This was the first year I'd taken out tesserae, and no one could know. What would people think of a baker who risked his son's life for free grain and oil? I suppose I have to use the term "free" lightly.

Farro already aged out of the reaping, and today is Teff's last before he's too old. Somehow, though, I was the only one who had to enter my name extra times for that scrap of food. When I'd brought it home, my mother told everyone who sees that I was just carrying it for our poor widowed neighbor whose sons were all in the mines.

Lucky Peeta, living the privileged life in the bakery. A merchant's son. No starvation here.

"Concentrate!" my mother snaps at the same time as her hand cuffs the back of my head. "The mayor's going to be here to pick that up any minute."

I'm the only Mellark boy who can tell red from orange, let alone actually paint something. My whole life they called me a pansy for it, until my mother realized my artistic eye could be of some actual use to her.

So my job was always frosting cakes and cookies, and apparently now taking out tesserae for us all.

Every reaping, Mayor Undersee ordered a cake from us. The last several years, he'd told me I could decorate it however I wanted. I don't know if it's his best attempt at pretending the reapings aren't the worst day of the year like a proper government official should, or if he's just celebrating that they spared his daughter one more time. Probably both.

This year the cake was a soft sky blue with delicate ivory flowers spreading across the top. I couldn't imagine actually eating something so beautiful. We only made fancy cakes like these on demand, so they never went stale for us to try.

I risk a glance at the clock. Katniss Everdeen should be done hunting any time now, which means there's a chance she'll come by the bakery. My mother was stomping around upstairs, out of sight. As long as she was gone, my father always bought Katniss's squirrels.

Sure, the fresh meat was nice, but a glimpse of her was worth so much more.

Out the front bakery window, I see her and Gale Hawthorne leave the Hob tougher, as they always did. No matter how many times I see those two together, jealousy still pricks deep in my stomach where it's difficult to ignore.

They stalk right past the bakery, so no chance of her stopping today.

"You're pathetic," Teff informed me from his place behind the register.

I whip around, feeling like I was caught in the middle of some crime. "What are you talking about?"

"You. Mooning over that Seam girl." His face cracks into a slight grin as he kicks his boots onto the counter. "You're not sly."

Heat rises to my cheeks. I turn back to the cake, trying to ignore him. But he continues. "You don't even stand a chance if you say nothing to her. And she's going to marry Gale Hawthorne if you don't grow a pair."

"I don't know what you're talking about," I murmur, my hand shaking a little as I ice a delicate leaf onto the cake. "I just wanted to know if we'd have fresh game for dinner, that's all."

"You want something from that girl, and it's not her rabbits."

An empty tin can hits the back of my head and clatters to the floor. "Stop! I'm going to mess up."

Teff just laughs at me, the sound grating. "Hurry up with your little project. You're not ready at all."

I stand to examine the cake. It's not my best work, but it's the best you could ever find in District 12. It would have to do.

I place it in the window so Mayor Undersee can take it when he arrives. I've procrastinated the reaping as long as possible, and now that it's drawing near, there's a thick lump in my throat threatening to choke me.

Slowly, I take the steps upstairs to the bedroom I share with my brothers. At least this year I can wear Farro's old reaping day outfit, since my pants had already been too short last year.

My mother already ironed the dark pants and white button-down shirt, as they'd spent the last twelve months gathering dust in a drawer. Teff was ready hours ago, but since I was finishing that cake, I'd saved my nice clothes for the very last minute.

Dressing for the reaping always felt like dressing for a funeral. If not your own, someone else's child. I could go home safely to have dinner with my family, but that meant another mother, father, sister, or brother was drawing the shutters tight and mourning their loss.

None of it mattered. No amount of musing would change the fact that two people would ship off for the Capitol today. So I straightened my collar and slicked my hair back as neatly as I could manage.

My family gathers in the bakery downstairs. The cake is gone from the window; I hope he liked this year's choice.

No one says a word as we all turn and leave for the square. Even the Capitol's bright banners can't disguise the rundown buildings and weary, coal-lined faces of District 12. Everywhere I look, there are cameras. You can't ever escape the Capitol's eyes. And they never want us to forget that fact.

Farro gets to stay with my parents. Their attendance is still mandatory, but he's made it. He's safe. Teff and I join the herds of eighteen-year-olds and sixteen-year-olds, respectively. I barely even feel the prick as workers stamp my blood into their book. It's practically a census.

Once I'm signed in, I immediately look for Katniss. I spot her, her head bobbing amongst our classmates. She's wearing a beautiful blue dress, almost the same color as today's cake. I've never seen it before, and it looks too nice for a Seam girl. It must have been her mother's from before.

Katniss's dark hair is all braided up on the top of her head, so intricate that someone else had to have done it for her. Even from behind, I'd recognize her anywhere.

A few of my classmates murmur to me, squeeze my shoulder, as we always do to show comradery. Even as I exchange the terse nods, I never lose track of her head bobbing in the crowd. Just like I'm stuck on her, she's stuck on her little sister Prim, who's over with the other twelve-year-olds.

One good thing about being the youngest child was that I didn't have to worry about someone after me, someone weaker and smaller. Once I was done, I was free. Katniss wouldn't escape the fear of the reapings for six more years now.

I only stop watching Katniss when the mayor begins his speech from the podium. I immediately tune it out; I've heard the history of Panem every year of my life, just like everyone else. We may be poor, but we're not stupid.

Haymitch Abernathy's hollering and staggering around the stage finally draws my attention. Sure enough, he's making a fool of himself. If I can count on anything, it's the reminder that we should kiss the Capitol's boots while they stomp on our necks. And that Haymitch is always completely drunk.

I can hardly blame him. If I were our lone living victor, I doubt I'd fare much better.

Effie Trinket trots up to the mic. Her garish pink hair and plaster-white face are such a sharp contrast to the sea of gray and brown around her. "Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be ever in your favor!"

Effie crosses to the bowls full of names. "Peeta Mellark" is written on twenty separate slips. Would my family even care if she drew my name? I shake my head to dispel the thought, but it still hovers in the back of my mind.

"Ladies first!" Effie crosses to the first glass ball. Everyone holds their breath as she fishes around. It's almost more cruel to make a show of just how arbitrary it all is. Her fingertips touch dozens of slips, but which one will she land on?

I try to breathe. It's just the girls right now. I need to save all of my nerves for the boys, when my brother and I are at risk.

I pray it's someone I don't know. That's about all you can hope for on reaping day.

Effie crosses back to the podium, one small piece of paper in her hands. That paper will change the entire trajectory of a family. Or even the entire district.

In a clear, proud voice, Effie reads, "Primrose Everdeen."