District 12 Reaping

Alabaster Parker, 17

District 12 Female

The needle slides through the smooth silk a little faster than I'm used to, and straight into my finger. Not again. I purse my lips in annoyance, jerking the thread through and out the hole. A small drop of blood lands on the fabric and I drop the needle in exasperation, sticking my sore finger in my mouth.

This is not what I'm supposed to be doing right now. I'm the one that runs the errands, makes the sales, does the deliveries, picks up the supplies...not the seamstress. That's the job my mother does, and my sisters help her with it. I'm just more athletic and out there, and this job is not for me. Well, I suppose I have only myself to blame. After all, I'm the one who convinced Mayor Ratchett's wife that she needed a new dress for the Reaping. What I didn't expect was that we'd get behind schedule, and I'd be stuck putting in the last bits of hand stitching for the button holes.

It's lucky that I was able to get the buttons in the first place. Then again, it wasn't really that hard. All I had to do was tell Dana, the button maker's girl, that I'd seen her make off with a piece of ribbon. Everything I told her was technically true. I saw her steal the ribbon. The punishment for stealing is ten lashes. What I didn't tell her, and what's budding into a nice little guilt flower right now is that the stealing penalties haven't been harshly enforced since before I was born. Nobody cares what we do in District 12 as long as we don't rebel, and we're much to hungry for that.

Well, most of us that is. Being the daughter of the only decent seamstress in town, and with good looks, charm, and an eye for business, I've helped make sure that neither I, my three sisters, nor anyone else in my family, goes hungry.

Feeding us should have been my father's job, but when he got himself whipped and then ran off that pretty much was out of the question. Ends are still meeting though, what with four girls old enough to take tesserae and all.

One thing is sure: If he comes back, I'll give him an earful, ladylike or not.

Being a lady isn't exactly overrated, I should know that since I could have my choice of the peacekeepers and merchant's sons whenever I wanted, but sometimes being sweet and proper is hard. This is Panem, and morality is a bit ambiguous here. I'm no different. I do what I have to to survive, nothing more, nothing less. Even if that includes blackmailing a girl over a stolen ribbon.

I sigh. Three whole days and that's still rankling. It really shouldn't be. I've batted my eyes at the right peacekeepers, and told the rich women the things they want to hear ever since I can remember. Manipulation is my strong suit, even if I don't like it, and any talent in Twelve can't afford to be ignored. The starving teenagers that hang around some of the older peacekeepers and our mayor know that only to well. I'm just lucky that I still own myself.

But I want to be good. Really I do. I try and try, but what can you do when it's your badness keeping your family alive, fed, and clothed.

I sigh, and set back to work on the dress. It's beautiful, navy-blue velvet with white ivory buttons shaped like roses. Buttons are a gorgeous and essential part of any fancy dress, but boy do they take forever to sew on.

Finally the last stitch is in, the last thread tied off, and I sit back and survey my work.

Beautiful.

Too bad that it's for somebody else. Happily, we're being well compensated. Since my sisters and I have tesserae, the money will make sure we have milk and vegetables and maybe even a little meat to go with our bread. I know that Nat Everdeen, one of the coal miner kids, hunts in the woods. He'd be sure to sell me some fish or dandelion greens quite cheap.

I'm already working the details for various trades when the clock on the wall chimes one o'clock. Time to get ready for the Reaping.

My stomach twists with anxiety. District 12 is tiny, and I will surely know the child who dies this year. Likely it will be a starving Seam child, with too many tesserae in an effort to feed a large family. There are way to many of those here. Selfishly, I'm glad there are. The more kids with lots of tesserae they are, the more the odds swing in my favor. It's true that things have been better here since Haymitch Abernathy won the latest Quarter Quell, but already the brief burst of well-being our district saw during his victory year is beginning to fade away.

It's cruel how the Capitol rewards us for only a year, making the return to hunger afterwards only more unbearable. Not only that, but the reason we're being rewarded is because one of our citizens became a murderer.

The morbid thoughts refuse to go away as I slide an ash-gray dress over my head. Thankfully it's new, as I'm the oldest girl in my family. My younger sisters will have to wear some of my cast-offs after they finish bathing. I can hear Scarlett and Cobalt splashing in the bathtub now, probably soaking each other and the floor with water. My sisters never will learn.

The door opens and I turn hastily, still hastening to button the front of my dress.

"It's okay, just me," an amused voice says.

I turn, relieved. Just my sister Obsidian. In a small house like the ones in District 12, it is not unusual to get walked in on by a friend or family member while dressing, and I take precautions accordingly.

"Would you like a hand with your hair?" she asks.

My hand flies to my head and I nod, realizing I'd completely forgotten to brush it. I must look a half-dressed mess. Obsidian is a year younger than me, but sometimes she feels like an older sibling. She's very creative, and draws most of the patterns for our nicer clothes. She's also quiet and responsible, caring and sharing, all qualities I admire but struggle with.

I nod to her as she sits me down, running our wooden comb through my hair. It hurts as it pulls through tangles, but I clench my teeth and bear it. After all, she's only trying to help me. She twists the stands into a waterfall braid, much nicer than the slightly frizzy ones I do. Then she ties it with a white silk ribbon.

It was the last thing my father gave me before he disappeared, and while I hate him for leaving, I do miss him. I think he really did love us, he just couldn't stand to stay here after he was humiliated in front of the whole district by a beating. Probably he ran away alone to keep from dragging us down with him. The ribbon and my name. That is all I have left of him.

We're all named after metals or minerals found when mining, and they were his choices.

Pushing away the sentimentality, I tell myself that, realistically, he's not coming back.

Then I head downstairs, hoping mom cooked something special for our Reaping Day lunch.

Liam Cox, 14

District 12 Male

Bread. Yay. I've never eaten that before.

Only practically every day, since my father works as extra help at the bakery and has first dibs on the day-old stuff. It makes me angry, honestly. The mines pay better, no matter the risks, and they're where practically everyone works. I don't see why my family has to be different.

Or why I have to be different.

And yet different is what my parents say I've been, ever since I fell off the table as a toddler. I wish they'd stop going on about it. I mean, how clear can a toddler's personality traits be anyway? I suppose it doesn't matter.

I crunch into the piece of slightly stale toast, letting the thin veneer of egg over the top be the dominant flavor. Eggs are expensive, and I might as well make the best of the opportunity to eat one. Maybe Mabel will have some sweets for me at the Reaping. If she does, then I could trade them at the old warehouse...

My mind races with ideas. Mabel's one of the many girls to catch my fancy, and arguably the best yet. I suppose it's odd for a boy my age to be so, well, flirtatious, but why not start early? Besides, she's the daughter of the sweet shop owner, so being her sweetheart has definite advantages. She's my sweetshop sweetheart. Ha ha.

Candy can always be traded too, for more important things. There's an old warehouse that fell into disuse a few years ago, and it's a little ways outside the town. It's just about the best place for striking non government-sanctioned deals that there is. Nat Everdeen, the hunting boy, usually has things to trade there. I wish I was as brave as he is. I'm certainly sly enough to sneak out through the fence without being seen, but I'd be much too terrified to do anything once I was out. After all, Nat has a bow and I don't.

How he ever figured the way to make one is beyond me. Maybe if I stockpiled enough trade items he'd show me...

The toast finished, I head upstairs and put on faded gray pants with a green t-shirt. As one of the few one-child families in the district, we ought to be wealthier, but like I said, being the baker's help doesn't pay well. I have tesserae, not that I care. Plenty of kids have a bunch of siblings and take extra slips for them too. Well, the sooner I leave for the Reaping the sooner it'll be over with, I think, heading downstairs and tapping my foot as I wait for my parents to finish getting ready. I can hear my mother crying, and my father trying to comfort her.

They hate the hunger Games, my parents do. I get that they're violent, but my mom doesn't have to tell me they're bad and turn them off whenever she can. They're something to watch at least, and since my only friend is a boy named Sean I have plenty of time to kill. I shouldn't even say Sean and I are friends. More like we talk to each other occasionally. He has a way with girls, and I've picked up a few tips on that.

Finished with their sentimentality, my parents head for the door. I am out in the street before they even reach the threshold.

"Liam, wait," my mother calls, her voice still a little quavery.

I slow down, resisting the urge to simply ignore her. Everyone's a little ragged today, and I suppose I can let her have her way for a bit.

Once we reach the square and sign in, I am struck by how much better everything looks. Head Peacekeeper Pruitt must have had people working their tails off to spruce up our ugly square. It's even worse than Eleven's crumbling old thing. Heck, it's almost as bad as Thirteen's bombed out shell.

Now, though, the stones and streets are swept. Banners and orderly peacekeepers moving about add a certain air of dignity.

they're not nearly as dignified up close as my finger is pricked for the sign in. I shake my hand out ruefully, sticking it in my mouth to stop the bleeding. Urgh. Couldn't they just have us sign our names?

Alabaster Parker, 17

District 12 Female

Fern and Mary Kay are only a few people ahead in the line for sign-ins as my family reaches the square. The people behind them nod their assent as I ask to cut in, and I step into the line with my friends.

Fern's normal goofy grin and humorous sparkle is gone from his face, and he looks nervous. I suppose he has to be goofy, seeing as he's named after a girl, his mom's crazy, and his dad a weakling. It's probably a coping mechanism. Sometimes I feel almost jealous of his name, seeing as how his parents named him after Fern Calloway. She was our first victor, winning the 12th Hunger Games long before I was born. Along with our young and already drunk Haymitch Abernathy, she rounds out the full population of our Victor's Village.

She's old now, but still has some of the vivacity of her young days. How she's done it is beyond me. I saw all the recaps out of curiosity once, and her best friend was actually reaped into the Hunger Games the year after Fern won. Dusk didn't win, and how Fern bore it I don't know.

If Mary Kay or my Fern died, I think I'd be entitled to a major freakout.

A major freakout is welling up now as Fern heads for the boys' section, managing to flash me a smile and a wave. Mary Kay walks with me to the girls' section, and we link hands, clinging to one another for mutual support as the escort and mayor, along with the victors, take the stage. The escort has quite the look this year, in sparkles so neon yellow they practically burn my eyeballs. She needs some fashion help. Really, she should talk to my sister.

The mayor's wife is much nicer looking, in the new dress that I delivered right after lunch. The style is plainer, more practical, and just generally more attractive. Perhaps she bought it from us to impress her husband. After all, Fern says that some of the younger merchant women have made frequent "deliveries" to his house, and stayed much longer than was proper. He's convinced they stayed for more than tea, and I agree that the possibility is legitimate.

Then the terrible video of the Dark Days is gratingly announced by our escort, telling us of all the terrible things we've done. Not one of us believes a word of it, and every one of us knows there's nothing we can do about it. I do my best to close my eyes and ears to the lies.

But eventually I have no choice but to listen, as the video ends and Purnelia Snowbell, as her name apparently is, takes center stage.

"Ladies and germs," she begins, pausing as though for a laugh.

Personally, I don't think it's funny. Maybe if Fern said it it would be, but coming from this woman who really does look like she thinks she needs to wash her hands should she accidentally touch one of us, the humor falls on deaf ears.

Forging ahead, she continues: "I believe it is general protocol to start with the women?"

Obviously knowing the answer, she goes to the Reaping Bowl before the crowd has a chance to nod. then she dips in her hand.

Her fingers are long and white, with nails painted a deep bronze. Jewels sparkle on her many ringed hands. Then she delicately pinches a slip and lifts it from the bowl, unfolding it delicately but without any real ceremony.

"Alabast-" she begins, but I don't have to hear anymore.

Pretend it's not real, I tell myself, moving toward the stage before she even finishes my name. It's all a game. Hunger Games, right?

All the same, I know as she announces my name that pretending is going to get a lot harder once I have bloodthirsty kids trying their best to kill me as slowly and painfully as possible.

Liam Cox, 14

District 12 Male

Alabaster. Yep, I know her. The one with the weird name that sounds right out of the luxury district. She'll have her taste of luxury in the Capitol, alright.

Purnelia heads for the boys bowl, and I scrouch down in my coat.

Just a few more minutes, Liam, I tell myself. Then you can go home, eat, and just enjoy the show. Forget you ever met Alabaster Parker. Forget you ever thought her sister Scarlett was cute. Forget she ever threw a rock at you when she saw you two together...

But I won't be going home.

Because Purnelia just drew my name.

I know the others heard it too the instant my mother screams, collapsing in a faint. My father rushes to her, gathering her up and calling her name softly. I glance over at him and flash him a small smile, letting him know to take care of her. I won't mind if he doesn't visit me in the Justice Building. I can deal with this, just like I deal with anything else.

I march to the stage, staring straight ahead. I'll take this one step at a time, and let nothing rattle me. After all, nothing is impossible if you try, and, being unafraid, I am very well equipped to do just that.

Alabaster Parker, 17

District 12 Female

How is that little boy so calm? He'll be dead sooner than I will, and no District 12 tribute lasts long anyway!

I shake hands with him, still wondering, and then allow the peacekeepers to drag me away. This isn't right! I want to scream as they deposit me on the chair in the room where I will say a last goodbye to my friends and family. No. No, no, no.

My mother enters, and I cry, unwilling to look at her. My sisters watch me silently. I don't want to touch them, talk to them, or even look at them. This isn't fair. I've done so much, sacrificed so much, to keep my family alive. Who's going to do the bargaining, run errands, trade with Nat? Have I ever even told them about him? I relax, realizing that yes, I've mentioned him to Obsidian. Well, at least they won't starve. That'll be a comforting remembrance as I bleed out in the arena, right?

The thought sends a fresh wave of tears, and then my mother sits down, squeezing herself into the chair next to me.

"Hush," she says, gathering me onto her lap and stroking my hair.

I curl in on myself. I'm much to big for her to be holding me, but it feels so good, so good. I surrender, not caring how it looks, and reach my arms up around her neck, burying my face in her chest. The rough fabric of her dress scratches my cheek, and as slowly as the gentle touches of her hand on my head, my sobs quiet.

Sitting up, I take a shuddering breath. "I'm okay now," I say. "You guys will be okay too. Obsidian, I've told you about Nat, make sure you keep up the trades with him. He's a fair guy, and he won't cheat you. Mom...take care of them."

"Of course I will," she whispers. "You're my children. I'll always take care of you."

I wish I could believe that, but she wasn't thinking when she said that and it brings on a new sob that I can't conceal. "Not in the arena," I say, my voice small.

"Even in the arena," she says. "I'm your mother. You're of my flesh and blood. Every time you think of home, every time you look at your reflection, every time you remember something I taught you. I'll be there."

The thought is comforting, and I hug them one at a time, then sit quietly as Obsidian fixes my hair, ruined in my stormy outburst. It'll be the last time she ever does it, and probably my stylist will change me so much that the me I'm used to will disappear. And yet all the same, the touch of her sure, nimble fingers calms me, until I almost feel I could go to sleep.

When I leave the building to board the train and the cameras come out, I'm ready.