Ch. 1 : The District with the Problem
"Do you actually plan on going home at some point today?"
His voice sounds like a whisper, although I'm sure Wheaty is shouting. I can barely hear anything over the animalistic pur that the behemoth machine suspended above me has started.
It consumed me. The project of getting this massive thing to run. I rub my forehead with the back of shirtsleeve, probably smearing my face with a fresh coat of grease in the process, and slide the creeper out from under the train engine.
"Are you talking to me?" I ask looking at the weathered face of the garage owner, who is staring down at me with a mask of disappointment.
He frowns, causing the dark circles under his eyes to look more pronounced. "Do you see any other eligible people in this room?" Wheaty asks dryly. He is trying his best to look unamused, but I can see the cracks of a smile forming on the corners of his mouth.
I give a cursory scan of the room, full of men both middle aged and young, but not one under twenty.
"I suppose not, you're clearly way too old," I chuckle, moving off of the ground and yanking my hair out of the the bandana. It falls over my shoulders in a thick blonde curtain.
Theres a chorus of quiet chuckles that echo across the garage, that Wheaty pretends to ignore. The other unfortunate workers forced into working the morning of the reaping for whatever extra money they can.
Technically speaking, none of us should even be here. No one's supposed to work on reaping day, but District Six has largely ignored this rule. Wheaty especially. His garage never closes. There's no shortage of garages in District Six and he's convinced that if he closes on reaping day the Capitol will find somewhere else to go.
"Do you think its wise to insult your boss, January?" Wheaty asks, his grey eyebrows raised.
"Not before you get paid," I reason wiping the layer of dirt onto my already stained jumpsuit. More chuckles. This time Wheaty does smile, and tosses the dirty rag in his hand at me. I dodge at the last second and it slips past me onto the floor.
"Good reflexes, Jameson" Maverick, another, shouts from the other corner of the room.
Wheaty ignored him and nods at the engine that hangs above us. It's from a Capitol train, dropped off late last night. It's smoother, and more modern than the ones that come through the district with food, this one is definitely from a train car. One the Capitol residents use for travel.
"You figure out what's wrong with it?" he asks me, his hand stroking the smooth metal and coming away black.
I know this one is important to him. He likes to treat the Capitol clients the best and I can hardly blame him. Their the ones who tip in handfuls of coins when we finish in the same day. Its the reason he came by my house at six in the morning for my help.
"I did better than that," I tell him, unable to hide the cocky smile thats formed on my face. "I fixed it."
Legally, I'm not old enough to be employed by Wheaty. District Six has rules in place that employment does not begin until age eighteen, but Wheaty doesn't care. He needs someone who is as good as I am with engines and I need a way to feed Morgan, Herbie and I, since our parents have rendered themselves useless. It's not as if the officials care much anyway. I walk through the district in my grease stained jumpsuit four days a week, in full sight of peacekeepers. Part of it may be the way I look, and most of it pity. People in District Six feel too bad for me to give me much trouble.
Wheaty looks unconvinced and reaches around me to tinker with something I cant see. He's obstructed for a moment, but when he reappears he looks pleased.
"Told you," I say cockily.
Wheaty rolls his eyes and reaches into the stained pocket of his jumpsuit, unearthing several coins he drops into my waiting hand. The second I hear the clink of the them, I know he's over paid. The same way he does every year when I work for him on reaping day. I've tried talking him out of it but it never works. I know why he does it, so I do my best not to argue with him too much. With two morphling addicts for parents, I know better than anyone not to pry into peoples family business.
"Use it to give those brothers of yours a decent breakfast," Wheaty says. His voice has taken on a tone that sounds a lot like pity, and my expression hardens. He notices and looks like he's about to say something else, but I shake my head and pocket the coins.
"I will," I tell him. Today, of all days I can give him a break. Reaping days are hard for Wheaty. He lost his only child, Helena in the games a few years back. She didn't make it past the bloodbath, and he and his wife never really got over it.
Wheaty gives me a crestfallen look and I decide to leave before he says anything else. I duck under the heavy metal door, dusting my boots with the thick cakey dirt that surrounds the garage. Wheaty's garage is on the outskirts of the district. The part that lines the woods, and is dissected by the large overhead train tracks. Its where the poorer people in District Six reside, in wood and stone houses, set far apart from everyone else, polluted by the constant noise of the passing trains. It's where I live too.
The well off people in our district live in large, vertical townhouse that line a quaint main street in the center of town. Far enough away that they don't have to hear the sounds of the transportation that fuels our district.
The air outside is chillier than it normally is in the dead of summer, so I don't have to roll the sleeves of my jumpsuit up to my elbows the way I normally do. I make way down the deserted dirt roads, ignoring the screeching of train car wheels on the elevated tracks above me. I can usually tune the sound of them out, having lived in district four my whole life, but it's reaping day so there's more of them than usual. I can already see the outline of the massive tribute train waiting at the station. That sleek, black high- powered monster waiting to transport two of us to the Capitol. I shake my head trying not to think about the train or the reaping. I have enough to worry about without letting that kind of worry seep into my consciousness. I round the corner onto our land just as another train comes screeching by, this one louder than the last.
Our house is a squat wooden two bedroom house that's seen better days. Most of the planks are old, rotten and soggy, and the paint is a faded blue from when our mother got high, stole all the money I earned for the week, bought a gallon of paint and haphazardly painted the house blue. She got bored with the project halfway through, so the other half is still grey. I tried once to track down the rest of the paint but Rodney told me she sold it. It's left the house as the embarrassment of the neighborhood. Fitting for our family.
I push through the front door, and find my younger brothers sitting at the kitchen table, sitting ramrod straight with blank faces. The older of the two, Morgan, stares straight ahead at a lumpy floral armchair that sags in our living room. Herbie, stares at his empty plate. They're both in the reaping clothes I laid out. Matching tan pants and off white shirts with collars. Morgan seems to have made sure they brushed their hair too, so they look like tiny little men.
The three of us look so alike. Rodney too. The same wintry pale skin, round top lip, eyes so dark they're almost black. And that thick white-blonde hair. The Jamesoms, blond as they day is long! Ransom used to say. Then I grit my teeth because thinking of him annoys me.
"January!" Morgan whispers, his voice weak and relieved at my arrival. He looks younger than ten, but it might be because he's so skinny. We all are. A combination of willowy frames and never having enough to eat. At seventeen, I could be fifteen if I wear baggy clothes. My chest is what gives my age away. Breasts that for whatever reason, my hunger never seems to affect. Too large for my skinny frame, and the cause of unwanted attention from peacekeepers and men with roaming eyes.
"What's wrong?" I ask immediately seeing the look on Morgan's face. His mouth has turned to a pout as he gestures to the lump beside the armchair I had thought was a blanket. I see now it's our mother, eyes open and blinking rapidly, breathing heavily. I know immediately she is strung out on morphling.
"She ate our bread!" Herbie cries, eyes filing with tears as he points to the plate of bread I had carefully wrapped for them before I left for the garage. There are only crumbs littering it now. I clutch my hand into a fist. It was the last of the food in the house. What kind of mother selfishly eats the last of the food and leaves her children with nothing?
The same kind of mother who chooses morphling over them, I remind myself. Herbie's eyes are filling with tears again so I reach over and stroke his hair. At seven, he's far too young to be dealing with this.
I pull his head against my stomach while he cried and repeats that he is hungry. Morgan doesn't know what to say. He simply watches us, his dark eyes flickering from us to our incapcitated mother.
"It's okay Herbie," I whisper in a small voice, crouching down to look him in the eye. "We're going to get something to eat, okay? Before the reaping."
Herbie sniffs loudly. "How?" he whispers.
I smile and reach into the pocket of my jumpsuit taking out one of the gold coins and plop it in his tiny hand. Both he and Morgan look surprised.
"Let me go clean myself up and get changed and then we'll go to the market and get something extra special."
Herbie stops sniffing and the trace of a smile crosses his face. "Can we get bread?"
"Of course we can," I tell him. "And don't forget, later tonight what are we making?"
Herbie grin, and Morgan does too. "Apple pies!" he shouts excitedly.
"Exactly," I tell him even though we aren't really. Apple Pie would require a litany of ingredients we would never have the money for. But I did manage to find a couple of apples in the woods, stashed now at Rodney's and have a packet of cinnamon that Amaly gave me for christmas the year prior.
Herbie keeps himself busy with the coin and I nod for Morgan to follow me towards the bathroom out of his earshot. He seems to understand and follows me.
"I found her like that this morning," Morgan says nodding towards the pile that is our mother.
"And dad?" I ask, already knowing the answer.
"He was already gone," Morgan whispers. "With the money bag from under your bed."
I know where he is of course. So does Morgan. So would most of the district if you asked. There's no need to vocalize it. So I nod and give Morgan's hair a good stroke.
"I'll be out soon, keep an eye on Herbie okay?"
He nods and I close the bathroom door behind me, torn between wanting to scream and cry. I wont do either, not in earshot of my little brothers, but it doesn't stop the anger from filling my chest.
The bath is still full of water, long cold now, but I strip off my jumpsuit and settle into it. I let my mind wander, calculating how many hours I'll have to put in this week to cover food, and whether I should forage in the woods for edible plants after.
This is my routine of my life, working and scavenging, doing everything I can to keep the Herbie and Morgans ribs from showing. Because if I don't, mom and dad will let them starve. In fairness, they'll let themselves starve too. Anything to keep the morphling flowing through their veins.
It wasn't always like this. Mom and Dad were happy once. Married. Working. They had Rodney, the me, then Morgan. Dad worked at a parts manufacturer and mom cooked and cleaned. We were happy and cared for. Then one day, Dad tried morphling. I don't remember how or when it started but soon he began disappearing. Skipping work. Spending every cent before he brought it home. My mother did her best but there was nothing to stop him. We started scrimping, making meals out of what we had, until one day we had nothing. Then, just when we thought it couldn't get worse, he somehow convinced my mother to try it too. In a matter of weeks, they were both gone. Utterly consumed buy the stuff. They stopped working, stopped feeding us. Rodney, only twelve at the time, was forced to take out tesserae for all of us and worked odd jobs to keep us fed. Our parents ignored us, doing whatever they had to acquire morphling. They spent what little money Rodney earned, and eating the food we forgot to hide. A year later, they had Herbie and my mother barely looked at him. Rodney and I took turns feeding him goat milk I had to work four hours a day at the goat man's for. We were neglected and everyone knew it. But no one cared. Morphling addiction is rampant here, but most people handle it better than my parents do.
By the time Rodney was eighteen, he was tired of it. He despised our parents, and the sacrifices he had had to make because of them. He packed a bag, got a job and moved out. Leaving me, at fifteen, with two addict parents and two starving brothers.
I figured it out eventually, begging Wheaty for any job he had, learning how to fix the engines and scavenging for food in the woods. Taking out tesserae for all of us and pretending that it had nothing to do with entries to the Games. It helps that I'm a decent cook. Able to scrape together meals with what I find and can afford. So long as I was around, it didn't matter what my parents did. I always made sure we were fed.
People in the district, the more sympathetic ones, like to tell me that I'm pretty enough that when I turn 18 I could be a train attendant for Capitol trains. The people of the Capitol like a nice district face serving them tea on long journeys. The money would be good, but I wouldn't be around and I can't trust my parents to take care of Herbie and Morgan. Rodney has made it clear he wants to be uninvolved. So that always leaves that idea unattainable.
It takes nearly twenty minutes to scrub the grease and dirt off my skin and out of my hair. I don't bother trying to get them out of my nails. That will never happen. I dry off and rake the brush though my hair, doing my best to get the tangles out of it. It's grown farther down my back then it usually is and if it gets much longer i'm likely to lob it off with a pair of kitchen shears.
I slip on the only reaping dress I have. A very pale pink buttoned dress that's a hand me down from Wheaty's daughter, given to me after she died. It was the same one she wore when she was reaped, which is morbid, but I didn't have the option of being choosy. I slip on the matching flat shoes and head back for the kitchen.
"You look pretty," Herbie announces, still playing with the coin.
"It's because I'm finally clean," I tell him with a smile, reaching out to poke his belly "Lets go get to eat okay?"
Herbie nods, reaching for his brother and taking his hand. The two of them run ahead of me towards the door. Morgan pauses and looks towards the floor where my mother lays, staring off into the place of our disheveled living room.
"Should we bring her with us?" he asks, looking nervous.
I shake my head trying not to let him know how much I do not want to do that. "She'll come. Or the peacekeepers will make her." I only have the energy to deal with one parent at a time. She should come down by the time of the reaping.
My brothers skip ahead of my down the path towards the town center arguing goodnaturedly about which one of them could outrun the trains. By the time we reach the city center they're agreed they both could. I stop by the booths in the marketplace and buy them each a roll and a cup of goats milk to share. We still have about an hour to go until the reaping, and I know where I need to go but the boys cant come with me. We make our way to Rodney's house, near the middle of town. He married a shopkeepers daughter and inherited their house. His wife, Amaly answers the door with their two year old on her hip.
She smiles at me and agrees to watch the boys, seemingly understanding where I need to go, and promises to bring them to the reaping.
I make my way back to the center of town heading down the darker, seedier streets towards a familiar alleyway.
The Hole is technically a bar, but its a hub of all manner of illegal and immoral behavior. Its always littered with drunks and gamblers. But it is by the far the most common place to get morphling. The Peacekeepers must know this, but they don't seem to care.
As I get closer to it, I see the rows of strung out people lining the street, in various states of high and decay. There is a lingering putrid smell of body odor and urine surrounding them that make me want to pull the collar of my dress up over my nose to block it out. I don't make eye contact with any of them, and keep heading towards the door. There seem to be more of them than usual. Lying in the street, sputtering to people that aren't there. It is reaping day, after all. Im sure there are a lot of people who would liked to forget what is happening..
I have my suspicions that the Capitol floods District Six with morphling to keep our population poor and starving. District 6 is massive and most people are employed as conductors, mechanics, routers, attendants, or factory workers. Without the morphling, what other way would they have to sell us their tesserae and send a fresh set of kids to the Games every year? But of course I don't say that. Theres a lot we don't say in District Six.
Theres a massive bearded man standing outside the bar when I get there, but no one stops me from going in. They know who I am and who I'm here for. The man they have stationed at the door simply watches me with interest, giving me a sultry grin as I slip past him into the darkly lit room.
The Hole is disgusting. The moment I step inside, the rancid smell of bodies intensifies, mixed with the smoke of cigarettes, and the acidic chemical smell of liquor. The carpets are sticky and moist, hopefully from the liquor, but in here you never really know.
The bar is full, every stool occupied with men and women of all ages, spending their lasts coins on a glass of white or brown liquor. On one wall, there is a large betting scoreboard. When the reapings are over, they will have pictures of the chosen tributes for betting, but right now it is full of pieces of paper with names of poor district kids on it. It makes me shiver to see these people betting on their neighbors. Children of their district. I stomp through the bar to the very back booths, ignoring the looks that linger on me while I pass. I head for the booth in the back right corner, where my father is belligerent and arguing with another man. I can tell he is high. His eyes are glassy and unfocused and despite the intensity of the conversation he is giggling.
"Seriously?" I demand, stopping in front of him. "Today of all days?"
"January!" he exclaims loudly, too loudly, other people around the bar are turning in our direction now.
"That's my daughter!" he repeats, pointing a dirty wrinkled finger at me. "Only girl I got, mind you."
My upper lip curls, at the pride in his tone. His companion is ignoring him, high himself. He's fidgeting with his shirt sleeve.
"You have four children," I seethe quietly. "And a wife, whose more strung out then you are."
Despite his state, my father manages to roll his eyes. "Dammit, Jan. Lighten up."
I don't wait for more of his inevitable attitude, he needs to get home and get himself and his wife cleaned up before Peacekeepers come looking for them. I still have another year before I could take care of Morgan and Herbie on my own. The last thing I need is District Officials getting involved. I reach over the booth and yank my father out by the neck. He's heavy, too far gone to walk properly on his own, so I have to string his arm over my shoulder, struggling under his weight. As I half drag him through the pub, the other addicts shout things as we pass.
The moment were out onto the street again, I stop, taking a fresh breath of air that doesn't make my eyes and throat burn.
The alley has started to clear a bit, someone has come by and shuffled the addicts towards the square. Only one person remains here, standing tall and broad shouldered against the wall, and he's definitely not an addict. His auburn hair is glinting in the sun, reflecting strange beams of light onto the shiny, thin scar that crosses his left eye. He's smoking a cigarette. The rolled kind only a victor could afford.
Ransom.
My body tightens in anger as I look at him, flooded with a thousand emotions that flicker quickly back and forth as I take in his familiar face. He's watching me too. His face is turned into that emotionless grimace he's been wearing since his own games, three years before.
"You should get him out of here before the Peacekeepers see him," Ransom says, the cigarette dangling between his full bottom lip. I grit my teeth, resenting his presence more than usual. I'd never ask for it, but he could help.
"You should mind your own business," I spit at him angrily, still struggling under the weight of my father.
"I'm not the one committing crimes in the middle of the alley," Ransom points out, his eyes gleaming.
This infuriates me, particularly because Ransom knows the intricacies of this situation better than anyone. I can feel the anger bubble in my throat as I snap. "No, you prefer to do them on national television, don't you?"
The insult hits its mark. Ransom's entire body tightens in his fitted sweater. For a moment, just the slightest, I feel bad about the remark.
"At least I'm not urinating on myself in public," he says darkly, and I look down to find a large wet spot spreading down my fathers legs. I try to keep him at a distance, so I don't get anything on me. This is getting more humiliating by the minute.
"Don't you have to go home and make yourself pretty for the cameras?" I demand. "Wouldn't want the Capitol to see their Victor looking so District would you?"
The effect on Ransom is instantaneous. His eyes flicker and his upper lip twitches in a way that makes his scarred cheek move. I've brought up the Games, the Capitol, and the District. The three things he hates most. He drops his cigarette on the ground and presses it into the earth with his boot. He doesn't say another word as he stalks off down the opposite street towards the Victors Village.
My father gargles something unintelligible and I sigh, half dragging him back through the village to our house. I drop him on the road to the house, no longer caring just making sure he's close enough to drag himself inside and hopefully clean up.
It's later now than I thought it was and I have to make it at a bit of a run to get to the center of town for the reaping. The streets are packed with people, but they part easily for those who actually need to partake in the reaping, thankful it isn't them.
Im twitchy and irritated as I make my way towards the city center, unable to shake Ransom's face from my mind. I get more frustrated as I think about that stupid condescending look on his face.
Ransom Lark. Victor and condescending asshole.
The entire district would describe him that way, and I know him better then most. Well at least I used too. Before the Games.
He and Rodney used to be friends. The two of them never left one another's houses growing up, even after everything happened with our parents. They always let me tag along with them too, sneaking into the woods at night and lying under the trains as they passed. The three of us spent as much time as possible out of our house, distracting ourselves from whatever was happening inside those four walls.
It kept us happy and sane. Ransom already knew everything that was going on, so we never had to explain it to him. He was funny and charismatic. He helped us forget. I was young, but I had already started to develop a little crush. Ransom had made me feel safe.
Then the summer I turned fourteen, Ransom was reaped and everything changed.
The entire District had sighed with displeasure when his name came out of the bowl. Ransom was well-liked, the only son of the candy-shop owner. District Six rarely had winners, and everyone was heartbroken to see Ransom go. It gutted us. No one wanted to see him die.
But he didn't die. Ransom was handsome, strapping and charming. He was seventeen and decently strong. He charmed the Capitol, fought brutally through the fifty-eighth Games, and won.
The entire district was thrilled and anxiously awaited his return. People tried to congratulate him. To celebrate him. Girls eyes him with desire everywhere he went, hoping he'd choose them as a wife. But nothing worked. From the moment Ransom stepped off the train, fresh from the Games, he was cold and surly. There wasn't a trace of the kind, lighthearted kid the District had known before. He distanced himself from everyone, locking himself in his mansion and only coming out when he ran out of food. Rodney tried to visit him. To talk him. But he refused him every time. They never spoke again. Rodney left us and married Amaly, and I lost half the people I cared about in a single summer.. Even thinking about it now causes a ripple of pain to flash through my chest.
I'm slightly out of breath and a little pink-cheeked as I make it into the crowded city center. I scan the crowds for any sign of my brothers amongst the crowds of people filing into lines. I spot them easily, their white blonde heads bobbing besides Amaly. Rodney is there with them now, jugging his chubby daughter in his arms.
The boys are are seemingly distracted so I make my way towards the group of seventeen year olds. Everyone looks a bit shaky and nervous, understandable considering the day. I'd be a lot more nervous if I had to worry about anyone else. My younger brothers are too young, and Rodney hasn't been eligible for years. I see Miriam anxiously pacing in the seventeen year old sections. She has four younger sisters, three of them eligible.
It's almost time for the reaping so the square is full. The platform is crowded with the Capitol escort, the mayor and Ransom. I roll my eyes, so he's the mentor again is he? District Six has three other victors but they're much older, so Ransom has done it three years in a row. I guess a twenty year old victor looks a lot more appealing to them than someone entering middle age. Ransom looks miserable up there, staring straight forward and scowling.
"Are you trying to make yourself late to the reaping, Ms. Jameson?" a scratchy voice behind me purs. I shudder as I turn to find a Peacekeeper behind me. Fortum Smith. He's tall and gangly, with a head full of dark hair he greases back. He staring down at me with a interested smirk.
Fortum creeps me out. He's been stationed in district six for a few years now, and he's always trailing after me making some sort of suggestive comment. Wheaty's caught him lurking near the garage too.
His eyes wander up and down me now as I cross my arms uncomfortably in front of me.
"What do you want Fortum?" I ask quietly.
Fortum grins, exposing a row of overly large, white teeth. "I just came over to tell you how nice you look without all of that grease on you. It's a welcome change to see so much of your skin."
His words make shivers crawl up my spine. He notices ans grins wider. "Maybe I'll come and find you after all of this hoopla." He nods at the stage. " We wouldn't want to waste such a pretty dress now would we?"
I have a litany of insults ready to go on the tip of my tongue when I stop very suddenly, noticing the very full bundle of coins in his left pocket. He must be looking to bet today. A new idea takes form instead.
"Sure," I say mildly, and wait for him to stop and smile again.
"Well okay, then," he mutters cockily, turning on his heels, looking overly pleased with himself. I rush forward, passing him gently. My left hand caresses past his pocket and swipes the top two coins without him feeling a thing.
I don't hesitate, twisting the coins threw my fingers and into my own pocket without stopping. I can hardly hide the grin on my face as I make my way deeper into the reaping crowd. Fortum will never even notice. That's the one thing I can thank my father for. He taught Rodney and I to pickpocket. Mostly to feed his drug habit. Normally, we never use the skill. Stealing is illegal. But Fortum deserves it.
I look up to find Ransoms eyes watching me from the stage. Did he see me? His eyes are locked on me, and I refuse to give him the satisfaction of noticing. It's not as if he's actually going to say anything anyway. He doesn't care enough.
I stop when I get to Miriam, who is still pacing.
"Hi, January," she whispers nervously, clinging to her dark plaits. "Thought you weren't going to make it on time."
"I almost didn't," I say honestly.
Miriam frowns. She probably knows what kept me, most of the district knows of my parents and their behavior, but she's kind enough not to say anything. We've only been friendly the last few years. Her youngest sister, the only noneligible one, is Herbies age and we sometimes set them up together. We don't know one another very well though. I never had any friends outside of Rodney and Ransom. I didn't used to need them.
"Would you look at this years escort?" Miriam asks quietly, shaking her head in disbelief. She's staring up at the Capitol man beside the mayor. He's new to district six, but probably not to the games. District Six is solidly in the middle. New escorts always start in 11 or 12. He's very short, with a stocky build and close cropped electric green hair. His skin is unaltered, but he wears a smattering of baby blue powder on his eyes and lips that looks ridiculous among Ransom and the Mayor. He looks eager too, frequently turning back to look at the giant orbs filled with names.
"He's very Capitol," I agree, too mesmerized by the orbs myself to be much of a good conversationalist.
I just want the reaping to be over already. Losing a day of work is frustrating enough, but at least the boys and I can do something fun when this whole thing is over.
The introduction takes forever. The Mayor reads his usual speech, shows the perfunctory video, and introduces the Escort, whose name is apparently Hamlin. Then, Hamlin speaks talking about how excited he is to be here and then reaches for the orb to pluck out the girl tributes name. Miriam sucks in a breath beside me.
"Not Stacy. Not Lillier. Not Maybelle," she whispers, repeating the names of her sisters quietly, making me silently grateful I don't have to worry about Morgan or Herbie yet. The years they're eligible will be brutal for me.
Hamlin plucks out a strip of paper and unfolds it reading it silently as he approaches the microphone.
"January Jameson!" he calls, and Miriam releases her breath, and I stop breathing.
