Though my boys never need to sign up for the tesserae, the reaping still brings us a sleepless night and racing hearts. My three sons come downstairs dressed in their finest clothes for their mother to inspect. This year, our oldest is no longer entered in the reaping, but that still leaves two of my children with their names in the bowl.
I can't stand to look at them in their reaping outfits for any second longer than I have to. Heading to the kitchen, I hear a quiet knock on the back door. Gale Hawthorne stands outside, holding a squirrel. It's become custom to see either him or Katniss holding up game, ready for a trade. It's an unspoken agreement between us that I'll buy their squirrels when my wife's not around. If she only knew... well, things wouldn't be to hot for any of us.
Being from the poorer part of Twelve, Gale has a much higher chance of being reaped than my sons. His name is probably in there double, maybe even triple than the required entries. I feel a slight swooping feeling in my stomach. In just a few hours, his name could be drawn or one of my sons. Merchant or Seam, this day brings us all closer in a way. The thought that our population will decrease by two today … it's depressing.
I hand him a generous amount of bread, feeling as though it might be the last he ever eats of my cooking should his name be chosen.
"Thank you," Gale turns to go.
I clear my throat, wanting to say something to him. "Good luck today."
He gives me half of a wry smile. "Thank you, sir. To your sons as well."
There isn't much time for lunch and no one feels like eating anyway. The hot day and the heavy clothes add to the feeling of being pressure cooked.
District Twelve begins to file into the square and the adjacent streets. My two younger boys don't turn around to look back at me before signing in. They gingerly take their places, one with the eighteens and one with the sixteens, before I lose sight of them in the sea of heads.
A man asks for bets on the two kids to be chosen, but I politely decline. It's sickening that people can actually try and make money on the reaping when it hurts so many of us. Effie Trinket and the mayor walk out onto the stage and say the same thing they do every year. The sun beats down on the square and all around people begin to pull down collars and fan themselves with their hands. I'm used to stuffy, hot places, working with the ovens and the fire, but it's still near unbearable as Effie reads out the first name.
"Primrose Everdeen."
I catch my breath. All I can think about is that poor woman who was once the object of my secret affections. Going from a merchant to a Seam widow, and now she's lost a child to the reaping. Primrose must be only twelve years old - her first year. I let myself imagine that I'd married her mother and it was our little girl that was walking stiffly up to the stage. I've almost got myself believing the scenario when I hear a cry from somewhere in the crowd.
Katniss Everdeen in pushing past people, trying to reach her sister. The pain in her face, the anguish in her voice makes the whole thing more nightmarish. The Peacekeepers block her path, holding her back. And then she's shocks us all. She volunteers.
In a flash, I see the girl who brings me squirrels so perfectly shot right in the eye. I see the way Peeta looks at her and how he blushes whenever anyone mentions her name. Peeta! I search the crowd, scanning the backs heads looking for his. I locate him. Even though I can't see his face, I know what it must look like. The shock will have registered now. I realize how hard these Games will be for him - he'll have to watch that girl murder and get murdered in the arena. Twelve never wins the Games. The odds are not in her favor.
I'm so caught up that I barely notice Haymitch Abernathy, our previous victor, falling off the stage in his drunkenness. Effie looks so frazzled by him and the sudden turn of events that she doesn't bother dragging out the boy tribute picking.
"Peeta Mellark."
What? What did she just say? My boy. She just called my boy. I feel my family stiffen next to me. My eyes are still locked on our youngest son's blonde curls and he pauses, then climbs up the stairs to the stage. Now I see his face. Everything but his eyes are void of emotion.
As if it's being rewinded, I see bits of my youngest son's life. The little boy learning to knead bread. Asking me to teach him to bake. Making his first swipes with a piping bag. Walking bravely up those steps on the first day of school. All for what? To lead to this moment? He'll be gone. Dead. I'll never see him again.
Peeta's hands don't tremble when he reaches to shake Katniss's hand - they never do.
The doors to the Justice Building slam, taking my son with them.