The Square is densely packed with people, with children all around me, all of us facing towards the massive stage on the north side of the Square. On the stage is a microphone on a stand, and a wooden table with two glass bowls, one holding the boy names, the other the girl's. To my left is Andreae Schuman. To my right is Fay Werksman. I know what each and every girl is thinking. Please don't take me. Take the girl next to me, just don't take me.
As we wait in unnatural silence, a woman takes the stage. She's normal-looking enough, even though she's from the Capitol. Tightly curled brown hair, deep eyes, and clad in a pretty ruffled purple dress.
She takes the microphone, clears her throat, and says in a pleasant voice, "Welcome, District Six, to the 38th Annual Hunger Games! And may the odds be everin your favor."
Everyone claps half-heartedly.
"Let's get right to picking the tributes, shall we?" says the woman. "Ladies first, or course."
She moves to the table with the bowls and reaches into the right one. After a bit, she pulls out a slip of paper. After slitting the seal open, she opens the slip and looks at the name.
The world is completely silent.
"Lepida Kenshrow."
My heart skips a beat. Lepida Kenshrow. The girl with one leg. I know her from school, but we have never spoken before.
She would never survive the Games. Not for a second.
I watch as Lepida hobbles up to the stage using her crutch with as much dignity as possible, but it's obvious that she's trying hard not to break down in tears. The odds aren't in her favor. They were never in her favor, since she was stung in the leg by a tracker jacker, barely survived, and had her leg amputated at age three.
When Lepida reaches the stage, you could see the shock apparent in the Capitol woman's face. But Lepida's face is stony and white as a sheet, unfeeling to the world. As if there is nothing left in her world that is worth living for, so becoming a tribute doesn't matter. Or maybe it does, deep down inside her. After all, she has a mom and dad and sisters back home. My eyes scan the square to find Clio, Lepida's nine-year-old sister. I see her some fifty feet away, in the arms of Sybil, the oldest sister. She's 16, but she looks ancient as she holds poor little Clio, staring with cold, dark eyes at the stage, fixated on her sister. They all look a lot alike.
Then, I feel something in my stomach bubble like boiling water. The steam rises slowly up through my chest, up my throat, and up my mouth as I shout:
"Wait!"
Everyone turns to look at me. I barely notice them.
"I volunteer!"
A gasp ripples through the crowd. "Well, then," says the Capitol lady into the microphone. "We have a volunteer! Come up, my dear!"
I walk towards the stage as if I'm in a dream. I don't register the emotions of myself or those of others around me. When I climb the steps and take the stage, Lepida leaves. As she limps past me, she whispers in my ear, "Thank you."
I nod grimly. She smiles a weak smile and walks back down the steps and melts into the crowd of thousands.
I turn around and become aware that the Capitol lady is smiling at me. "Hello, dear. So nice of you to volunteer for your…friend. So, what is your name?"
I take a deep breath as she holds the microphone to my face. "Adeline McGensey."
"Wonderful!" says the Capitol lady. "What an exciting reaping! And we haven't even chosen the boy tribute yet!" She laughs a gentle, genuine laugh, but no one joins in. Not even Plato Tate, the town jester. He is silent, just like everyone else.
I am vaguely aware of her saying something else while going over to the table and selecting the boy's name. I am also vaguely aware of her announcing that this year's boy tribute for District Six will be Redson Hobblebush. Then I think: who is Redson Hobblebush?
And then I remember.
Redson is fifteen, and is a year older than me. I thought of how he won an award last year for good citizenship. They announced it over the speaker at the intermediate school. All of the boys in my class cheered at the announcement, because they all looked up to the leadership and good nature of Redson. He was the perfect friend, the perfect student, the perfect guy. And not to mention his gorgeous auburn hair and clear blue-green eyes that melted girls' hearts whenever he passed. But that still didn't make up for the fact that he would have to die. And, quite possibly, I would have to do the job myself.
As I see Redson weave his way through the massive crowd and up the steps to the stage, I steal a glance at him. He is looking cuter than ever, with his hair falling in straight lines across his brow and his eyes gently trained on me. I nod my head slightly in acknowledgement. He raises one eyebrow, as if to say, Well, this will be interesting.
He takes a stand next to me, and we both look at the Capitol lady, whose name she does not disclose. She grins at us, and announces, "Well, ladies and gentlemen of District Six, your tributes for the 38th Annual Hunger Games, Adeline McGensey and Redson Hobblebush!"
"Stop!" a woman's voice screams out through the crowd.
All eyes turn towards the speaker, whose figure is advancing at a rapid pace towards the stage. I squint trying to make out the identity of the woman. But as the woman reaches the edge of the stage and looks at me, my heart stops.
"Stop right there, you little punk, or I'll skin you alive!" Miss Metta screams again.
"Oh god," I mutter quietly as I turn away from the crowd. Redson puts one hand protectively on my shoulder, even though we have never spoken before. That's just the way he operates, like a caring person.
But even Redson can't distract me from the terror behind me. "If you move one more step, I swear, Ad, I will kill you!"
The Capitol lady is definitely shaken now. "Um, Miss?" she says uneasily. "If you would be so kind as to calm down, I'm sure that…"
"Shut up, you Capitol hog!" retorts Miss Metta. "Now you listen to me, Adeline," she spits at me in a dangerously low voice, "I will not tolerate you leaving me to go die in some freakish Capitol experiment! Who else," she says empathetically, addressing the whole District, "will care for my poor, sick daughter, who is knocking on Death's door? And who else will so generously do my chores while I am busy providing for my struggling family at my office job? You, of course! And I lovingly took you in as my foster child when both your parents were unfit to care for you, at the tragic disappearance of your father and crippling addiction of your mother. I pay you a good sum of money a month for pocket change and to reward you for all the hard work you do for me, my dear. And I could not bear to see my lovely, hard-working, dedicated maid be lost at the hands of such a cruel yet noble death."
"That's a lie," I say, my defiance piercing the air like needles to a balloon.
Miss Metta's eyes narrow like a predator zeroing in on its prey.
"What did you just say?" Her voice masked the fury of a thousand angry tracker jackers.
I looked her hard in the eye, feeling braver by the minute. "I said that's a lie. I don't care for your daughter. You don't even have a daughter! And I don't generously do your chores, you make me! You don't have a job! You just sit at home all day and order me around! And you didn't even want to take me in…in fact, you hated me since the day they sent me to you! And how dare you suggest that my parents were unfit to care for me, because at least they loved me, unlike you! Also, you don't pay me a cent for my work. I'm practically your slave! And that last part is the biggest lie of all. You never cared about me. You don't give a damn if I die! And quite frankly, I would rather die in the Games than spend the rest of my childhood with you as my slave-driver!
"Now if you'll excuse me, Miss Metta," I say, with rage seeping through my pores, "I have the Hunger Games to win." And with that, I turned, took Redson's hand, waved to the crowd of my fellow District 6 members, and walked off the stage. Then, I stole one last look from across the Square at Miss Metta.
She was crying.
Miss Metta, the heartless, lazy witch, was crying.
I stop and stare at her. My mind flashes back to the day when I was taken away from my parents and my father disappeared.
It was a dreary day. Mother was in the basement, and occasionally I could hear sounds of insane laughter carrying through the open door, a typical sign of another one of her morphling trips. Father was paying bills at the kitchen table, and my brother and sister were sitting against the wall, very aware of the tension in the house, but not quite able to comprehend why.
Then, suddenly, they came. They flooded through the door in their shiny white official uniforms and protective white helmets that looked like fishbowls. But they stormed into the house and came for two people: my father and my mother.
They marched down the stairs and came back up carrying my struggling mother, looking as deteriorated as ever from her recent morphling trip. She was screaming for them to let her go, that she could change, to please stop. Then I heard my father scream about letting him stay to take care of the children. We children, by the way, were huddled in a frightened mass in the corner, shaking with fright.
They didn't listen to my father's last known request. They simply dragged my father and mother out the door, leaving us alone in the world.
I don't remember how they found us. The Peacekeepers must have sent for someone to transport us to the orphanage. All I remember is arriving at Miss Metta's dilapidated old cottage in the center of town, armed with nothing but a little suitcase and my coat. And, for all these years, I have acquired little else.
And now, as I stare at the broken-down form of Miss Metta, I begin to feel an emotion worming its way into me that I have not felt in a long time.
Pity.
I haven't felt pity in ages because I had previously believed, simply, that no one deserves pity more than me. That my hardships were as bad as they come. And throughout the years, I have kept this mindset.
But even so, pity fills me in that second. And the only thing that flushes out that foreign emotion is the need to keep walking, to keep walking away from my dark, desolate past and walk towards a frightening, uncertain future. And armed with Redson at my side, kind and considerate Redson who was willing to act like we have known each other for years when we have never spoken at all, I knew I might have a shot at winning the Games.
But only at his expense.