District 11 Reaping

Karina Towhee, 17

When I hear the noise of people migrating into the city square, I stand up, brushing off the debris of my root collecting from my faded jeans. I've been working hard all morning harvesting them, along with others around my age, since school is off today. The more we harvest, the more we make. And since I've had little to no profit this year, I am determined to keep myself from starving.

I make sure no one's looking, and sneak a few roots into my herbs bag, and head back to town.

"Karina!" Mom calls from upstairs. "Get ready for the reaping! I left a dress on your bed! And wait for us! And try not to bite your nails! Maybe get in a shower too! And put a little more effort into your hair!"

I don't respond. I never do. She doesn't consider my opinion, anyway.

I hate the dress, dresses in general really, but I put it on, hoping that, as usual, I won't get chosen from the enormous girls reaping ball, and will celebrate later. But there's always two families who lock their doors and close their shutters as they grieve their soon to be dead children.

But compared to some of the other sheltered people in our district (there's only really a few of those), I have a low risk of survival. We are pretty poor, and because of all the tesserae I have been having to take, my name will be entered forty-eight times.

In two years, I will be safe. Nineteen, above the reaping age limit that protects us from the horror that is the annual Hunger Games.

I leave with Mother and Father, but we don't say anything. Mother does insist on fussing over my hair. I decide to ditch her, sign in by myself, and stand in the roped off section for seventeen year olds. Now that I think about it, I might be happier in the Games.

I look at my parents. Yes, I would be much happier fighting twenty-three other children to the death in an arena than with them. They think I'm helpless, and weak. When really, I've been the one keeping them alive for the past five years.

I even think I could make it, in the Games. But then I think of the large and buff Careers-from One, Two, and Four. What could I do, even with my skills with daggers against buff dudes with swords?

But I'm smarter than them. Even here, in District Eleven, where the Peacekeepers are so strict, I've made my way around the rules. I'm smart. I could kill them. Killing is not a problem for me.

The mayor recites her speech about the Dark Days and all that other nonsense, and the cheery Capitol man escort (Lupus, they call him) announces "Girls first!"

He reaches into the reaping ball, where my name is entered forty eight times.

And he announces the name.

My name.

Sure, I'm scared. But I'm happy, too.

I will finally prove to those idiot parents of mine that I am not helpless. They should have seen that when I've gathered and stolen for them every day. It goes right over their heads. But now they will see me kill twenty-three other children, and then they'll know. I am more powerful than ever.

Quinton "Quincy" Cottondale, 12

A yellowish shaft of light cut through my vision, beneath the dark veils of my closed eyes. My eyes flit open instantly, locating my two brothers in the small, sturdy room.

Hatcher looks like a baby deer when he sleeps, even though he is two years older. When his legs are underneath the covers, I could almost imagine him being able to move on his own, his legs taking him on a run through the orchards.

Zebulon doesn't look anywhere near angelic in his sleep. If possible, he looks more demonic. His scowl is still set in stone, lips curled down into a disapproving sneer. Neither of them are up yet. But I suppose I couldn't sleep in much, as today is my first reaping.

I get up silently, putting on a clean white shirt, faded black pants, and my usual work boots. Although our house is small, we have four rooms, all sturdy and warm. Since Father runs a cotton industry, we aren't entirely poor.

I find myself getting nervous though, because, compared to others of District Eleven, we are. I had to take tesserae for myself, my parents, and my brothers. My name is in the reaping bowl six times. For a twelve year old, that's not very good. But at least I didn't take two for each member of the family.

I get continually nervous as I hear my father stirring in his room. He's usually unpleasant, but he'll be raging if he finds that I got up before him.

But I realize it'd be stupid to stay here and face him when I have a very good excuse to leave the house. The reaping.

I decide to leave my father to Zebulon, cross back into my room, and rouse Hatcher from his sleep.

I quietly help him dress, and carry him to his wooden wheelchair. It cost the whole family's salary for two months to get that. But it's worth it, now Hatcher can earn a meager bit of salary on his own.

I arouse my mother too, and the three of us head to the square and sign in.

I find my pulse to be thumping louder and louder in my chest, threatening to break through the bonds of muscle and skin.

I clench Hatcher's wrist out of fear as Mother sadly lets us go to our sections.

"You'll be fine." Hatcher murmured, squeezing my own wrist. "Six times out of thousands? I'd say the odds are most definitely in your favor."

I smile at him. Only Hatcher can get me to smile. But still, only once in a blue moon. I'm amazed he's managed to do so on reaping day. But he always knows what to say.

The oddly dressed Lupus bounces onto the stage after the mayor concludes his ever-boring speech. I hate most Capitol people, but Lupus is one of the worst. His long, curly hair has been died to resemble a rainbow, his brownish skin stenciled with horses which seem to glow a pale blue, his ever-changing eyes sport the color neon green. I despise him, flowing red cape and all.

"Girls first!" he declares, and then laughs as though he is humoring himself.

He sticks his brown, saggy arm into the girl's reaping bowl. I can feel a girl from my section stiffen beside me.

"Karina Towhee!" I recognize the name, knowing that Ms. Towhee works under my father in the cotton industry.

The girl who takes the stage is tall, about seventeen, determination glowing from her narrowed green eyes. The fire that emanates from her frightens me, she reminds me for a moment of a Career Tribute.

"Why, hello dear!" says Lupus in a jolly voice. He then clears his throat. "Well, how exciting! Now for the boy tributes."

He reaches his hand into the boy's orb, and each time his long fingernail hits a bit of paper, something hard hammers inside of me.

He finally selects a slip after taking his dear time, then holds it up to the sun. He stretches it far enough to rip it and says, "Quincy Cottondale!"

The ball of ice in my stomach begins to grow. Long, sharp icicles prick my stomach from the inside.

I walk stiffly up to the podium, avoiding the gaze of the crowd, afraid of what I'll find. My cold blue eyes examine my fellow tribute as the mayor drones on.

Her eyes are as cold as mine, and I feel my hate reflected there. For a moment, I'm comforted by the thought that she might understand me. But I realize, if it came down to me, that I could kill her. And so no matter if our parents work together, if we come from the same district, or even feel the same way—she will have no problem killing me.