Chapter One
The morning light streams in through the windows, highlighting our scrubbed bare countertops that I try to keep clean. I swallow, trying to ignore the sick feeling in my stomach. It's reaping day. Even though it's the last reaping day my name will be in the pool of tributes, I don't feel any safer. I know my name is in there 18 times, having taken tesserae for my father and I each year I was eligible. Ours is a big district, and there are often volunteers. Careers, we call them, since they train their whole lives for the opportunity to participate in the games. But unlike in Districts 1 and 2, there's less of a chance we'll have careers volunteer. There haven't been any since before Finnick Odair. I guess no one is ready to try to live up to his legacy.
Even if it's a reaping day, my father will still expect me to make breakfast. I pull out some fish from our ice box and light up the stove. The fish are sizzling on the griddle, almost done before my father comes into the kitchen.
"It smells burnt," he says in greeting.
"It's not burnt," I reply shakily, using a spatula to plate the fish. I would have preferred to keep them on a minute or so more, but I don't want to aggravate my father. Today is not the day to start any fights with him.
My father grabs the plate and sits at the table, looking up at me with a scowl. I instinctively reach up to rake my fingers through my hair before he says, "Make sure you style your hair, it looks like seaweed that's washed up on shore. I won't have you embarrassing me if you're called in the reaping. It's your last chance to be chosen, and you better hope they read your name so you can finally do something good in this world."
A stab of pain settles into my stomach, mingling with the anxious butterflies that occupy it. It's not unusual for my father to say things like this to me. My mother died giving birth to me, and that's something he'll never forgive me for. But it hurts just the same every time. Having completely lost my appetite, I get up and walk back to my room to dress.
I pull out my one good dress that I've worn almost exclusively for the reaping. Luckily I haven't grown in the past couple of years, so it still fits me. My father would always complain that buying me clothes took up too much of his salary, and I don't like to ask him for things anyway. I pin my hair up in a simple bun on the back of my head before going to the bathroom to clean my teeth. I take my time with the water, letting it run from the tap into the white porcelain sink as I imagine myself near a waterfall, somewhere miles from here where it's just me and no one expects anything of me and I'm safe. Surrounded by lush, green trees, the water pooling beneath the waterfall the clearest blue. I imagine I'm swimming through the water, content. Eyes unfocused, I reach forward to turn off the tap. As good as the daydream is, I don't want to give my father another reason to yell at me. Fresh water is in short supply this year.
The rest of the morning passes in a daze as I do my daily chores, trying my best to not think of what is going to happen in the afternoon, but the time comes all too quickly.
As I'm finishing up, emptying the dust bin in the trash, my father storms into the kitchen, eyes frantic as if he'd been waiting hours for me. "Annie, I swear if you make me late for this reaping—"
"I'm almost done, father. Just let me get my shoes." I bite my tongue, holding back a million things I'd regret saying.
"I'll meet you outside," he says as he walks to the front door and slams it shut behind him.
I hurry to my room and grab my worn-down brown flats from beneath my bed. Slipping them onto my feet, I turn and take a look at my room. One small window that overlooks our neighborhood square, a simple bed with thin blue sheets, and a table in the corner, covered with the shells I collected from the beach. I can never resist a pretty shell. My collection is full of colorful swirls and unique shapes. A few of them are pearlescent. This could be the last time I'm in here, I think to myself. The thought turns my blood cold and I shake my head, wishing the thought would shake out of my ears and leave me, but it won't. The odds are in my favor, but I still could be chosen today.
The town square is full by the time my father and I arrive. The sections for possible tributes roped off in front, and adults spilling out and all the way around the white granite justice building as they try to find a place they can see the screens that will project today's proceedings. The Capitol might require everyone to watch the reapings and the Games, but they don't bother to provide enough screens for such a large District as ours so that people can easily see what's going on, even from the back of the crowd.
Without a word to me, my father leaves to join the rest of the adults, and I wait in line to be checked in for the reaping. I scan the crowds and find my friend Shelley just a few feet from me, her almost-white blonde hair shining in the sun. She's immersed in a conversation with the boy next to her, someone I recognize from school. When she sees me looking toward her, she briefly rolls her eyes and I'm unsure if she's rolling her eyes at me or about me.
"Annie! Thank goodness you're here," she comes toward me and then pulls me back to her place in line. I shudder, wondering if I should apologize to the people I'm skipping. "Antony here was just saying he thinks it's a good thing that people place bets on the tributes. Please tell him that nothing could be more barbaric."
I look up at Antony. His tanned face set in defiance, waiting for me to disagree with him. It is a common practice for adults, especially those with no children, to place bets on who will be reaped, who will die first, and who will be the victors.
"I—" I begin to say but he cuts me off, turning his whole body back toward Shelley.
"It boosts our economy, you see. People who have less a chance to be successful in the fishing or trading industries can make it big if they place their bets right." He takes a deep breath and puts his hands on his hips, looking slightly upward. "Next year, I know I'm going to be betting. If I plan it just right, I won't even have to apply for any jobs! Imagine. A whole year to just do whatever I want. You could do it too, Shelley. Just abandon your moral judgement, come on, it could be fun." He grins and waggles his eyebrows at her.
"Oh please," Shelley playfully shoves him, and then pulls me over to another line, cutting in front of a few other people. I look back at them apologetically, but they don't seem to mind. Nobody's in a rush to get to the reaping. "With any luck, Antony will be chosen today and we will be freed from his company forever."
"Shelley, you shouldn't say things like that."
Shelley puts her hand on my shoulder. "I know, I know. We all can't be like Saint Annie though now, can we? Some of us have got to tell it as it is." Shelley is the kind of person who says what she's thinking. Sometimes I wonder what it is she sees in me, who so rarely voices her opinion. Shelley has a lot of friends, and seems to make friends with everyone she meets, but for some reason, she always comes back to keep me company. She doesn't ask much of me, and seems to be satisfied that our friendship consists of her doing most of the talking. That works for me. Shelley's not the type of person I'd feel comfortable with sharing all of my deepest thoughts and secrets with, but then again, I can't think of anyone I would feel that way with. So our arrangement works just fine for me.
Slowly, we march our way up toward the check-in, where they prick our fingers to document our DNA, and then we're ushered over to our section. Girls on the left, boys on the right.
By the time we get to our places, my feet are aching a bit from the long walk and standing on the cobblestone that's loosely placed in the sand. Even Shelley seems to be too nervous to say anything. We just watch wordlessly as the mayor gets up to welcome everyone. Yardley, our district's escort from the Capitol, approaches the microphone. She's wearing a fluffy yellow dress that reminds me of a fishing tackle. I wonder if she picked it out on purpose, since District Four is the fishing district.
"Happy Hunger Games, and may the odds be ever in your favor," she says in a cheerful tone, her Capitol accent making it sound like a question. I wonder if their accent comes out this way because deep down, they too question if what they're doing is the right thing. "As usual, ladies first!"
With a broad smile outlined by brightly purple lips, Yardley walks toward the large glass bowl that holds all of the slips of paper for the girls. Each one printed with someone's name. I look around briefly, wondering whose name it will be this year. I know the names of many of the girls around me, but I wouldn't consider them friends. It's hard making friends when each year you know there's a chance they'll be sent off to their deaths. And even harder making friends with people who plan to volunteer for the games. I can't stand the thought of anyone relishing in that kind of violence. I'm still looking away from the stage when Yardley reads out the name of the girl tribute for this year.
"Annie Cresta."