Chapter 3:

Steps.

In which there are squirming children,

a bumpy ride, lines, closing up.

Blaise Calder, District 10.

Our family wagon lurched and rattled as it rolled over potholes and ran over piles of horse droppings, and I almost fell out of my seat, for both my arms were filled with children. It was the only way I could keep them inside the cart.

Mr. Edelweiss, our ancient chestnut Clydesdale, ambled along ahead of us, his reins grasped by the firm hands of Grandpa, and seemed to be in no particular hurry to do anything except add more poop to the dirt road that lead into the heart of the District. He was probably one of the ugliest horses out there; so rotund that he resembled a block of lard, he had a crooked jaw, bowed-out legs and the energy of a sack of potatoes. And yet, Grandpa loved him, so he stayed. And stayed. That horse was older than I was by at least four years.

Pepper and Piper were talking softly amongst each other across from me, their nearly identical faces caved with worry. Especially Piper's; he had a bad foot after Mr. Edelweiss took an unknowing step backward onto his bare foot when he was eleven. I couldn't imagine anything happening to any of them; they were too important to get hurt. And I knew neither of them could really live without the other; they weren't twins, but they were only seven months apart, since Pepper was born prematurely early by the same mother as Piper. They were the only cousins who weren't half siblings, beside me, Delphia and Merrill and Palmer and Pol, and that didn't even count, since Pol…

Piper's face crumpled slightly, which brought me back from my thoughts. He really was scared… he would be thirteen in a few days. Too young to be worrying about this. All of us were. Everything I've been put up against since the tuberculosis epidemic six years ago has been way above the standard child's maturity level. How many nine-year-olds have to go to two funerals at once, a combined service for both of their parents? Writing a eulogy can really dampen the pep of a third-grader. How many eleven-year-olds have had to watch their cousin's head getting chopped off by careers? How many thirteen-year-olds have had to drop out of school to run a farm? How many fifteen-year-olds are supposed to take care of seven little children, with no help from their real father?

Not as many as one would think.

At 7:32, our cart rattled into town square, though we had to travel an extra two blocks to find a post that wasn't already filled with horses and wagons. Hardly anyone had automobiles here; if you were lucky, you had a horse and buggy, and if you weren't, you had your legs. The rich folk did have rather flamboyant carbon-powered carriages that didn't need horses, like the mayor, a rather… robust woman by the name of Tonya Littergarb, and her wisp of a husband, who seldom spoke and simply sat next to her during town gatherings.

The center of District 10 was a bustling place with cobblestone roads weaving through a variety of different houses, that varied from dapper storefronts and jolly brick houses, to merchant carts and smaller, thatched roofs and their wooden sides. One had to keep an eye on the street, since an odd pig or goat would often wonder loose and cross right in front of your wagon, and on most days, it was filled with the shouts of street-peddlers selling their goods, the high-pitched squeals of children and chickens squawking, dogs yapping and horses pooping. We weren't called the livestock district for nothing; animals came out of the yin-yang here.

I leaned forward and clapped a hand on Piper's thin shoulder. "Don't worry," I said softly, "It's going to be fine. I promise."

He looked up at me, face still crumpled, like a piece of paper someone had crushed in the smalls of their hands and discarded for the trash. But after my reassuring smile was tossed in his direction, his continence cleared a bit and he managed a weak smile in return. It was the least I could do.

As always, the Yancey pack and the three Calder's convened around the beat-up old cart, a mass of wiry bodies, 'why's', 'are we there yet's' and 'I have to pee's'. Chaotic as usual. Even on reaping day, there was no such thing as 'calm' with us.

"Blaise!"

I jumped a little, my nerves getting to me, but I relaxed when I saw Cruz's impulsive face. His eyes were brown, the same color as his sister's, as was his hair, but his shoulders were broad and he was built like an athlete.

"They're calling for the kids to line up. You better get the munchkins together," he said, a similar anxiousness reflected in his voice.

"Where are the twins?"

"They're already in line."

Acknowledging the worried look on my face, he laughed. "Don't worry, they're not planning anything bad. They're already assigned to six months of community service after smashing the head peacekeeper's mailbox, remember?"

"How could I forget?"

Another thing about District 10: our peacekeepers don't shoot offenders on sight or whip them. We are very lucky for that. If we were in 11, Lawton and Leander would have been filled with more holes than a slice of Swiss cheese and thrown into a ditch, no doubt. Of all districts, this would be the one for those two. As I scanned the blurred faces of the surrounding throng, I caught sight of the straight blonde heads the twins. For those who were strangers to the boys, they appeared to be identical. If Lawton stood on the other side of a picture frame across from Leander, one could swear he was the other's reflection. But for their close friends, especially me, their differences were glaring. Leander had a small scar on his left cheek after he was hit with a stray rock spit from the path of a tractor, a slightly more slender face, and an extra smattering of freckles on the bridge of his nose. Lawton, on the other hand, had a slightly more square-jawed face, a cowlick on the back of his head and there was a fleck of gold in the iris of his right eye, which was blue.

My friends had always teased me about my unnaturally perceptive way of living. I couldn't explain it; it just happened. When I saw a tree, I didn't just see a tree. I saw the individual lines in the trunk, the pink blossoms, the arrow-head leaves and the way the slanted sunlight fell in criss-cross stencils down upon the ground. When I saw a face, especially a face of a friend, I memorized every feature, every imperfection, the way they talked, the little idiosyncrasies that they did subconsciously, like how Nova would always tuck her bangs behind her ear when she was thinking. As I've told you, it's automatic, as is my long-term memory. I can remember an entire conversation from second grade, even if it was over something as trivial as a cut knee or a daisy.

"You're a freak of nature," Meta would say, popping her gum.

"Thanks. I love you too," I always replied, making sure to paint on an extra coat of sarcasm.

"Alright, year fifteen's go there," a peacekeeper called, herding children into their respective sections behind the ropes. I watched as my grandparents and the younger children crowded to the front of the audience, the youngest ones waving and smiling when they caught sight of me. I wrapped a protective arm around Pepper's shoulders; they were trembling now.

I squeezed her arm and pulled my little cousins close on either side of me, trying to take away their fear. "It's going to be okay," I told them, "you just wait. As soon as this is over, I hear Grandma made some ginger ale for a picnic in the fields this afternoon."

Before we were separated into our proper age and gender groups, Piper rested his head briefly on my shoulder. His hazel eyes screamed with apprehension, and I ruffled his dark chocolate hair. "Chin up, scout. It'll be fine." I kissed Pepper on the crown of her head and pushed them forward.

Piper glanced back for a moment. "Thanks, Blaise."

Then he was gone, pulled away in a tide of bodies. I looked out at the place where they had just been for a moment before taking my place with the fifteen's next to Emory's short, stocky frame. His eyes were dark and his mouth was set in a hard line, and I knew he was probably grinding his teeth behind his lips. He was trying to be tough, but I knew he was just as scared as I was.

I looked up to the stage. I could see this year's mentor sitting next to two of the other district victors. Attendance wasn't mandatory for victors who weren't appointed that year's mentor, so not all of them showed. Believe it or not, 10 did have a decent amount of winners for such an underdog district; we were a very tight-knit district, and more often than not, when a young tribute was called, an older child would volunteer. It increased the survival rate of our tributes by a substantial amount, and most of them were strong from carrying bales of hay, working the fields and killing livestock. There were thirteen victors in all, and ten of them were still living. This year's mentor was 10's most recent victor from about seven years ago; Shenoah Tamerlane, who was about twenty-four years old. She was lean and had a build that resembled that of a greyhound. Her hair was scarlet and cut short, falling in a wreath of vermillion around her narrow face, reaching a few centimeters past her chin. Her eyes were pale blue, the color of melting ice, and the edges of the iris were covered in cracks of frosty white.

She looked like a victor.

Before I knew it, the mayor cleared her throat for silence and began the whole monotonous speech about the dark days, and when she finished, our escort wheeled the name sphere onto the center of the stage. Thank God we had a normal stylist. While his hair had been dyed orange and he had some tattoos across his temples, he seemed easy-going enough, and not quite as flamboyant as most escorts. His name was Pear Jelshin. Yes, I said "Pear". Our escort is named after a fruit.

"How about we shake things up?" he asked. "Ladies first! Surprise, huh?"

There was a weak laugh from the crowd. How creative.

He rummaged through the see-through ball, and I could swear the sound of rusting paper had magnified tenfold. Finally, he plucked a paper out and unrolled it, his gold eyes glittering. Not Pepper. Not Nova. Please.

"Thisbee Dryte."

There was a small gasp from a section of the audience, and a girl stepped out from the seventeen section, and I couldn't help feeling a sort of guilty relief. Her skin was the color of cocoa, her black hair falling down her back in hundreds of tight braids. Her strides were long, purposeful, her slim face confident, hazel eyes wiped clear of emotion, as if she wasn't expecting anyone to volunteer. No-one did; no-one ever did for anyone older than fourteen, at least very rarely.

Pear shook her hand amiably and waved her over so she stood next to Shenoah. "Nice to have you on board, honey," he smiled. She nodded rather woodenly, her feline face blank, now. "Gentlemen next," Pear called, reaching into the other ball.

There was a long, sickening pause.

"Piper Yancey!"

What?

No. NO. Impossible.

Without thinking about anything, I stepped forward, jostling through the crowd. What was I doing? What was I doing?

"I volunteer."

I heard Nova cry out. I heard Grandma whimper. I saw Piper fall to his knees, tears streaming down his face, getting dragged back into the twelve section by one of his friends. I met Palmer's gaze from the eighteens for a moment. His brown eyes were wide, disbelieving. They shouted at me, they clouted me across the head, the beat me to a pulp, until blood dripped from my nose and my skin began to bruise.

What the fuck have you done, Blaise?

I would know soon enough.