Chapter Text
The morning light shines hot and bright on my face when I wake up. I stir, shielding my eyes with my arm, blinking a few times to make out my surroundings. The bed next to mine is empty, meaning my brother is already up. Briefly, I panic. Have I somehow missed my mother’s shouts? I sit up and start dressing myself until my arms still. Of course. Today is the day of the reaping.
I take off my hastily clad shirt and instead put on the same outfit I always put on on reaping day: a plain white shirt, brown dress pants that are hand-me-downs from both of my brothers, and the only pair of nice shoes I own. I comb my hair so the unruly waves would stay where they are, but before I leave the room, they’ve already escaped their form.
Downstairs, I find my dad at our small kitchen table at the back of the bakery, dipping a hunk of stale bread into his tea. My mother is nowhere to be found, meaning she either is out of the house or still asleep. The shop isn’t open on reaping days because of government protocol, and she’s always on edge because of it. You’d think it’s because she’s scared one of her children might become a tribute, but no. It’s a day of loss for the bakery. I tell myself it’s normal, she’s a merchant for a reason, but it still stings to know it’s true.
“Morning.” I say as I take my place at the table. I take a piece of bread for myself and dunk it in the lukewarm tea out of the pitcher. We never eat the good bread we make; instead, we eat the scraps that have been left out so long that no one except the pigs still want them. My dad gives a wan smile as a way of reply. He speaks rarely and prefers to let my mother do the talking. Sometimes I wonder whether he has a voice at all. I try to get down the meager meal as my brother and mother walk in, my brother dressed in his nicer clothes and my mother with a stern frown on her face.
“Peeta, go fetch your brother’s spare shirt from the dresser. He’s managed to soil it in the time we went to the square.” I get up from my chair. I always get to do these tasks around the house, probably because I’m the youngest. I don’t necessarily mind this, because in a way it makes me useful, but sometimes it would be nice to not run around all day. In my room, I can hear my mother’s voice through the floorboards. She’s loudly complaining to my father about the state of the square, the cameras, the vultures betting on the children. I don’t hear any replies. Usually my dad just lets her rage. And she rages often.
I run back down with a new shirt, which my brother takes with a small ‘thanks’. He sits down at the table and starts eating. He’s eighteen; his last year being eligible for the reaping. Because of my mother’s pride, we don’t take tesserae. We’re a baker’s family, so the meager grain we would receive is not new from the grain we have in the house, anyway. This means that his name is in there seven times. Mine’s in there five. They’re good odds, if anything. I see the children from the Seam at school, their worn out faces and skinny limbs. I don’t want to imagine how many times their names are in. I shake myself out of the thought as my mother hands me some loaves of bread so stale not even we can eat them anymore. As if on command, I turn around and go to our small backyard where we keep two pigs. I toss them the rocks of bread and watch them sniff at them. They’re apprehensive at first and attack them a moment later. While I’m outside, I take a moment to stand and close my eyes. Reaping days are strange. Of course there’s the dread of hearing your own name pour out of the speakers, but it’s also strange to see how District 12 shuts down completely. The stores in our small main street all have their shutters closed, people don’t generally walk the streets, and every child has to take a breath and go to their slaughter. It’s not fair, these games. Of course they’re not. I rage quietly inside myself for a minute, just a minute, until I can compose myself enough to go back in. Truly, I should count myself lucky. I’m in with the best odds I could possibly have. But still, the fear sometimes grips me.
“Ah, Peeta! I was just telling your brother about tonight. Your father traded some meat with that Everdeen girl so we’ll be having stew.” She says over her cup of tea. I blink, looking at my dad. I know he trades with hunters sometimes, and it puts something else on the table since we can barely afford the good butcher’s meat. But it’s the name that takes me aback. I know Katniss Everdeen from school, and I know she hunts. Everyone in District 12 knows. The fact that my father spoke to her sends some kind of jitter down my spine. She was probably at the door in the backyard not long ago.
“That’s great! Stew is great.” I say, smiling at my parents. We don’t usually have anything special, but on days like these they make an exception. Even my mom’s gaze softens for a small moment.
I fill the rest of the morning with preparing the bakery for tomorrow. I set out my supplies and make sure all of our machines are up to standard. I suppose a day like this is a day off for making sure everything is still right. Since I mostly bake the cakes and decorate them, I make sure to clean my decorating supplies. I also roll out pieces of brightly coloured sugar paste that I use to cover the cakes. They need to rest for a while, so it’s good to make them beforehand. The apron I wear protects my clothes from any kind of stains, but over the years I’ve become skilled enough to not spill things anymore.
Before I know it, my mother is calling me to go. I take off my apron, leave out my things the way I like them, and head to the kitchen. My older brother who lives on his own is there to accompany us to the square, where all of us will be present for the reaping. Attendance is mandatory for every citizen of every district. I look in the mirror one last time before leaving and see that my hair has fallen in waves over my forehead. Oh well, it’s not like people will really notice anyway.
It’s close to two o’clock when my brother and I have registered and walked to our designated places in the square. In roped off areas, all of us stand waiting to hear who they’re sending to the Hunger Games this year. I try to take a deep breath and recount that my name is in there five times. Only five. But still. I wipe my sweaty palms on the stiff material of the dress pants and look around. The other boys in my area all have looks of poorly concealed fear on them, much like myself. None of us speak; there’s nothing we can say. My parents and brother stand at the edge of the square, looking intently at the podium where our mayor will soon start his speech. My father gave me a pat on the back before I left and my mother, always the direct type, told me she hopes it’s someone else. She needs me in the bakery.
I feel sad for us. The smallest children, the twelve year olds, who stand at the very back of the square. They look nothing like the older children at the front; how is it possible that their names could be picked? They wouldn’t stand a chance. I will myself to stop mulling this over but it’s hard; reaping days bring out the worst anxieties you can imagine.
As I look at the kids, I see her. She’s wearing a blue dress and her hair is intricately braided on top of her head. Katniss Everdeen. My heartbeat, erratic because of nerves, flutters for an instant at the sight of her. She’s walking her sister over to her own roped off area and hugs her tightly. They speak and her sister, Primrose, nods. I look away when Katniss turns around to take her own place. Better she doesn’t see me staring. I’ve been caught a few times before and am always met with a frown. She stands in the area next to me, right at the edge. I look forward again before I forget why I’m here in the first place. Now is not the time for a crush to show its head.
Before me, in front of the Justice Building, stands a temporary stage. Mayor Undersee and District 12’s Capitol representative, Effie Trinket, are sitting on chairs. Her colourful wig is enough to show how much she isn’t from District 12. Normally, the third chair is reserved for a man named Haymitch Abernathy. He won the Games years ago and has been mentoring tributes ever since. He comes to the bakery sometimes. I hear from my mother that she has never seen him sober. It’s no surprise that he didn’t show up.
Mayor Undersee walks toward the microphone at two o’clock sharp and is met with scattered applause. The insectlike Capitol cameras whirl around noiselessly as he clears his throat and starts his speech. It’s the same one every year. Must be boring. I wonder how he must feel, reciting these words to children. I know he has a daughter who’s in this crowd as well. Madge and I haven’t talked a lot, but enough to know her father doesn’t hate this role of announcing the Reaping enough to quit as mayor. I suppose it comes with some perks. He recounts all of the horrible things that have happened to the people of Panem, and ends with how these things somehow result in the Hunger Games. Punishment for unruly districts, a yearly reminder that the Capitol has absolute control. I try to see the best in people when I can, but the people who have designed these games deserve no good word.
“It is both a time for repentance and a time for thanks”, Mayor Undersee concludes. The square is deadly silent. After allowing enough time for his speech to sink in, he starts listing previous victors from my district. Besides Haymitch, only one other person from 12 has ever won the Games, but they passed away a few years ago. Just as Mayor Undersee starts telling us about Haymitch, the man himself staggers onto the stage and even at this distance it’s clear that he is drunk. Very drunk. He falls into the chair that was left for him and the people around the square murmur. The Mayor seems to find all of this completely embarrassing so he hurries to introduce Effie Trinket and welcomes her to the front of the stage. She graciously comes forward but has to adjust her wig, since Haymitch tries to hug her before she can stand up. She gives us a dazzling smile while holding onto her precarious hair situation. It would be comical in another setting.
“Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be ever in your favour!” She proudly declares. It’s her token phrase, probably meant to rouse the crowd, but she’s met with forced applause. People from the districts don’t generally take warmly to visitors, especially people like Effie.
“I’m so honoured to stand here before you, District 12! And to accompany your fine tributes to the Games.” Again, applause. Her reception is lukewarm at best, but she doesn’t let that crush her bubbly spirit. She goes on a bit longer in the same vein but ultimately realises that she has to move on to the real part of this speech. There’s only so much forced cheerfulness one can project onto an unwilling crowd.
It’s time. She trots proudly to one of two big glass bowls that have been placed on either side of the stage. They’re filled with hundreds of small slips of paper. One bowl holds slips with girls’ names and one with boys’ names.
“Ladies first!” She exclaims, and she lets her gloved hand whirl around delicately in the bowl, as if she’s just choosing a pretty flower she wants to pick. No one but Effie seems to be enjoying this moment. She grabs a slip of paper and you can hear the entire crowd suck in a collective breath as she takes her time to walk back to centre front. She reads out the name and my blood freezes.
“Primrose Everdeen!”