District 11
Bluff Cantor
The first thing I see in the morning is Daffodil frolicking past my window like the reaping doesn't exist. She's so pretty as she dances by in her sundress, wind blowing through her curly brown hair and pushing it back off her tan shoulders. I'm so lucky to have her.
I throw on a white button-down shirt and meet her outside. We're headed to the center of town together, just like we have every year. "Good luck," she says, and taps me on the nose with a grin.
I smile back. "You too." She flounces off to join the girls, looking back to give me a coy glance. I wink at her before joining the other sixteens.
I know she won't get reaped. She never has before, which is a pretty good track record. And she's the daughter of our Mayor—that's just about the safest position to be in when it comes to your kids getting reaped. They never have to take tesserae, they never catch the eye of Peacekeepers, and they're well-fed enough to put up a fight if they do somehow end up in the arena. And since I'm associated with her, I'm fairly sure I'll be safe as well.
Yolanda is our escort this year, which is weird. She's been it for a while, but stepped down last year citing family issues. So if she's back, either her issues are resolved and I should be happy for her, or the Capitol didn't like the one who filled in. It's probably the latter. Nicky seemed a little too upset when he selected two twelve-year-olds. Can't have your own officials protesting your Games.
She picks a name. I hold my breath until she unfolds it. She's gonna select some unlucky kid who stands no chance, but it won't be me. I'll be fine, and then Daffodil and I can go back home and relax for another year.
But we can't. Because Yolanda is reading my name. I'm the poor doomed sap.
I set my jaw as I climb onto the stage. The difference between me and the others in town is that I will not lay down and die. I have a chance, and I will use it. I will win.
The highlight reels are gonna love me.
Pepper Lee
They say there's no place quite like home. I beg to differ. Every goddamn place on this planet is like District 11: dirty, crowded buildings filled with tired, overworked people who just want to put food on their tables and survive through another day.
I should correct myself. Not everywhere is like that. The Capitol isn't. We get reminded of that fact every reaping day, when the stupid escorts come down from their monetary heaven to bestow us with condemnations and murder. I hate the Games, I hate the Capitol, and I hate everyone involved in either one.
Perhaps I'm being too harsh. I'm especially on edge this year—it's my first time being eligible for the Reaping at twelve, and I'm understandably not looking forward to it. Mom has managed to make our food stretch so I wouldn't have to take out tesserae, so there's only one slip in there this year.
Still. Providing for a family of seven is hard, and I feel bad about not helping out by taking some. Mom told me to wait until I'm at least fifteen so I have a chance, but I'm not sure we can wait until then.
Dad helps me find the twelves section once we get to the middle of the city. I've never stood here before. I want to go back to the parent's section where I'm safe, where I don't have to worry about my life being on the line.
A cold breeze blows through as she calls the boy tribute. He looks strong enough. We haven't had a winner in quite some time, but for once I feel a bit hopeful. 'District pride' and all that. Suddenly, now that I'm a potential victim, the instinct to support my District feels that much stronger.
Yolanda rifles through the girls' bowl and selects one. There's only one with my name. One amongst thousands, maybe tens of thousands.
But all you need is one. She shouts my name across the square, and blood rushes to my ears.
My heart is pounding in my throat and I trudge up the steps to the stage. It feels like I'm climbing to the gallows.
There is one good thing, at the very least. My family won't have to worry as much about food soon. Either I win, get rich, and can pay for steady meals, or they've got one less mouth to feed.
Bluff Cantor
She doesn't come. Daffodil doesn't come to see me. I almost feel sad.
But I can't blame her. Maybe she's too upset to see my face. Maybe she's trying to protect her heart from my inevitable death. It's okay, though. When I come home and hug her tight, invite her to live with me in my new mansion as a Victor, I know she'll be over the moon to see me again.
I still have the bracelet she gave me. It's wrapped snugly around my wrist, and I fiddle with it a bit. She wove it out of tall grass for my birthday a few months ago. She even managed to embed tiny daffodils into it. They've dried up by now, of course, but they're still beautiful.
Daffodil is so talented. If she was in the Games, she'd win every time. The other contestants wouldn't stand a chance against her.
But she's not in them. I am. So I need to make sure I make it back.
Pepper Lee
I run the smooth stone over my knuckles as I try to calm my breathing. I'm not quite dead yet.
My family doesn't seem to realize that. Mom is crying into my Dad's shoulder as he stares into the wooden wall behind me. My siblings are hugging onto her legs, not daring to even look at me. They're mourning a death that hasn't happened yet. I am the living ghost of their family, barely corporeal, already fading away.
Well, they can mourn me if they want. I don't care if they believe in me. All that matters is if I believe I can win.
And I do.
I think.
District 12
Clay Hanover
There's bloody spit in my hand after I cough. So it's one of those days, then. There's blood more mornings than not, now. I'm not getting better. My friend Polonia tells me that it's not consumption, but I know better. I haven't been in the mines yet, so it's not mine lung, and anything else would have already killed me or I'd be on an upward trajectory.
I wipe my hand on my pants and splash water on my face. It's Reaping Day, and I'll need to be in the town center in just half an hour.
Mom comes with me. The look she gives me breaks my heart. I'm the only one at home now, after Jasper moved out to live with his wife last year. She's had to watch me get sicker over these past few months, and I know it's been so hard on her.
Her eyes are on me as I join the thirteens, and I know she's watching my gait carefully. There's no need. My steps are sure and strong. I'm not that weak yet.
The bowls containing the slips are on the stage next to our escort. She slides one purple hand in and selects a piece of paper. "Clay Hanover," she reads.
With the consumption, I didn't expect to see adulthood. This just confirms it. I won't even turn fourteen. I mean, I guess I could get really lucky, but I'm not delusional.
I take a good hard look at the District from the stage. I know it'll be my last look at my hometown.
Beklyn Summers
The house is emptier than my stomach. Which isn't saying much, because we ran out of grain last night. Imagine having to take more tesserae the night before the reaping. It's not a good feeling.
We didn't have a choice, though. Dean is only four. He needs food every night, and we didn't have any. And in the Seam, it's not like one more tesserae will be the nail in your coffin. Everyone else has taken it, too.
I head to the center of District 12 and join the fourteens. I don't know just how many times my name is in there. At least four from my age and last night's grain, but I know I took tesserae last year at least once, so that'll be in there too. I shouldn't have lost track. Mum would chide me if she knew. She'd tell me that it was important to know how many slips with your name were in there, how likely you were to get selected and murdered.
But she's in the parent's section. And I don't think it matters, not really. Either I get reaped, or I don't. We need the tesserae I take, and I can't do anything about my age. So if it's out of my control, why stress about it?
Our escort picks the boys first. She always does. It's a boy named Clay. I think I recognize him from school, though we've never spoken. He coughs as we wait for her to pick a girl, and I recognize the sound of consumption immediately. Poor kid. The Capitol could probably fix him, but they won't do it unless he wins. Which, considering he's from District 12, thirteen, and about as strong as a sapling, he won't.
My pity doesn't last long. My name has been called. I'm the female tribute.
I can't breathe. It feels like a building has been dropped on my chest. Deep down I wonder which slip it was she pulled. If Dean hadn't needed food last night, if he could have gone a single day without bread, might I not be condemned? From up on stage I try to find Mum in the crowd, and when I find her, I can tell she's thinking the same thing. She won't meet my gaze, just pulling Dean closer to her chest and holding back tears.
She's the one who encouraged me to take it last night. She must feel so guilty. Her only daughter is going to die, and it's her fault.
It's not, though. I would have taken it anyway.
Clay Hanover
"Maybe this is a good thing," Mom says the instant she walks into the room.
"Are you serious?" I scoff.
"They have medicine in the Capitol." She strokes my hair back with one hand. "Real medicine. They can help your lungs."
I shrug her off. "There is no silver lining. They won't do shit until the Games are over. At least with just the sickness I might make it another few years."
"No," she says, her voice quavering just a bit. She's trying to hide it, to stay strong for me, but I can see right through her. "They'll cure you before they start. Otherwise—otherwise it wouldn't be fair."
"Nothing in life is fair," I say as gently as I can. "Nothing."
Beklyn Summers
Mum hands me a feather. It's from a crow. My dad, Crow Summers, died of mine lung last August, so that's got to be why she's picked this. It's sweet, but I don't think she realizes how macabre it is. He's dead, and I probably will be too soon enough. It's even black, perfect for mourning. Maybe she can wear it to my funeral after the Games.
Just because I know I'm going to die doesn't mean I'll sit down and take it, though. I'm going to take out as many as I can with me. If I go for a Career, I might even be able to help a fellow underdog win.
I think that would be the ideal situation. Obviously neither Clay nor I will win, not with my scrawny stature and his cough. But if someone from some other poor district could win because of my sacrifice… well, then maybe I won't have died in vain.
The dessert cart on the train comes by, and I snatch a cinnamon roll off it. These are my last days on earth. I might as well enjoy them.