2 – Reaping

Prim is re-tying her goat to its post as I approach the next morning, her delicate fingers fumbling the knot. My mother has dressed her in the reaping clothes that I used to wear; she has always been smaller than me and the blouse un-tucks at the back as she bends over.

"Come on, little duck," I say as I pass her, as cheerfully as I can. "I've got a treat for you."

Prim looks up at me. It would kill her to disappoint anyone, and she seems to think that feigning enthusiasm will make me feel better. She doesn't know that this is the only thing that could make me feel even more hollow. Her hands clutch the skirt desperately, as though all of her fear is channelling through them. I unlace my boots at the door, noting that some of its wire mesh needs repairing before the summer. Because this summer will be no different from the last, I think. We can't be selected. I've signed up for tesserae, and my name slips are fast multiplying each year, but my chances are still slim. With her name in once, the odds are in Prim's favour. And Gale…I can't think about Gale. This is his last year. By tomorrow, that danger is over.

Inside, my mother is watching the District 4 reapings. Her eyes are glazed.

"Turn it off."

She turns around, startled, as though she does not understand what I have said. I stride over to the projector and turn it off, taking a moment to compose myself before turning back to Prim. The last thing on the projector was the face of a woman as her son walked to the platform. There were no tears, but her desperate attempt to comprehend was more powerful than a thousand weeping mothers. Wordlessly, I take some wool out of my pocket that I bought with our deer money at the Hob and put it on the table for her to see.

Prim is not so quick to recover her composure. Her wide eyes are still fixed on the wood wall the image played. I reach into my pocket again and bring out an iced bun. She looks up at me, as though asking for validity. I hand it to her, and I see the struggle in her head.

"Have it afterwards," I tell her. "We can share it." There is a pause, in which she holds the bun as though it might disappear.

I don't want to leave Prim alone, but I have to wash the grime off me. Upstairs, our brass bath is barely lukewarm. I perch on the edge of it, using a cloth to scrub my skin until it is raw. I wash my hair too, leaning my head over the edge, watching as the murky water drips from my knees to the floorboards. If I'm not careful the whole ceiling will come down. It happened once to someone not too far from here. Luckily they were out…Prim would most likely be at school. My mother...

I realise what I'm thinking and feel disgusted at myself. Abruptly, I straighten up, drying myself with an old blanket, seeing my olive skin clean for the first time in weeks. I feel almost exposed, as though without my armour, the affirmation that I can provide for myself. That I have a purpose.

On the bed my mother has laid out one of her old dresses for me. I'm taken aback, wondering if this is her way of reaching out to me. Catching sight of myself in the mirror, I am startled at how much I resemble her, when there was still life in her eyes.

A loud knoll reverberates around us. I hear Prim gasp. We do not have long. Dark hair still loose around my shoulders, I walk calmly downstairs, to see Prim in the middle of the room, clutching her skirt like a lifeline. Crouching down to eye level, I reassure her with a story about my first reaping. Most of it is untrue; all I can remember is feeling as though I was the only one in the square, that my name was bound to be the one in the Capitol woman's talons, and wondering if at least I would be well-fed before I died.

"You look beautiful," I tell her, enveloping her in my arms and stroking her soft, light hair.

"I thought I could do your hair," my mother offers, and I am surprised to see her standing up, speaking to me. Another knoll. Prim's body becomes rigid.

"No time," I mutter, pulling it into my usual braid as we make for the door. I do not wait to see her expression.

I hold Prim's hand tightly all the way to the square. Families join us, with a sobriety reserved for this time of year. As houses get denser, their structures a little more substantial than those at the Seam, I can see that the Peacekeepers have tried to clean the place up a little, with limited success. The grey buildings in the square have been hosed down, glinting structures erected to support Capitol seals and a large screen. For such a small girl, Prim has a surprisingly strong grip on my hand. Excess water has collected in the mud of the square, and I can feel it begin to soak through my thin soles. A blister on my heel starts to sting. They have used disinfectant, too, as if we were diseased. In all fairness, some of us are. When we reach the registration desks, I have to prise her fingers from mine.

"It's okay, Prim. I'm just over there," I point towards the section where other sixteen-year-olds will be standing. "You go over there with your friends, hm?" I tuck her shirt into her skirt and smile at her, although I can tell that she knows it's forced. "I'll see you afterwards. Can I have some of your bun?" My eyes are beginning to sting so I let go of her.

Prim nods, numbly. I watch her as she walks across the square to join her line, looking too small. Too small to be going through this yet. As they prick my finger, I look around for Gale. Being a head taller than most people his age, I spot him immediately, already filed in his line. I catch his eye and he nods. After this, let's hunt, he's saying. It's a tradition now, almost. The best afternoon of the year, after the worst morning, when we can begin to quench the gnawing hunger left behind by our fear of the worst. 42 times. I can see the bowl that holds the boys' names. There are 42 slips of paper in there reading Gale Hawthorne. All for a bag of grain and some coal. The coal that we mine.

I join the other girls my age, who I know from school, some even from the Seam. But the reaping is not a time for communication; everyone stays silent, looking down mostly, trying not to seem conspicuous, as though that will stop them from being selected. We are among the last there, living the furthest out of town. So not long after we are assembled, I hear the whine of the microphone, and see Effie Trinket totter out of the Justice Building, a wide-brimmed green hat shading her eyes against the sun.