Notes: I remember promising that Chapter 2 would be up in "a few days" in my previous update. It should usually be understood that when I say "a few days," it probably means "a few months." I'm trying to get better about that, but I'll probably always be a somewhat slow updater.
As a further note, the reaping and the goodbyes were supposed to be a single chapter, but they ended up being really long when combined, so I decided to split them up. This means nothing to you—all six of you—who are reading this except that I have a slight leg-up on the next chapter.
Chapter 2
"Name and age?"
"Aslan Klein. T-twelve. My, uh, my first year."
"Sign here." The registrar Peacekeeper hands me the touchscreen sign-in tablet, which is chained to the table so that light-fingered district children won't be tempted. I grab the similarly attached stylus in my left hand and sign my name in carefully wrought print, but it ends up coming out as thin and shaky as my spoken voice.
"Is that okay? Will they be able to read—"
"Next!"
Dad sweeps me away by my shoulders, pulling me so fast and so hard that I'm nearly pitched down to the ground. Of all things, that's what finally does it. The corners of my eyes prickle hot with tears as a flood of histamine gives me the telltale knot in my throat and begins to close my nasal passages.
"Honey, what's wrong?" Dad readjusts his arm so that he's hugging me rather than pulling me, using his free hand to tilt my head up so he can look me in the eye, but I can't answer. I'm afraid that if I open my mouth, I won't be able to stop crying.
Thomas and Nova and Nukem set about trying to console me at once. Thomas tells me that the first year is always rough but I'll get through it; Nukem pats my back and Nova wipes the unformed tears from the corners of my eyes; but in the end, it's Feivel who comes to the rescue by hugging me and letting me release a single sob into his shoulder so I can speak again.
"Nothing. It's just that…being asked to sign my name…having to register…." I sigh. I'm much too smart for this, too strong to be carrying on like a baby. "What I mean to say is, this is all getting very real, very fast. I just never considered before now that I might actually be in danger."
"You're not," Thomas says. He clamps his hands down onto my shoulders and bends down to my level, his blue eyes locked on my own. His assurance comes again, sounding much like he looks now—a little too desperate, a little too firm, a little too forceful. "You're not."
"Easy for you to say."
"You only have one entry."
"It's still enough."
"Both of you, stop it," Dad barks. "This is a stressful time for all of us, and I won't have this kind of fighting making it worse. We have to just go to our places and hope for the best."
Thomas and I exchange glances, apologies, and too-strong hugs before I give the same to an equally nervous—and more justifiably so—Nova and Nukem. Dad tries and fails to disguise the worry in his voice when he tells me he loves me, and Feivel—stoic, fearless Feivel—is trembling openly in my arms. With all adult or semi-adult eyes on me, I give him a final kiss on the cheek for comfort, providing Thomas with the courage to do the same for Nova. Nukem, for once, does not object.
Nova and Nukem go their separate ways to the eighteen-year-old sections, and I walk alone down the middle of the crowd into my prime front-row spot as a twelve-year-old girl, where my friend Cobalt is there to greet me.
"There's your mama," she says, pointing up to the stage and wearing her perpetual grin. "Wave at her; see if she waves back."
"I don't think so."
"Why not?"
"Thomas always told me that he's tried to wave at her every year since he was twelve. She always got mad at him for it."
"Yeah, but did she wave back?"
I laugh and look up to the spot on the stage where my mother has taken a seat next to our two remaining victors, nineteen-year-old Theodore and twenty-three-year-old Serina. In front of them, our not-at-all-stupidly named escort, Dizzy Benson, is standing at the microphone between two reaping balls, prattling on in true Capitol fashion.
"My, my, what a lovely day," she says with a glassy grin and a certain tightness to her eyes, the kind of expression that's plastered onto the face of every escort and could shatter if you were to so much as tap it. "You must all be so excited to be here!"
Neither of those things is true, of course. The day is hot and overcast and the humidity keeps our uncomfortable reaping clothes bound to our skin. Everyone in the crowd is silent and hollow-eyed, most of us playing for very high stakes. Those that aren't are making up for it by putting everything they own into bets on who will be reaped. Most eyes are on poor Gregory Zilenski, who is eighteen years old and has taken out tesserae for himself, his parents, and each of his seventeen siblings every year since he was twelve. That totals up to two hundred and forty-seven slips out of maybe two thousand for the boys, giving him an approximate one in thirteen chance of being reaped. It's relatively low, but compared to the standard one in four hundred, it's safe to say it sucks to be Gregory Zilenski on reaping day.
For a moment, Dizzy casts off her plasticized expression (I was beginning to wonder if she could) and says with an air of solemnity, "Before our Treaty of Treason is read, I would like to acknowledge that the year following this past Quarter Quell has been a rough one, seeing as we have lost two beloved victors in a short timeframe: Miss Blaize Fincher of District Twelve and District Five's very own Palladin Hawkins. Their spirits will forever be honored. May they rest in peace."
Even this speech, the Capitol's version of a heartfelt eulogy for a past tribute, settles uneasily with the crowd. Dizzy has neglected to mention the cause of both of these deaths, which could probably be written off as old age—defined in the lower districts at about sixty-five—to someone who didn't know better. Blaize, the victor of the fifth Hunger Games, at least had the decorum to wait until she had procured another District 12 victor to drink herself dead, but this was not the case with Palladin, who instead dragged his vice out for the forty-three years following his victory before keeling over just two months ago. The eligible children may talk about how nervous they are to face the possibility of being mentored by a couple of inexperienced kids not much older than them, but they know that the older victor's experience wouldn't have mattered. His mind was pickled beyond all help.
"And now, I shall turn the microphone over to Mayor Klein with the Treaty of Treason."
"Now's your chance," Cobalt whispers as Mother takes her place at the microphone.
"I'm not that stupid," I say, but I do notice something strange about my mother's demeanor. She is not staring straight ahead like usual, focused on the task at hand so hard that the world around her is blotted out of her perception. Her eyes instead flit along the center line of the crowd, where I am now looking over my shoulder. Dad and Thomas are each holding one of Feivel's hands, and the Maloneys, having arrived too late to hug me good luck, are behind them with their hands on their son's shoulders.
Will they be picking him up? I think. No, no—they said after choir practice.
Feivel's eyes catch mine, and I see that he's been crying. He mouths something indistinct at this distance—it could be "I love you" (wishful thinking); it could be "good luck," but the message of fear juxtaposed with desperate well-wishing is clear.
"Feivel," I mouth back, "I'll be okay."
And it's true. I will be okay. At three o'clock this afternoon, I will be joining him on the risers set up in the hall of the Justice Building—District 5's acoustic sweet spot—for choir rehearsal. He will go to the soprano section, Nova will assume her place as a mezzo, and Cobalt will join me in the alto section. Our director, Boomer, will hand us the new music he has promised to us, and as we take a cursory sight-reading, I will reach across the invisible line between the altos and sopranos and grab his hand if our placement permits, just as I always do. Everything will be normal again.
Mother finishes the treaty and goes back to her seat, probably kicking herself for losing her focus, and Dizzy steps up to the microphone once more. "And without further ado, we begin," she says. "As always, ladies first."
Dizzy grabs the handle of the girls' reaping ball and turns it one, two, three, four times as the relatively sparse slips flit and rustle far more than another district's slips would. Our population is small enough that few people have to take out tesserae, and even fewer actually dare. That's why the kids who have the largest, poorest families are so at risk. Their slips can number in the triple digits, and only rarely do anyone else's rise above the singles. Dizzy plunges her hand deep into the belly of the reaping ball, shuffles her fingers, and pulls out a slip. People stop talking. They stop moving. They stop breathing. The gamblers are crossing their fingers, many of them having set their sights on the oldest Zilenski daughter, Valerie, whom we can all hear sobbing in the back of the congregation. Nova is probably back there comforting her. She and Valerie are good friends.
One thing about Dizzy that is simultaneously good and bad is that she doesn't make a big show of drawing and unfolding the slip little by little, trying to drum up suspense. She simply does it and rattles off the name in two seconds, like ripping off a bandage. But those two seconds are enough for everything to come down on me at once as the tension reaches its peak. Cobalt is suddenly overwhelmed and clings to my side as my heartbeat quickens and pulses loud enough to drown out the keening wails of Valerie and her siblings as the slip is drawn and the name is read and it's not me.
Not me! I think, welcoming the ballistic grin that springs onto my face as the people behind me—the tribute's family and friends—begin to cry. I'm safe. Safe! Safe for a whole year. Cobalt frees me from her grip, and I turn around and hug her, knowing that it wasn't her, either. "We're okay, Cobalt!" I whisper, mad with joy. "It wasn't us!"
I wait for Cobalt to return my embrace and smile at me, but instead, she pushes me away and meets my eyes. Hers are glassy with tears. Seeing that, I get the sense that I've just put my foot in my mouth.
"Was it someone you know?"
Mutely, Cobalt nods.
"Oh, Cobalt." I take her hand in mine and sigh. I'm such an idiot. "I'm so sorry."
Cobalt shakes her head. She grabs my other hand and squeezes them both hard as she drills her eyes into mine, willing me to understand something. "Aslan, don't you realize?"
My heartbeat picks up. "Was it me?"
In response, Cobalt puts her hand over my head and directs my line of sight to the front of the crowd in time to see a waifish, black-haired girl in a grass-stained yellow dress and bejeweled tennis shoes make her way onto the stage.
"Hello, darling! You must be Nova," Dizzy says. She holds the microphone up to Nova's tearful face. "Now tell us, dear, how old are you?"
"Eighteen," Nova says in tones that sound much younger. She is shivering, vulnerable and exposed in her threadbare dress, and I am in shock, wondering how I could have missed the name of my friend and the love of my older brother's life. I imagine it was a disappointment to the gamblers and just as much of a surprise to our friends, who know that Nova only has the bare minimum number of slips. I'm not even sure it was really her. Maybe there was a mishearing. Our Nova Schafer is not the only eligible Nova in the district. It could have been Nova Petri or Nova Zilenski or Nova Shay.
Nova Shay, that must have been it, I think, grasping at straws. That sounds like Nova Schafer.
Mother's assistant is already on the stage, sobbing. Thomas is ripping a path down the center line of the crowd, and Dad and Feivel and his parents are making their way down behind him. Behind me, I hear Nukem's voice shouting, pleading, she's my twin sister, let me go talk to her, but the mob of white-clad people in the back of the reaping crowd tells me that the Peacekeepers are stopping him. Families are okay, but they won't let any other eligibles up there, not unless they intend to volunteer.
It is then that I get an idea, an idea that must be carried out immediately before the more selfish sense of self-preservation prevails.
"I have to…"
"What was that, Aslan?" Cobalt asks, sounding unusually gentle, sympathetic. I turn my body so that I can put a firm hand on her shoulder.
"Stay here, Cobalt." I remove my hand and lift the heavy velvet rope in front of me, bending my knees to duck under it.
"What are you doing?"
"She's my friend. I have to go up there." I don't listen to Cobalt's protests and take the brute force of the two Peacekeepers who stop me in stride, showing no fear.
"I can't let you up there," one says.
"I have to get up there; she's my friend," I reply, making my voice and my thoughts very clear even though I'm breaking apart inside.
"I can't let you up there," the same Peacekeeper says again, so roughly that I almost want to go back. "Look, if you were going to volunteer, that would be different—"
"Let me go!" With a burst of strength that surprises even me, I twist and break free and don't even bother taking the stairs up to the stage; I have the advantage of a running start that allows me to clear the threshold in a way that a lumbering suit-clad Peacekeeper cannot. And all at once, I find myself standing next to my family and Feivel and Nova and Dizzy, who don't even have time to react as I see the Peacekeepers running up the short steps to pull me away by force and I know I haven't got much time to stay up here and I have exactly one chance to do this right and I need to make it count.
"I volunteer," I say, hearing my disembodied voice echo into the microphone and reverberate around the Square such that I don't even realize it was me who said it at first. For a moment, I look around the stage for this brave soul who has just saved my friend—the love of my brother's life—from death until I see my face on every surrounding screen and understand what has just happened.
"What was that?" Dizzy asks, raising one red-and-purple eyebrow at this plucky twelve-year-old kid in front of her—me—who has just signed her life away on an impulse. She holds her mic in front of my face, and I find my words again:
"You heard me. I volunteer as the female tribute of District Five."
"Are you sure about that?" Dizzy's voice falls low into tones not intended for the microphone to pick up. "This is a very big decision you're making."
What in the hell am I doing? "Yes, I'm sure."
"Aslan, you can't do this," Dad says, pulling me back into his grasp by my shoulders. I'm wriggling, trying to escape, but it's no use. "She's my daughter, and she's not volunteering."
"But Dad, what about Nova?"
"If she wants to volunteer, she can," Dizzy says.
"She's twelve years old! She can't make this kind of decision for herself."
"This isn't about me," I shout, unheard. "This is about our friend."
"I'm sorry, sir, but I'm afraid you have no control over the situation. This is entirely between her and the chosen tribute."
Dad lets me go as all eyes shift from me to Nova, the final holder of the verdict. I'm a little unfamiliar with the protocol for volunteering (it doesn't happen all that often in Five), but I seem to remember that if the selected tribute wants to stay, then they don't have to give up their position to any volunteers.
"Nova?" I ask in a voice that's much too young for me, much too small, a contrast to the bold voice in which I said I would volunteer. My adrenaline is fading, and part of me hopes that Nova will reject my attempt and assume her position as the female District 5 tribute. Instead, she stands in wordless shock, her arms wrapped around her shoulders and her eyes on the floor.
"Dear, if you don't answer, then she can take your place by default," Dizzy says.
"Nova!" Thomas is in his own personal hell. He jostles Nova's shoulders, trying to get her to give some response, any at all. "Nova, this is a no-win situation. It's either you or my sister. I just want to make sure what happens is what you want."
Nova is still silent. She begins to tremble.
"Aslan, please don't do this." Feivel wraps his arms around my ribcage and stares up into my eyes. He looks like he's going to cry. "You can step down if you want."
"So you want this to happen to Nova?" I snap. "To Thomas? To us?"
"No," he says. "I just don't want it to happen to you."
"Is this your final answer?" Dizzy asks. She leans over to me and murmurs in tones too low for the microphone, "This is a big decision you're making. Are you sure you want to do this?"
"I'm sure."
"Very well." Dizzy exhales long and soft through her nose, then picks up her smile and proclaims to the audience, "It looks as though we have a volunteer!"
The crowd is stony, saucer-eyed. The only noise comes from the creaking of the stage and Feivel's background whimpers.
"What is your name, child?"
"Aslan," I say into the microphone. "Uh, Klein."
Dizzy turns her head to my mother, who is watching with the same teary expression as Thomas and Dad and Feivel, but has not risen from her seat. "Is she yours?"
Mother nods.
"Why, you never told me you had a daughter!" Dizzy says. "I knew you had a son, but I knew nothing about this one."
"I never saw it fit to mention her," Mother replies.
Dizzy's voice falls low again. "Says a lot about your parenting," she mutters in my direction, and against all odds, I smile. "Now, Miss Klein, tell us, how old are you?"
"Twelve and a half."
"My, my! I don't think we've ever had a volunteer so young! You're a very brave little girl, aren't you?"
"Thank you."
At this point, Feivel decides he can't take it anymore and throws himself onto the stage to grab me around my waist, wailing. "No, no," he says. "You can't take her."
"Feivel, now is not the time," I hiss.
"Oh, dear." Dizzy steps in to pry Feivel's arms open and remove me from his grasp. "It's all right, son. It's an honor to be a tribute in the Hunger Games. This is brave, noble endeavor on the part of your—what is she to you? Is she your big sister?" She turns to Mother. "Don't tell me you have another one you haven't mentioned."
All of District 5 rolls their eyes, including me and everyone else on the stage. A blond father and a red-haired mother, producing a black-haired son? Ludicrous. "Genetically improbable," I tell her. "Two light-haired parents probably won't be able to produce a child with dark hair, especially considering that they have two light-haired children already. Dark hair is dominant; light hair is recessive."
"Then what is he?"
"My best friend."
"Aww." Dizzy takes a moment to turn and smile at the crowd. "All right, let's get a strapping gentleman up here to match this beautiful young lady!"
The boys, who have been holding their breath for the past several minutes with this whole volunteering ordeal going on, all tense up and shrink back as one big mass in their shared dread. Dizzy reaches into the reaping ball and Gregory Zilenski starts to sink to his knees as the name is read: "Sergio Volkov."
All the boys sigh. It wasn't them. Knowing this, they turn their heads and point their eyes to the lucky loser, though I can't pick him out myself. There are no telltale sobs or shouts from him or his family, whoever they may be. I have to wait until the front of the crowd parts to allow a boy twice my size to come through and thunder onto the stage, silent, seething, glaring at the world.
I stagger backward as he steps up to the microphone. He's bigger than Dizzy, dark-haired with creamy brown skin, knotted and roped with muscle on his visible extremities. Feivel, who has been waiting at the side of the stage with my family, starts to cry.
"Oh, my. Looks like I got my wish," Dizzy says, looking this Sergio character up and down, at once impressed and startled. "You must be Sergio."
The boy nods, a single short jerk of his neck and no change in expression.
"How old are you, son?"
"Just turned twelve, ma'am."
Younger than me, I think. There is no way this kid can be twelve. He's as big as a much older teenager and he has the voice of a grown man. He looks as though he could attack me at any moment, and what scares me most is that in a week, he'll be expected and encouraged to do just that.
"So, Sergio, how do you feel about being chosen to represent your district in the Hunger Games?"
Sergio shrugs. "I don't care."
"Really?" Dizzy pushes on his shoulder with her palm. His glare deepens and his arm muscles ripple at the touch. "Not even a little bit?"
"I'm not in the mood for small talk," he says.
Dizzy nods to the audience, her hollowed-out grin still stuck on her face. That must start to hurt after a while. "Everyone, the tributes of District Five!" she says, holding her arm out to us. "All right, you two. Shake hands."
I extend my hand to him, and he takes it, glaring at me all the while. I give my usual businesslike arm-pump and friendly smile, though it comes out as more of a pained wince. This kid is practically crushing my hand in his grip, and I don't think he's trying to, either.
Closing Notes: I have nothing to say, really, except that I kindly ask you for your reviews. Also, I don't really like the way this chapter ends, but everyone I've screened it by (my parents, my kid brother, and a few school friends) says it's okay, so such is life.