer!" I shout. There is a bit of chatter, people aren't expecting two volunteers. Neither was I. But I have to save my mother. She will laugh and sing again.