Tribute Intros Part I
Corin, Aurora, Elemeno, Lucinda


Corin Palmer, 14
District Four

"Corin, the reaping's in an hour. Are you sure we have time for this?"

Corin grinned back at Lyla. "Oh, come on. It's not like we have to do anything to get ready – just throw on whatever we picked out this morning, and we're good to go. Then we just stand there, someone volunteers, and we get to come right back here."

Lyla rubbed the back of her neck as the pair of them headed for the beach. "Yeah, but I heard some of the academy girls talking. After what happened last year…"

Corin rolled her eyes. "Don't worry about it. Someone will volunteer. Someone always volunteers. Besides, even if they don't, how many times is your name in the bowl? Three?" Lyla's family had never had to take tesserae, and neither had hers. Even if the academy girls chickened out, they were as safe as they could be.

"Still…"

Corin reached down, scooped up a handful of seawater, and splashed Lyla. "Come on. A swim will take your mind off things." It always did. Swimming, fishing, or just enjoying the waves on a boat – there was always plenty to do. That was one of the best things about living in District Four. Not having to worry about being reaped was a nice perk, too. All in all, she had a lot to be thankful for.

The two of them dove into the water and swam out to the end of the dock, where they climbed into Lyla's family boat. "Watch the spears," Lyla called hurriedly, a twinge of guilt in her voice. It had been almost two years since Lyla had gotten carried away and swung a spear around carelessly, accidentally hitting Corin. She still had a scar across her collarbone.

Corin stepped over the spears with exaggerated care. She knew Lyla still felt guilty about what could have happened, but the truth was, the worst hadn't happened. She was still alive. She was fine. And if she was being honest, she thought the scar made her look a bit tougher, a bit more … well, grown-up, maybe. That was the trick, really – keep looking on the bright side of things. After all, it had worked pretty well so far.


Aurora "Aura" Flash, 16
District Five

"What happened?" Ember asked, her voice full of concern.

Aura hurriedly pulled the sleeve of her dress down over the bandage on her arm. She and the other otters – the underwater workers at the dam – did their best to be careful, but there were always sharp edges that were hard to see underwater. "It's nothing," she insisted. It barely stung anymore, and the last thing the other two needed right now was to feel guilty that Aura had gotten hurt on the job.

She'd known what she was getting into, after all. The dam was dangerous work, which was why she'd worked so hard to get Neon a job at the power plant instead. That wasn't exactly safe, but it was better than the dam. And she'd try to do the same for Ember when she was old enough to get a job.

She was old enough for the reaping this year, which only added another layer of stress to the day. Ember was twelve this year, while Neon was fifteen. This year, any of them could be picked. They'd all taken tesserae, though not as much as they would have had to in the old days. To hear the older kids tell it, kids at the community home used to have their names in the bowl hundreds of times because they had to take tesserae for all the other kids.

Wade had put a stop to that, among other things. Now the orphans could only take tesserae for themselves and their biological relatives – which meant Neon actually took more tesserae than Aura because Ember was her sister by blood. Aura couldn't help feeling guilty about that, but still, tesserae for one or two people was better than tesserae for hundreds. The community homes were … well, they weren't great, but they were better than they used to be. Good enough that the three of them had stuck around rather than striking out on their own to live on the streets. Good enough that they could tough it out for a few more years.

Until she was eighteen. Then maybe she could get a better job, and really take care of the other two. Just a few more years, and things could be better. They would just have to be patient.


Elemeno Pereira, 12
District Seven

"At least we have less slips than everybody else," one of the other twelve-year-olds muttered as they stood in line, waiting to check in for the reaping.

"Fewer," Elemeno corrected automatically.

The girl turned. "What?"

"Fewer slips. We have fewer slips, not less slips. 'Fewer' is used for countable nouns, while 'less' is used for uncountable ones. The number of slips one has is countable – though in some instances, that might take a while. In any case, it's not necessarily true that a twelve-year-old would have fewer slips than someone older. How many slips do you have?"

"None of your business!" the girl shot back.

"More than one, then, I presume," Elemeno reasoned. It was a fair bet the girl had taken tesserae, considering the frightened look on her face. "If you have two slips, that would give you the same chance of being reaped as a thirteen-year-old who took no tesserae. If you have three slips—"

"I get it, all right!" the girl snapped, tears starting to brim in her eyes.

"Happy now?" muttered a boy nearby.

Elemeno crossed his arms. "No. I didn't get to finish."

"I hope you get reaped," the boy grumbled, putting an arm around the girl's shoulders.

Elemeno sighed. Why were people so touchy? It wasn't as if knowing her odds of being reaped would actually change the girl's chances. Either she would be picked or she wouldn't, but it wasn't right to make baseless assertions about her chances. Being right mattered. Why didn't people understand that?

In any case, there was no point in taking it out on him. He didn't make the rules. He hadn't forced her to take tesserae. And he certainly hadn't been the one to decide that 'fewer' should be used for things that could be counted. It was something he'd read in one of the schoolbooks his father brought home from his job – the ones with imperfections, or typos, or where a page had been printed twice or the like. The ones that he was supposed to discard.

Elemeno shifted a little as the line moved forward. He could never put his finger on exactly why his father breaking that particular rule didn't bother him. It probably had something to do with the fact that discarding books – even imperfect ones – just seemed wrong. Knowledge was good; destroying it was bad. And that was even more important than what the Capitol said.


Lucinda Tweed, 15
District Eight

"Did you get any sleep at all?"

Lucinda held back a yawn as she nodded. "A little," she answered once she could trust her voice not to sound too tired. She'd tried. She really had. But both she and her mother had gotten back late from their night shift, and she had a paper due soon that was worth almost a quarter of their final grade. "I'll sleep after the reaping, mom. Promise."

Unless…

Lucinda shook the thought from her head. If that happened, then the paper wouldn't matter at all. Lucinda reached behind her back, struggling with the last of the buttons. "Here, let me help with that," her mom offered, buttoning up the last few. "Sorry if it's a bit tight. You've grown since last year, and I tried to put some padding in the front, so—"

"It's perfect, mom." Lucinda insisted. "Now come on, or we'll be late."

They weren't exactly late, but there was already a crowd. Lucinda tensed as she neared the front of the line. Just a quick finger prick, and then—

"Lucinda Tweed. All right, move along."

The butterflies settled a little as she took her place. Lucinda. So the paperwork had finally made its way through. She'd filled it out months ago when she'd turned fifteen, and they'd said it would get through by reaping time, but you never knew with Capitol paperwork. Sometimes she was sure they took longer just because they could, because who cared if they called some girl in District Eight by her right name?

But she cared.

The square was still filling up as she found Greta in the fifteen-year-old section. "Get your paper done yet?" Lucinda asked.

Greta rolled her eyes. "That's not due til Monday."

"But it's a lot of our grade," Lucinda reasoned. "I mean, if we don't do well this year…"

She left the rest unsaid. If they didn't do well enough, it was only a matter of time before they would have to drop out and get jobs in the factories instead. There were a lot of factory jobs, and only a handful of students had more to look forward to than that. If she wanted to be one of them, she would have to do better.

And she did want to be one of them, but wanting it wasn't enough. There were plenty of people – people like her mother – who had wanted a better life, but had ended up in the factories all the same. That was the way things were. She just wished she could change it.


Happy New Year, and good riddance to 2020.

The tribute page is up on the website and will be updated periodically as tributes come in. Keep 'em coming.