Ch. 2

Shock. That is the first thing I feel. The name called out by Effie Trinket has flown out and hit me like an one hundred pound bag of flower to my stomach. I stand there, trying to remember to breathe, while I stare vacantly, completely confused. I notice that everyone around me has taken a step away from me, and I am left in the center of and empty circle. My friends are staring at me, eyes wide open in terror, as if I am about to murder them.

Swallowing the lump rising in my throat, I make my way out of the pen through the passage readily made by the other sixteen-year-old boys. From the sides of the square I hear a shriek as my mother sees me walking up to the stage. I cannot even bear to turn around. Hot tears prick at the corners of my eyes, but I hold them back. I'm on television. People nationwide can see me right now, as I make my way laboriously up to the stage. I wonder if I look ridiculous.

"Wonderful!" Effie chirps, wrapping a bony arm around my shoulders, "Peeta Mellark!" She asks for volunteers, but no one steps forward. Family only means so much on the day of the reaping, especially since my only legible family member is a stuck-up, no-good idiot. Now, on the stage, I stand rigidly, trying in vain to make time return to the morning when I was snug in my warm bed. Effie pats my shoulder in mock sympathy, seeing my shocked expression, and waltzes away to the other ball. I'm sure she doesn't mean to be so imprudent, it's just how she was brought up.

Effie Trinket is warbling in a high-pitched voice in front of the ever trembling crowd. Half of the audience is moaning sighs of relief, the terror of the day over. The other half is still shaking in fear. She reaches the ball and picks up the first name she comes across. She zips back to her podium, and I barely have enough time to wish for Katniss's safety before she's reading the name. "Freesia Glades."

I let out a sigh of relief, but cover it with coughing. A drunk Haymitch, sitting lopsided on his chair behind me, pats me hard on the back, knocking the breath out of me, and smiles manically. A tiny girl from the Seam has been chosen; she can't be more than 12 years old. My heart drops. I know I could never kill her. Her wide, innocent gray eyes, are so much like Katniss's.

I hear the grumbles of the crowd unhappy with the choosing of a 12-year-old. And then I see her, pale faced and tight lipped, doing everything she can to hold back her tears. Another girl begins shrieking from another roped off section. She has the same slender build, the same wide eyes; she must be Freesia's sister. She pushes others out of the way as she races up to the shaking, frightened child, and pushes her behind herself defiantly.

"I volunteer!" she gasps. Her voice is a pained whimper. "I volunteer as tribute!"

The stage erupts in chaos. District 12 hasn't had a volunteer since before I can remember, and I'm pretty neither the mayor nor Effie Trinket seems very sure of the rules. As far as I can remember, another legible boy or girl can take your place if they so desire. In some districts volunteering is a huge, honorable thing, especially in the Career districts like 1 and 2. But in District 12, where the word tribute is pretty much synonymous with the word corpse, volunteers are all but extinct.

"Lovely!" says Effie Trinket. "But I believe there's a small matter…" She trails off, quite unsure of what it is she's trying to say.

The younger girl, Freesia, is screaming hysterically behind her. She has wrapped her arms around the older girl, refusing to release her. "No, Poppy! No! You can't go!" she shrieks, sobbing. Peacekeepers have begun moving towards the pair. The older girl bends down, whispering in her ear, and the younger girl's arms slowly release her. She raises her chin up defiantly and begins walking up the aisle.

"Well, bravo!" gushes Effie Trinket as the girl mounts the stage stiffly. "What's your name, dear?"

The girl's eyes are wide as wide as saucers with fear. "P-poppy Glades," she stammers, barely whispering.

"I bet that was your sister." Effie exclaims, slinging her arm around the tiny girl. I see Poppy flinch at her touch. "Well, let's have a round of applause for our volunteer. That's the spirit of the Games!"

Not one person claps. During the silence, Haymitch chooses to come staggering across the stage to congratulate her. "Look at her. Look at this one!" he hollers, throwing one arm around her shoulders. He's frightening her with his slurred motions and the wild look in his eyes. "I like her!" His eyes cross as he concentrates in his drunken state, giving him a ridiculous appearance. "More than you!" He releases her so fast she nearly falls over and starts for the front of the stage. "More than you!" he shouts, pointing directly into a camera.

I can't even understand his foolish antics. He can't be serious, it's just the liquor talking. As he stumbles to the edge of the stage he trips over the hem of his overly long coat and plummets from the stage, instantly out cold.

He's disgusting, but I'm appreciative for a moment to myself. The cameras are busy trailing after Haymitch, giving me time to breathe and relax before the horrors that lie before me now. Poppy looks relieved, too. I catch her gaze as she turns her head slightly and give a small smile, which she doesn't return. Her face is drawn and as white as a sheet.

Haymitch is quickly taken away, and Effie tries to pull the cameras back to herself. "What an exciting day!" she nearly screeches, very embarrassed. Her face has turned a horrendous shade of pink, matching her hair color perfectly. The mayor begins to read the long, dull Treaty of Treason as he does every year at this point – it's required -but I'm not listening to a word. My mind is full of relief that Katniss is safe, she is protected. I stare longingly at her shocked expression and our eyes lock for a moment, but I turn my gaze. I doubt she remembers me, the boy with the bread.

The mayor finishes the dreary Treaty of Treason and motions for Poppy and I to shake hands. Hers are ice cold and stiff. I squeeze her hand encouragingly, but her face is frozen in a mask of terror and she won't look me in the eye.

We turn back to face the crowd as the anthem of Panem plays, marking the end of the reaping.

My luck has run out.