"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 an accident. 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 how to tame my wiry curls.
I'm scowling when I turn to face her, but it melts away the second she fixes me with a soft smile. Clara always looks beautiful. Today, she's opted to part her dark hair into two neat braids that fall down her back with military precision. Her full eyebrows are perfectly arched and, despite the fact that neither of us got much sleep last night, her skin is predictably flawless.
It's hard to like her sometimes.
"Okay, you're all done," says Clara, tapping my tender scalp with the base of the wooden brush.
I turn, meeting my reflection in the mirror. It's an unsettling experience, kind of like looking at a stranger who's wearing my face. Clara has managed to wrangle me out of my usual overalls and into a dusty pink dress. I loathe the color on instinct, but Clara beamed so hard the second I put it on that escape became impossible. More impressive still is the number she's done on my hair. Like hers, it's smoothed down into two plaits. The only difference is the wispy curls she's pulled free near my forehead. Something about framing my features.
"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 my braid.
Clara rolls her eyes and pinches my cheek. "You're welcome, Wren."
I don't want to leave the safety of our shared room, but with the clock ticking it's not exactly a choice. It's chaos on the other side of the door. That's to be expected, of course, especially on reaping day. Especially in Medler House. We're District Four's only community home, meaning that we house everyone from red-faced, squealing babies all the way to eighteen-year-olds on the cusp of adulthood. Clara likes to watch the older ones on reaping day. "That'll be us soon," she says, nudging my shoulder. She's been saying the same thing since we were twelve.
"I know," I say. "You keep telling me."
She slips her hand into mine and squeezes. "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."
"I know."
"And after today, we've done five! So that's way past half-way."
I'm close to asking her if she's turned into a talking clock when a piercing wail rings out from across the hall.
I lock eyes with a young boy I half-recognise. He's frozen by the boy's toilets, toothbrush clenched tight between trembling fingers. He looks young. Too young to be headed to a reaping.
Clara sees what's going on and gives my hand a small tug in the opposite direction. "Let's go," she says, brow creased with concern. We both know what happens to people who make a scene on reaping day. And I want to follow her, I really do. But as soon as I take a half-step in the opposite direction, my stomach tightens.
I'm not thinking when I slip my hand out of Clara's and make a beeline for the boy. By now, anybody with a grain of sense has turned the other way, ignoring what's unfolding right in front of them. I hear Clara say but it doesn't register, I'm already too far gone.
"Stop," I say as soon as I reach the wailing boy. "You can't do this here." They're not exactly the warm words I was hoping for but, in fairness, warmth has never been my speciality.
I thumb his tears away quickly, trying not to notice his wobbling chin. He gulps unevenly, throat spasming behind the collar of an old dress shirt that looks two sizes too big. I know he's trying to say something. And maybe if we had more time, I would let him find the words. But we don't.
"Is this your first reaping?" I ask.
He nods, shaking like a leaf.
I force a smile onto my face, quietly praying it doesn't look like a grimace. "Well then, that means you have nothing to worry about. Four's a career district and you know what that means."
Judging by the blank look on his face he either doesn't or is too shaken up to compute.
"Volunteers," I provide.
It takes a moment for his soft brows to lower in relief. Everyone volunteers in Four, it's a fact. We haven't seen anyone enter the arena without a smile on their face in years. Well, except for Annie Cresta a few years back. She definitely wasn't smiling.
"You see?" I say, hating how much I sound like Clara. "You've got nothing to worry about."
He nods, sheepish, which is a lot better than terrified, and turns to join a group of boys just as Clara's hand lands on my shoulder.
"Come on, we're going to be late," she says, steering us towards the back of the girl's queue.
We take our spots a half-a-second before the girls in front start moving. Their backs are ramrod straight and I slip my hand into Clara's instinctively, following her lead. It's a miserable day in Four. Freezing cold rain pelts down on us in sheets as we begin our small march toward the Justice Building.
"You okay?" I whisper, looking up at Clara.
She's staring at the older girls again and it's not hard to see why. They're sniggering amongst themselves, clearly bathing in the satisfaction that this will be their last reaping.
"Assholes," Clara mutters, rolling her eyes.
One of them gestures towards the twelve-year-olds behind us and laughs.
I give Clara's hand a discrete squeeze. "Agreed."
We know we've reached the reaping square when the peacekeepers descend upon us.
"Hand," one barks, yanking me free of Clara.
I wince as he takes a blood sample and steers me in the direction of the sixteen-year-old pen. There's no option to turn back and find her, the pull of the crowd is too strong. A big part of me wants to freeze and wait until she finds me. The other part knows that's a stupid idea. So, I don't. I just take my place and wait for the huge screens either side of the Justice Building to crackle to life.
When they do, President Snow's voice is so loud I can feel it in my ribs. It's the same speech he gives every year, down to the letter. Another form of torture, I think. Though you wouldn't know it given the way half the square hangs on his every word. It's the careers mainly. And their families. You can spot their fresh-pressed linens a mile away.
To distract myself, I play a game. I look at them and try to guess who will volunteer to represent Four this year. Will it be the sleek-haired girl in the second row? She's got the look. Or maybe the wickedly lean one behind her, but she doesn't look like a team player, might not make it past the cornucopia. Or maybe-
The anthem sounds, shattering my focus, and I can feel the girls next to me stiffen.
"Welcome, welcome," Marina Walen's voice rings out across the square, every syllable pointed.
She's wearing a sickly green wig this year. It looks like rotten seafoam. I wonder which one of her stylists picked it. Or maybe she's unhinged enough to have done it herself.
"As usual," she says, tottering towards the glass bowl. "Ladies first."
I crane my neck, searching for Clara. Nothing.
"So exciting!" Marina chirps, hamming it up for the cameras. She drags this part out every year, digging her clawed hand around the bowl. It makes my stomach tighten into a knot.
I'm about to look away when something catches my eye. Or someone. It's Finnick Odair. The Finnick Odair staring directly at me. As soon as I look back, his eyes flit away, seemingly uninterested. But I saw him. I saw him clear as day.
My first instinct is to hunt down Clara and confirm if she saw it too, but Marina has already got the slip of paper in her hand. She teeters back towards the microphone, painfully slow.
For one horribly drawn out second, the crowd holds their breath and all you can hear is the sound of rain slapping against cobblestones. Then Marina's green lips part open.
And that's when it happens..
"Wren Medler."
Blood roars in my ears and I can feel a heavy coldness seep through my limbs. At once, I'm with an overwhelming urge to turn and run. But clearly my brain and my body aren't playing nice because I don't move an inch.
By now, some of the shivering children from Medler House have turned their heads, recognizing that one of their own has been chosen. I hate the attention but right now all I can think is, where are the volunteers? Where's the tanned, lean arm shooting up from the Career pen?
"Wren Medler, up you come," Marina sings in a voice bordering on irritation.
If I don't move soon, the Peacekeepers will do it for me. But my fingertips have gone numb and there's something thick and desperate lodged in my throat.
"Wren."
I whip around, recognizing Clara's voice. She's behind me, face flushed from the effort of shoving through the crowd to reach my side. Her wide brown eyes are burning with determination and she grabs my hand, squeezing tight.
"Don't cry."
I blink slowly, suddenly aware that I'm on the edge of tears. My body doesn't feel like my own and I'm pretty sure I've lost the ability to reason with it. But Clara has that look on her face - the one that can make me do pretty much anything - so I force myself to let go of her and head toward the stage.
Each step is a battle but the cameras trained on my face force me to hold it together.
"Come on up, dear," Marina says when I reach the bottom of the stairs.
Now that I'm within arm's length, she reaches down, taking my clammy hand in her clawed one.
"A round of applause for our first tribute!" she beams, ferrying us both towards a microphone in the center of the stage.
I hear a reluctant applause swell beneath my feet. It's nowhere near the reaction I'm used to seeing every year, but right now I can't bring myself to care. All I want is Clara but the stage lights are too blinding to seek her out and before I have an opportunity to adjust, Marina steers me off to the side right beside Finnick Odair.
He's taller than I thought he'd be, but just as handsome. I should look away now but I can't. After a second, he offers me what I assume is supposed to be an easy smile. Most girls in Panem would swoon at the sight of it. But I've never been interested in anyone that wasn't Clara, so the dread in my stomach wins out.
Dread and a creeping sense of familiarity. It's like I've been up here before. I grapple with the memory as the reaping ceremony continues, pulling it up in parts. Faces in a crowd, the seal of Panem, a fistful of red roses, and-
"Titus Cardew!"
Marina's voice derails my thoughts as she announces this year's male tribute.
There's a flurry of movement from the pen just to my left as he emerges. Titus must be at least three heads taller than me with toned muscles that strain against his crisp, linen shirt. Something in his stride tells me he would have volunteered regardless of who's name came out of that bowl.
Marina is overjoyed at this turn of events, face twisting into an ear-splitting grin as she shepherds him in front of the cameras. This time around, the crowd bursts into applause.
"And there you have it!" Marina announces. "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. I notice that when we're forced to shake hands, he doesn't bother meeting my eyes. I shouldn't be surprised, really. If I'm not a potential ally or a potential threat, then what's the use in paying attention?
Everything passes by in a blur after the cameras cut and lights fade. 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 lined with oil paintings of people I don't recognize. Under different circumstances, it might have been nice. But these are not different circumstances.
In the end, I'm escorted to an empty reception room decorated with a single, white couch. I perch myself on the arm, running my fingers over the cool velvet obsessively. This is the part where I must make my final goodbyes. Or, goodbye. Singular.
The thought of it makes me want to hurl. Clara will inevitably show up, so it's important that I get this next part right. But words have never been my strong point, especially when it comes to her.
The truth is, I think I've always loved Clara. As far as I can remember, anyway. It wasn't a conscious decision. She was my first friend in Medler House and the only one that stuck around. When we were kids, I never gave our relationship a second thought. Clara liked me, I liked her, end of story. But then we grew up and suddenly liking each other didn't feel like enough. Not for her, anyway.
And that's what we've been for years. Friends, good friends. One day, we would leave Medler House, Clara would eventually settle on one of her many admirers, and I would do what I always do - follow her lead. There was never any reason to think beyond that.
Until now.
"Wren!"
Clara bursts into the room and wraps me in her arms, barely acknowledging the two Peacekeepers stationed outside the door. I cling to her like my life depends on it, burying my face in her shoulder. For a while, neither of us know what to say. Given the circumstances, a pretty speech is about as useful as a screen door on a submarine. But Clara seems determined to try.
"We don't have long so you listen to me," she starts, extracting herself from my vice-like grip. "You're not dying on me, okay? I'm not allowing it."
The way she gives the command is familiar, like when she's braiding my hair and I pull away from the brush one too many times.
The sound of it draws a scoff from my lips. "You're not allowing it?" I repeat, dumbstruck at her confidence. "I don't think-"
"I don't care what you think," she cuts across me, wide brown eyes shining with tears. "I'm not going the rest of my life without you. I won't."
I bite my tongue, refusing to point out the fact that she doesn't really get a say.
"Do you hear me, Wren?"
Clara takes my shoulders in her hands and I realize that what she really wants is some kind of confirmation. A flood of possible responses run through my brain, but I know that none of them will satisfy her. And, if I'm honest, I'm scared that if I say what I'm really thinking our last conversation will end in a fight.
So I force out the only true thing I can think of. "Yes, I can hear you."
"And?" she presses.
The room is so quiet all I can hear is the sound of our breathing.
"And," I continue, eyes finding the floor. "I'll try."
I know that what I've said isn't great by the way it lands hard in the space between us. For a good few seconds, Clara doesn't say anything at all and somehow the silence is worse than arguing with her.
My brain kicks itself back into gear and scrambles to find something better. When we were five, Clara and I made a promise to never lie to each other and in all the years since I haven't broken it.
Now seems like a good time to start.
But before I can say anything, something so completely unexpected happens that the words die on my tongue.
She leans forward and presses a soft kiss to my lips.
The effect is immediate. All the fear that was boiling away in my gut vanishes as my senses leave the building. I might as well be on the moon instead of locked up in the Justice Building.
Clara doesn't even bother to acknowledge it. Instead, she sends me a firm nod, turns on her heel, and heads for the door. Just before she reaches the threshold, she pauses and turns back to face me.
"Don't try, Wren," she says, struggling to keep her voice steady. "Win.'"