Pippa Mason, District 5

I sat up in bed, my usually smooth red hair frizzing out to both sides in an unruly mob.

My little siblings Alyssa and Lukas appeared in my doorway. They knew that what I was about to do today was dangerous. Lukas in particular, blond hair brushed down, looked at me with particular interest.

"Did you tell Mom?" he asked. I studied my bedsheet's swirly pattern.

Lukas crossed his arms.

"Think, Pippa! She'll go crazy!" Alyssa chided. Who was she, Mother?

"Be quiet! I know what I'm doing!" I yelled back. The twins retreated into the shadows of the hallway. I sighed loudly, pulling myself from my bed. I shut my door and dressed in a cream-colored flowy mini-like dress with brown flats. It's not like I need to look taller, I'm already 5' 9". I ran a brush through my hair, the curls laying glossy and clean between my shoulder blades. The little gold flecks in my eyes shined back at me, and I smiled, my dimples appearing. I pounded my feet on the steps, hoping to alert my Mom that I was on my way down. A dingy sepia-colored photo hung on the wall, of my Mom and Dad. I turned my head, a rougue tear slipping down my cheek. I fought the urge to smash the frame; I wiped the tear away and continued down.

"Mom?" I asked. No answer. I peered out the window. She was scattering food for the chickens. I walked out into the leafy garden, intoxicating scents drifting into my nose. My horse, Sky Spirit, was a piercing white blot on the green field and blue sky. I ran towards her. Finally, she whinnied a greeting. I patted her mane.

"Good girl. Wanna head to the Reaping?" I questioned. She shook at my touch. I bounced myself onto her back, knowing that I could easily ride bareback to the Square. We cantered the way there. Marice Grayson smiled gruesomely from the 17-year-old section. I turned quietly and cursed under my breath. As I was about to flee the scene, Anson walked up. He was possibly my best friend. He grabbed my wrist.

"Pippa, this is dangerous. Are you sure about it?" he asked. I nodded, and he sighed and let me free. Our escort, a chubby gray-headed man, took the stand. He called a name, and a younger boy took the stand. A heard a faint weeping from a girl in another section. Then, as he was about to say the next tribute, I called out,

"I volunteer!"

The escort shook his flabby chin and grinned. He looked like Santa.

"Well, we have our tributes, and possibly a winner from our District this year!"

I couldn't help but think how right he was.