The sun hasn't even come up yet, but I'm awake. The whole District is awake, forced by law to watch the Reapings in other Districts. In most of these other Districts, it's morning already. This is because the planet is round and spins counter-clockwise. Morning comes earlier for the Districts in the east, even though it comes at exactly the same time. I know that makes no sense, but I'm too tired to think straight right now.
They're starting with District 12, like they do every year. They go in reverse order of our numbers, and every Reaping takes about an hour because they televise the boring speech that is spoken in every District. Why do they do this? Everyone hears the speech once at their own Reaping, and that's bad enough. Why must we hear it twelve times? It's exasperating.
I yawn and stare at the screen as the speech finally ends and the true purpose for watching finally begins. The handler for District 12 smiles and says in her weird Capitol accent, "Ladies first." She walks over to the bowl filled with pink slips of paper, and I notice in disgust that her outfit is alive. Snakes writhe over her arms and neck; small snakes, but still… snakes. Her unnaturally orange hair is curled into tight ringlets, and two more serpents drift in and out of these ringlets, as if they were trained to slither through hoops. And perhaps they were.
She dips her hand into the bowl and pulls out a name. "Cavey Darx," she grins. I watch as a girl that seems to be around twelve or thirteen makes her way to the stage. She has black hair, olive skin and is deathly thin.
"Now for the gentlemen," says the handler as she crosses the stage to the bowl filled with blue slips of paper. She grabs one from the top and reads the name aloud. "Pritchard Hayes." I watch the redheaded boy make his way onto the stage. He's tall and looks strong. He's probably around eighteen.
"Now," the handler grins wickedly, "for this year's Quarter Quell twist." She walks back over to the young girl and bends down to her. "Who are you going to send to the Hunger Games, dear?" she asks in a sickly sweet voice.
The girl breaks down crying. This lasts for about five minutes before she finally blubbers out, "Mace Mikels." Two peacekeepers take Cavey back to her row, and a fourteen-year-old blonde girl steps shakily onto the stage.
The handler walks over to the male that stands on the opposite end of the stage. "Alright Pritchard," she coos, "tell me who you are sending the one-hundred-and-seventy-fifth Hunger Games."
Pritchard straightens his back and says confidently, "Coal Black." Another boy around eighteen comes to the edge of the stage. He has black hair and black eyes and olive-colored skin. He glares defiantly up at Pritchard and watches as the red-head descends the stage with a smirk.
From somewhere in the audience, a girl screams. "No! Coal! NO!" The cameras turn as a girl breaks from the pack of seventeen-year-olds and rushes toward the new tribute, her brunette hair flying out behind her. But before she makes it, she is grabbed by peacekeepers. She struggles and then seems to think better of it. But as they take her away, she shouts, "Coal, I love you! Pritchard Hayes, you did that on purpose. I will never care an ounce for your horrid soul, no matter what happens to Coal. I hate you, Pritchard Hayes! I will forever hate you for this!"
Coal mounts the stage and the handler raises his left arm along with the right arm of the girl named Mace. "We have our male and female tribute for District 12!"
Well, that was certainly dramatic. The screen switches to District Eleven, and thankfully, they are already partway into the dull speech. I take this opportunity to rise from the couch. "Where are you going?" my father asks, his caramel brown eyes shooting me a warning. Those are the one trait about his appearance that the three of us didn't inherit.
"I'm going to plan my Reaping outfit. I've already heard this boring stuff," I answer with a gesture to the screen. My father nods, permitting my actions. I hurry to the bedroom that Randolph and I share.
As I stare at the contents of my closet, I decide what I want to wear. I don't care to look like everyone else will today, with their itchy suits and other formal wear. I've put up with it for most Reapings, but today I'm restless, and I want to stand out. It must be because of the Quarter Quell. I only have five options – six, if you count my pajamas. But I don't want to stand out that much. I rule out the formal clothes and the plain ones. This automatically decides my pants: A pair of black jeans that I've only worn once because the first time I wore them, Hemi made a comment about how good they looked on me and Ereed got mad at me again. There's a red polo shirt or a black, leather jacket. For some reason, I think the latter will make me look tough, so I decide on it. But I can't wear just a jacket. I need a shirt under it. But none of my shirts look tough. So, I rummage around in Randolph's drawer and find the perfect thing. It's a white tank top, and he amazingly hasn't gotten some sort of food stain on it.
It's then that Randolph peeks his head into the room. "Come on," he says, "they're about to draw the District Elev- Hey! That's mine!"
"Relax," I roll my eyes. "I'm only going to be wearing it for a few hours."
Randolph thinks for a moment. (I know. Randolph thinking? It seems I'm not the only one acting weird today.) Then he nods before grabbing my wrist and practically dragging me back to the living room. I barely have time to toss the tank top on my bed before we leave the room.
We seem to have missed the drawing, because a male handler stands on the stage with a male and female tribute. Hey walks over to the male and asks for his choice. "Barley Reed," the boy replies. A dark-skinned boy that looks younger than twelve – even though I know he can't be – walks up to the stage and takes the other boy's place.
When the handler asks the girl for her choice, she whispers into his ear. The man then straightens and says, "Persimmon Picket." The tributes switch out and the Reaping is over.
And then there is another long speech in District Ten. I stare out the window and watch the sun come up. I am so bored. When the names are finally drawn, it seems that I have missed it again, because Lupine has to poke me awake. "Pay attention. This is important," my older brother chides.
The girl chooses first this time. She calls out, "Lila Shepherd." And it seems that the whole girls' side breaks out into laughter and spontaneous baas. A girl around age fifteen makes her way to the stage with her platinum blonde hair that curls wildly and sticks up very much like a sheep's wool. The girl blushes as she stands there and listens to her peers bleating like a flock of sheep.
The guy picks now, and he chooses "Reggie Hayfield." The new tribute has to be pushed forward. He has gangly arms and legs, and a rather large nose. He stares around him like he has no idea what it happening and I instantly feel the compassion that Uncle Abel told me about. This guy is obviously a half-wit.
The screen switches to District Nine and the overtly boring speech is given yet again. I start picking at the couch until my father tells me to stop. I then play a little game with myself and see how long I can hold my breath without puffing out my cheeks. I reach twenty-one and a half minutes. That's my new record. Randolph is bored too. I can tell because he starts annoying Lupine. Randolph sits on the floor by our older brother's feet and flicks his ankle. "Stop," Lupine growls. But Randolph just flicks him again, harder. "Stop." But Lupine just doesn't understand that his annoyance is only entertaining Randolph, and my younger brother flicks him again. "Stop it! What the heck is wrong with you?" Lupine yells and stands up. Randolph starts laughing, and I just roll my eyes.
Our father's voice cuts thorough the chaos. "Both of you stop it. They're drawing the names."
Lupine sits back down and scowls at the TV set. Randolph grins to himself and turns his eyes back to the screen. I watch as the male handler draws a boy's name. "Rudy Wheat." The tribute comes up onto the stage and stands as the man crosses to the other bowl. He pulls out a pink slip and reads, "Tally Green."
The handler asks Rudy for his selection. "Kenny Chaff," he answers. A pudgy lad with messy brown hair steps out of the thirteen-year-old section, and there's my compassion again. He probably won't make it past the bloodbath.
Then the handler walks over and inquires the same of Tally. "Millie Rice," she says. And then a drop-dead gorgeous specimen of a human female steps out of the crowd from the area of the sixteen-year-olds. I bite my tongue to control myself, but Randolph is already panting. Millie Rice has auburn hair and deep brown eyes and a figure that – well, got Randolph panting.
District Eight has yet another boring speech, but father tells us to go groom ourselves for our district's Reaping. I comb my hair and wash my face before brushing my teeth. That's all of the grooming any of us need. We haven't started growing facial hair yet. But if Ulrich's face is any indication, we will someday.
I decide to eat something, so I walk into the kitchen and grab the first thing I see; a banana. I eat it slowly, and by the time I'm finished, the District 8 Reaping has started. I rush into the living room just in time to see the female tribute walk onto the stage. She looks to be about fifteen.
The handler draws a name from the bowl of males. "Gunny Porter," she reads. A male from the front row walks onto the stage. He is tall and I know from his placement that he's eighteen. He has dark brown hair.
The handler walks back over to the girl. "Tell me who you're sending to the Quarter Quell," she smiles.
The girl replies, "Selkie Needle." The tribute comes up to replace her, and I notice that Selkie only has one arm. What is wrong with these people? Why do they send their weakest to be massacred?
When the handler walks back over to Gunny, he whispers something to her and points to the bowl. She looks surprised, but nods. Gunny Porter walks over to the bowl of names and draws out a blue slip of paper. He reads the name, "Seamus Thread." A boy exits the section of sixteen-year-olds and curses. He goes up to the platform and stands on the stage, his golden hair gleaming in the sunlight. He glares at the crowd with defiant blue-green eyes. He's ticked, I can tell. His tanned jaw is locked and I expect to hear the grinding of teeth. But he looks strong.
The screen switches to District 7 and my father looks at me pointedly. I look back. "What?" He glances down from my face to my body and back again. I look down and see nothing out of the ordinary. There are my pajamas. What's wrong? I look over at my brothers quizzically and realize that they're already dressed. Lupine wears a full suit, and Randolph looks like a dork with a white dress shirt, bowtie, and suspenders. I'm supposed to be wearing my clothes by now.
I rush into my bedroom and fling my pajama pants to the floor. I yank the T-shirt over my head and throw it down too. I pull on the black jeans and Randolph's tank top before grabbing the black leather jacket out of the closet. As I stuff my arms into the sleeves, I notice that it's a bit tighter than the last time I wore this. I realize that I must have developed more muscle than I thought. But whatever; it will make me look strong. The rest of the jacket still fits perfectly.
When I exit the room, Dad looks at me again with that pointed stare. He exhales in frustration before saying, "Well, we don't have time for you to change now. It's time to head to the city."
When we arrive at the big Reaping stage in the middle of our District 6 capital city, we barely make it in time. The female handler stands on the stage and begins the same boring speech in her quirky accent. I stare up at the clouds and count them, but that's difficult because they're moving in the slight breeze. So then I focus on listening to the others around me as I stand in my place between my brothers. Thankfully, Ereed is fourteen. He doesn't stand anywhere near us on Reaping days.
As I focus on the sounds, I hear whispers from a few rows in front of me. "Man, this is so boring," the first guy says. "Yeah," the second replies, "I wish they'd just get it over with already."
I grin and focus on a different direction. I hear a girl whine about how hot it is and complain that she's sweating. I switch focus-points again and hear the voice of a young boy whimper as his friends console him. "Your name has only been in one time, Mac. The odds of them reaping you are low."
"But we're not getting reaped this year. We're getting chosen," he whimpers back.
"Who would choose you?" one of his friends says soothingly. "Or any of us? We're only twelve."
Mac argues again in a shaky voice, "But that boy from District Eleven was only twelve too." His friends say nothing after that.
Then I hear it; the telltale rustling of papers. I close my eyes and hold my breath as the woman reads out, "Maxine Wrench." I hear footsteps as a girl makes her way to the stage; footsteps as the handler crosses the stage to the other bowl of names. The papers rustle, and then stop. I'm still holding my breath as I strain my ears to hear the sound of the paper unfold. I begin to plead in my mind, over and over and over again. Please don't say Ereed Tys. Please don't say Ereed Tys. Please don't say Ereed Tys. I hear the woman take a breath to speak. And then she reads the name. "Ereed Tys."
My breath whooshes out of me with an audible sound as I lean my head forward into my hands. "I'm doomed," I say. "I'm dead. I am so dead."
I look up and see Ereed mount the stage. The handler walks back over to Maxine Wrench, a girl I don't even know. "Who are you sending to the Hunger Games?" the woman asks her.
Maxine replies with, "Octane Rev." Oh no. Octane is Hemi's older sister. And yeah, Octane has a reputation for being a stuck-up know-it-all. But she doesn't deserve a death sentence for that. And it is a death sentence. District Six has only had eighteen victors in the past century. Octane takes the stage with her chestnut hair that isn't at all like her sister's blonde locks. But they share the same blue eyes.
The handler, whose name I know to be Chortle Lowes, walks over to Ereed. Her skin is dyed purple and her hair has been styled into something that vaguely resembles a helicopter. Last year, it was car. She is known for her enthusiasm for District 6. Chortle asks Ereed, "Who will be the male tribute for District Six?" She smiles at him brightly.
I know. I already know what he's going to say. And that's when Ereed Tys looks out into the crowd, meets my eyes, and smirks. He answers her question with, "Wolfgang Canis."
A snarl erupts from the back of the crowd, and from somewhere among the girls I can hear Hemi shout in horror. Poor girl, she's losing her sister and her object of affection all in one day. Ereed doesn't leave the stage until I'm on it. I survey the crowd and see my father struggling against eight peacekeepers. He's snarling and growling and his eyes are flashing wildly, and I am aware that he is about to morph.
That's when Uncle Abel lays a hand on my father's shoulder. Dad looks at him, and Abel shakes his head. Dad stops struggling. I watch Ulrich Canis collapse to the ground and begin to cry, and it scares me. I have never seen my father cry. Not once. And yet here he is weeping on the pavement as his brother stares up at me and mouths, "Go get 'em."
And then it happens. My father lets out a long, keening howl. And like all wolves do when they hear a howl, the others answer. Uncle Abel raises his head and bellows out the deep and feral sound. My brothers raise their heads in unison and howl for me. A girl with dirty-blonde hair who I don't even know shrieks out a high-pitched canine cry. Wolf-mutts from all over the crowd holler and whoop and howl. The beauty of it all moves me, and I realize that tears are streaming down my face. So much for looking tough. I lean back my head and keen along with the rest of my kind. And then it all suddenly ends, and the silence is deafening. A few humans shudder involuntarily. I stand and survey the crowd until a peacekeeper grabs my arm and leads me into the District Hall.