Chapter 9: The Reaping

It's Reaping Day.

I've been dreading this day for the last 364 days. Ever since Prim's name wasn't drawn from the glass bowl last year.

Her name is Primrose Everdeen. She's 14 years old, and she's from District 12. She is my sister. Her name is in the bowl three times.

The odds should be in her favor. But they weren't before. And Snow has the power to make sure the odds will be very much against her.

As soon as I wake up and remember which day it is, I have to run to the bathroom to throw up. I didn't get much sleep last night – neither of us did. At some point in the hours of early morning I guess we both drifted off, to a land in between night and day, in between being awake and being asleep, the place where nightmares lurk and will never let you go.

As I come out of the bathroom, still queasy, Peeta looks worriedly at me. "You're not…" his voice trails off initially, then he takes a deep breath and completes his question, "… pregnant?"

I sincerely hope not. I take the pills religiously, every Saturday evening. I have ever since that first night, just in case, even though we didn't have actual intercourse again until earlier this week. Today is Pill Day, and I will most certainly remember to take it. The glass of pills is hidden in the bag I've packed for the train ride later today, but I've got some in my purse as well.

Just in case. Just because you never know.

I can't thank my mother enough for giving them to me. Bringing a child into the mess that is my life… It's just unthinkable. It must never happen.

I shake my head. "Don't worry about it," I tell him. "Our… wedding night was a year ago, it had been months since we last did it, at least until this week. I'd have known earlier if I'd conceived then. And… What we did by the river – and afterwards –" I can't help myself, there's a smile on my lips now – "symptoms would have shown by now, anyway." I can't tell him about the pills. Talking about them would be acknowledging that they exist. It would be giving Snow the opportunity to learn about them. My mother wasn't supposed to have access to them – she's a District 12 healer, and she doesn't have access to fancy Capitol drugs which are prescribed by doctors.

The drugs that work.

Instead, she usually has to work with whatever she has. Herbs, traditional medicine. Soothing words, a comforting hand, being someone who listens. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't. I often think that her taking care of her patients is what really helps them in the end, not the herbs themselves. But even her compassion never works true magic, like I've seen the Capitol medicines do. How she got her hands on that glass of pills is a mystery, and I don't want to think about how much it must've cost her.

"Oh." He blushes. "I don't really know how… it works. I mean, with the symptoms of pregnancy and…" I realize this is something we should've talked about, now that we've breached that last barrier between us again. "Every time that we are together, I worry that… this is the time when it will happen." He's tried to ejaculate outside of me, but I won't let him. I want him to come inside me, to fill me up with his seed, and I can't tell him why it's safe. My behavior must seem very confusing to him – on the one hand I'm very clear that I don't want children, on the other I don't let him do the one thing he can do to avoid getting me pregnant.

"Don't worry about it," I repeat, and I hope that he'll somehow understand what I mean. That we are safe, at least for now, even though he doesn't know it.

I've been through this once before now, so the day of the Reaping is not as much of a shock to me as it was last year. There is the obligatory tedious prepping. My prep team, Effie, Cinna, Portia – they're all here. Apparently I get to keep my team, as Peeta and I are so high-profile, and Cinna will still work partly on my dresses, in addition to the new tributes. I'm too important to have a mediocre designer.

Cinna has designed a dress for me, just for today – it is beautiful in its simplicity. It is pure, in a slate gray matching my eyes. It is somber, there is nothing festive about it. Peeta has a maching gray suit. Haymitch refuses to wear what Cinna made for him, he's dug up an old suit from his wardrobe instead, muttering that no one cared what he wore for the Reapings until Peeta and I showed up. The suit is wrinkly, and Effie complains that it's soooo out of fashion. He's drinking already.

Like last year, the Peacekeepers march us down from the Village to the Justice Building, where we meet with the Mayor and our escort. We have to go over all the details of the ceremony together with Effie. Where the children in the various age groups are standing. The excitement of the new introductory film they've made this year, and how much she loves it. I sometimes wonder just how Effie does it. She has a heart – a good one, even. Yet she looks at this spectacle not as the murder of 23 children every year for the sake of entertainment, but as a show.

And through it all, all I can think of is Prim. I even see the suitcases containing the paperslips – one for girls and one for boys. They are both being guarded by Peacekeepers from the Capitol, and only Effie has the key. She is not allowed to get near the suitcases until she's up on stage.

Is Prim's name on all the paperslips in the girls' suitcase? I wouldn't put it past Snow, especially since I've failed to get pregnant.

I don't get to meet Prim, there is no time. Last year, we lived in the same house, and I had to watch her get dressed in her most beautiful dress. Watch my mother comb and braid her hair. Knowing it might be the last time she would be in this house.

I'm glad I don't have to see that this year.

We're in the Hall of Justice, waiting for the ceremony to begin. Even Haymitch is nervous. We know that outside, the children are being herded like sheep into their pens, their DNA checked and cross-matched against the Capitol lists. It is imperative that everyone is there. The repercussions if your child in reaping age is not present are extremely severe.

Haymitch sits down next to me, closer than usual. No one's paying any attention to us. He's slurring, talking about geese and drinks and the Hunger Games. He leans in closer, and takes my hand. My first reaction is to slap him, but there's a warning in his eyes. And then I smell it - or more accurately, the lack of it. He doesn't smell of liquor.

He's not really drunk.

Why is he pretending to be drunk? Then I feel something in my hand, he closes my fingers around it.

A slip of paper.

I begin to open my fist to look at it, but he shakes his head ever so slightly. I nod almost imperceptibly.

A few minutes later I excuse myself and go to the bathroom. Is it bugged? Certainly. Are there cameras in here?

Probably not.

But I still can't take the chance that there aren't. I bend down, pretending that there's something wrong with my shoe. Quickly, I open the note, knowing my skirt and my body will shield it from view if there are indeed cameras in here. It's handwritten in Haymitch's sloppy hand.

"Read this quickly, then immediately put it in your mouth. There are rumors of a rebellion against the Capitol in several of the districts. You are the symbol of the uprising – you are the Mockingjay. Snow will be trying to control you, now more than ever. As long as you are under his control, he can use you against them. You need to be very careful in the Capitol. Keep your eyes open. Several Victors know, but not everyone can be trusted. Watch your back."

Bending even further down, I discreetly slip the paper inside my mouth, and as he said – it dissolves upon making contact with my saliva, leaving me with a foreign, metallic taste in my mouth.

I must pretend as if nothing's happened. I pee, wash my hands, and go back to the others. I don't look at Haymitch, but I can feel that he's watching me.

Effie enters the room. "It's showtime!" she's shrieking in her falsetto voice, and my heart sinks. Automatically, I find Peeta's hand. We know what's waiting for us.

The sea of eyes. Mostly gray, some blue, some brown. The silence is eerie. Everyone's just looking at us. Everyone is hoping for someone else's misfortune.

Someone else's sister, son, grandchild.

Not my daughter, not my brother, or best friend, or girlfriend.

Please, anyone, just not me.

I take a deep breath, looking out over the crowd. Even the wind is holding its breath, it seems. Peeta, Haymitch, Effie and I are up there on stage. I know I should try to smile and be cheery and excited, but I just can't bring myself to do it. All I can focus on, are those eyes, all staring at us – and the two suitcases with the paper slips in them. Two empty glass bowls are already standing on two small tables. Four peacekeeers are guarding them, each suitcase is actually handcuffed to the wrist of a peacekeeper. Effie comes with the key, opens the suitcases, and the paperslips are poured into the glass bowls. Effie makes meticulously sure that no paper slips are left in the suitcases, that all the eligible names are in the bowl. No one must be missed. No one must be spared.

I'm shaking now. I know that there are hundreds of boys who are waiting in terror, too, but all I can see is the glass bowl containing the girls' names. Peeta puts his hand around me, pulling me closer.

He's so lucky to be the youngest. He doesn't have any siblings of Reaping age.

But I know he loves Prim. Everyone loves Prim. She is almost like a little sister to him.

I miss Effie's first words. She's dressed in an outrageous orange dress – it's supposed to symbolize fire, I suppose, here in the coal mining district, with the girl on fire on stage behind her - but she should've gotten Cinna instead of her own usual designer. It's just too much for District 12.

Then the film begins. I try to concentrate, but everything is just a fog around me – I hear Snow's voice ringing in my head, and it's as if he's talking directly to me. About the war, so long ago. About the generosity of the Capitol, allowing the traitors in the districts to live. About 13, which was obliterated. About the sacrifice that the districts make every year, giving up two of their young, one boy and one girl, to fight to the death in the arena. The nobility, the honor of being a victor. How the Hunger Games bind us together. "This is how we safeguard our future."

The future of 24 children is very far from being safeguarded.

Mayor Undersee reads the names of District 12's four Victors. And then Effie says the dreaded words: "May the odds be ever in your favor!"

As usual, it's ladies first.

Her long, perfectly manicured fingers search in the bowl. She goes back and forth – picks up a slip of paper, then discards it and picks another one.

I hold my breath. I think everyone in the square does.

Finally, she makes her final decision. She opens it, clearly reading the name to herself first before saying it out loud. I can't see her face, so I can't see if she's had a reaction to a name that's familiar to her or not, the only name that is familiar to her. She pauses.

"Emilia Witheart."

The only thing that's holding me on my feet at that moment, is Peeta's strong hand around my waist. A surge of relief flows through me. Prim! She's safe!

And then I see her. Emilia. She's coming from the pen containing the 13-year-old girls.

She's only 13. She's very small for her age, her legs stick thin. Her body is that of a little girl's, her breasts aren't even budding underneath her blue dress, her hips narrow like a boy's. She has dark hair and seam gray eyes, and I know she's been starving all her life.

In the back, someone is screaming, and I know it must be her mother. No one will volunteer for little Emilia. As soon as I see her, I know she doesn't stand a chance. Tears burn in my eyes, but I can't let them fall. I know I'll have to be strong for this little girl, I have to give her hope, to mentor her, even though I know she will be murdered.

Then it's time for the boys.

"Den Harris."

He, too, must be from the Seam. He comes from the 17-year-old pen. He has the ragged look of someone who's seen it all, experienced too much, despite his young age. "He's from the orphanage," Peeta murmurs, and at first I'm surprised. He's almost a man, why is he staying there? But then I remember – he can't be working in the mines until he's 18. So until he can make a living of his own, however meager, he has to stay in the orphanage.

No one's crying out his name from the back. Everyone is silent.

As Den walks up on stage to stand next to little Emilia, everyone holds out the three middle fingers of their right hand.

Reflexively, I do the same. Afterwards, I wonder if the cameras captured it.

Two hours later, we are back on the train to the Capitol. I remember the first time we were in here – I thought I'd never see District 12 again. The luxury, the food – the cruelty of it all.

I know the preparations must begin immediately. We don't have a lot of time, just two short weeks until Emilia and Den will be out in the arena.

Peeta already knows Den a little bit, apparently Den is very helpful with the young children in the orphanage. He seems to be protective of Emilia, I guess the orphanage is full of little girls like her – thin, dark-haired and starving. Peeta's mother would have called them both Seam brats. I see myself in them – in the way their eyes just can't leave the food in front of them. In the way they guard their plates while they eat, far too quickly. In their distrust. In the way their gray eyes are just staring, as if they are waiting to be rejected.

We ask them if they have any particular talents? Den is strong, he's been helping the village smith in exchange for some food now and then. He's good with the axe, he's chopped a lot of wood in his short life. He seems reasonably smart, too. I make a mental note that he's not the worst District 12 tribute I've seen by far, perhaps we can work with him.

Emilia is another story. She's just terrified, and it's so hard to make her open up. Does she have any talents? Peeta finally manages to win her trust.

She's good at writing poetry.

I don't know whether to laugh or to cry. She won't be going into the arena with a pen, that's for sure. The Careers will eat Emilia for breakfast.

It also turns out she knows a lot about plants. Now, that is something that can potentially be more useful, at least if the arena isa forested area, a habitat similar to District 12. This means she is less likely to starve than many of the others, aside from the Careers, because with her size, she's unlikely to make it out of the fight at the Cornucopia with anything but her life – and that's if she's lucky. She'll have to find food in the arena to survive. She's small, so she doesn't need that much food to stay alive, either. That's about the best thing I can say about her.

"They are going to be butchered," I say to Peeta as we lie in bed that night. "Emilia doesn't stand a chance. And Den… I just don't think he has what it takes."

"You mean he's not cruel and cunning and murderous?"

"Well… yeah."

"Neither were we. But we still made it out of the arena alive, didn't we?"

"I can be cruel and cunning and murderous if I want to," I object.

"But it's not as if those are your primary qualities, Katniss. And the love interest angle has been done before, so we can't play that card again. Besides, Emilia is much too young for him, no one would believe it." Peeta pauses, thinking. "What if she's like Johanna?"

I consider that possibility. Johanna Mason pretended to be totally helpless, and she played her part so convincingly that no one bothered to try to kill her. When there were only a few tributes left, she showed her true colors. She turned out to be a vicious killing machine, after the others had done the dirty work killing off each other, many of them getting injured in the process so they were easy pray. She finished them off, one by one. Throwing her axe in the back of their heads was her specialty. "But we can't make her into a new Johanna," I object. "Can you picture Emilia throwing an axe at anyone? She probably can't even lift one."

He has to admit that he can't.

As the train brings us closer to the Capitol, I know it's hopeless. There is nothing we can do to save them. How has Haymitch survived, doing this for so long? Seeing them all die. This is only my second year, and already I feel like drinking.

And then there's the note. A rebellion. Me being the Mockingjay. Some Victors know something… Clearly Haymitch does. And from what happened after our wedding, I'm guessing Johanna and Finnick know something, too. At least they knew enough to tell us to be careful.

I am to keep my eyes open. For what? And how do I tell Peeta?

I hardly get any sleep that night. All I can think about, is that the train is swiftly bringing us closer to the Capitol through the darkness. The only consolation I can find is that Prim is safely in her bed in District 12.