I stand on the roof of our apartment building, looking out over our section of District 8. It's a very windy day, the smoke from the factories moves fast across the sky. I can see the blue sky above the pollution. The clouds are moving fast, so fast, as if sweeping everything away.
I look up at the ancient radio tower fastened to the roof. The metal is clattering, bits of rust are falling away. When I was a younger girl, needing to be alone, I would climb it, going all the way to the top, Before anyone was awake. Until the day Father caught me, needing me to care for one of the babies. He beat me with his belt, then removed some of the ladders. I still go to the roof to be alone, but I don't climb the tower now.
I hear metal squeaking and turn to see Georgette, standing in the doorway to the maintenance room. One of her hands is holding up her elaborate curls. "Come on!", my sister shouts. "It's time to gooo!"
I sigh and walk over. Together we go down one flight of stairs, to our apartment. Mother has the newest baby strapped to her chest, as she lines up the younger kids. Father watches blearily. He's never sober on Reaping Day.
Kelo looks terrified. He's twelve years old. I pull out my comb and fix his curly mop, then run it through my own hair. Georgette cut it into a sharp bob yesterday, before wrapping her hair in rags.
"Are you really wearing that?" Mother asks me. I look down at my silk vest, pieced together from scraps from the factory. I like the different shades of blue. I pull at the sleeves of my tan undershirt, and stick the comb in a pocket of my brown pants. A girl can never have enough pockets.
"Everything I'm wearing is clean," I say.
Paisley moves behind Kelo, her hair tied in white ribbons. It matches the lace I sewed onto her blue dress. She flashes a gap-toothed grin at me, trying to be reassuring. She has two more years before it's her turn to be scared. I step in front of Kelo.
"I just know it will be me," Georgette says, stepping in front of me. "I turn 19 in three weeks, at least I look pretty."
"I like practical," I smirk.
"One, two, three ..." Mother counts off seven children, and sighs. The number should be higher. There were the Fevers when I was eight.
We move towards the stairs, and begin to descend. I take Kelo's hand, even though he doesn't need help. I nursed him through the Fevers, and never stopped taking care for him.
We join the other people walking to the square, two blocks over.
When we arrive, our parents hug Georgette, Kelo, and me. We leave our family and get in a line. Our fingers are pricked, then we join our age groups. I look at the other girls around me. I know most of them by sight - either at school, or at the factory. We nod at each other. Three years ago, Teresa was reaped from our age group. I liked her, she was a very jolly girl who never knew a stranger. She was the second to die in the bloodbath.
I count my name on my fingers. Six slips just for my age. Five slips for taking tesserae.
Our escort from the Capitol, Fabiana Mersey, totters on stage in ridiculously high heels. This is her second year in District 8. Her trademark is that she dresses in triadic colors. Her pantsuit is chartreuse and her corkscrew curled wig is a matching blue. Her cape - a cape - is of the perfect hot pink. She really pops against the grey backdrop of the Justice Building. The usual message from President Snow is shown. Then Fabiana goes to the bowl containing the girls' names.
Pick Juanita, I mentally command. Juanita is a bully. She makes fun of me in the factory, because I scootch under the machines to help repair them and I usually get greasy. I asked for that job, so I could gather the fabric scraps that fall under the machines. Everyone in my family has clothing made of scraps.
Fabiana has tottered back to the microphone, clutching a slip of paper. With great fanfare, she unfolds it and reads out the name. "Cecelia Sastre!"
Everyone turns to stare at me. Well, shit.