We arrive in the square a bit after three o'clock. We barely have enough time to park the horses before the reaping-age kids are marshalled into roped-off areas by age and sex. Mee-maw sneaks us all a quick kiss on the forehead, hurried goodbyes are said and we're swallowed by the masses. As usual, twelves are at the back, eighteens at the very front. The four of us push through the crowd, dropping off Charlie at thirteens and Jesse at fourteens. Noah and I have to walk all the way to sixteens, near the stage. It gets tightly packed as more and more children file in, and in this heat it's like a furnace.
Directly ahead of us is the Justice Building. It's overgrown with ivy—the poison kind—and it has missing shingles and crumbling stone, but even in disrepair it's intimidating. At the entrance is a stage complete with dilapidated old cables connected to giant amps, a microphone on a podium, andtwo giant glass bowls filled to the brim with tens of thousands of tiny paper slips. Among those, my name is only written on ten. I take a deep breath in. I'm going to be okay.
Five chairs are lined up in a row behind the mic. Sitting in the chair on the far left is the mayor, Kelly Cleaver, a nasty woman who's been in charge of this place for as long as I can remember. She purses her lips as she looks out at the rumbling, ragged crowd. On the other end is the District 10 escort, named Oswald Blaustein. His extravagant golden glasses, bolder and shinier than ever this year, take up half his face and then some, and are studded with jewels. He elegantly waves an indigo paper fan, a slightly pained expression on his face. Though he's trying his best to look cheerful and presentable it's clear even he, up on that stage in the shade, is struggling with the heat. Between Cleaver and Blaustein are the three living victors of District 10: Timothy Waxler, Musketta Holmes and Wyatt Kennedy. I think they're thirty-one, forty-six and fifty-three, respectively. Though they all have different demeanors, as I know from TV -Timothy's careful politeness, Musketta's judgmental frown, Wyatt's hoarse cackle-right now each of them stares ahead with the exact same solemn air. I suppose shared experiences would do that to a group. I wonder how many children they've sent to the Capitol, how many never returned.
The clock hits four and I'm struggling to breathe. Either nerves, the heat, or both. Mayor Cleaver stands to deliver the routine lecture on why the Hunger Games are actuallygoodfor the districts. "Necessary sacrifice...to squash the uprisings...it's clear the districts would crumble without the capitol..." It's so torturous, sweltering under the sun listening to these dull ramblings that I almost catch myself wishing she'd hurry up and welcome Blaustein to the stage already. Another bead of sweat rolls down my back. When she eventually reaches the end of her heartfelt speech, she outlines the rules of the games. Two tributes, male and female, from each of the twelve districts. Sent off to the Capitol to fight to the death in a "thrilling public spectacle". Only one may be crowned Victor, bringing glory to their district. As if we don't know. He then introduces the three victors, and, finally and far too soon, Oswald Blaustein.
Blaustein reaches the microphone with a smile and a bow as Cleaver takes her seat. The crowd falls silent. He clears his throat. Flashes his perfect smile at us. "Ladies and gentlemen of District 10, are you ready?" A series of hesitant grunts echo around the audience. "Well, some of us forgot to eat our breakfast this morning!" Silence. Blaustein lets out an uncomfortable chuckle. Seemingly blind to the insensitivity of his statement, he insists, "I'm going to ask you all again, and this time I want you to put some oomphinto it, people! Ladies and gentlemen of District 10, are you ready?" Slightly louder grunts. "Well, it's hot today, so I won't waste your time," he says hastily. "Let's get started then, shall we? Alright. First up: boys." He reaches into the glass ball, feeling around for whoever's luck is worse. His fingers finally curl around a tiny pale withdraws it with apparent relish. Steps up to the microphone. Holds it out.Please don't be don't be don't be Jesse.
"Swinnart Williams!" he booms dramatically.
I feel an instant wave of relief, followed by a sharp guilty knowledge thatthis could be someone's brother, too. There's a stirring ahead as the boy-Williams-almost staggers to the stage, but the air quickly falls stagnant once more. He looks out at the audience numbly. "If anybody wishes to volunteer in place of this young man, please raise your hand now," says Blaustein. I hear an indiscernible yell from far behind me. "Now, now, you must be of reaping age to volunteer, ma'am! No one over eighteen, I'm afraid that's just the rules! Dear-oh, dear me, I certainly admire your, err, enthusiasm!" He gives another one of those sickening chuckles. More shouting, angry and desperate. I doubt someone's really trying to volunteer-that's rare around these parts, and everyone knows you can't volunteer if you're an adult. It's probably just someone, perhaps a relative, screaming hate speech. Either way, it's hard to miss the four peacekeepers striding over. Heads turn and watch as the protestor's led away. But there's nothing we can do.
Oswald waits for silence before announcing,
"Now for the girls."
My breath catches in my throat. I don't have time to wish, and yet everything moves so slowly. I glance at Noah. Her eyes are fixed straight ahead. I can almost hear the escort's slow, slow footsteps on stone. When he finally reaches the girls' side and plunges his hand into the bowl, I could be sure his theatrical rummaging goes on for then, all too soon and far too late and just like before, his fingers curl around a tiny pale strip. He withdraws it with apparent relish. Steps up to the microphone. Holds it out.
And reads.
"Jackie Spidell!"