D5- 18- (Anya Saitov)
I listen to the other girls' breaths. Though the room's lights are off, brightness shoots around. My open window lets in breathable, fresh air. I am glad my sleeping arrangements are next to a window. For some reason, it feels safer and a lot more bearable than the rest of the orphanage, but I am sheepish to admit this, because it shows that there is weakness in me, and I hate that. I am cold and reserved, and that is all people need to know, think, or see out of me.
I stand up at the nick of 7:59, yawn, and stretch before anyone has woken up. Then, as the big grandfather clock's hand moves to the twelve, signaling that it's eight since the little hand is on the eight, a chime sounds and a digital clock in the middle of the room goes off loudly. The girl closest to it turns the alarm off as everyone begins to groan and get up. When it's 8:01, the grandfather clock stops chiming. Its quiet dongs are consistent, regular, hourly sounds that the members of the Community Home have gotten used to, and we can sleep right through it.
My own personal brownnoser, bootlicker, parasite—there are many words for this girl—wakes up. Perhaps adulator is a better word to describe Claretta Hawley, as she can be annoying, but Claretta is also, at times, company. She doesn't speak much, she's actually rather absentminded, but even though I know it's weak and idiotic of me to feel the need for company, even occasionally, she will always sit there, and she will always let something I say go in one ear and out the other if I want her to. And if I felt the need to confide in her, which I don't think I ever will, and I told her not to tell, told her to forget, she would. She would for me. I think she considers me a friend.
I consider her an adulator.
"Up and at 'em, girlies," says the headmistress of the orphanage part of the Community Home as she comes in. (As if anyone wouldn't be awake; it's an automatic demerit for not being up when the mistress—or, in the boys' case, master—checks, and the punishments for certain numbers of demerits can be grueling, awful work.) The other part of the Home is the senior center. Because, you know, people thought there would be over twenty seniors to occupy this place when it was built, but what with our corrupted government, that's not going to happen. "Get dressed in your uniforms and head down to breakfast."
"What's for breakfast?" Sara Creighton asks, before yawning and popping her knuckles.
"Scrambled eggs and a strip of bacon per person," says Headmistress Tyler. "Headmaster Tyler had some of his eighteen-year-olds work a little later to even get enough chocolate milk for everyone in the Home, too."
You see, the Community Home is poor. After all, it is one small community-ran home, feeding and sheltering so many people. That is why people dread becoming orphans. You know, other than losing everyone they've so idiotically depended on for their whole lives.
Headmistress Tyler leaves us to get dressed. I sift through my dresser drawer for a clean uniform. On nights when I am very absorbed in planning the future—for I have plans; plans to escape and live a life outside of the Home—I don't bother walking all the way to the bathroom in the dead of night, risking someone in charge seeing me still in my uniforms, looking like I haven't slept a wink, with a pencil and a torn notepad in my arms.
I will not risk someone finding my plans.
The girls head to the dressing rooms located near the bathrooms just down the hall. Those who didn't get their uniforms out in time to go on the first round sit on their bed and chitchat idly, worrying about today or complaining that we'll get extraordinary food compared to usual, and then tomorrow we'll be back to the usual sludge. I can't help but feel this girl was once rich.
Claretta and I sit, together, on our own beds.
"I'm kind of scared," says Claretta suddenly.
I look at her. "Don't be," I snap. "It's useless to worry over something we can't think about yet."
She pauses. "So you haven't even begun to plan yet," she asks, "about if you get reaped?"
"Why waste my time?" I retort. "I have much more important things to plan."
"Like what?" Claretta asks excitably, conversationally, upbeat.
I roll my eyes and glare, and Claretta bows her head as though she has committed the worst crime in all of history and is so horribly ashamed of it that she just might collapse over and die. I repeat my previous motions when she looks back up, and instead of looking down at her folded hands in her lap, she turns to see if anyone has come back from the dressing rooms.
Macy Telemann enters the room, and Claretta stands up. She looks down at me for approval to go before me, and I shrug. When she's gone, I shake my head at her insecurities and the fact that she usually thinks she has to clear everything she does up with me before she does it. Moments later another girl returns, so I stand up and head out of the room, down the hall, and into the dressing rooms, pulling the silly Community Home uniform along with me.
In the dressing rooms, I quickly undress and dress. Then I go across the hallway to the bathroom and search through all the girls' toothbrushes until I've found my, labeled "Anya Saitov." It bothers me that any jerk who I simply rub the wrong way could come along and use my toothbrush, and that, honestly, would be disgusting. But I must brush my teeth, so I do, quickly, and use the restroom. Then I wash my hands and creep back to the girls' room. Someone takes my place and stalks to the dressing rooms.
I sigh and sit on my bed again, waiting for everyone to get done so we can go eat breakfast. Sometimes when the girls are late to the dining hall, someone will have already sat down with my friend, Hawken Kelley. I tell Hawken nearly everything—that I have escape plans, what I feel about others, how I critique just about stinking everything in the world, and I know this, but I do it anyway, because people just have too many flaws for me to keep quiet.
But there are two things I will never tell anyone: what my escape plans are, and the details of my parents' death.
It's simple, really. They died when I was seven in an accident at the nuke plant they worked at which released radioactive toxins. There were no survivors.
When the last of girls trickle back in, we all head down to the cafeteria, where I get in line for breakfast towards the front and then slide into the two-person table Hawken's chosen. His chocolate milk is nearly gone, but other than that, he hasn't eaten a thing yet. I, thirsty, take a sip of my milk and look up at him, knowing it is not reaping jitters that have him on-edge. Or, I dearly hope not, at least.
"Hey," he says quietly. The little corner of the cafeteria we're usually found sitting in at meals accumulates no other children, as they all gather in groups at the centermost, biggest tables, chatting and giggling amongst friends and pals. "How're you doing?"
I shrug. "Why?"
"No reason," Hawken says coldly. "Can't I just ask?"
"You never ask," I snap back. "So can't I just wonder why you would now?"
He shakes his head. "How are you doing?"
I roll my eyes. "Fine."
"How's the sycophant?" Hawken asks.
"She's fine. Just as clingy and Claretty as always," I tell Hawken, and he nods.
He bends over his plate slightly and eats all of his food, savoring nothing. I roll my eyes again at his typical maleness. Then I begin eating my food and savor it, for I know that from tonight on, we won't have as much food. The quality of the food I don't mind. They could feed me leftovers from a pig's trough, and if it was all they could get me, I'd eat it and savor it, trying to hold it down. But, nonetheless, I would eat it and wouldn't complain. But I sincerely wish that they could feed us more than they do, because the starved stay starving, and the well-off complain too much because they are grouchy with hunger. And the people like I used to be - not well-off, but not dirt-poor - stay exactly the same: used to it and will not complain, but always living their life, dreaming of more.
"Today's our last year," says Hawken after he wipes his mouth off after drinking chocolate milk.
"No, remember?" I say. "It's your last year. The girls have to stay until they're nineteen because it's 'harder for us to get a job.'" I groan, thinking of the headmaster and mistress's ignorance. But it doesn't matter, because I'll be escaping rather soon if all goes well.
Hawken looks at me, confused. I wave it off and sip at my milk, and then burst out, "Why is everyone so concerned with the reaping this year, all of the sudden?"
Hawken stares at me, and then finishes his chocolate milk without answering. He gets up and heads to the trashcans and throws away his Styrofoam cup and hands his tray to the cooks. Then he comes back over to me. He doesn't sit down, but he does tell me, "Figure it out." Then he proceeds to sit by some of his guy friends and leaves me at the table, without even Claretta.
Oh, yes, I am leaving this place ASAP.
…
When we are dismissed and told we can leave the premises if over the age of thirteen, I immediately take my escape plans from under my pillow and dart out, through my window, and run as fast as I can. To nowhere, really. I am just trying to find a quiet, Hawken-free, Claretta-free, orphanage-free, outdoor place where I can sit without the threat of someone overseeing my plans. A quiet place, too. But I am not aiming for anywhere, and instead just running, looking for this imaginary place.
I find it near the ruins. I don't even realize that that is where I am until I look down at my notepad and see the words, scrawled along the paper:
I THINK I SHALL LIVE IN MY OLD HOME.
It's weakness; it's the weakness that crawls through my and zips into my brain, overriding any sense of barrier to keep away the grief that I so long ago intelligently tucked away for a lifetime of rest, and awakened instead this strong, able, smart girl who can read people and who people can't read. Though, at breakfast, anyone who was looking, I'm sure, could see the anger drawn all over my face, etched in with permanent marker.
I jump up and dash away from the ruins of the nuke plant that killed my parents long, long ago, and run so, so far. I have never been to the other side of the district, past the town and the poor homes and the Community Home and the school. I have never seen the rich people's homes and the Victors' Village and the side of the district that was completely free of factories, and instead had shops dotting the roads here and there. I don't plan to go there, but I run in that direction anyway, away from the burnt, damaged sight.
After gasoline leaked - and, obviously, radioactive toxins - the place blew up. But that was days later, and the workers had already died, and as had the apothecaries who helped them. For a while there, everyone worried earnestly that that was it: it was the beginning of a new plague, an epidemic sent from the heavens, set on destroying our awful world, bent on killing off all of humankind. Life as those foolish citizens believed was over, so they went wild. Now they are in jail for committing "heinous" crimes such as rebellion, treason, and several other things. But they thought they only had so long to live, so why not go mad? If there was scientific proof to the world ending tomorrow, I'd do as I wished, too, punching Peacekeepers and going to the president's mansion to have a little talk with him. But I'd be crazy; the world would be ending! So what could they do? Kill me? Oh, great punishment.
I find myself sitting on a bench in town, looking across the street at the town shoemaker, where, in the window, there is a sign saying, "Help wanted." I stare at it for a little longer before getting up and bursting through the front door. If I am to run off, I have to have a job that pays a little better than factory work like I would start next year. Because, according to our sexist caretakers, we shouldn't work like that until we're nineteen. Because we're females. We're delicate. We're fragile. It's such bullshit, a grudge I'll never let go.
I step inside the small shop and the man at the counter - red hair, bearded, gray eyes; he's very cleanly and orderly - looks at me sadly. "Shouldn't you be getting ready?" he asks.
I point to my outfit. "Required uniform. Anyway, you're looking for help?"
He smiles. "Oh, yes. What experience do you have?"
"What would I be doing?" I ask.
He laughs. "So no experience," he says. He shrugs, gesturing to around his shop. I notice that it also has a small portion that is a grocery store. "Well, it's alright. You'd be sweeping, cleaning up, stocking shelves. Beginner's work, but you know, it pays."
"Yeah." I look around again. "How much, exactly? Enough to...house and feed a family of one?"
"Ah," says the perky man, and for the first time I notice just how giddy and happy he seems. I hold back the urge to roll my eyes and groan, telling myself this is only temporary until I can get myself a better-paying job, preferably one no Community Home person would think to look for me at. "I can swing that," the man tells me. he holds out his hand, makes his way out from behind the counter, and stand before me. "I'm Mr. Dager, your new boss, miss...?"
"Anya," I say. I know I can't be snappy with this man, but it's hard not to. "I can work on any day from four to six."
"It's a deal." We shake hands.
...
Back at the Home, I don't see Hawken. I don't want to. He has angered me like few others have before, and he's not supposed to. He's my friend.
Claretta and I wait impatiently for the Home to be dismissed for the short walk to the square. When it finally comes time, I sigh a and stand up. Claretta and I walk together the whole way, silent, as everyone else is. But together, Claretta and I are usually silent, and everyone else is just stupidly scared. This fact unnerves me, which is why I actively resent it a lot around reaping days.
At the square, we all sign in. People stare at us, this ginormous group of orphans bundled in an airtight, solid group. Truthfully, we all may be polar opposites and desperately hate one another, but we understand. Even the most sadistic and uncaring among us - because, believe it or not, there are worse than me - felt anguish and grieved at first. No matter how short our grief time was, we all felt it at one time or another.
"Next," says the Peacekeeper. I get signed in, and then I drag myself over to my section, making sure to avoid Hawken. It's easy, since there are so many people piled into the section all at once. Few even murmur around me as they stand, stiff as boards, awaiting the fate of three people, wondering who they'll see leave the district today with death hanging over them, waiting to drape around them violently.
Matallia Gleam smiles at the crowd behind the mayor as he speaks. Once he's done, she steps up with a glittery smile and waves. She goes through a yearly routine, speaking about how happy she is to be here, complementing the victors and especially our only victor who has volunteered to mentor, Scotty Nelson. Scotty graciously smiles and then looks down at her lap self-consciously. Matallia claps and slips her hand in the bowl.
And so it begins, everyone in the square must be thinking. But I am thinking, What did Hawken even mean by that? It was so rude!
"Tenne Bradhe," says the escort.
A very, very tall boy with pale skin and dark hair but with an average build steps up to the stage. When Matallia asks him if he has anything to say, he says in a very gruff, deep, dark voice, "No." Shivers creep down my spine at the sound of his voice. The boy - Tenne - shrugs, and so does Matallia. She smiles, shakes his hand, and I notice that Scotty Nelson is looking hopeful behind him. This boy has potential, and she knows it.
Matallia reaches in the glass reaping bowl for another name. "Allegra Ride," she continues gleefully. A small, short girl emerges slowly from the back of the crowd. By the time she has finally come out of the crowd to a point where I can see her, I am bored and wishing she would get up to the stage already. The girl is freckled, pale, and her eyes are an alarmingly striking green, but not a Capitol color. It's an average green; it just pops against her pale skin and curly red, red hair.
When the little girl steps on the stage, Matallia asks what she asked Tenne. "Would you like to say anything?"
The girl's mouth opens, but only a squeak of a word comes out. But it's obvious her small voice says, "No." Her face goes beet red, and then blanches when she realizes she's gone beet red.
I am not sympathetic towards her at all.
Matallia bends down slightly to take the name out of the bowl, closing her eyes so it doesn't appear as though she is cheating. When she pulls the name out, she opens it and speaks into the microphone. "Anya Saitov," she says.
I do not gasp, or cry, or shake or shiver. I do not try to believe so hard that it's someone else that it comes true. No, I stay calm, and if you hadn't already figured this out, I start to make a plan. I make a plan on how to act during chariot rides, interviews, training, the Games. I make a plan on what to say, do, and how to do it in certain occasions. But, of course, being in the section closest to the stage, I only make it so far before I have to quit and step up to the stage.
Matallia asks me the question she's asked both of my district partners, and then when I shrug calmly, indifferently, she shrugs politely as well and claps for us. A few others join in, but like usual, it is nearly silent.
I begin to wonder on what stroke of luck it was, that this must have taken, to take a turn towards what Hawken wants. I try not to glare when I realize this. I try to continue to keep a straight, indifferent, uncaring face, but it's harder as the anger boils up in me.
"Shake hands," Matallia says after a minute when we haven't.
Tenne shakes Allegra's with certainty and care, his strong eyes melting into hers. Immediately I know a weakness of his: the girl. This is good. Then he turns to me, stony eyes back, and I think he just might narrow his eyes a little at me. I stay blank as I shake his hand firmly. Then I shake the girl's, trying to be gentler even though she is my opponent, but still shaking her a little too hard. Her tiny arm jolts her and she stumbles. I grasp is the only thing keeping her from falling.
"Oh, thank you," she mutters.
I shrug.
Matallia escorts into the Justice Building. The lobby is filled with so many bright lights and elevators and Peacekeepers that I don't get a good view of the room, and before I know it, we're shooting upwards, and then I'm being shoved out into a very nice room, and the Peacekeepers are closing the doors...and then I am waiting. For one person. One small, always loyal, always there person. I am waiting for Claretta Hawley.
She doesn't make it for a really long time, as I figured she wouldn't. But the Peacekeepers do inform me, "You have a visitor, Miss Saitov."
They bring Claretta in. She sits down next to me on the large, plush and red velvet or whatever red couch and we stare at our shoes and reminisce, without noise, of our years with beds next to each other, the sycophant and the girl the sycophant is a sycophant to.
Eventually, she has to leave, and I am surprised to hear that I have another visitor after that. I know who it is, but I refuse to believe it until I see him.
Hawken walks in and tosses me a small, silver object. I catch it and see the tiny little emerald that is the giveaway. It's my mother's old ring. Really, it's the only sentimentality I have. I don't know if sentimentality is a good thing for a token, but I think that this ring is utterly perfect to be my token. I like the ring, even if Hawken had to give it to me from my dresser drawer. It's nice.
And even though I am still fuming, I know I have to tell him one more thing.
"Give the plans to anyone," I tell him. "Anyone worthy girl who you think can make it. And...there's one more thing. Tell them to go to the shoemaker's and tell them to say I sent them."
"Why not work in the factory?" asks Hawken.
"It's too obvious. Someone would look for a runaway there," I explain, and Hawken rolls his eyes.
"Goodbye, Anya," he says, and begins to leave the room. He looks back, and all I do is raise my eyebrows, cross my arms, and wave slightly. So he leaves.
I smirk. "Not for good."
D5- 18- (Tenne Bradhe)
I was young when I was abandoned. I was a baby, in fact. Claira Bradhe found me lying in a dumpster. She pulled me out and raised me as her own son, and to me she's always been my mother - more of a mother than whoever my birthmother is will ever be.
Claira was named after the word "clairvoyance." Her predecessors and ancestors and all the -ors she could dream of have always been fortunetellers. When she found me, she knew I was cursed for a dark, unlucky future. So, she named me Tenne after the Latin word "tenebrae." To to people unharmed by my evil curse, my mother has kept me from befriending anyone ever, and home-schools me. Despite all of this, she still loves me and I love her. I even get a lot of tesserae to keep her safe and fed.
"Tenne," says Claira. "You are spacing out."
"Sorry," I apologize. "It's just..."
"I know, I know, Tenne." She shakes her head. "They'll only be befooled, you know. Your curse will root up inside them and rid you of it, giving way to the lesser of the two evils and setting you free, my son, and then you shall be able to come home."
It's cold in the Justice Building. Cold like the young president's heart. Cold like my district partner Anya's eyes, and her soul and spirit, as Claira has complained vividly since she entered the room.
"I will," I whisper. "Mom, I promise."
She smiles. "I shall be waiting."
I get an idea. "Read me," I say excitedly. "See - see! - what'll happen to me."
She shakes her head. "I can't bear to. Not...not... There is a possibility..."
I know immediately from the way she is speaking. "You already have."
"I already have."