Chapter 12
From the peek I take over my shoulder at his tall stature, I can see this visitor is absolutely one of the most handsome men I have ever laid my eyes on. His body is strong and chiseled, and there is a certain air about him that brings the word 'dreamy' to mind. Clara clearly agrees, because her face has colored itself in with blush and her movements have become flustered.
"Oh, uhm, yes. Of course. Name?"
"Felip Everdeen."
"Age?"
"Seventeen."
His words are soft and steady, but a tone of musicality hides within them. Almost like the tinkling, pulsing bells that ring from the town church in the holiday season. Clara asks him a few more questions, and they both sound more and more relaxed with every routine answer. Just as I hear her wrapping things up, Felip strikes up some small talk.
"What about you? What's your name?" he asks.
From the corner of my eye, I see him gently remove his hands from behind his back and place his elbow on the counter.
"Wh-what?"
"Your name? What is it?"
"Oh… I'm, uhm, Clara… Clara Tendlering."
This day is the first that I have heard Clara stumble on her words. In school, she is always quick to answer when called upon. At the Victory Feast, she never missed a beat in the conversation between herself, Calen, and the butcher couple. I think she may have even recited a speech for something once.
Felip's face settles into his hand, closing some of the small distance between the two of them.
"It's nice to meet you, Clara Tenderling. You have a very pretty name."
"Thank you," she replies shortly, averting her eyes from his gaze. "Have a nice day, sir."
"It couldn't be a more pleasant one. Thanks."
I glance at him once more as he strolls out. He sees me, and throws a wink in my direction. A few paces from the exit, he begins to hum, and as the door closes behind him, his hum transitions into a light-hearted song. I can't understand the words from inside the hall, but the tune fading away has a lovely resonance, leaving part of me wishing he had stayed so that I could listen a little longer.
"Well, he certainly seemed in a good mood for someone taking out tesserae, don't you think?" Clara asks aloud.
I hope she isn't expecting me to answer, because I do not, and instead continue to scan and file paperwork in silence for three hours, wondering to myself the same thing.
It is the first Sunday in June, and subsequently my first day helping to distribute tesserae in the town square. This is also the month of the 51st Hunger Games, so tensions are sky-high. Next week will be the reaping of the tributes, followed by the ceremonies and training week, and then it will begin. I know that my name is not in the drawing as many times as others, but Masilyee Donner, from her well-respected merchant family, a girl who had never taken tesserae in her life, was selected last year, and it is a constant reminder to everyone in District 12 that the Capitol does not care about anyone. No one is safe from their torture. I wonder if people would miss me if I was chosen. I wonder especially if Markas would. It's so lonely without him.
"Name?"
"Hazelle Axwerth."
"You are on this list for three tesserae. Please sign here."
The sun is scorching as it beams down on the back of my neck. Maybe I should take down my hair… it would be hotter, not as comfortable, but there would be less chance for a sunburn. No, I'm occupied enough that I should not be fidgeting. The long line of children in front of me would surely grow impatient. At a time so disheartening as this, it's best to avoid imposing any extra stress on kids.
"Please move to the line on the right to claim your rations, Miss Axwerth. Thank you."
No one looks happy today. I hate this time of year. Blistering heat and uneasy people do not make for a spectacular combination. Clara stayed home today to help with two different cases of heat stroke, leaving myself, the Mayor's wife, and a spare Peacekeeper to distribute all of the tesserae for the entire district. Part of me wishes I suffered from a heat stroke today too.
"Name?"
"Where's Clara?"
I glance up from my chart to see the boy who was humming on his way out of the Justice Building last month standing in front of me .
"Name?" I repeat. I don't have time for his nonsense. Being it my first time helping out, the line I was assigned has grown much longer than the others, and I cannot stop falling further and further behind.
"Felip Everdeen. Is she sick?"
"You are on this list for two tesserae. Please sign here."
"She's okay, right? It's been really warm lately," he whispers musically. He looks genuinely troubled over this, his thick brow furrowed with his lips slightly parted.
"To my best knowledge, Clara is not sick. That is also not your concern. Please move to the line on the right to claim your rations, Mr. Everdeen. Thank you."
"Yeah, you too."
What is up with this fellow? I am positive he had only met Clara that day in the hall. He sure seems to be smitten over her fairly suddenly. Maybe Calen should really rethink his romantic choices. Clara clearly does not care enough about him to keep her persistent admirers at bay. I ruffle through my charts and stack them back together absent-mindedly as Felip moves out of the way for the following person in line, and over to the next area. Faces and names blur into one another as the morning stretches on, the sun burning hotter with every passing moment.
"Name?"
"Reya Fenly."
This name did not blur. Vertigo sets in, and distinguishing between this sensation and that of being pushed off of a rooftop would be difficult. My hands quiver as I scan for her on my paperwork, my heart not willing my sight to look upon her quite yet.
"Uhm... you're not on the list," I utter after searching the charts twice, while slowly moving my gaze to the piercing pair of eyes surrounded by dark, kinky curls.
"Lynn. Markas is sick. He's been sick. He cannot come today and they won't let me pick up his tesserae for him, I already asked at the beginning of the line. I have to sign up in order to pick up our rations."
Every word she says sparks a shattering within me. How could he be sick without me knowing? True, I have not run into him at school lately, but I assumed that he was avoiding me. How terrible of shape must he be in, to not come and collect his tesserae to feed his family, and save Reya from entering her name into the games more times?
"Reya, if you sign up, your name will be placed in the drawing multiple times next week. His entries are secured. All he has to do is sign-"
"Stop talking. Sign me up, now. He's not coming, and we need that grain. Hurry up already."
Her firm tone startles me. Hurriedly, I reach behind me, grab the form for new submissions, and hand it over to Reya, along with a pen.
"Here. Fill this out."
The urgency in her writing tells me that she is eager to get home. His condition must be awful if she wants to get back to him so quickly.
"Reya, listen, is there anything that I can do to help?"
"We don't need your pity. Anyway, I tried to ask you for help. Your father hit me with a broom and chased me off, while you stood by and watched it happen. Excuse me if I don't find you quite sincere. Here, this is done."
I take the form from her and add her name to the list, tears welling up in my eyes. For over a month now I have been wallowing in my personal sorrow when there was real tragedy happening right under my nose. It humiliates me to think how ignorant I am not to have taken greater notice of his absence or a shift in his demeanor prior to it, and it bothers me particularly that I never once questioned why Reya had been in my father's shop. He even mentioned that she had been begging, a red flag that I flew past without another thought. Knowing her attitude and her disapproval of me, it's not hard to imagine how tough of a time Reya would have had to put her pride aside, in hopes for help for her brother, Markas. Markas, the only person left in my life that I hold dear to, and I never sought Reya out to see what had been wrong. Maybe if I had, he would be here collecting his tesserae in her place, as he should be.
"Sign here, please," I whisper, shame filling my voice.
Impatiently, Reya scrawls out a messy signature, contrasting deeply with the clean white box it resides in.
"I go over there to get it, right?"
She motions to the area on her right. As I laggardly shake my head in confirmation, Reya races off towards the pick-up line. Watching her dark hair bounce with each step of her skinny frame, I resolve to go against my father's wishes, to visit Markas tomorrow afternoon, and hope that I can find some way to make things right. The weekend ends without a fight as I go to bed exhausted from the long, hot day. And while no dreams appear during my sleep, my brain slowly falls into a vivid memory as I awake the next morning.
My bruised body is cleverly concealed by my clothing as I walk into the schoolhouse on a Saturday for my first remedial history class. This is the only time that I have failed a subject, something I plan to never do again, but many others here are known for their poor track record in school. They mull around in chairs, on desks, a few even perched on the dusty floor. My books lightly hit the desktop as I settle into a seat near the front of the room. Soon, the teacher arrives, directs everyone to their desks, and begins his lecture. We receive a short test before breaking for lunch. I retrieve an apple from my bag and am feel pretty good about my answers when, halfway into my first bite, a boy with dark hair who I have not seen before pulls up a chair across from me.
"You have pretty eyes," he says with a smile. "I especially like the left one."
Reminiscing about the first time I met Markas keeps me determined to do something to help him. It is still not yet daylight, and I strain to listen for my parents getting up. Hearing only silence, I tiptoe my way down the stairs, being cautious of my steps. When I reach the kitchen, I head quickly for the cupboard and grab a few handfuls of beans and wrapping them in a cloth. Once the beans feel secure, I quickly make my way back up to my room. It takes a few different outfits to find one easily able to conceal the stolen food, but eventually I land on sticking them in the pocket of a long, fuller skirt. When I am fully satisfied with my camouflage, my parents are clearly awake, and the sounds of my mother cooking gruel float up from downstairs.
Breakfast is quiet. I wonder if mother can tell that something is off. Thankfully, if she does notice, she does not mention anything. The ticking clock counts down the minutes as I swallow bite after tasteless bite. Just as I empty my bowl, Panlee arrives to walk me to school.
"How was your weekend, Miss Flaxborne?" Panlee inquires.
"Oh... uhm... it was okay."
She asks a few more questions along the way, but as I answer each one with fewer words, she eventually gives up making conversation, leaving me to plot out the day in my thoughts.
In class, the beans weigh heavily against my thigh. Finally, it reaches noon and I make my way to the school clinic, a small closet with a bed filled by a young boy with brown hair and a chair boasting a twenty-something, freckled healer crammed inside.
"Mrs. Lungood, I really do not feel well. I thought I could make it, but my stomach is getting worse by the minute. I'm afraid I'll get sick soon."
The young practitioner looked over at her current patient, and back at me again. I try my best to look pale, holding my belly and squishing my face into a grimace.
"I'll let your teacher know that you are going home early. Get some rest. If you feel ill tomorrow, go see Mr. Tendlering in the morning."
"Thank you Mrs. Lungood," I reply, still holding my gut for good measure. "Hopefully this will pass quickly."
I leave the school as fast as I can, headed towards the Seam.