Primrose Everdeen. I know that name. I could never forget that name.
A terrified twelve-year-old girl walks down the aisle between the assembled groups to the stage. Her pale cheeks are trembling while she fights off showing signs of fear. I know that name.
A girl from the group of sixteens erupts out of the crowd and throws Prim behind her protectively, shielding her from the stage. "I volunteer!" she shouts. "I volunteer as tribute."
Five years ago, on a cold, rainy night, a girl the same age as me was searching through our trash can. It had just been emptied, but she only found out when she took off the lid. She was thin. Very. And I knew why. She'd spent months falling apart after her father's death. They had survived off of him, and now he was gone. I didn't know the whole story then. I don't know the whole story now. But the girl who knows it best was standing right in front of me, looking for something, anything, that could keep her alive.
"Move along! Do you want me to call the peacekeepers?" my mother spat. I didn't expect her to be compassionate to this girl. She wasn't even compassionate to her own children. Not really. She wanted us to grow up, and grow up fast, to avoid what was about to happen to the girl in front of me. I guess that's love. At least, that's her way of expressing it.
The girl did move along. But she was too weak to move very far. By the pig pen, just feet away from the trash, she collapsed in the mud. I knew how to stop this. I knew how to fix this. There was bread in one of the ovens, two loaves of it. I accidentally knocked both of them off the flat baking sheet and into the flames below. Accidentally, of course.
"Peeta!" my mother screamed, and she fished the loaves out of the flames. "What on earth were you thinking?" I didn't know. She set the loaves on the counter and before I could process what was happening, she spun around with a wooden mixing spoon and used it to slap me across the face. That was her favorite way to begin a life lesson. She threw the hot loaves into my arms and pushed me out the door. "Feed it to the pig, you stupid creature! Why not? No one decent will buy burned bread!"
I walked over to the pig pen, making sure I didn't draw attention to her, and began ripping the burned parts off of the bread and throwing them into the trough for the pig, but carefully. I wanted to leave enough for her and her family. As soon as the bell rang and my mother returned to the store, I threw her the remaining loaves. I didn't even look at her. I'll never fully forgive myself for that. The way I just tossed them in her direction, into the mud, instead of just handing them to her. The way I walked away without even knowing if she was going to be alright. No, I will never forgive myself for that.
And there she is now, right in front of me. Katniss Everdeen. As frail as she was, she never looked weak. There was always strength behind those hungry eyes. There was always determination. Even now, as she sacrifices her life, there is strength in everything she does.
Prim tries to fight her away from the stage, but Katniss won't go. I can't hear the full dispute, and maybe things are better that way. This is no time to be sympathetic towards the girl next to the trash can. No, she's on her way to being dead in a few months. So why can't I make myself let her go?
"Well, bravo!" Effie Trinket says, feigning her undying Hunger Games spirit. "That's the spirit of the Games!" There again, she has been looking for a district with anything interesting going on in it. Maybe this is exciting for her. "What's your name?"
"Katniss Everdeen," she says. Those words, her name from her own mouth, in her voice, are what make me fall apart. Katniss Everdeen. The girl I grew up with. The girl who sang the Valley Song in class, with her beautiful voice. I can't handle this. But I definitely can't let anyone see that. These are still the Hunger Games. This is still the reaping. I have to keep it together.
"I bet my buttons that was your sister," Effie continues. "Don't want her to steal all the glory, do we? Come on, everybody! Let's give a big round of applause to our newest tribute!"
No one even thinks about clapping. This is not ok. We may not be able to say anything, but sometimes nothing says more than words ever can.
Somewhere in the crowd, someone raises the three middle fingers of their left hand to their mouth and then towards the stage. Then someone else, and half the crowd, and I join in, too. This is a symbol almost never used in district twelve, one of the remnants of the war. It means thanks, admiration, and goodbye. All at once. Everyone in the crowd taking part in this is in serious danger, but no one cares. This is too important to think about.
Haymitch springs free of his chair and walks over toward Katniss. "Look at her. Look at this one!" he says, addressing the audience. He throws an arm over her shoulders, pulling her closer. "I like her! Lots of..." he pauses for a long time, trying to remember the right word. "Spunk!" he announces at once. "More than you!" He approaches the edge of the stage, Katniss no longer beneath his arm. "More than you!" he repeats, pointing into the camera.
Who exactly he is addressing isn't clear, but he is very clearly drunk. So much so that an insult aimed at the Capitol is not out of the question. He's about to continue but, luckily for himself and everyone else, he drops suddenly off the stage and knocks himself unconscious.
The vultures swivel to get a good shot of him lying out cold on the ground. This may be the only thing entertaining about the Games, but there is no time to enjoy it. Katniss is still on the stage, still being shipped away to fight for her life.
Desperate to get the attention on something else, Effie resumes the reaping. "What an exciting day! But more excitement to come! It's time to choose our boy tribute!" She quickly makes her way over to the bowl containing the boys, and whisks out the first one she finds. I don't have time to gather myself again before she rips it open and announces the name to the entire country.
"Peeta Mellark."
There is no time to be shocked. There is no time to figure out what exactly I'm feeling. No, I'm feeling nothing at all. Panic moves my feet towards the stage, and to the opposite side of Katniss. This time, there is no volunteer. No one pushes me behind them trying to protect me.
I look out at no one. Finding someone I know in the crowd could be dangerous. There will be time to be sad later. But now my name has been called. Now it's time to fight for my life.
The Mayor launches into his mandatory reading of the Treaty of Treason, another weapon of the Capitol meant to make us feel as helpless and crushed as possible. It blames everyone in the districts for the Hunger Games, like a petulant child explaining why nothing is his fault.
When he finishes, the mayor gestures for Katniss and I to shake hands. Her fingers are cold with the winter, and calloused from years of hunting. I give her hand a light squeeze to tell her that everything will be alright, that her family is safe. Those, and other lies.
There is so much that I want to say, but this is not the place, and the Anthem of Panem reminds me that it definitely isn't the time. We turn to face the crowd again, one last look before we're gone.