For the first time in weeks, the water is coming out hot.
A blissful, relaxing hot. The kind that I was sure I’d never feel again because of our building’s pathetic, crumbling pipework. In fact, I’d been beginning to worry we wouldn’t have water the day of the reaping, period. The shower hasn’t worked at all in over 72 hours or so, thus choking me with anxiety, and I certainly wasn’t about to ask Valerie for help.
So it’s with great relief that I stand under the steady stream, shivering as the water kisses my shoulders and strips my hair of soap. I tilt my head back and smile under the rising cloud of steam. The bathroom is small enough that my nose nearly touches the ceiling, which I usually find annoying (as it reminds me of my height), but for once I couldn’t care less. Being clean, being groomed-- it’s just as good as a full-night's sleep, just as good as silk against skin.
Today must be my lucky day.
Breakfast is a blur of potato soup and burnt coffee, and it’s only by some miracle that I don’t get any of it on me or Clara. With the way I’m striding around and fussing about, I was sure some sort of spot would end up on us. After all, we’re both wearing our nicest dresses. It’s inevitable; bad things to get on nice dresses.
Yet, not a drop of soup spills. I even have time to brush my teeth twice before scooping Clara out of her high-chair and running out the door, five minutes ahead of schedule. I’m so pleased with myself that I dare to wear the only pair of heels I own-- tiny, kitten things, but heels none the less. They’re not even difficult to walk in as I rush to meet Marigold and Solvieg at the reaping. Both left nearly an hour ago, knowing I have a fondness for taking care of Clara on my own, knowing I can make her blonde hair stay put and keep a smile on her face in a way they can’t.
Thinking of this, I try to survey my sister again, brushing at the rosy color of her dress and cheeks, but in an instant she refuses to cooperate. Instead, Clara buries her face into the hollow of my neck as we walk, gurgling out something unintelligible. It’s only reflexive that I kiss her forehead and press her closer to me.
“Don’t tell mom, and don’t tell Valerie, but Clara, baby, you’re my favorite person on the planet,” I whisper, and smooth out her sunlit hair once more.
I give Marigold my sister and a smile, saying nothing when I finally reach the largest part of District 8. This year, there are a few wreaths of flowers decorating the city-square. A gag-worthy shade of red. I note with more than a little dissatisfaction that they clash with my outfit and with my hair. Realizing this turns my smile into a frown, but I kiss my mother anyway, who looks surprised at my expression. Though, she has no choice but to let it go.
I’ve already darted away and through the crowd.
“You do not know how to worry for the right reasons, you know that, right?”
Valerie clasps my hands between hers, those big brown eyes staring at me intently. I want to snort at her reaction, but as that’s kind of gross, I just give a weak smile. She’s so sweet, so serious, with her constant concern and level head. I’d just think my girlfriend would understand by now that I’m far more preoccupied with my looks than the one in a fifty thousand chance that my name will be drawn.
“It’s perfectly reasonable to worry about how those tulips are clashing with my outfit, Val, and you forget that the odds are always in our favor,” I respond with a sigh, looking once again at my dress.
“You forget that it’s all capitol bullshit and that you’ve put your name in for Terrasse one too many times, even after I told you to stop,” she hisses back.
“It’s not your job to feed me, or my family.”
Valerie’s eyes grow ever wider as she tries to keep me facing her, trying to say something, but I turn away abruptly. Rather than listen to her lecture me again, I stare ahead with the rest of our age bracket. District 8’s escort is taking the stage anyway, showing the video, drawing the names.
I’ve always liked this particular escort. Prosper, I think is her name. The one who has incredible eyebrows and manages to not overwhelm with her choice of outfit. The one with a tired tone. I’m glad she was moved up a to District 8, after the old escort was able to go on in status due to Twyla’s victory. Prosper is much nicer to look at than that silly boy.
However, I find that I like her a little less once she picks the girl’s name out of the bowl.
At the sound of my name, a strangled whisper cuts into my ear.
It’s all too sudden that she grabs for my hands again, like she had just minutes before, turning to look at me.
It takes another ten seconds for my brain to understand what’s going on. By the time it does, I see a pair of peacekeepers to the side of the girl’s division, heading straight towards me. I wonder if it’s the blood that we give at the beginning of the reaping that helps them track us down so fast. I suppose I’ve never given it any thought.
Before they can get to me, however, I manage to untangle myself from Val’s grip, her face already red with tears. In an automatic response, tears of my own threaten to come spilling out. Well, actually, they don’t just threaten. A couple do slip as I stumble back from Valerie and out into the walkway. I just barely register that cameras are on me, people are staring; there’s a cry that sounds an awful lot like my sister’s splitting through the heat of the day.
“Lovely, why don’t you come on up here?” Prosper says, a hand on her hip and little interest in her voice.
The woman’s tone is what finally jolts me back to reality. She pulls me from my surreal-state and beats down the shock ringing in my ears. And then, all at once, I’m straightening my spine and striding forward, brushing away the few tears and sniffing just a bit. I know I won’t be able to hold it together for much longer, but I also understand that it’s important not to let people see you cry at these things. I think I heard about that, once.
However, I do know for a fact that my dress is not matching those stupid flowers up on stage. So I focus on that. I lift my head up in defiance, as if I can outshine the ridiculous color with my own fabrics, and manage to take the stage.
I don’t look at Valerie, though, or my sister or mother or even Solvieg. No, I just concentrate on looking better than the flowers.
Fortunately for me, the boy tribute already accomplishes that.
Next to him, I can tell that most thing's don't look half as good as he. I'm surprised I notice that in the middle of the chaos going on up here, but figure it will work to my advantage. I also look damn good, and next to him we make quite the striking pair of tributes.
Despite my mind trying to distract itself, I still want to cry. I still want to scream and storm off stage and run into the city. The urge doesn't go away as I shake the boy tribute's hand-- Genesis, I believe-- and it doesn't leave as I keep my head held high and exit the stage. It remains and boils in the pit of my stomach until I feel so hot I'm afraid I'll melt right there on the spot. This humidity is the opposite of the morning's start; it's the worst thing I've ever felt.
Unlucky day for me, I guess.
