"Stop squirming."
Clara yanks my hair. Hard. So hard, I'm sure she's about to take a chunk out of my scalp. It's never happened before. Well, once. But that was a mistake. The thing is, she's the only one I trust to do my hair for the reaping. The only one in this community home that has the first idea how to tame my wiry curls.
I turn to face her, half scowl, half surrender. Clara always looked beautiful. Today, her dark hair is parted into neat braids, each uniform line an equal distance apart, with slick edges framing her delicate forehead. Her eyebrows are perfectly arched, and she has wide brown eyes. It's hard to like her sometimes.
"Okay, you're all done," Clara says, tapping my tender scalp with the base of the wooden brush.
Meeting my reflection's eyes in the mirror is an unsettling experience. It's like looking at a stranger. A well-groomed stranger. Clara has wrangled me out of my usual overalls and into a dusty pink dress. My hair is parted into two neat braids that run down my back with military precision. And any evidence of the grime that usually smears my cheeks has been wiped clean off.
"Well?" she prods in a sing-song voice. "How'd I do?"
Judging by the satisfied curl of her lip, I'd say she already knows the answer, but I reply anyway.
"It's… nice," I offer, cautiously toying with the end of my braid.
Clara rolls her eyes and pinches my cheek. "You're welcome, Wren."
Leaving the safety of our shared bathroom is a jarring experience. It's chaos on the other side of the door. That's to be expected, of course, especially on reaping day. Especially in Medler House. We're District Four's only community home, meaning we house everyone from red-faced, squealing babies to eighteen-year-olds on the cusp of adulthood. Clara likes to watch the older ones on reaping day. "That'll be us soon," she says, nudging my shoulder. She's been saying the same thing since we were twelve.
"I know," I say. "You keep telling me."
She slips her hand into mine and squeezes. "But this time we've only got two years to go."
She says it like it's the same thing as two seconds.
"I know."
"That's only two more reapings."
"I know."
"And after today, we've done five! So that's way past half-way."
I'm close to asking her if she's turned into a talking clock when a piercing wail rings out from across the hall.
I lock eyes with a young boy I half-recognise. He's frozen by the boy's toilets, toothbrush clenched tight between trembling fingers. He looks young. Too young to be headed to a reaping.
Clara tugs on my hand. "Let's go," she says, brow creased with concern. We both know what happens to people who make a scene on reaping day. And I want to follow her, I really do. But as soon as I take a half-step in the opposite direction, my stomach tightens.
I slip my hand out of Clara's and make a beeline for the boy. By now, anybody with a grain of sense has turned the other way, ignoring what's unfolding right in front of them. Clara says something but it doesn't register, I'm already too far gone.
"Stop," I say as soon as I reach the wailing boy. "You can't do this here." Not exactly the warm words I was hoping for but, in fairness, warmth has never been my speciality.
I thumb his tears away quickly, trying not to notice his wobbling chin. He gulps unevenly, throat spasming behind the collar of an old dress shirt that looks two sizes too big. I know he's trying to say something. And maybe if we had more time, I would let him find the words. But we don't.
"Is this your first reaping?" I ask.
He nods, shaking so hard it's tough to watch.
I force a smile onto my face, quietly praying it doesn't look like a grimace. "Well then, that means you have nothing to worry about. Four's a career district and you know what that means."
Judging by the blank look on his face he either doesn't or is too shaken up to compute.
"Volunteers," I provide.
It takes a moment for his soft brows to lower in relief. Everyone volunteers in Four, it's a fact. We haven't seen anyone enter the arena without a smile on their face in years. Well, except for Annie Cresta a few years back. She definitely wasn't smiling.
"You see?" I say, hating how much I sound like Clara. "Nothing to worry about."
He nods, sheepish, which is a lot better than terrified, and turns to join a group of boys just as Clara's hand lands on my shoulder.
"C'mon, we're going to be late," she says, steering us towards the back of the girl's queue.
We make it just in time, half-a-second before the girls in front start moving. Their backs are ramrod straight. I slip my hand into Clara's instinctively and follow her lead. It's a miserable day in Four. Heavy rain falls on us in sheets as we make our way towards the Justice Building.
"You okay?" I whisper, looking up at Clara.
She's staring at the eighteen-year old's again, and I can see why. They're sniggering amongst themselves, clearly bathing in the satisfaction that this will be their last reaping.
"Assholes," Clara mutters, rolling her eyes.
One of them gestures towards the twelve-year-olds behind us and laughs.
I give Clara's hand a discrete squeeze. "Agreed."
We know we've reached the reaping square when the peacekeepers descend upon us.
"Hand," one barks, yanking me free of Clara.
I wince as he takes a blood sample and steers me in the direction of the sixteen-year-old pen. There's no option to turn back and find her, the pull of the crowd is too strong. A big part of me wants to freeze and wait until she finds me. The other part knows that's a stupid idea. So, I don't. I just take my place and wait for the huge screens either side of the Justice Building to crackle to life.
When they do, President Snow's voice is so loud I can feel in in my ribs. It's the same speech he gives every year, down to the letter. Another form of torture, I think. Although you wouldn't know it given the way half the square hangs on his every word. It's the careers mainly. And their families. You can spot their fresh-pressed linens a mile away.
To distract myself, I play a game. I look at them and try to guess who will volunteer to represent Four this year. Will it be the sleek-haired girl in the second row? She's got the look. Or maybe the wickedly lean one behind her, but she doesn't look like a team player, might not make it past the cornucopia. Or maybe-
The anthem sounds, shattering my focus. I feel the girls next to me stiffen.
"Welcome, welcome," Marina Walen's voice rings out across the square, every syllable pointed.
She's wearing a sickly green wig this year. It looks like rotten sea foam. I wonder which one of her stylists picked it. Or maybe she's unhinged enough to have done it herself.
"As usual," she says, tottering towards the glass bowl. "Ladies first."
I crane my neck, searching for Clara. Nothing.
"So exciting!" Marina chirps, hamming it up for the cameras. She drags this part out every year, digging her clawed hand around the bowl. It makes my stomach tighten into a knot.
I'm about to look away when something catches my eye. Or someone. It's Finnick Odair. The Finnick Odair staring directly at me. As soon as I look back, his eyes flit away, seemingly uninterested. But I saw him. I saw him clear as day.
My first instinct is to hunt down Clara and confirm if she saw it too, but Marina has already got the slip of paper in her hand. She teeters back towards the microphone, painfully slow.
For a second, the crowd holds their breath and all you can hear is the sound of rain slapping against cobblestones. Marina's green lips part open.
Then it happens.
"Wren Medler."
And just like that, it's not silent anymore.
It's not silent at all. Blood roars in my ears and I can feel a heavy coldness seep through my limbs. I don't move an inch.
Some of the shivering children from Medler House turn their heads, recognising that one of their own has been chosen. And all I can think is where are the volunteers? Where's the tanned, lean arm shooting up from the career pen? But nothing happens. Nothing at all.
"Wren Medler, up you come," Marina says in sing-song voice bordering on irritation.
By now my fingertips have gone numb and there's something thick lodged in my throat.
"Wren."
I whip around, recognising Clara's voice. She's behind me, face flushed from the effort of shoving through the crowd to reach my side. Her eyes are burning with determination, and she grabs my hand, squeezing tight.
"Don't cry."
I blink, suddenly aware that I'm on the edge of tears. My body doesn't feel like my own, all heavy and uncoordinated. But Clara has that look on her face – the one that can make me do anything. So, I force myself to let go of her and move.
Each step feels like a battle, and I've got a horrible feeling that I'm an inch away from fainting. But that can't happen. Not today.
"Come on up, dear," Marina says when I reach the bottom of the stairs.
She offers a clawed hand and I know something's wrong when I take it gratefully. The second I'm in her grasp, she refuses to let go, ferrying me towards the microphone.
"A round of applause for our first tribute!"
A reluctant applause swells beneath my feet. I try to search for Clara, but the stage lights are blinding and before I have an opportunity to adjust, Marina steers me off to the side. Right beside Finnick Odair.
He's taller than I thought he'd be. But just as handsome. I should look away, but I can't. After a second, he offers what I think is supposed to be an easy smile. Any girl in Panem would swoon, but I can't. All I can do is focus on the dread boiling away in my stomach. Dread and weird sense of familiarity, like I've been here before. I grapple with the memory, pulling it up in parts. Faces in a crowd, the Capitol flag, roses, sunlight dappled on water, and…
Marina's voice derails my thoughts, announcing the male tribute.
"Titus Cardew."
My eyes flick to the male pen. Unlike my turn, there's no pause. Titus emerges from the eighteen-year-old pen without hesitation. He must be at least three heads taller than me with toned muscles that strain against his linen shirt. I swallow hard. There's something in his stride that makes me confident he would have volunteered no matter whose name came out of that bowl.
Marina is overjoyed, of course. She shepherds Titus in front of the cameras, grinning from ear to ear. This time, the crowd bursts into applause.
"And there you have it! This year's tributes from District Four."
I use my last moments on stage to observe Titus up close. He's even bigger than I thought, a real monster of a boy. When we are forced to shake hands, he doesn't meet my eye. I'm beneath his notice, clearly not good enough to be an ally and too weak to be a threat.
The cameras cut, the lights fade, and the square begins to clear.
From there, it's a blur. Rough hands latch onto my shoulders and steer me into the Justice Building. There's a stale smell in here, like waxed wood and old books. The soft cream walls are littered with oil paintings. Under different circumstances it might have been nice.
I'm escorted to an empty reception room decorated with a single, white couch. As soon as the doors click closed, I perch myself on its edge, running my fingers over the cool velvet obsessively. This is the part where I say my final goodbyes. Or goodbye. Singular.
I dig my nails into my palm hard, willing myself to focus. Clara will come, so it's important that I get this next bit right. The thing is, I've never been great with words, especially when it comes to her.
The truth is, I think I've always loved Clara. It wasn't a choice. Not as far as I can remember, anyway. She was my first friend in Medler House and the only one that stuck around. When we were kids, I put it down to admiration. Clara was everything I wanted to be. Funny but never mean, kind, clever, and a natural with people. Then, as we got a little older, things changed. They deepened. And I couldn't help but notice her easy beauty or the twinkle in her eyes. When I wasn't jealous, I was in awe. Actually, even then. Always.
And that's how things have been. How I thought they'd always be. We'd leave Medler House in a couple of years, Clara would settle on one of her many admirers, and I'd do what I always do – follow her. There had never been a reason to think beyond that. Not until now.
God, I wish I had a pen and paper. The idea of saying any of this out loud makes me want to hurl. But I'll have to. I have to. I will.
"Wren!"
Clara bursts into the room, barrels forwards, and wraps me tightly in her arms. We stay like that for a while, clinging to one another. I try to speak at least three times but every time I open my mouth, the words turn to ash on my tongue.
Not that it matters, anyway. Clara beats me to it. She extracts herself and holds me at arm's length.
"We don't have long, so you listen to me," she starts, brown eyes shining bright with tears. "You can do this, Wren."
My scoff is automatic. "You're serious?"
She gives me a shake. "Deadly."
"You saw my partner, right?"
"There are twenty-two other tributes that can deal with him for you."
I have to bite my tongue to resist reminding her that they'll be gunning for me too.
"I know you, Wren," she continues, hands moving to settle on my shoulders. "You're smart. Sure, you can't finish off a career pack single-handed, but you can outlast them."
I search her face for any sign of insincerity but find none. Figures. Clara's never lied to me a day in her life.
And, truthfully, I don't know what to say to that. I don't believe it. Don't feel it. But I'm scared that if I disagree, our last conversation will be a fight. And I don't want that.
"Wren, do you hear me?"
"Yes."
"And?"
The room is so quiet all I can hear is the sound of our breathing.
"And," I start tentatively, searching for something that isn't a lie. "I'll try."
I know what I've said isn't great the second it lands hard in the space between us.
For a few long seconds, Clara doesn't say anything. She just looks at me. Hard.
My brain scrambles for something better. I've tried not lying, it didn't work. And if the roles were reversed, I wouldn't want Clara's last words to me to be so half-assed.
But before I can come up with a decent replacement, something unexpected happens. She leans forwards and presses a soft kiss to my lips.
The effect is immediate. What few senses I had gained since Marina called my name are wiped out. Totalled. It's like the ground has collapsed beneath my feet and I'm caught somewhere between falling and flying.
And then, before I can blink, Clara turns on her heel and heads for the door. Just before her boots reach the threshold, she pauses. Her back is to me, and her voice is unsteady, but I still hear her words.
"Don't try. Win."