The suspense was the worst part. Standing with the others, muscles rigid, I found my hatred for the Games and the Capitol bubbling up inside of me, molten lava about to spill over the wall I'd made to keep it back.
The desire to do something – to stop the Games, kill the Capitol – broke over the wall and washed onto me. Clenching my fists slightly to control my anger, I looked at Emerald Grey, the Capitol lady that was in charge of the schedule and tour guide to the tributes. Her hair was bright silver, as were her eyes. She wore a silver gown. Simply looking at her could blind you.
"Why!" she was exclaiming to the mayor "what a bee-a-oooo-tiful day it is here in sweet-smelling, cheery District 11!" The mayor said something in reply, though he had a mind to keep his voice down.
I shook my head in distaste at Emerald. Were all of the Capitol people like her? All so silly and virtually defenseless? Yet they watched people – children battle each other to the death for their pleasure? Are they monsters able to destroy whatever comes across their path?
I shook my head again, trying to clear this from my mind. I was getting nowhere – chasing my tail like a dog. I stared at Emerald Grey for awhile, trying to imagine a Capital crowd of the people.
"Happy Hunger Games!" cried Emerald Grey, a huge, over-happy smile on her face "The merriest part of the year, it is my upmost joy to announce our very lucky tributes this year!" she paused as if expecting a cheer, but no one made a sound. A few people gave some half-hearted applause, me not included. Yes. Happy Hunger Games . . . a merry time . . . as if.
"I know you're all just as excited as I am!" Fat chance . . . "Good luck to all of the young ladies and gentlemen!" Yes, good luck . . . that it's not me. "Now, may the 24th Hunger Games begin!"
A trumpet fanfare played, designed to cover roars of glee and thunderous applause. All eyes were fixed on the glass balls in which were the slips of paper with all of the names on it. Everyone was praying silently for themselves and their loved ones. My own eyes strayed to the girl's ball. 20 of those slips of paper had Lystra Fay Gull written in careful writing . . .
"Ladies, ladies!" Emerald clapped her hands, her face a mask of excitement and suspence.
Watching Emerald, my stomach tightened. With a jolt, I remembered what I had decided : It would be me. I had already accepted it. But . . . I wasn't really accepting it anymore. Only one thought came to my mind:
It is going to be me. It is going to be me. It is going to be me.
Emerald reached in and picked a slip. She turned, smiling at everyone's obvious tension.
It is going to be me.
She unfolded the slip and I noticed gem-studded fingernails. How . . . disgusting.
It is going to be me.
She moved her eyes across the paper, reading the name.
It was my name – it was going to be me.
She cleared her throat. "Please come forward, female tribute . . ."
My legs went wobbly. My stomach flexed. It was going to be me. I didn't want to leave! I didn't want to die!
Emerald waited dramatically, a huge smile fixed in place.
Me.
Me.
Me.
"Estella Mason!"
It took me a few moments to realize that the name she said was not 'Lystra Fay Gull,' but 'Estella Mason.' I let out a small sigh of relief, releasing the tension in my shoulders, and glanced toward the girl beside me.
She was looking around in confusion, like everyone else. No one knew an Estella Mason. I gazed around for Estella, and my heart beat again.
"Estella Mason?" Emerald sounded very confused, and shocked. "Estella?"
A figure stepped out of the crowd. I craned my neck unsuccessfully to see it. I can make out a small figure, but nothing else.
"You are Estella?" Emerald sounded relieved to have cleared this "little mess" as she would say, up. "Estella Mason?"
"Y-yes," the wobbly voice is unrecognizable, but it rights itself. "I am Estella Mason."
With a jolt, I realized that I recognized the voice. My heart stopped once more, my blood running cold. I shook my head in denial as the trembling girl climbed up to stand by Emerald. They shook hands, and the girl that no one knew turned to face us.
It's the girl I sang with by the compost heap.