Nina Hollisya: District 3

I can hear my mother talking on the phone behind me but my excitement drowns out the clarity of her words. It's Reaping Day, the day when I get to show off my wealth and beauty in front of the entire District. The day I get to wave goodbye to the poorer, less lucky souls who are being hauled off to the beauty of the Capitol. I suppose in that sense they are quite lucky. They get to experience the Capitol! I went their once with my mother on business and I was astounded by the sleek metal buildings, their glass gleaming like scales in the sunlight. I love the hustle and bustle of the city, the makeup, and the clothes. It's all so amazing.

I think the reason I love these things so much is because I went the majority of my life without them. I grew in a large foster home on the outskirts of District 3 with about 2 dozen other children. A lot of our parents died in the rebellion and all of the children who were too young to take care of themselves were forced into the home. My parents were among the rebels killed in an air raid.

I remember them clearly enough, but I also remember that when I was with them I was unhappy. However now that I am with my new mother, Haily, I am incredibly happy. She has given me ever thing I could ever want; the money, the clothes, the shoes. I only wish she weren't so busy with work, so that maybe we could actually spend some time together. I feel like I barely know her.

I break out of my flashback when I hear Haily calling my name from the kitchen. I rise from the plush couch I was sitting on, smoothing my skirt as I do so. I skip into the kitchen to see my mother frantically running her hands through her hair. Tears rim her eyes and I feel sympathy and worry rising in my chest like a balloon inflating, the helium threatening to make my chest burst into shreds of flesh and expensive fabric.

"What? What's wrong?" I say in a tone that hovers somewhere between panic and empathy. Her light blues eyes shimmer with tears and her bright blonde hair is scattered and stringy from where she pulled at it. If you didn't know my story you might actually think we were related. My dull blonde hair is accented with streaks of her golden locks and my eyes, while much darker, shimmer just as blue in the sunlight.

"I'm so sorry, Nina," she cries, "I'm so, so sorry." Her tears keep coming, smearing her mascara down over her round smooth cheeks.

My nerves are peaking and I find myself picking at the sequins on my dress. I wear a frilly pink number that flares at the waist. The woman at the Shoppe said that it would be better said for someone with a slimmer, taller frame, but I think it looks fantastic on me. Much better than it would look on anyone else.

"Nina, I've made a huge mistake." Haily goes on, "At work, I've… I've cost the Capitol almost a million dollars on this new project… oh God, oh God." Her words break apart as she bursts into another fit of tears.

"Mom, don't worry its okay! You've been offered tons of jobs here in 3. They might not pay quite as much but we'll be okay!" I say, trying to sound supportive, but in honesty I'm more than a little angry at my mother few screwing up. Her mistake affects me and my life negatively, not just hers. What am I going to do with all my shoes and clothes?

"You don't understand, sweetheart," she says, "The Capitol says I need to pay for what I've done… and the price they said I have to pay is… is…" she shakes her head in disbelief. Her tears have stopped and a stoic firm look of revenge passes over her face, but the despair is still clearly visible in her eyes.

"How much do they want?" I ask.

"They want you, Nina." She says softly, "today at the Reaping, your name will be called. I'm so sorry…"

Her apologies are lost in the void, everything around me is lost. The room goes black and I fall.

Jared Arrington: District 3

I have been trying to leave my home now for thirty minutes. It's not that I don't want to be home, or that I dislike my family or anything like that. I just want to get this Reaping over with. I've heard that the first one is the scariest and I've been dreading this day all year.

I tried to tell my mother that I was contempt with just wearing jeans and a buttoned shirt to the Reaping. I know that most of the other kids dress up nicely for it because it's supposed to be a day of "honor" but I seriously just want to feel some kind of familiarity in this strange time. I can feel my mother's fingers shaking as she ties a thin strip of fabric around my neck.

My mother is a hard working and focused woman. She creates technology for the Capitol and is normally very sleek and calculated in her movements but today she is jerky and nervous. I place a hand on her shoulder and smile at her reassuringly, staring deep into her sea blue eyes behind her small wire framed glasses. Their striking beauty stands in stark contrast against the whip of dark black hair that flows from her head. It is the same hair my father has, and myself as well. She gives me a small smile back, and with a sigh her movements become more sound and rhythmic.

Soon the tie is clasped tight around my neck, a streak of burgundy silk racing down the front of my black dress shirt. My mother has also given me a leather belt of the same hue to secure my black slacks around my thin lanky waist. She stands with her arm around my shoulders, my head reaching up to her chest. In this moment I realize how small I am, how thin I am and how awkwardly I move and my mind moves to the Games. What if they call my name? How can I even compete with the huge bulking tributes from 1 and 2? I mean I am good with my hands and electronic things but I'm only 12.

I don't stand a chance.

I shake the thought from my mind as my father enters the room and ruffles my mop of dark hair, the wavy locks falling into my eyes and interrupting my vision. I crack a small smile and look up at him. He is a sophisticated looking man, the pain in his eyes shine back to the years of war and destruction and I feel bad for him because I know the he used to be a successful young man, fit and dashing and ready to take on the world, but now a thin layer of fat falls around his stomach, his eyes and dull and distant, his memory constrained. My mother has tried to get him back to him normal self but he hasn't been the same since the rebellion.

I take my mother's hand in my right and my father's in my left and lead them out of the house and to the square. Somewhere on the walk I realize that out of the three of us I am the most stable and confident. I surge of power and readiness flows through my veins and I begin to walk faster. I will beat these Games this year and for the next 6 years to come. They can't have me.

I am invincible.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

I stand in the square surrounded by the other 12 year old children of my district. That's what we are, I think to myself, we are just kids, this isn't fair. It's not fair for us and it's not fair for the 14 year old girl that stands on the stage. Nina was her name, I believe. She wears a frilly pink dress and expensive shoes but the materialistic beauty is lost on the rest of her. Her dull blonde hair is choppy and flat and her blue eyes are almost a slate gray color and they sit too far apart on her face. She is crying, the tears raining down her cheeks in streams of black mascara like the ashes the burned in the rebellion, or the war paint that decorated the faces of ancient warriors.

My eyes flash to the woman standing in the center of the stage. Now she is beautiful. Robes of elegant white cloths flow freely around her body in the cool wind. The same white fabric is wrapped around her head into an elaborate head dress. Tight cords of black hair poke out of the bottom of the head dress reaching down to the small of her back like ropes. Rubies and emeralds decorate her hair and glimmer in the sunlight beaming down on us. She also wears a thick gold band around her neck that stands out against the unbelievable darkness of her skin. Her large dark eyes peer into the crowd as she reaches her thin dark hand into the bowl full of boys' names.

Her hand jerks out of the bowl, one single slip of paper clasped between her ring and middle fingers. She walks back to the microphone and opens the slip. Her thick accent muffles the name, though my mind recognizes it I cannot comprehend what she has said. It seems, however, that everyone else can. They all turn and look at me with faces of horror, disbelief, and for some, utter relief in their safety. I slowly walk to the stage, waiting for someone, anyone to volunteer for the short, skinny twelve-year-old, but no one does. And in that moment I am alone.

I am a tribute.