District 2 Reaping
Tuesday, July 7th, 1663 P.A.
Xolani Satine, 18
District 2 Male Tribute
In my navy suit jacket, I look different: my bony shoulders are broader, my unremarkable pecs are larger, my calloused hands are smoother, and my dark brown eyes are warner. Even the scar above my right eyebrow is less noticeable. My figure looks healthier and burlier. I can feel my dark umber complexion radiating confidence and brutality, much like the other boys from my district. Nobody would suspect that, underneath my collared shirt, my ribs are as well-defined as my abs.
"I knew you'd look handsome in that," Momma says, her wrinkly face appearing behind my shoulder in the mirror. "It was definitely worth every cent."
"Are you sure it wasn't too much?" I face her. I've never had a suit jacket before because it's too expensive for us to afford. Momma must have pulled a lot of strings to make this happen. "Because I could just wear the button-up to the Reaping. I don't care."
"And have the Capitol critique you for being underdressed?" Momma gasps. I can't tell if she's serious. "Absolutely not! I want you to make a good impression from the start."
"The Capitol loves its District Two tributes." It's a well-known fact that the tributes from One, Two, and Four are often the Capitol favorites. We're the Careers, the ones who shed the most blood for them. Without us, the Games would be boring. "Momma, you don't need to worry about me. I promise I'll be fine."
"Boy, do not make promises you cannot keep." She points her forefinger at me. "I taught you better than that."
"Momma—"
"Don't you dare argue with me." I raise my hands in surrender and sit on my bed, allowing our eyes to be on the same level. "You and I both know that there are certain… risks involved in volunteering. Although you might be trained, you don't know the competition. They could be stronger, faster, and deadlier than you." There's a slight tremble in her voice. "That being said, are you absolutely certain you want to volunteer?"
I take a moment to consider this for her sake, but I know I'm not going to change my mind.
When I told Momma I was going to volunteer, she was concerned that I was too confident and too convinced that I would return home. I know the risks: I may watch my allies be murdered, I may lose my sanity, I may die. When someone goes in the arena, their survival is based on both skill and luck. Even the most talented survivalist could perish depending on what the Gamemakers throw their way.
I've thought about volunteering for over a year. This isn't a rash decision; my mind is set.
"Yeah." I nod. A flash of sadness dances across her dark eyes. "That's the plan."
"Well, in that case, you're going to need all the luck you can get." She pulls a silver, cross necklace out of her pocket. I recognize it immediately. It belonged to my dad before he was killed. He used to tell me that, before the Disasters, the cross would to symbolize faith and hope, two things he believed Panem lacked. "He would've wanted you to have this."
My mouth goes dry as she fastens the cross around my neck.
"I really hope you stay safe." Her voice is soft and fragile; I can tell she's holding in tears. "But I know you'll do great in there."
"Momma," I whisper, afraid of breaking this semi-calmness. "Please stop acting like this is goodbye."
Her eyes harden. "If you won't acknowledge the risks—"
"That's not what I'm saying," I sigh. "I know that I might die, but I can't go into the arena without having some hope."
She considers this for a moment. "Fair point," she says. "I just hope you stay safe. I already lost your dad, and if I lost you—" Her voice breaks. "I don't… I wouldn't have anything left."
"Momma." She tries to look away, but I pull her into a hug. "Don't think about that."
"What else am I supposed to think of?" She sobs into my shirt. "You're going into the Hunger Games."
"Think about our lives if I win. We would have a new house, one with all the electricity and heat we want."
"We don't need heat." She's no longer sobbing, but her voice is still watery. "It's always warm here."
"But we'd have it!" I squeeze her. "We'd be able to grow a garden in our backyard, so the air will always smell like flowers. Our mattresses would be soft and new—the foam kind that molds to your body. You wouldn't have to work at the mines anymore; you could do whatever you want. And people would stop calling us 'the rejects from Eleven' because they'd know we deserve to be here."
I pull back to look at her face. Her tears have calmed, but her eyes are still sad.
"Momma, we would have a new life."
When I leave my gablefront cottage, I don't bother looking back. After living here for eighteen years, this should feel like my home, but I can't ignore its boarded windows and torn shingles. If I don't feel comfortable here, it can be nothing more than a prison.
The closest I will ever get to feeling at home is when I'm with Zina.
Zina and her family live a mile south of me, in a neighborhood between the ghetto and the rich. Their two-story house is elegant and refined with its stone siding, slate roof, and mahogany windows. They even have a chandelier in the middle of their foyer, something Momma and I could never afford. Although her family identifies lower middle-class citizens, it's relative to the district's wealth; if they lived in Eleven or Twelve, they would be in the elite class.
When I reach her house, Zina is sitting on the steps of her wooden porch, scrolling through her phone and curling her obsidian hair with her finger. She wears a short, black dress that accentuates her hourglass figure, and her golden jewelry glistens against her unblemished, ochre skin.
When her dark eyes look up at me, my throat goes dry.
"I was wondering when you were coming." She stands up to hug me. Her hair smells like fresh tangerines and sand. "You look amazing!" She pulls back to look me up and down. "Is this a new suit?"
"It is." I ignore the burning sensation in my cheeks. "Momma bought it for the Reaping."
"Aw, that's so—" Zina's face drops as she pieces together what I said. "So… That means you're still going to volunteer."
"I am."
She doesn't say anything; instead, she walks back to the steps with her shoulders slouched.
"Please understand that I need to do this," I say. She freezes but doesn't face me. "I can't keep living like this. Momma—"
"Your mom wouldn't want you to volunteer for her." Her voice is filled with ice. "She needs you and you're leaving her. Why?" She turns around. Her eyes are more watery than they were before. "Because you think there's nothing else you can do? Because you think you can win? She already lost her husband—"
"Don't." I raise my finger. "Don't bring him up."
She huffs. "She can find a better job, but she can never find another son."
"Why can't you see that there aren't any jobs for people like us?" I try to hold back my hysteria, but my composure is crumbling. "Nobody wants to hire a widow at an armory, much less a black one! She can't find anything better than part-time grunt work! We can't all be like your family!"
"Wow." She masks her face with indifference. "Well, if that's how you feel—"
"Zina, you know that's not what I meant," I sigh. "It's just… Momma and I need the money, and I can't spend the rest of my life thinking of the what-ifs."
"But at least you'd have a life."
I ignore her comment. "If I win, think about what that'll mean for us. We could—"
"If you really think I want you to go into the Games, you're wrong," she snorts. "I think I've made myself pretty clear: I won't be the reason you volunteer."
"You're not—"
"And your mom wouldn't want to be the reason either." She points her finger at me. "If you volunteer, you're volunteering for yourself."
Neither of us say anything.
When she starts walking back to her house, I stop her. I don't want to end this conversation on bad terms. I don't want to end this, period.
"Zina, wait!"
Her hand grips the doorknob, but she doesn't turn it.
"I love you."
"If you loved me, you wouldn't volunteer," she says. "But we both know that you will, even after everything. I can't… I won't be the girl who watches their boyfriend get slaughtered in the arena. I'm sorry."
She walks back into her house.
Honoria Brantlie, 16
District 2 Female Tribute
My house is silent this afternoon, something I have become familiar with on Reaping Day. Since my father is a victor, he's busy this time of year, overwhelmed by interviews with Capitol journalists and meetings with his fellow mentors. Every year, he offers to have his sister come over to keep me company, but I don't mind being alone. This is our annual routine: I stay in District Two while he goes to the Capitol for a month.
But this year, I'm coming with him.
I know that he will be proud that his only daughter has the courage to volunteer to represent our district, following in his footsteps. I've had the idea since I was twelve, when I first watched his Hunger Games. As he slahes his way through the competition, I knew I wanted to be like him. But the timing never felt right. At least, not until this year's twist was announced.
I'm eligible for the Games because of him; the signs couldn't be more obvious.
I turn on the flat-screen television in my living room to fill the silence. I don't intend to watch anything, but I'm captivated when it turns to HGTV, the primary channel for the Hunger Games. The channel is unavailable to district citizens until all the Reapings end, but my father has special privileges due to his victor status.
Since the District Nine Reaping is going through their closing remarks, Caius Fulbright and Lucretia Laurent—the Master of Ceremonies and Announcer, respectively—offer commentary on the selected tributes. They say that the pair looks "interesting," but I don't see it.
The girl is admittedly pretty with scarlet lipstick that brings out the warmth in her freckled, russet skin. Although her bangs are combed, the rest of her dark hair drops in ombré waves. She wears hoop earrings and a nose ring, but she doesn't look intimidating. The boy pales in comparison: tawny brown skin, charcoal eyes, chapped lips, and short hair that stands in its natural corkscrews. He can't be older than fourteen.
I doubt either will survive the bloodbath.
As the cameras shift from District Nine to District Four, I hold my breath. I'm about to get a glimpse at my future allies.
The reaped girl is toned and tall, a few inches shy of six feet. Her dark hair is pulled into a ponytail, giving the camera a full view of her stoic, golden pink complexion. When she declines volunteers, I can see why: she looks like a victor. The boy volunteers before the escort can pick from the Reaping bowl. He looks like the typical Career from Four: strong and attractive with olive skin and dirty blond hair. They'll be great allies.
The doorbell rings as the escort begins her closing remarks.
Aloisia Villette stands on my front porch. Her older sister, Ooma, won the Hunger Games a few years ago, becoming the first female victor from our district. Since we're the only non-victors in the neighborhood, our friendship developed naturally. Some people even think we're sisters because of our fair complexions, dark hair, brown eyes, and slim figures. But we don't share a drop of blood (much to my delight).
"Wow, your dress looks gorgeous!" she squeals, throwing her arms around me. "Where did you get it?"
"I don't know." I try to shrug in her tight embrace, but I fail. "Maybe the Capitol?"
"Well, you look stunning!" She pulls away from me, smiling, and openly stares at my chest. "I didn't realize you had boobs!"
"Uh, thank you? I think…"
"It's a compliment," Aloisia confirms. "You never wear clothes that do your boobs justice."
"Aren't clothes supposed to be comfortable?" I will never understand how girls can wear stiff clothes for hours. I'd rather wear a sports bra during training than a lace one.
She frowns. "Oh sweetie, there's so much you don't know."
When we leave for the Reaping, Aloisia is still ranting about fashion. She explains the different bra styles, how to avoid blisters when wearing heels, and why it's easy to win over any boy with a "killer" outfit.
As usual, the conversation is one-sided, but neither of us mind. It's how our friendship works.
When we reach the City Square, we follow the sea of children walking to the check-in counter. Some are led to the eligible tributes in the center, but most are able to rejoin their families in the surrounding audience.
After the Peacekeeper draws my blood, I'm directed to the center. Aloisia joins me a second later, sucking on her finger. We settle in the section for sixteen-year-old girls.
"I hate that stupid prick," she whines. "There are so many other ways they could check our identity without blood."
"Yeah, but it's customary." I shrug. "They did it in the Old Generation, so they're just doing what they know."
"The whole 'traditionalist' thing is annoying." She rolls her eyes. "Our technology is soooo advanced! Why don't we use it?"
I shrug again. "Maybe they use it for other things."
"Well, people are still starving, so clearly they're not using it wisely."
I don't respond.
Before Ooma became a victor, Aloisia and her were orphans. They didn't have a warm meal every night, and they were sent to a new home every month. (Aloisia never told me specifics, but I know something happened to her at one of the homes.) On the bright side, they were able to attend one of the public Career Academies, so they received adequate training for the Games.
A few years ago, Aloisia was diagnosed with acute myeloid leukemia. Since the treatment was too expensive for the girls, Ooma volunteered for the Games. Her story of sacrificing her life to save her sister was inspirational, one that earned her many sponsors. As soon as Ooma killed her last opponent, Aloisia was sent to the Capitol for treatment. It was the happy ending the Capitol wanted, which makes me wonder if the Gamemakers manipulated the outcome.
When the clock tower bell rings thirteen times, a red-haired woman with a warm, tawny brown complexion and a tall, lithe figure walks onto the stage. She is followed by the mayor, her wife, and the three victors from our district.
I smile when I see my father.
"Welcome, lovely citizens of District Two, to the Reaping of the 21st Hunger Games!" the red-haired lady shouts into the microphone. The audience cheers. "My name is Jocasta Fairuza, and I have been given the honor to select this year's tributes." The audience cheers again. "Let us begin with an overview of the history of Panem and the recitation of the Second Treaty of Treason, presented by the mayor herself."
The mayor begins her speech, but I don't pay attention. It's the same story every year.
"Do you think anyone will volunteer?" Aloisia whispers.
"Yeah." I nod. "We always have volunteers. What would make this year different?"
"I read some Capitol studies, and the number of volunteers that have seen family or friends die in the arena is slim, even in the Career districts." There's a hint of worry in her tone. "They think this year will have a record low number of volunteers."
"Maybe." I shrug "But I don't think it'll be an issue here."
"I just don't think any girls here will volunteer." Her hands begin to tremble as she glances around the crowd. "There's a different… vibe this year. Everyone seems darker than usual."
"Aloisia, I'm going to volunteer."
"What? Why?" she shrieks. Some girls scowl at us, so she lowers her voice. "You already have all the perks of being a victor—"
"Yeah, but I'm not a victor."
"How does that make a difference?" Her frown deepens. "You will get everything you want, have an endless supply of money, marry the hottest bachelor in the district—maybe even a victor. And you want to throw that away?"
"You don't understand," I snort. "My father—"
"Your father wouldn't want you to volunteer. He'd rather have a living daughter than a dead one."
"Then why did he send me to the most prestigious academy?"
"For his own appearance!" Her tone is becoming angrier, but she manages to speak in a whisper. "People would disown him if he didn't send his daughter to a great academy."
"That means I'm prepared for the Games."
"Nobody can be prepared for the Games," she scoffs. "Do you know that Ooma is on meds for PTSD and depression? That she screams in her sleep from nightmares?"
"We didn't have the same training. You know it's different."
"That doesn't mean anything!"
"People survive with only three days of training. I've been training for eleven years."
"Those are merely numbers!"
"Numbers that make a difference."
On stage, Jocasta has returned to the microphone. She holds a white slip in her hand, containing the name of the reaped female.
"Look," I say, "you're not going to change my decision."
"Maybe not, but I can criticize you for your stupidity."
Jocasta announces the reaped girl's name. It's nobody that I know, but Aloisia gasps. The girl is older than me, either seventeen or eighteen, with an ugly scar across her left check.
The moment Jocasta asks if there are any volunteers, I'm the first one to speak.
Nobody opposes me.
"You're throwing your life away," Aloisia mumbles.
I ignore her.
The girls in my immediate surrounding take a few steps away from me, creating a clear path to the aisle. While the reaped girl rejoins the crowd, a group of Peacekeepers circle around me as I walk toward the stage.
I look at my father when I reach the steps. My wide smile is met with pursed lips and scrunched eyebrows.
"And your name, sweetie?" Jocasta asks.
"Honoria Brantlie, daughter of Daedalus Brantlie."
"Like father, like daughter," Jocasta says with a cheeky grin. "Now, for the gentlemen."
She grabs a white slip from the other Reaping bowl. This time, I recognize the name: it belongs to one of my classmates. He walks to the stage with a rigid posture and a tense smile. When someone volunteers, his shoulders become lax as he rejoins the crowd.
The volunteer introduces himself as Xolani Satine.
While Jocasta begins the closing remarks, I glance at my father. But he refuses to look at me. While his face remains void of emotions, his hands are clenched into fists and his spine is as straight as a pencil.
Was Aloisia right?
End of Chapter 2.
Current Tribute List:
District 1
Lorcan Estrelle, 15
Veira Faustus, 17
District 2
Xolani Satine, 18
Honoria Brantlie, 16
Author Note: Thank you for reading this chapter! Updates will usually be posted once a week, but I wanted to get the first chapters out sooner rather than later.
Q: What do you think about Xolani and Honoria?
Next Chapter: Secrets (D4 Reaping)
