"Stop squirming."
Clara yanks my hair. Hard. So hard, I'm certain she's about to take a chunk out of my scalp. It's never happened before. Well, once. But that was a mistake. The thing is, she's the only one I trust to do my hair for the reaping. The only person in this community home that has the first idea of how to tame my wiry curls.
I turn to face her, half scowl, half surrender. Clara always looks beautiful. Today, her dark hair is parted into neat micro-braids. Each uniform line is an equal distance apart and her edges are slicked to perfection, framing her delicate forehead with a satisfying curl. But it's her wide brown eyes that I like the most, even when they're laser focused on transforming my hair into something resembling presentable.
"Okay, you're all done," Clara says, tapping my tender scalp with the base of the wooden brush.
I tear my eyes away from her reflection, meeting my own in the mirror. It's like staring at a stranger. A well-groomed stranger. Clara has managed to wrangle me out of my usual overalls and into a dusty pink dress. My hair is parted into two neat braids that run down my back with military precision, and evidence of the grime that usually smears my cheeks has been wiped away leaving my freckles on full display.
"Well?" she prods in a sing-song voice. "How'd I do?"
Judging by the satisfied curl of her lip, I'd say she already knows the answer but I reply anyway.
"It's… nice," I offer, cautiously toying with the end of one of my braids.
Clara rolls her eyes and pinches my cheek. "You're welcome, Wren."
I don't want to leave the safety of our shared bathroom but there's no time to drag my feet. Today is reaping day which only ever brings chaos, especially in Medler House. We're District Four's only community home meaning that we house everyone from squealing infants to acne-covered teens. Clara always watches the older ones on reaping day.
"That'll be us soon," she whispers, nudging my shoulder.
She's been saying the same thing since we were twelve.
"I know," I reply, fiddling with one of the pearl-shaped buttons on my dress. "You keep telling me."
Clara tuts, catching my hand in her own. "But this time we've only got two years to go."
She says it like it's the same thing as two seconds.
"I know."
"That's only two more reapings, Wren."
"I know."
"And once we're done with today, we're past half-way."
I'm about to ask Clara if she's turned into a talking clock when a piercing wail rings out from across the hall. I turn and lock eyes with a young boy I only half-recognize. Maybe I've seen him around the schoolyard or maybe he's worked a few shifts in the canning factory. Either way, he looks far too young to be headed to a reaping.
When I don't follow the swarm of girls lining up to head to the reaping square, Clara tugs on my hand.
"Let's go," she says, already turning away from the trembling boy. "He'll snap out of it."
Oh, he'll snap alright but not in the way she thinks. For a moment, my sense of self-preservation must kick in as I take a half-step away from the scene. Then I make the mistake of focusing on the boy's trembling hands, the way his fingers lock around his toothbrush in a deathgrip, the wobble of his chin.
I slip my hand out of Clara's in an instant and make a beeline in his direction. She says something, a warning perhaps, but it doesn't register. My mind is made up.
"Don't cry," I say as soon as I reach the boy. "You can't let them see you cry."
They're not exactly the warm words I was hoping for but at least I've said something half-useful. There's a certain pecking order in Medler House and any sign of weakness can and will be used against you. Maybe it's a whispered joke in the canteen, or a round of particularly unpleasant shifts in the canning factory but the end result is always the same. Once the others know your soft-spots, it's over.
So I thumb his tears away quickly, hoping this small action will still his wobbling chin. The boy gulps unevenly, throat spasming behind the collar of an old dress shirt that's at least two sizes too big. I can tell that he's trying to say something to me now and maybe if we had more time I would let him find the words. But we don't and I can't so I just ask, "Is this your first reaping?"
The word threatens to set him off but he manages to pull himself together just enough to produce a shaky nod.
"Well, that means you don't have anything to worry about," I say, forcing a smile onto my face. "Four is a career district and you know what that means, right?"
Judging from the blank look on his face, he certainly doesn't.
"Volunteers," I provide, waiting for the word to land.
And land it does as his soft eyebrows crease together in thought before lowering in relief. Everyone volunteers in Four. In fact, we haven't seen anyone enter the arena without a smile on their face in years. Except for poor Annie Cresta a few years back. She definitely wasn't smiling.
"Like I said," I say, adjusting his collar. "Nothing to worry about."
The boy nods sheepishly and turns to join a group of twelve-year-olds heading toward their places just as Clara's hand lands on my shoulder.
"We're going to be late," she says, steering us towards our place in the girl's line.
We make it just as the pair in-front start moving and I slip my hand into Clara's, holding on tight. I'm not usually one for physical contact but the reaping has a way of drawing the instinct out of me. Not that Clara's hand can do anything to protect me, anyway. It just feels better than walking the small stretch from Medler House to the reaping square alone.
The rain starts when we're about half-way there. It pounds the cobblestone streets relentlessly and I watch as my dusty pink dress slowly transforms into a pale red, like watered down blood.
"You did a kind thing back there," Clara whispers, looking down at me.
I shrug the compliment away. "Let's hope it swings the odds in my favor."
She tuts good naturedly and gives my hand a squeeze. Clara has always been able to see straight through me.
We walk the final stretch in a heavy silence, shoes squelching as we go. The cameras are here now, bug-eyed lenses drinking us in. As if sensing their presence, I feel the crowd collectively straighten up even as we walk head-first into a bottleneck. Now I can't see anything apart from the back of the person in-front of me, but I know that we must be nearing our destination as a gloved hand reaches through the chaos and yanks me free of Clara.
"Hold still," a Peacekeeper barks, poking my finger with the sharp end of a needle.
There are no formalities here. Once my blood is drawn, I'm released back into the crowd where there is no choice but to head toward the sixteen-year-old pen. I walk on my tiptoes and crane my neck to get a read on where Clara has ended up but it's pointless. The pull of the crowd is too strong so I take my place, hand feeling horribly empty, and wait for the massive screens either side of the Justice Building to crackle to life.
When they do, I'm met with the puffy face of President Snow. The speakers are so loud, I swear I can feel his voice tickling my ribs. It's the same speech he gives every year. Another form of torture, I think. Although you wouldn't know it from the way half the square hangs on his every word. It's mainly the careers and their families. You can spot their immaculate linens a mile away.
To distract myself, I play a game. I examine each and every career, trying to work out who will volunteer to represent Four this year. Will it be the sleek haired girl in the third row? She's certainly got the look. Or maybe the wickedly lean boy behind her? Or maybe–
The anthem sounds, breaking my focus. I feel the bodies next to me stiffen.
"Welcome, District Four," Marina Walen's voice rings out across the square. "Shall we get started?"
She's wearing a sickly green wig this year. It must be all the rage in the Capitol but the only thing I can see is rotten seafoam.
Marina clears her throat then totters toward the glass bowl on the far side of the stage and says, "Ladies first."
I peer around the shoulder of the girl next to me searching for Clara but come up empty.
"This is my favorite part," Marina chirps, digging her clawed hand around the bowl.
She hams it up for the camera every year, trying to make the most of her limited screen time. It must play well in the Capitol, boosting her to the top of the social food chain, but here it only sends a wave of fear through my gut.
I'm about to redirect my gaze to my feet when something catches my eye. No, not something, someone. It's Finnick Odair. The Finnick Odair is staring directly at me. The second glance back his eyes flit away, fixing on some point on the other end of the pen, but I saw him. I saw him clear as day.
My first instinct is to hunt Clara down and confirm that I'm not going insane, but Marina has finally landed on a single slip of paper. She snatches it up proudly and teeters back toward the microphone, painfully slow.
The crowd holds their breath. I never paused to notice the sounds of the reaping square before. Whispered words of reassurance, shuffling feet, a baby crying, the clink of a Peacekeeper's gun slapping against their thigh. But now they're all I hear as the silence stretches on endlessly.
Then Marina's green lips part open and it happens.
"Wren Medler."
And just like that, it's not silent anymore. It's not silent at all. Blood roars in my ears and my limbs feel heavy and uncoordinated.
"Wren Medler, up you come!" Marina says in a clipped voice bordering on irritation.
By now, some of the shivering children from Medler House have turned their heads recognising that one of their own has been chosen. My eyes dart to the career pen, wondering why a tanned, lean arm hasn't shot up to take my place. Didn't they hear my name? Haven't they put it together?
The full-weight of this new reality is struggling to surface in my brain. My fingertips have gone numb and there is something thick and awful lodged in my throat that I think might be a scream.
"Wren," a voice materialises behind me.
I whip around, recognising the owner. It's Clara. She elbows her way through the crowd to reach me, taking my shaking hand in her own.
"Don't cry."
I blink, suddenly aware of the tears biting at my lashes. My body doesn't feel like my own but Clara has that look on her face, the one that can make me do pretty much anything, so I force my limbs into motion.
Detaching my hand from Clara's is painful, but the short walk to the stage is even worse. Each step feels like a battle and I must look like I'm about to bolt as two burly looking Peacekeepers flank me at either side.
"Come on up, dear," says Marina as I reach the foot of the stairs.
She offers me a clawed hand, half-supporting, half-dragging me onto the stage. The second I'm up there, she refuses to let me go and promptly steers me in front of the microphone.
"Let's give a hand for our first tribute!"
A reluctant applause swells beneath my feet. I try to search for Clara's face but the stage lights are blinding and I barely have time to squint before Marina bustles me off to the side, right beside Finnick Odair.
He's taller than I imagined but just as handsome. And I know that I should look away but I can't. After a few moments, he meets my eye and offers what I assume is supposed to be an easy smile. Most girls in Panem would swoon at the mere sight but I'm too stunned by the events of the past few minutes to react. There are no butterflies in my stomach, only dread and–
And an odd sense of familiarity. Like I've been here before. I grapple with the memory, pulling it up in pieces. Faces in a crowd, the seal of Panem, red and white roses, sunlight dappled on water, and…
Marina's voice derails my thoughts as she announces the male tribute.
"Titus Cardew."
My eyes flick to the male pen just in time to watch my partner emerge. He must be at least three times my size with a shaved head and a set of muscles that cannot possibly belong to an eighteen-year-old boy. I swallow hard, practically backing into Finnick's chest on instinct. He catches me by the elbow, righting my balance just before I fall.
"You're okay, Medler," he says, voice low.
I jerk away, knowing that I am anything but. Judging by the cockiness in Titus' stride, I'm almost certain he would have volunteered no matter whose name came out of that bowl.
Of course, my loss is Marina's victory. She wastes no time in maneuvering Titus' hulking form in front of the cameras with an ear-splitting grin.
Marina is overjoyed, of course. She shepherds Titus in front of the cameras, grinning from ear to ear. This time, the crowd bursts into applause.
"And there you have it! This year's tributes from District Four."
I use my last moments on stage to observe Titus up close. He's even bigger than I thought, a real monster of a boy. When we are forced to shake hands he doesn't even bother to meet my eye. The message is clear. I'm beneath his notice, just a dead girl walking.
Then cameras cut, the lights fade and the square begins to clear.
From there, it's a blur. Rough hands latch onto my shoulders and steer me into the Justice Building. There's a stale smell in here, like waxed wood and old books. The soft cream walls are littered with oil paintings. Under different circumstances it might have been nice. But these are not different circumstances.
I'm escorted to an empty reception room decorated with a single, white couch. As soon as the doors click closed, I perch myself on its edge, running my fingers over the cool velvet obsessively. This is the part where I say my final goodbyes. Or goodbye. Singular.
I dig my nails into my palm hard, willing myself to focus. Clara will come, so it's important that I get this next bit right. The thing is, I've never been great with words, especially when it comes to her.
The truth is, I think I've always loved Clara. It wasn't a choice. Not as far as I can remember, anyway. She was my first friend in Medler House and the only one that stuck around. When we were kids, I put it down to admiration. Clara was everything I wanted to be. Funny but never mean, kind, clever, and a natural with people. Then, as we got a little older, things changed. They deepened. And I couldn't help but notice her easy beauty or the twinkle in her eyes. When I wasn't jealous, I was in awe. Actually, even then. Always.
And that's how things have been. How I thought they'd always be. We'd leave Medler House in a couple of years, Clara would settle on one of her many admirers, and I'd do what I always do – follow her. There had never been a reason to think beyond that. Not until now.
God, I wish I had a pen and paper. The idea of saying any of this out loud makes me want to hurl. But I'll have to. I have to. I will.
"Wren!"
Clara bursts into the room, barrels forwards, and wraps me tightly in her arms. We stay like that for a while, clinging to one another. I try to speak at least three times but every time I open my mouth, the words turn to ash on my tongue.
Not that it matters, anyway. Clara beats me to it. She extracts herself and holds me at arm's length.
"We don't have long, so you listen to me," she starts, brown eyes shining bright with tears. "You can do this, Wren."
My scoff is automatic. "You're serious?"
She gives me a shake. "Deadly."
"You saw my partner, right?"
"There are twenty-two other tributes that can deal with him for you."
I have to bite my tongue to resist reminding her that they'll be gunning for me too.
"I know you, Wren," she continues, hands moving to settle on my shoulders. "You're smart. Sure, you can't finish off a career pack single-handed, but you can outlast them."
I search her face for any sign of insincerity but find none. Figures. Clara's never lied to me a day in her life.
And, truthfully, I don't know what to say to that. I don't believe it. Don't feel it. But I'm scared that if I disagree, our last conversation will be a fight. And I don't want that.
"Wren, do you hear me?"
"Yes."
"And?"
The room is so quiet all I can hear is the sound of our breathing.
"And," I start tentatively, searching for something that isn't a lie. "I'll try."
I know what I've said isn't great the second it lands hard in the space between us.
For a few long seconds, Clara doesn't say anything. She just looks at me. Hard.
My brain scrambles for something better. I've tried not lying, it didn't work. And if the roles were reversed, I wouldn't want Clara's last words to me to be so half-assed.
But before I can come up with a decent replacement, something unexpected happens. She leans forwards and presses a soft kiss to my lips.
The effect is immediate. What few senses I had gained since Marina called my name are wiped out. Totalled. It's like the ground has collapsed beneath my feet and I'm caught somewhere between falling and flying.
And then, before I can blink, Clara turns on her heel and heads for the door. Just before her boots reach the threshold, she pauses. Her back is to me, and her voice is unsteady, but I still hear her words.
"Don't try. Win."