After hearing the history of our county and the names of our past victors, our district's escort, Sattie Bowler, leaves her chair and shimmies across the stage in her brightly colored Capitol clothes that are too layered for the warm, humid climate of my district. Somehow, though, the woman doesn't break a sweat, and I wonder if it's the make up that helps with that.
Among the seventeen year olds penned together, I'm clustered with the other possible volunteers in the front. If the name of a possible volunteer of any age isn't reaped, one of the eighteen years olds will volunteer. They've decided amongst themselves long before the reaping which eighteen year old will have the opportunity, and under no circumstance is anyone to steal their glory.
Since Finnick Odair, our district hasn't had a victor, and I often fantasize to be the one to break that embarrassing streak. I see my district rallying around me with love and adoration; it's the reason why I signed up for the volunteer pool. After years of being invisible in the community home, years of having nothing, I hope to one day be reaped either by my name called or as an eighteen year old.
It's not that I do this only for myself. Even as I think of him, my eyes wander in his direction over at the eighteen year olds corralled across the aisle created by the cordoned off groups of children.
Ryan is standing there among those in the front, their possible volunteers, with his auburn hair even redder in the sunlight, and his sea green eyes seemingly glowing against his heavily tanned skin. They are trained on me, and my heart thumps wildly.
When I dream of being a victor and moving into Victors' Village, I dream of him there with me.
Back on the stage, Sattie Bowler squeaks out, "Happy Hunger Games," into the microphone in her irritatingly high voice and Capitol accent. I'm not sure if her voice his naturally that high, but I can't image why anyone would purposely try for such an annoying pitch. Either way, I have no idea why my stomach churns with anticipation. I won't be called this year; the older volunteers have taken countless more teserae than I have.
Sattie says a little joke to entertain her audience, but all I can hear is the buzzing in my ears until she says, "Now, let's choose our girl, shall we?" before shimmying from the microphone to the table holding the two bowls of names. She dips her glowing pink, perfectly manicured fingers into one of them, swirling them around a bit to stretch out the suspense.
Everyone around me is breathing heavily with their faintest hope for their chance of being reaped, but I know my chances are slim at best. Or so I thought.
"Anne Cresta."
There was a moment when the sound of my own name couldn't penetrate the buzzing in my head that's grown louder again but when it sinks in, when it finally sinks in that I've been reaped, I look at the faces around me and smile. I almost cry, but I can't let myself do that. I'm from the volunteer pool, so I don't have to fear that someone will volunteer and take my place.
I take those first shaky steps out of the cluster of my peers and to the two peacekeepers waiting for me. They escort me down the aisle and allow me to ascend the stairs alone.
Sattie grabs my shoulders and air kisses my cheeks with a quick congratulations before shimmying away and back to the table with the bowls. One of our district's surviving victors, Mags, hugs me tightly as though she's afraid for me, and I try not to take it personally. Not everyone comes back from the Games, but I will.
Finnick Odair, the other surviving victor of our district doesn't come to shake my hand or anything. It's not something he does with any of our tributes since he's been a mentor. Instead, he remains slung down in his chair with his arm casually across the top of the back rest and looks as though nothing of what's going on around him interests him. For good measure, he yawns to let us know just how bored he is.
I turn to face my district and wait for Sattie to call out the male tribute, but when I hear the name, "Ryan Harrow," my heart that was beating so wildly only moments before stops immediately. It can't be. I refuse to believe his name was called and wonder if I hallucinated it until he starts to walk away from the boys his age and to the stage.
The old saying mocks me: "May the odds be ever in your favor." I want to cry, and I allow myself do it because it's not fair.
Ryan makes his way up the stairs and is greeted by Sattie and her air kisses, then takes his place beside me just before Mags pulls him into the same hug as she gave me. This time I don't begrudge her her concern because I feel it too, now.
As our district cheers for us, their two tributes, I let the tears fall freely and force a smile to my face in hopes that Panem will mistake my crying for tears of joy. All the same, I know that one of us has to die for the other to live. I won't live in Victors' Village without Ryan; I can't. I turn to face him and see his hard facade that could easily be mistaken for arrogant confidence, but I know it's not. I know.
I turn for one last glance at our district's two surviving victors that are now our mentors and see the expression on Mags's face. For years, I'd always thought that it was concern that the fresh haul of tributes would shame our district, but I'm not so sure anymore.
It's Finnick Odair that catches my eye most. He's looking at me curiously, studying me like a toddler watching a school of fish for the first time. As emotionally drained as I feel, I have no stomach to stand up to his stare. I face forward again, but let me head dip down to stare at my toes and let the tears fall on them.