I peer throw the window, my viridian gaze trained on the boy inside the bakery. Watching the sandy-haired boy carelessly shove a pan into the oven fuels my anger. While my siblings and I are living out on the streets and are practically starving to death, the wealthier citizens of District 5 are indolent and smug, leaving their homes each day to become richer by working in factories. This will just not do.
Five-year-old Calanthe's squeak of pain causes my head to jerk in her direction. Lately, she hasn't been feeling well. Roman says she's ill, and of course, he's right, but we have no money to spare, no money for a visit to the only doctor on this side of town. Even if I stole some, any doctor would be suspicious, seeing how gaunt we are.
Calanthe's fingernails are flaxen and weathered, her puffy cheeks no longer rosy. Only her hair, a brilliant light brown, stays in place, falling in waves below her shoulders. After many days of eating only bread and apples, she has become so skinny that her ribs can be seen through her tight-fitting black tee, which is tattered and achromatic. Before she began to starve, she was slender, but now it has become obvious that she is famished. Living in an ally has deprived her of radiance and a worthy life.
Beside her sits Roman, who, at age eleven, is in training. Not for the Games, however. Indigent, grungy Roman is being taught, by me, what I like to call "the art of thievery." While I stay and tend to Calanthe as best I can, he spends his days slithering in and out of shops, heisting food and clothing. His own battered clothes and banal expression suggest that he continues the raids in the pouring rain, trudges through the general six inches of snow, hikes under the burning sun.
Then there's Ivy. Being only seven, she shouldn't have much to worry about. But though she is young, she's more mature than the other kids. Ivy is beautiful, with her flowing chestnut hair, stunning green eyes, and shy but flashy smile. Like Calanthe, her hair is her only beauty, for her light pink lips are cracked and her flushed cheeks are scarred. Long, slender fingers define her as nimble and innocent. Scarred hands and an emaciated figure show signs of torture and hardships. Despite her dilapidated appearance, however, she is, on the inside, an angelic girl.
Eight-year-old Willow is contrary and abrasive, quite the opposite of Ivy. Curly blonde hair and sparkling ocean-blue eyes the shape of almonds used to make her look so much older absolutely flawless. But now, as she weeps, her arms wrapped around her legs, she looks like the child she truly is. Ocean-blue eyes are now vapid and practically lifeless in her fragile state.
"Why are we here, Fox?" whimpers Calanthe, her eyes squeezed shut. "I don't like this place. This isn't our h-home." Poor Calanthe begins to tremble all over, her lower lip quivering.
"Hush," I whisper, pulling her into my lap. I stroke her wispy brown hair. "It's going to be alright. Soon, once the food supply has run out, we'll find somewhere else to live. Fox will make it all better."
Hugging Calanthe closer to my chest, I pull up my legs and bend my knees. I try to console her, wiping away her tears, and eventually she sniffles and falls asleep in my arms. I sigh and softly set her down on her battered, aqua blue blanket, where she curls up and continues to whimper in her sleep.
Roman taps my shoulder lightly. "Froxen, I managed to snatch us some cheese!" he whispers fervently.
I blink open my eyes and stare at Roman, crouched in front of me with gleaming eyes and an elusive grin. His disheveled hair and goofy smile make me laugh, a rusty laugh that none of us have heard in so long.
"I won't even ask how," I say, grinning. "Is that all you got?"
"Well, yes," he replies guiltily, still smiling, "but that's all you wanted, right?"
"Right. Remember that once the food is gone, we're leaving, maybe moving back into that old house. Just don't get your hopes up," I add.
"I won't get my hopes up," he promises. Then he crawls over where Calanthe and Willow are sleeping and nudges them both. "Wake up, you two. I got cheese," he hisses.
Calanthe blinks and wearily sits up. Rubbing her eyes, she says in her babyish voice, "Really? We haven't had cheese in a long, long time."
"Really, Calanthe. I know we haven't. But we have some now, right here." Roman holds out a hand, revealing scarred palms and a slice of cheese. "Not much, but at least it's some."
"Thank you, Roman," whispers Calanthe, gazing fondly at the slice of cheese. "Actually, I've never had cheese. I've seen you and Foxy eat it, but you said I was too young to try it. You two made me wait." She pouts.
"Well, now's your chance!" I exclaim. That's what I tell myself when I'm getting ready to rush in and steal something.
Timidly biting a piece off, her sea green eyes stretch wide in awe. "I love it!" she squeals, clasping her hands together like she always does in moments like this. "Can you get more?"
"Of course he can't get more, dimwit," mutters Willow, who is sprawled out beside her, eyes still closed. "Cheese is rare, especially to kids like us. Think for once. We live on the streets and… well, you know what we do to get food," she spits, glancing sourly at me. "I swear, Calanthe…" Her voice trails off as she grumbles.
"Be grateful!" I snap. "Roman took a great risk, getting that cheese for you. He could have-"
My sentence is cut of by a clattering noise down the alley and the swift patter of approaching footsteps.
The next few moments are a blur. Peacekeepers appear instantly, staring curiously at us with bewildered expressions. They obviously know that something's up, and I begin to expect that Roman was spotted while at the market.
Taking advantage of people is one of the few things keeping me alive. So, as the frozen Peacekeepers shoot dumbfounded gazes at us, I grab Calanthe's tiny hand and dart forwards, facilely dodging every weapon that comes my way.
Calanthe begins to wail. Tears stream down her face as I roughly push my rivals aside and sprint down the road, once again kicking up rocks with every step. I squeeze her hand reassuringly, wishing so badly that I could be young again, safe in my mother's arms. But no, I'm fourteen and already head of the family, and the lives of four children are in my hands.
Shouts of alarm can be heard outside the bakery. Peacekeepers are scrambling to keep up with me, tripping over each other and cursing as I grin deviously. Once or twice, an arrow whizzes past, barely missing my shoulder. I chuckle to myself and grit my teeth, determined not to let them catch up.
And they don't. Actually, they never even come close to me. By the time I reach the market, they're out of view, and I can no longer hear them.
Still clutching Calanthe's hand, I dash past the children that play by the fountain every day, past an old lady ambling towards a clothing store, past a youthful couple laughing and twirling in glee. I pay no attention to anyone, though, not even the woman with her fancy dog that struts around each day.
Finally, after at least twenty minutes of avoiding analytical eyes and booming voices, I come to an abrupt halt. A few feet away is a wire fence with a hole already dug underneath. I shove poor Calanthe through the hole and both of us pop up on the other side. I just sit there, breathing heavily, coming up with a plan.
"What about Roman, Ivy, and Willow?" pants Calanthe, plopping down beside me. Twigs snap underneath me as I change positions and examine my sister.
"It's going to be alright," I whisper, my gaze flitting in the opposite direction. "In a few minutes, we'll head back to the town. But for now, we need to rest, catch our breath."
Calanthe sighs. Clearly, her mind can't process my motives. I'm witty, and she's talented. Really, we're opposites. I get the feeling that when she's older, we won't get along very well.
For a few minutes, while I catch my breath, I observe my surroundings. Slender, creamy brown trees – I don't know what they're called, since I rarely come to the forest – tower above my head, reaching far into the sky. Puffy clouds can usually be spotted dancing high in the sky on a typical day, but for now, the sky is luminous and blithely vacant other than the sun, airy and dazzling. Squirrels dart gracefully from branch to branch, chattering excitedly amongst one another. Crisp air enters my lungs. Bright red and brown, brittle leaves cavort in the gentle breeze.
My favorite time of year. Soon, everyone in District 5 will set a pumpkin out on their porch and leave a bucket of muffins for children – and sometimes teenagers – to grab. It's an ancient tradition, one we study for a few weeks in school each year. Our history books are filled with things from North America, and they tell all about each festivity that went on before Panem was formed. Some districts, like mine, celebrate the ancient holidays, and the others, like Districts 10, 11, and 12, neglect them.
"Alright," I say, leaping to my feet. "Calanthe, you stay here. If anyone finds you, tell them you're out picking berries for your sister." I wink and dash off.
Luckily, everyone has already poured out, leaving the square deserted. Night has fallen, and I realize I must have fallen asleep sometime after my escape. An owl hoots faintly in the distance, and a chilling wind has set in. This wind isn't comforting and relaxing like the early-morning breezes. It's frigid, frightening; haunting, even.
By the time I reach the ally where I was living with my brother and sisters, I'm alone. Calignosity is all around, stretching over the sky and surrounding me, choking me, killing me. Suffocating, empty darkness. This is when the coyotes come out. Kids have trekked inside after a long day of jumping rope and climbing trees and dancing around the fountain in town. Mothers have tucked them into bed, whispered their goodnights.
Lights flicker on from inside the bakery, illuminating the cluttered alley. Ivy, Willow, and Roman are nowhere to be seen. Trash is all I can see, lying all around the forest green dumpster straight ahead. Only a few days ago, I had to pull out a splinter from Ivy's finger, a splinter she snagged from the wooden fence that reaches halfway to the top of the bakery, located directly behind the dumpster.
A chestnut-haired girl trots out of the bakery, holding a toddler's hand. Behind her is a lanky but sturdy boy about my age with sandy hair spiked and tangled. That's the boy I always see in the bakery!
"Hey!" I hiss, trying to catch their attention. Stepping out of the shadows, I shake the chestnut-haired girl's hand. "Nice to meet you, Chestnut." I smirk.
Chestnut rolls her eyes. "My name is Amber," she says matter-of-factly, still gripping her sister's chubby hand. "Do you need something?"
"Oh, yes, I do need something. Have you seen three children roaming around here? One of them is only seven, the others eight and eleven. Small, gaunt, hiding in the alley… recognize them?"
Chestnut-Amber's bright hazel gaze flickers down awkwardly. She squirms a little. "Er, no, I haven't seen them…"
The boy shoots her a ferocious glare. "Shut up, Amber. We all know you can't lie." Then he turns to me. "They're inside."
"Thank you," I whisper hoarsely. Behind me, Amber sighs and leads the little girl down the road, disappearing into the night. "Do you live here?"
He chuckles. "I live down the street. My family owns this bakery."
Out of the corner of my eye, I notice a shadow wavering across the smooth tile floor. Suddenly, Ivy pops out from under the table and thrusts herself into my arms, screeching, "Froxen! I knew you'd come back for us!"
"I'll always come back for you," I whisper, stroking her matted hair. "Don't you ever think that I would abandon you."
"I wouldn't dare." Ivy's voice cracks. Clinging onto me, she appears so innocent and childish. Really, part of her still is that way. But there's also the part of her that's tough, witty, and even rebellious.
Then come Roman and Willow. Willow's azure eyes sparkle with tears. Her face, barely recognizable, is flushed and splotched with dirt. Legs trembling. Hands shaking. Her curly, honey blonde hair resembles a rat's nest, maybe worse than that. Her usually captivating, benign blue eyes are now deranged, clouded.
"Willow?" I breathe. She gives the tiniest nod and I embrace her, shrouding her body with my cleaved leather jacket and firmly wrapping my arms around her waist. Even with her shirt protecting her skin, I feel her ribs jutting out. "What happened?" I ask as I grab Roman and pull him into the hug.
"The Peacekeepers beat us," rasps Roman, ducking his head and sliding away from us. "Until they realized we were 'innocent.'"
"They tore my clothes," Willow whimpers. Glancing at her ruffled, off-white shirt, I see that she's telling the truth for once (Willow is a known liar). Fabric has been ripped away from both her shirt and her already bedraggled jeans.
"And they stole my necklace!" wails Ivy.
"I'm so sorry I didn't come back sooner," I apologize discordantly. "But we need to get back to Calanthe. She's alone, and you never know when a Peacekeeper might stumble across her."
Ignoring what I said, Ivy continues. "Finally, Amber and Spade came to help us. They knocked out the Peacekeepers and took us inside."
Turning stiffly to the boy, I ask, "So you're Spade?" He nods. "Thank you."
"Sure thing. Need anything else?" he asks as my hand reaches towards his.
Pausing for a moment, my hand stops midair. Then, shaking his hand firmly, I slyly say, "Yes, I do, actually."