Chapter 2: The Reaping
I got up at five thirty like clockwork. Energy is humming through my veins that I can't describe. It's keeping me wired like I'm on a morphine drip.
I made eggs because I'm sick of mush. I ate some, and then saved the rest for my grandmother. I go back upstairs and get ready, braiding my hair and putting on the dress. I don't put on any jewelry because I don't have any.
I put on a gold pair of sandals that had also belonged to my mother. Sometimes I wonder if I'm a carbon copy of her, wearing all of her clothes, or if it's just a natural thing. I haven't been able to ask anyone because I'm never around people unless I'm fixing their clothes.
I leave before my grandmother is awake. I'm almost as sick of her as I am mush.
I walk alone to the Reaping. It sounds like it's really bad, but not all of the time. True, there's nothing good for the tributes, but, for the other people, they get to hug each other and celebrate the fact they didn't get chosen.
I stand in the town square, one of the first people to come. I stared at the ground, looking at the cobblestone. I was suddenly tired and beginning to drift off.
"Has the mighty cub already been vanquished?" I looked up to see Marcus.
"No," I told him, bringing my palms to my elbows. "I'm just tired."
He stared at me for a moment. "Can I do anything for you?" He asked me.
"Unless you can give back massages, no." I explained to him.
"Not in public, cub." He told me. "I will see you soon, Cleopatra." I watched as he walked away from me. I looked at his cloth of gold silk shirt and his black dress pants. He looked like he was about to go to a party, not give two young adults a death sentence.
More people were beginning to filter in. It's only eight fifteen, and the Reaping won't start until at least eight thirty. If the Capitol can do one thing, it's getting the Districts up earlier than usual on a Sunday morning.
It's quarter to nine when a Peacekeeper blew his trumpet; the signal for everyone to become quiet. I looked around and I saw my grandmother, next to some of the other old people.
"Hello!" Marcus's voice was booming when he was trying. "Welcome to the first step to the thirteenth Hunger Games! May the odds be ever in your favor," he added.
A young Peacekeeper came out with one bowl.
"Ladies first," Marcus said, smiling. He seemed to be one of the few people from the Capitol whose face had not been grotesquely altered by plastic surgery. He easily plucked a piece of paper from the bowl. "Cleopatra Shaft!" He announced.
Silence. The eeriest silence I've ever heard. Nobody knew my real name—first or last. They think Cleopatra Shaft is made up.
Then I hear my grandmother stifle a laugh. "That girl won't last an hour in the games! She's useless!" She didn't care. I was glad. If I won, I wondered if I could get away with burning her to ashes.
People turn around and look at me. They obviously realized I was Cleopatra Shaft because I was the only person they didn't know. The girls parted for me, and I found myself walking forward. I hadn't known it'd feel like this…my throat felt like it was closing, and my chest felt as if a boa constrictor was winding itself tighter and tighter around me.
Marcus watched me as I walked up the stairs. I couldn't tell what he was thinking—I'd never been able to read people—but right now, I think he was thinking my grandmother was right. I didn't stand a chance in the Hunger Games.
I had to try. Had to try because I had to prove I was something more than a girl to be married off. I couldn't be that. I needed to be something else…something more original.
"Took a moment, eh? Not used to your name, are you?" He asked me, in a rather joking manner. "Loosen up, Cleopatra Shaft!" He wrapped his arm around my shoulder and rubbed my arm. He leaned in. "Relax, you'll be fine. We'll prove her wrong."
The same Peacekeeper came forth with another bowl.
"And now for the gentlemen; maybe this tribute will know who he is!" Marcus said, causing everyone but the boys (and even a few of them) and myself to laugh. Though I did manage a smile, somehow; I have no idea why. "Nixon James!"
I did not know the sandy-ish haired boy that came up. He was probably fifteen, but I'd never been good with figuring out a person's age.
"Well, we have some good looking tributes this year." Marcus smiled. He could smile; he was from the Capitol. He probably had no idea about what the people in the crowds were thinking. Then again, I didn't really know either. Nobody talked to me. I only had my own feelings about the Hunger Games to go on.
I could see a flicker of uncertainty on his face. It disappeared quickly and his easy attitude reappeared.
"I hope you all celebrate well, and hope the odds are in District 8's favor this year!" He said to the crowd. Some people clapped, other cheered. A couple shouted out for Nixon encouragements. I got the feeling he was the well liked one out of the two of us.
Marcus escorted us off stage. Peacekeepers came forth, but he shooed them off; it was almost like he was protecting us.
"Today marks the beginning of the rest of your lives." He told us as we used a passage to go into the Justice building. He stopped before going up a flight of stairs, turned, and then looked at us. "This is the thirteenth Hunger Games. Careers from 1, 2, and 4 have one nine out of thirteen. Others won out of pure luck. I look at you and see potential Victors. Trust me and I'll help you make District 8 proud." He told us.
District 8 proud…District 8 doesn't give a damn about me.
Nixon smiled. It was a subtle smirk, really. "District 8 is already proud of me." He told Marcus.
The escort raised his perfect eyebrows. "Can your District fund you in the Games? Judging by your look, I'd say no. So make your District even more proud by attracting investors who give you enough fancy gifts so that you survive." Even though Marcus was shorter than Nixon, only by an inch or two, he didn't seem to care.
No…he didn't care. He knew Nixon wouldn't hurt him, at least when we're still in District 8. In the Justice building that is crawling with Peacekeepers.
They stood there for a moment, the air filled with tension. I cleared my throat and Marcus's eyes flashed towards me. In that brief second, Nixon nearly swung at Marcus. The escort ducked and my fellow tribute's fist smashed into the wall.
He hissed, but Marcus looked like he was going to laugh.
"I may be the Capitol, but I'm also a guy. Don't think I don't fight just because my shirt is more expensive than your bed." Marcus said to him. "Now come on, they'll be wondering where we are."
I walked behind Marcus, trying to keep the two from being close to each other. It worked, and we made it to the rooms where people would come to say good bye.
I sat on the couch, thinking nobody would come and see me. The door opened, and my grandmother came in.
"I told you Patrice was a safe name. You idiotic child, you refused to listen." She spat.
I flexed my hands. "I guess I forgot to tell you that I don't listen to old hags." I told her. "You should leave. I don't want you here." I told her.
My grandmother looked at me, and I stared right back. She flung something at me and left. I caught it before it fell to the floor.
It was a small box. I opened it, and there was a letter. But I couldn't read. It was a bunch of strange and foreign symbols I didn't understand.
I almost cried. I almost cried because I was stupid and worthless and no one could change that.