CLOVE

I wake up to the sound of my mother chirping about Reaping Day, which just so happens to be today. I sit up in my bed and see my mother fiddling with my brother's hair outside my doorway. She turns and sees I'm awake.

"Clove Florentia Helios! I thought you were awake and getting ready! Here I am, telling Rhodon that he's running late, while you're in there sleeping!" my mother yells.

"Sorry, Mother. I'll hurry," I tell her.

"If you're not ready in 10 minutes, we'll leave you here! I won't risk the rest of the family being late."

"Yes, ma'am."

I walk swiftly into my parents' bedroom, where my Reaping Day dress is hanging crisply on a hanger. It is a soft, sage green dress with a bit of frill on the ends of the collar, sleeves, and bottom edge of the dress. I change into it, adjusting the soft material on my sleeves. I run to the bathroom, where I brush my teeth and pin half of my wavy brown hair back. I sigh, as I look in the mirror, my steely blue eyes peering back at me. I look naturally angry and aggressive; something my trainers have always said was an advantage if I were to ever get reaped.

Reaping day is a big deal here in District Two. We are trained from the age of seven to become a tribute in the Hunger Games, where two children from the age of 12 to 18 in each of the 12 districts are sent into an arena to battle to the death. The last person standing is crowned victor, and receives unimaginable wealth and also gets to live in a large house in what is called Victor's Village. In District 2, 10 of the 12 houses are currently occupied, but all houses in the Village have been occupied at one time or another, since District Two has one of the highest winning percentages out of all the districts.

I've trained since age five, since my father was once the Head Peacekeeper here in District Two, about 20 years ago. He retired after his required 20 years as a Peacekeeper were in, to settle down with my mother and have kids: my two brothers and me. In honor of his service, we were granted a house in one of the nicer areas of District Two. We're pretty well-off, financially speaking, since my mother is a quarry specialist, designing and planning new mines. My older brother, Pandanus, is a quarry supervisor, which is amazing, since he's only 19 years old. My younger 14-year-old brother, Rhodon, wanted to go off to Peacekeeper training two years ago, but my father refused to let him. I am not sure which path I'll take myself, but I'm considering volunteering to be a tribute in the Hunger Games in two years when I'm 18. My name's in the reaping ball 25 times this year. I've taken out tesserae for several reasons: to feel like I'm somewhat providing for my family, to intimidate others, and most of all, to influence my chances of being named District Two's tribute.

I throw on my shoes and bolt out the door just in time to meet up with some of my friends before the reaping.

My one friend, Rai, goes on and on about my dress, saying how lovely it was and how it would look great with her sage green eyes.

"You're not borrowing it, if that's what you're thinking," I tell her. Rai's smile drops. I don't care how mean that sounded; Rai is too chunky for my dress.

"I wasn't asking that…I…I was just going to ask where you got it…" she fumbles.

"As if I'd tell you that, anyway. You know how I feel about having the same clothes as someone else," I remind her. Wearing the same thing as someone is one of my biggest pet peeves. If I ever catch anyone wearing the same thing as me on a special occasion, especially if they look better than me in it, I make them pay. And I'm not talking money.

"You're right. I'm sorry, Clove," Rai apologizes. For her sake, I hope she never gets reaped. Rai is so soft and easily intimidated; she'd never last a day in the Games.

"Good. So, Turia, are you ready for the reaping?" I ask my other friend. There is no way Turia is prepared. She's almost as much of a weakling as Rai. It's just another reason to be friends with these two. Although they're weak, they make me look tougher and they do whatever I say, possibly out of fear. Most likely out of fear. That's fine by me.

Turia confirms my thoughts and shakes her head. Whether these two are ready or not for the reaping, it is now time to take our places. I stand with the other sixteen-year-old girls and turn behind me to my left to catch a glimpse of Rhodon, hair coifed, lips pursed, eyes like stone, and fists clenched. He blinks, and then looks my way. I give him a sort-of smirk, and he returns the look. I scan the rest of the boys, who all look confident and eager. I then scan the girls, seeing that only about half the girls look like that as well. I am one of them. The rest look slightly nervous, but I'm not sure why they would be. Even if they are reaped and are ill-prepared, sponsors drool over the District Two tributes every year. They'll be in an alliance with the other tributes from Panem's elite districts: 1, 2, and 4.

My thoughts are broken up by the voice of District Two's escort, Magnus Jollyberry, a middle-aged, Capitol-born man. He gives his usual, yearly speech, along with our mayor. I try to look like I'm indulging in every word pouring out of their mouths, but I really just want to get to the reaping. I tune back in just in time.

"Let's begin with our lovely ladies!" Magnus beams. He reaches his hand into the large glass ball containing the names of all teenage girls in the district. He swirls his hand around and selects a slip.

My ears begin to ring. The silence in the town square is so loud that it hurts. Am I nervous? Not the least bit. My ears hurt so much that I almost miss the name being read.

"Clove Helios."

CATO

I wake at the crack of dawn to do a little more training before the reaping today. I lift some weights I made out of rocks, jog around the block, and do pull-ups in the doorway to my bedroom. I go to the bathroom, brush my teeth, style my hair, and admire my muscles in the mirror. I hear a knock on the door.

"Cato, you better hurry up. Your brother and sister need to get ready, too, you know," my mother calls from outside the door. I swing open the door and kiss my mother on the cheek.

"What was that for?" she asks.

"Well, I'll be gone for a few weeks. When I come back, you'll get the same thing," I reply.

I'm set to go into the Hunger Games this year. I've threatened every guy in District Two that if I'm reaped and they volunteer, or if they volunteer for someone before I do, I'll personally harm their family, and them if they make it back. I doubt anyone would be better suited to be reaped, anyway. I've trained since I was five, since my uncle, Brutus Vespillo, won the Hunger Games about 20-30 years ago. He is considered one of the most brutal victors in the history of the Games. I've trained nearly every day for the past 13 years. I couldn't possibly be more prepared.

My younger brother and sister, who are twins, are the most annoying beings on the planet. They're 13 years old and the apples of my parents' eyes. My father, the meanest, most strict, severe, harsh, stern, demanding, uncompromising, unsympathetic man in the district, hates me and lets me know it. The feeling is mutual. What makes me hate him more is the love he has for my siblings. My sister, Minerva, is his "little princess" and he spoils her rotten. My brother, Atticus, is where he holds all his hope. My father lives his dreams through Atticus. He's making him enroll to be a Peacekeeper next year, which is fine by me. The less I see of that kid, the better. If only my father would make Minerva be a Peacekeeper, too. It doesn't matter, though. When I come back from the Games, I will receive my house in Victor's Village, and the only person I'll invite to live with me is my mother. She'll refuse, out of fear of what my father would do. When she refuses my offer, I'll just invite the lineup of girls who want to be with me to live in my house. My siblings will pester me and drool over me, begging to share the wealth of being a victor, but I'll refuse. They've tortured me ever since they were born. I'd probably kill them if they didn't mean so much to my mother. I'd probably kill my father, too.

My mother is the only person I've ever loved. Even after the twin demons were born, she's loved me and treated me well. She loves me regardless of what I do, and I love her for that.

I walk into my room and dress in my button-down light blue shirt and khaki pants. I slip into my shoes, and as I turn to leave my room I bump into my father.

"Cato, a word, please," he booms. My father only uses polite words such as please and thank you when he's mad or giving orders. This time, I'm expecting both. He closes the door and sits on my bed.

"Why isn't your bed made? I taught you better than that," he growls. I know for a fact I made it this morning. I hear the snickers of my brother and sister outside my door, confirming my suspicions that they messed up my bed. I can't tell my father this, though. Not only will he defend them, but he will reprimand me. His anger over my bed being unmade will be less than if I were to blame my siblings, so I just apologize for not making it.

"Anyway, Cato, I know you're going to volunteer to be a tribute today. I wanted to tell you that I support you 100%. I'll be rooting for you, son." He slaps me on the shoulder with the most fake smile I've ever seen.

"Yeah, right. You're just saying this because you know I'm going to win and you want me to share my winnings with you. Well, guess what? That's too bad. It's a little too late to try to repair our relationship now!" I storm out of the house, promising myself to never see his face again. Just in my fit of anger, I've broken a bunch of my father's rules: false accusations, talking back, yelling at him, leaving a room without permission, need I go on?

I reach the town square in no time at all. I've just ran over a mile, and not one drop of sweat or bit of fatigue. I congratulate myself, and walk over to the crowd of other 18-year-old boys forming. I chat with some friends and soon enough, the mayor and the Hunger Games escort are giving their speeches. I silently plead for my sister to be reaped, so I can kill her with my own bare hands. I don't want my brother reaped, because either I'll volunteer for him, which would make it seem like I care about him, or I let him go into the Games, where if he makes it back, he won't let me hear the end of it. I'd also have blown my last chance at being victor, and I can't let that happen.

I tune in to hear Magnus, the escort, say, "Let's begin with our lovely ladies!" He reaches into the bowl, containing tens of thousands of names. He selects the slip he wants, and hops back to the microphone. He unfolds the paper and reads the name written on it.

"Clove Helios."

Oh, no. Anyone but her.