I

Effie Trinket, the Capitol representative for District 12, taps over to the large bowl containing the girls' names. She dips her fingers in amongst many, so very many slips of paper, each written with the name of a potential Tribute. I know that there are thousands of names written more times than is right, is fair – but isn't that a funny thought to be having on Reaping day. I swallow hard.
After what seems like an eternity – but in reality is only a moment – Effie returns to her microphone. She slowly unfastens the slip of paper, pauses a beat as the name forms on her lips.
" Primrose Everdeen," she trills.
My mind reels, and I search the crowd for not the owner of that name, but one who shares her surname. Why her? I wonder, then check myself to make sure I haven't uttered the words aloud. It is never fair when a young Tribute is called, but I know in my heart what will happen. I find the dark hair in the crowd, watch her jaw work even while her body seems paralyzed. Blonde hair catches my eye – it's striking how different they look, though they are full blooded sisters – and I see Primrose Everdeen start making her way up to the stage. This, I can't watch, I know what is going to happen even before she does. I train my eyes on the ground – probably the only eyes not on the scene unfolding – but hear perfectly well. Her voice shatters the silence.
"Prim!" Her voice cracks at the end of the name, and I can hear movement now. "Prim!" I dare to look up, and watch my prediction come to life. She rushes to catch up to her sister, her lifeline, and does so just in front of the stage. I wish so badly that I could shove the cameras away from this moment, but there they are, every eye, every lens trained on what is happening. Sweeping Prim behind her, Katniss Everdeen shouts the words I knew were coming.
"I volunteer!" she gasps," I volunteer as Tribute." There's a note in her voice, a sense of urgency, as if she's worried that they won't hear her.
"Lovely!" Effie coos, looking down on the small knot of people, mostly made up of Peacekeepers, that have formed at the bottom of the stage. "But I believe there's a small matter of introducing the reaping winner and then asking for volunteers, and if one does come forth then we, um…" her voice tapers off as the Mayor steps forward. He mutters something, his eyes betraying his feelings at what's happening in front of him. He looks to have aged ten years in a matter of minutes.
"What does it matter?" The Mayor's repeated words find their way to the microphone for the rest of us to hear. "Let her come forward."
The scene is truly heartbreaking. Everyone knows Prim, sweet Prim who wouldn't have the heart to hurt a fly. She's known around the Seam and Merchant areas of District 12 alike. Often I would see her pull Katniss, her polar opposite, to the shop window to look at the treats we keep on display. Every so often she'd venture over to the shop window herself, and would smile at me through the weathered glass.
She wraps her arms around her sister and wails. I know she's begging Katniss not to go, but what alternative is there? Katniss would never – could never – let her sister go to the Games no matter the cost, even her own life. Especially her own life. She's predictable in that regard. I register movement off to my right; see a form moving towards the group. Gale deftly plucks Prim off the ground, unhinging her arms from around Katniss and drags her away from the stage. I don't know Gale personally, but I hear as much as the next person. He and Katniss hunt outside of our District boundaries, though it is strictly forbidden, and trade in the Black Market known as the Hob. He's my polar opposite on most fronts. I've never strayed from our little compound, never seen life outside of the coal-dusted town.
"Well bravo!" Squeals Effie, who has a stunned Katniss beside her. "That's the spirit of the games! What's your name?" I gag inwardly at her words. Spirit of the Games, what a joke. The spirit of the Games is built on a thirst for blood brought on by a vengeful overlord Capitol. Most of the population of the Districts weren't even alive during or directly following the Dark Days. It just goes to show exactly what effect a long-standing bitterness can have.
Katniss' voice is barely audible when she speaks her name in reply. She stands tall and proud on the stage, fists clenched at her sides. Only her eyes betray her fear.
"I bet my buttons that was your sister. Don't want her to steal all the glory, do we? Come on everybody! Let's give a big round of applause to our newest Tribute!" Effie says, trying hard to bring an upbeat note to this occasion. She claps a few times herself. Being from the Capitol, how is she to know that this occasion is a day of dread for the rest of us, not a holiday to celebrate? She should know, says a little voice in my head. She should know that she's gathering children for slaughter.
For an eternity, nobody moves. Silence. This in itself is a bold move; our District refusing to acknowledge the feeling of celebration that the Capitol wants us to embrace. I see movement out of the corner of my eye, then another. Slowly, we all make the same motion; we bring our middle three fingers of our left hands to our lips then outstretch our arms towards the stage. It's an old, almost forgotten tradition in 12 which makes the motion that much more shocking; it's a way of us to silently say "thank you. Good-bye." I cannot imagine this act of defiance going over well in the Capitol, but I squash that thought before it can form ideas as to what shape our punishment will take.
Katniss stares in bewilderment at her District. I feel a swelling in my throat, but that's as far into the emotion I go. She doesn't know how her song captured my heart all those years ago. How I've been trying to catch her eye for years, trying to work up the nerve to speak to her. I vow to go and see her in the Justice building after the reaping. I have no idea what I will say to her, but it is suddenly of utmost importance that I do.
Haymitch, the only living Victor in District 12, chooses this time to make his grand entrance. He's stumbling and visibly very drunk. His words slosh as he speaks. "Look at her. Look at this one!" He bellows, not needing a microphone to reach everyone in the crowd. Katniss tries to shy away, but gets wrapped in his unwelcome, unsteady embrace despite her best efforts. He slings his arm around her shoulders, looking about as steady as the liquid coursing through his veins. "I like her! Lots of…" he stumbles, looking for the evasive word, "spunk!" He finishes victoriously. "More than you!" He releases Katniss of holding him upright and staggers to the front of the stage, pointing. "More than you!"
There seems to be an electric current in the crowd at his words. First the united front of respect and graitiude for Katniss, now this; a Victor seeming to challenge the Capitol itself. Some will take it as nothing more than rambling from a drunken man who doesn't know where he is or who he's addressing. Guaranteed that is how the Capitol is spinning it right now as the whole thing is broadcast live across Panem. Mercifully, this point is driven home as Haymitch loses balance and teeters over the edge of the stage, knocking himself out. I release the breath I haven't been aware I was holding. Perhaps it will just be overlooked as incoherent rambling, after all, not lumped together with today's other inflammatory events.
"What an exciting day!" Effie, who is noticeably disturbed, clears her throat trying to lose the warble that has crept its way into her voice. "But more excitement to come! It's time to choose our boy tribute." She quickly tip-taps over to the bowl containing the boys' names. Her lips are pursed even tighter than they were before, draining the blood from the edges. She makes no show about digging around for a name, and hurries back to her spot. It's clear she wants to get this over and done with so she can be on her way back to the lap of luxury. I can almost hear her begging to be upgraded to a more glorious District, or at least one without a single, drunken Victor who tries to molest you in public.
I feel my pulse quicken, along with most of the District's, as Effie unfolds the paper. "Peeta Mellark!"
I realize for the briefest of moments that due to the recent events, I didn't even have time to worry too much about my own name being drawn. It takes a moment to register; my mouth works as if it's chewing on the letters, digesting the meaning. I feel like I've been punched. I feel eyes on me, and the crowd collectively takes a step or two back from me, as if being a Tribute is contagious. I hear mumbling around me and it registers somewhere in my brain that a few of my friends are apologizing needlessly, wishing me luck. I nod dumbly back at them, and a path clears for me to pass easily to the aisle where I will walk my last steps as a free man. I know I will not walk these steps again. In District 12, the word "Tribute" is practically synonymous with "Dead" and I know that I am no exception.
Shaking my head to clear it, I try to walk as boldly as possible to take my place along the stage. I realize my jaw is slack, mouth slightly open, and set it solidly instead. I glance at Katniss, who is staring blankly straight ahead. I clench my trembling hands into fists, hoping that it isn't obvious how terrified I am.
"Are there any volunteers?" Effie asks, her voice shrill. Of course there aren't. Family ties only go so far. I scan the crowd, finding my mother, father and oldest brother – too old to volunteer even if he would – standing in the sidelines. My mother is avoiding my gaze. My father's face is ashen, and he looks so very tired. Blyne is staring straight back at me; his eyes – whole shades lighter than mine – look sad. He knows, too, that I will not be returning. Raff, in the crowd not far from where I was standing, glances up at me briefly, teeth grinding, before his eyes return to drilling holes in the ground.
It registers somewhere in my unconscious that Gale hasn't volunteered to go in and protect Katniss.