Chapter 11

Seven days. That is how long my father gave me to lay in wait, agonizing over what my punishment would be. Seven days to contemplate if I should change my mind while I still had time. To wonder if running away again was the best option. Seven days to think up excuses and lies and anything that might keep my father on my side. But soon enough, those seven days were over.

"You will come straight to the shop after school."

"I will come straight to the shop after school," I reply.

Somehow, my father thinks that having me childishly repeat everything he says is going to ensure that I remember every part of my penance. I'm not so sure I could possibly forget.

"You will be accompanied to school by your mother, myself, or Panlee every morning."

"I will be accompanied to school by my mother, yourself, or Panlee every morning."

"All weekend household chores will be your responsibility."

"All weekend household chores will be my responsibility."

It honestly feels more like prison reformation than discipline at this point. My father is generally a peaceful man, but he has never been one to restrain himself from a good beating if I have done something wrong. I'm sure in my heart that if I had not ran away from him that day in town, I would still be nursing some pretty bad wounds. Lucky for me that the mayor had been over that night, because my father obviously wants to impress him with the compassionate and fool-proof parenting of his wild, rebellious teenage daughter.

"And lastly, you will volunteer at the Justice Building on Sundays indefinitely, to pay back the debt to society that you owe for stirring such a storm."

"I will volunteer at the Justice Building on Sundays indefinitely, to pay back my debt to society."

At least I will be keeping myself busy. Idle hands are the workbench of the Dark Days… though this one is going to be boring. Maybe even more boring than lectures on coal every morning and history lessons every afternoon. But I have heard that a few other merchant kids work there, so maybe there would be someone to talk to and pass the time with.

Of course it is her. Why would it be anybody else? Destiny and fortune are resolved to ruin my life a touch more each day. She looks too good to be true, with her pinned back flaxen hair, her small reserved smile, and her quick, agile hands, perfect for applying a self-concocted healing salve, but of course, also perfect for filing paperwork. Clara Tenderling approaches me and extends her palm. I shake it, nervously, hoping she doesn't ask why I am here.

"Good morning, Lynetta. I'm going to be helping you learn the ropes. I started helping out a few months ago - my parents thought it would be a nice way to get me out of the house and to meet more of the people I plan to help someday. It's not so bad here, don't worry. You get introduced to many people that you wouldn't know otherwise, and it's pretty interesting. There's a lot to do, so let's go ahead and get started, shall we?"

With my head nodding in agreement (and gratitude that she does not seem to care the reason for my volunteer work), Clara turns and leads me around a corner to the main hall. The high ceiling has cobwebs in every corner, and the ground is covered by a mud-stained red carpet.

"Most of the time we file paperwork. Marriage licenses, tesserae contracts, payment of fines and taxes, Peacekeeper audits to the Capitol, even the occasional divorce agreement. If paperwork gets slow, we clean the building and the square out front. On the first Sunday of every month, we help distribute tesserae. Any questions so far?"

Shaking out a no, I look around the room again. Tesserae is the term for a small year-long ration of cheap oil and coarse grain, supplied once a month, and received in exchange for an extra entry of your name in the drawing for the Hunger Games, that year and every year after. You can even sign up for multiple tesserae - up to as many people in your immediate family, but of course that leaves you with more entries for the games. In District 12, people seem to throw around the word as if it is only another source of food, but that's only to hide from the deep reality that a child is being forced to sign themselves up for anther chance at being slaughtered live in front of all of Panem. I had to take out tesserae once, but only once. It had been a terribly rough time for my father down at the shop, because there was a natural disaster in District 11 that wiped out a lot of the cotton plants, creating a textile shortage. Luckily, there hasn't been anything that drastic since then, and we have made enough money to stave off our starvation. It's amazing, really, how far my family has come... We have even grown to needing more helping hands than my father's! But as I pride in my family's success, there are so many families, mostly those from the Seam, who will never be as fortunate. I wonder how many times Markas's name would be in this year's drawing. Surely he has taken out tesserae countless times, since his father died a few years ago and there is no way his mother could earn enough money to provide for their small family.

Thankfully, Clara promptly draws my thoughts away from Markas and back to reality. Stopping at what appears to be a giant machine, she motions to a stack of papers to her left.

"Alright, let's begin. Here are the latest town audits. Each needs to be scanned in the scanner to be sent to the District Review Administration in the Capitol. After that, they get filed by date first and by Peacekeeper name, in alphabetical order, second. Here, watch me."

Her delicate fingers lift up a flap on the machine, which I assume to be the "scanner" she referenced, and reveals what appears to be a glass shelf. After gently picking up the top paper on her pile, she lays it down on the glass and presses a worn, green button on the machine. A thin line of bright, white light makes its way across the glass and then disappears. The ridiculous gadgets of the Capitol never cease to amaze me.

Next, Clara takes the paper and reads the top portion, following along with her finger.

"See here, the date is in the corner, and the name of the Peacekeeper who filled this out is right underneath," she points out to me, while opening a cabinet to our right. Papers organized by little tabs of paper with words on them are stuffed into the cramped drawer. Near the end closest to us, she finds today's date and places the paper in its forever home.

"Your turn," she smiles, as she steps out of my way.

I return the smile in the least sarcastic way that I can manage, and repeat her actions exactly. Pleased with the result, she says something about doing other things, and patters away to the main desk across the room. The next paper I reach for slices a small cut into my index finger. Sucking my injury to keep blood from dripping everywhere, my unscathed hand scans the sheet and files it accurately. Great. Four hours of this every week, indefinitely, is going to be a real joy.

I try to fill my head with positive thoughts about my work. Of course, I give up easily, and let my thoughts wander. It really is good work, though, that needs to be done by someone. I merely wish that someone wasn't me. A few minutes pass before anything changes, just the sound of the scanner and rustling documents fill the hushed atmosphere of the hall. But the ambiance changes when the heavy front doors open and shut loudly. Slyly, I glance over my shoulder to see who has arrived. Dark hair and olive skin catch my eyes as he steps up to Clara at the desk opposite of me. I try to catch my breath as I watch his hands fiddle nervously behind his back, his feet shuffling against the plush carpet, my heart pounding in my chest.

"I need to renew my tesserae, please," he says, and I turn back around quickly before either of them catch me staring.