When I wake up, the other side of the bed is cold.
I sigh with disappointment, though I really should've expected it: Dalton always gets up early on the morning of the reaping. But I can't blame him—I know my brother gets restless when he's scared. This time, though, the only difference is that he isn't scared for himself. Now nineteen years old, he's no longer eligible to fight in the games, but us four of his younger siblings certainly are. I jump as a rooster's call punctures the morning's silence, a dreadful reminder of the day to come. If I wasn't awake before, I certainly am now. So I crawl out of bed to face my fate.
Someone—probably Papa—has placed my reaping outfit, ironed and folded, on the chair by the window. I slip it on: Mama's long-sleeved white blouse and cream frilly skirt from when she was a girl, Dalton's old brown waistcoat and a red tie as a nice accent. I tie my shoulder-length hair in a half-up-half-down style with a matching red ribbon. The clothes are all a little stained and worn in some places, but they're from family, and that's what matters.
When I enter the bathroom, Noah's already standing there, sling freshly tied. With her free hand she applies rouge before the cracked, grimy mirror. I've never much liked makeup for myself; if Dalton doesn't wear it, why should I? But it does look so gorgeous on my sister. I shoot her the brightest smile I can muster this early in the morning, which she ignores. The squeaky faucet sprays icy water into my hands. I wash the foul taste out of my mouth and splash my face. Glimmering droplets cling to my skin. I've always loved the way light interacts with water. "Can you move your fat head,sugar pie?" Hisses Noah. I straighten up, sighing. "Come on, Nay-Nay, what if I get reaped today and that's the last thing you ever said to me?" I know the moment it comes out of my mouth that it isn't funny. Noah simply stares at me for a second, deadpan, before turning away and starting on her long hair. Shame creeps up my cheeks. I straighten up, looking into the mirror at our reflections. Same freckles dotting our pale skin, same brown eyes, same dark curls. Though we're twins, we have the least close relationship in all our family. I, of course, blame her. She catches my eye. I turn and leave.
"Jackie," my older sister, Bonnie, greets me as I enter the living room. A heat and crackling come from the sooty fireplace, small and meagre but welcome all the same. I hold my hands out in front of it. "You look nice," says Jesse, blinking sleepily from his spot on the lounge. "Give us a twirl?" I oblige, smiling despite myself. Jesse's a right pain in the arse at the best of times, but he does have a gift for lightening a dark mood. "Where's Dalton?" I ask.
"I think he went out to feed the horses," answers Bonnie.
"Hey, that's my thing," I grin.
"Cider, anyone?" We all turn around to see Mama leaning in the doorway.
"Yes, please," Jesse says.
"It's in the kitchen." And at the nod of her head, we all rush past her. Jesse and Bonnie fight over the ladle while I wait behind them. Bonnie takes her sweet time with it, and then Jesse even longer, so my patience is tested, but before long I'm holding a nice cold cup of apple cider. "Mama's apple cider is the best," I say, to which my siblings nod enthusiastically, mouths glued to their mugs. And it really is: sweet and silky and spiced with rare, luxurious things like a whole stick of cinnamon. It tastes like autumn. It tastes like home. "I'm gonna go take some out to Dalton," I explain after a pause. I receive another round of nodding, fill up a second mug and leave the room.
Outside, I slip on my coat and curl my bare feet into the wilted grass. I walk along the path around Mee-maw's vegetable garden and swing open the crumbling wooden gate. I pick up my pace as I pass the goat pen, making my way through an empty field towards the stables. I hear a faint mooing in the distance, a reminder of the health-check roundup taking place tomorrow. My family is one of the few in the district with our own private cattle and land. We only manage to stay afloat because, unlike the Capitol mass farms, we produce premium Pennybred steak, which wealthy Capitol people absolutely adore. Instead of being pumped full of food, butchered, frozen and sent off, our cows are raised free-range and taken on annual cattle drives, where they're slaughtered fresh. They say you can taste the difference, but I wouldn't know. I've never tried it.
It's not long before I find Dalton, shoveling old bedding into a wheelbarrow. He leans on the spade when he sees me, catching his breath. Missy, one of the barnyard cats, leaps from her perch on a fencepost and winds between my legs. "I brought you something," I smile. He accepts the cool drink gratefully. After taking a few big gulps, he says, "I know you're touchy about the rest of us doing your horse stuff, but I thought I'd just come on down here and clean up a little. I needed something to take my mind off... you know..."
"Aw, that's okay! I get it. So, have you done anything else? How long have you been up?"
"Oh, maybe an hour and a bit. I mended the bit of the fence the coyotes messed up before I came here though, so I haven't done anything else at the stables."
"Nice, that fence has been dodgy for a while." I pat him on the back as I walk past and begin preparing the horse feed.
Dalton and I work for maybe half an hour more, in comfortable silence. And he's right: it does take your mind off things. We decide to save tack-up for later: it's quicker with the whole family, and we're going past the stables anyway-there's a shortcut through our property that saves about forty minutes. Once they're all eating-including Missy, who caught a large rat-I start doing general maintenance. Comb Oat's pale mane, pick out May's iron-shoed hooved, polish Whiskey's gorgeous leather bridle. Dalton lays down his rake. "I'm gonna go back up to the house now, unless you've got anything else for me to do?"
"No, go ahead. I'm nearly done, just brushin' down Cypress-you know how she gets, always rollin' in the dirt."
"Right. Thanks for the cider, by the way."
"Thank Mama." I turn my attention back to Cypress. Admittedly, I'd always favored her; apart from her being my very own, I adore her simple grey-brown coat, one white sock and feathery tail from which she got her name. She's sweet and moderate but can be very silly sometimes. "We're gonna have to retire you soon," I sigh. "Yeah, you're gettin' old...well, anyhow, I gotta go." We won't be taking her to the town square, so now's my chance to say goodbye. I kiss her on the forehead. "Now, don't you go worryin' yourself. I'll be back before nightfall, okay? And you tell all those other horses to be good, yeah? Love you, sweet pea."
"Ah, there's my Jackrabbit," I hear Papa remark as I swing the door open. "you're back right on time; we were just debating who to send down to get you. Sit down, Jess and Bon have cooked us all a lovely breakfast." Though he's clearly attempting a cheery and optimistic sort of front, I can hear a tremor in his voice. "Oh, you're so humble, Papa, we all know it was you," says Bonnie, stabbing a fork into her bacon.Bacon.I eagerly draw up a seat. Though my family's relatively well-off compared to most of our district, we still can only really afford bacon once a year-the same time every year, at that. My mouth waters at the smell of it. I pile my plate up, the grand affair offering a momentary distraction from the tense silence around the table. "Where'd you get that dress from, Noah? I don't reckon I've seen it before," comments Charlie, in an effort to break the ice. She chews before answering, "it's Bonnie's. She used to wear it when you were a baby." I remembered that dress: a pretty linen thing. It suits Noah. "But that ain't fair," Charlie protests. All eyes turn to her. "Jackie's got somethin' from two people, but you've only got somethin' from one. Ooh-here." And she hurries off. "Where's she off to?" asks Wilson quietly. No one responds.
Before long, Charlie returns with a large hat. It's a bit of a mess even if a charming one, all feathers and scrappy ribbons and painted flowers, but luckily even Noah has the tact to don it. After that, there isn't much more talk. Mama, Mee-maw, Wilson and Bonnie make a couple attempts at strategizing for what happens if anyone gets reaped. Who would volunteer in their place. "Just whoever's oldest, like it's always been." "But Jacks and Noah are the same age." "Then Noah." "What? Her arm's broken, and Jackie was born first anyway—" "No, no way. Jackie wouldn't survive a day in there." They go on like that for a bit before Rosie covers her ears and Dalton snaps at them to shut up.Jackie wouldn't survive a day.I appreciate Bonnie trying to protect me, I suppose, but in a small stupid way it hurts to know that she has such little faith. And there's something else too—it scares me. Because if I get chosen today and even my own family doesn't believe in me, well...let's just hope it doesn't get to that.
Once the plates are cleared, Papa gets out his guitar. A few of us look at him skeptically as he strums a chord. He clears his throat. "Alright, I know this isn't what we usually do, uh,today, but I thought it would be a nice little thing to do, you know, as a family, before, well, before we leave. Just to lift the spirits. What do we think?" A series of nods. Music's always been a big tradition in our family-before bed, during work, on cattle drives. But never, before, on reaping day. "Can we sing the horse song?" Rosie asks sweetly. We smile at her: it's a family favorite. Like most of our songs, it's from a long, long time ago—before the war. Jesse gathers some empty pots to drum on and Papa begins strumming, and sings. Then it moves to the person to his right: Bonnie. Then it's my turn, to sing the chorus, the others harmonizing. And we go on like that, around the circle until the song's over. It's nice to be singing like this as a family, on such a horrible morning: it's like Dalton's bed, like Mama's cider. It comforts you; it embraces you and promises not to let go.
The clock says six-thirty, and it's time to leave. Since our district's is the eighth to be televised, it's at four pm in our time zone. We head to the shoe rack: eleven pairs of distinct leather boots, all stacked in varying degrees of neatness. We like to joke that the shoe rack reflects our personalities. Mama's are tall and dark with engraved patterns. Jesse's are polished 'til they're practically mirrors. Rosie's are light and short and simple, in the same place every time. I slip on mine: scuffed with little painted flowers on them, and always either tidily side-by-side or strewn recklessly on the floor. I pray that every single shoe returns home with us today.
It doesn't take too long to get us all mounted, though Noah's still wary-that's how she broke her arm, see, from falling off a spooked colt. She, of course, blames me. Anyhow, soon we're off. You know today's real bad because I even feel trapped on horseback. I don't have it in me to race ahead like usual, so I dawdle at the rear of the pack, absorbing the beauty of the property: the ambling rivers and swaying forests and still, still mountains. Just in case I don't ever get to see it again. To be fair, my district's name pool is pretty small. Even though I've never had to apply for too many tesserae, my chances of getting picked are still probably greatly above average.No, Jackie, don't think like that.I always do this on reaping day; get in my own mind about things and scare myself. I shake my head and kick my horse and canter faster than my fear.