Volleybabe

I'm not just obsessed with volleyball, I'm also obssessed with books and TV shows. Clearly I make good decisions.

[volleybabe101]

The 68th Hunger Games - Chapter 3: Goodbyes

       The Peacekeepers pulled me and Wesley into our Justice Building. We went down a few halls together, then split at an intersection. The Peacekeeper with me brought me to a grimy, dust-coated room before exiting and shutting the door.

       I knew what would happen now. My parents would come in, then my siblings, and they would tell me to try to win, and that they loved me. But to win, I would have to kill someone, either directly or indirectly it didn't matter. Me winning would mean that the others would have to die somehow.

       My head spun. I sank down onto the floor, gripping my knees tightly. My breath came out in short bursts, small hiccups that only happened when I cried. And I was crying, I realized, feeling the tears trickle down my cheeks. I wanted to see my parents, wanted to hug them and tell them that I loved them, loved every single second I got to spend with them. I wanted to see Colton, my favorite partner-in-crime, and tell him that I wouldn't give up any of the times we goofed off in the fields, even though that may have been why we needed to get more tesserae. And Bailey and Reed, who let me tag along with them a few times when they first started apprenticing, who had good morals and charisma. Maisie, my role model, my friend, my sister, I wanted her to tell me that this was all just a dream. I wanted my parents to hold me and say that this wasn't actually happening, and I wanted to hold them back and say everything I was thinking.

       I wiped off my tears. The wood was rough beneath my hands as I pushed off of the floor and stood up. I used a cloth covering a chair to clean off the dust on my legs, and tried to pretend everything was okay.

       But when the door opened and my family came in, I didn't move. They were on me, hugging me and squeezing me, and I just couldn't hug back. My stiff arms wouldn't move.

       I love you! I wanted to say. I wanted to scream it at them.

       But I couldn't.

       Because when I eventually died in the Games, I didn't want them to have any guilt. I didn't want them to remember me sobbing out and crying that I loved them.

       So I let them encourage me. “You can win, you can, Jo!" "Listen to your mentor and you'll be okay." "Don’t give up." "Don’t lose hope.” "We'll see you again."

       Colton hugged me last. My baby brother. The brother who felt like what I imagined a twin would feel like, like my other half, the one I wouldn't want to live without. His mouth was right next to my ear when he whispered, "Do whatever you have to do. But please don't leave me. I can't do it without you, Jo."

       He almost broke me. I almost started to cry again.

       But I held the tears in, and I nodded along, and I gave everyone hugs as they walked out of the door when our visiting hour was over. I silently vowed to remember the way they smelled, the way their voices sounded, the way their skin felt on mine, because that would be the last time I ever got to see them.

       Colton smelled like spring, like wildflowers and hope for a good harvest and everything that made me think of home. Mom and Maisie had higher-pitched voices then Bailey, but only by a little, and Mom's voice was thick with tears. Dad's hands were calloused when he had gripped my shoulders and told me he loved me, and Reed had hands rough with hard work that rubbed my back when Bailey pulled me close.

       I didn't have time to think anymore after that. It seemed like only a second had passed between my family closing the door and a Peacekeeper shoving it open again. I walked out on my own. I was led through a maze of hallways, until we came to the front entrance.

       The boy, Wesley, was already there, flanked by Peacekeepers. He kept his eyes forward as we walked out.

       I tried to emulate him as we walked to the car. The cameras surrounding us strengthened my belief that I wanted to make sure my family saw me looking calm when they would be forced to watch this on television later. I couldn't match the hard, steely look in Wesley's eyes, but I didn't need to. I just needed to make sure the thoughts that were jumbled in my brain, depressing and confusing, didn't appear on my cheeks in the form of tears.

       Just a few feet away from the car. Only a couple more steps. Wesley was in. The cameras in my peripheral vision stayed there, and then I was inside too.

       I drew in a breath. I'd never been in a car before, but I'd seen them on television after every reaping. This would bring me to the train, which would bring me to the Capitol, where I would then be forced into an arena. I looked to my right, where Wesley sat on the other side of the backseat. Us. Both of us would have the same fate. Both of us would be in that arena.

       I turned to look out the window as the car started. My hands pressed against the leather of the seats, gripping it tightly with each roar of the engine. The fields and pastures and shacks were blurring together as the car picked up speed.

       My stomach was in my throat. My heart was pounding. How was it even possible to go this fast? How was it safe?

       A vision of the car crashing passed through my mind. The glossy black vehicle, crumpled and ruined, the Peacekeeper who was driving slumped over the wheel, the other halfway out of the broken windshield. Wesley and me in the back, bloody and dead.

       It was depressing how much I would've preferred that over going into an arena.

       No one talked. Not until we neared the train station and the Peacekeeper driving the car turned his head back just a little and said, "Good luck." His tone was flat, the corners of his lips turned down, like he’d grown accustomed to this but hadn’t yet learned to love it like his peers.

       At least 10 cameras were waiting for us outside. Two Peacekeepers, originally standing by the train, walked to the car and opened the back doors, motioning for Wesley and me to come out.

       I stepped out of the car feeling airy and dizzy. My stomach growled. The camera lights were bright, and although the only talking was murmurs between Peacekeepers or camera crews, my ears felt full with over-stimulation. I tried to keep my eyes straight. I took deep breaths. My parents would not see me upset. My sisters would not see me cry. My brother would not see me betray him.

       Wesley got on the train first, stumbling and leaning into the door frame. He looked behind him at a camera and scowled, before letting a Peacekeeper pull him farther into the train.

       My feet sank into the plush carpet on my first step. My pace slowed so much in awe that the Peacekeeper to my left nudged my arm with the butt of his gun. I walked a little faster, but I kept turning my head to take in as much as I could.

       The walls were decorated with paintings, paintings done in rich blues and purples, bright yellows and oranges, stark contrasts between midnight black and pure white. The drapes covering the windows were thick and, when I reached a hand out to touch them, were the softest things I had ever felt.

       Ahead of me Wesley, also eyeing the lavish decorations, was led through a door. I went through a moment after him, stepping into a dining room.

       The chairs and long table were made out of the same dark wood, and the floor was covered in a deep red carpet. The lights on the walls emitted soft glows, dark enough to feel comfortable, but light enough for me to see two women and a man sitting at the table.

       The Peacekeepers left the room.

       Tatiana, District 10's escort, stood up first, still wearing the same red lipstick from before. "We were just talking about you two." Now that she was off-camera, her voice was lower, calmer, less like someone playing a part. She motioned to the man and the woman, both standing now, and said, "These are your mentors. Dustin,"

       The man smiled shyly, showing a glimpse of straight white teeth. He ran a hand through his short brown hair as he muttered, "Everyone calls me Dusty."

       Tatiana motioned to the woman, "and Domitia."

       The man, really more of a boy, I remembered from only a few years ago. He won the 66th Hunger Games in an extremely unordinary victory. The arena had been all forest for miles, transitioning into shallow hills on the fringes, and he had hidden away in trees and caves for most of the time. He only came out to forage and, although he'd had the lean muscles of a decently-fed 16 year old before the Games (probably the son of Rancher, I couldn't help thinking), by the time he'd killed the only other survivor of a devastating earthquake and won, he'd been nearly all bone. Now, I could see he'd gained the muscle back, and then some. He towered over the girl.

       I gave them both a strained smile. Tatiana gestured to the seats. “Please,” she said. “Make yourselves comfortable.”

       The trio sat down in unison. I looked to Wesley, hoping to catch his eye and a share an uneasy grin that said, “I know our situation is messed up but thank you, thank you, thank you for saving my brother’s life,” but he was already sitting. I took the chair next to him, putting both of us tributes across from the victors and the escort, the Capitol-made.

       Domitia smiled. She had a striking profile when she turned to look at Dusty, communicating with him using her eyes. She used to be called Jolene, before she won her games. She changed her name after, and her hair, and her eye color. Red hair in place of straw-blonde, shockingly green eyes in place of brown. Capitol in place of District 10.

       "Today's been hard for both of you, I'm sure. Dusty and I will talk about your strategies later. Right now, we just ask you to eat and relax." Her words sounded both sincere and practiced at the same time. I looked in her eyes and saw the people she killed during the 60th Hunger Games. My stomach roiled.

       I tore my gaze away from her as three avoxes walked into the room, one after another. I sat silently, numbly, as they set silver plates on the table. Steaming steak sat on one plate, glazed in a dark brown sauce. Baked potatoes, loaded with butter and cheese and bacon, shared space with a colorful array of vegetables. Beside them, the food that I couldn't keep my eyes off of, was an entire roasted bird. My mouth watered. The avoxes poured everyone a bowl of thick white soup and then moved out of my vision.

       I wanted to look at them, to tell them that I was sorry for what the Capitol had done to them, but my stomach was growling. Wesley's was too, a low rumble that matched mine. The people on the other side of the table didn't seem surprised. Tatiana smiled, then dipped her spoon into her soup and took a dainty sip.

       I copied her. One spoonful turned into two, then five, then my bowl was empty and I was grabbing a bread roll from a tower on the edge of the table. The knife felt awkward in my hands as I buttered the roll. It was heavy, real silverware, something I'd never used before. I tore into the bread and had to stop myself from sighing in pleasure.

       "The swan is lovely today. Crispy skin," Domitia said, motioning to the bird. Her teeth were small, white, and perfectly straight.

       The only swan I'd ever seen had been a black and white photo of one in class a few years ago. It's image escaped me now. I knew it had white feathers and a long, elegant neck. I knew it was supposed to be beautiful. And I knew it was an example that anything could be killed for the Capitol's enjoyment.

         I set the roll down on my plate.

[volleybabe101]

In a world where music is magic, describe a World War on the battlefield

This is different than what I’ve posted in the past, but this is more like the direction I’d like to take my blog in, short stories that were created out of different forms of inspiration.

The clearing was quiet as the troops hunkered down in narrow trenches. Their dark brown uniforms made them almost blend in with the dirt, but the camouflage didn’t seem to comfort them. Soldiers shifted uneasily, moving their instruments from hand to hand with impatience. A sharp whistle made the men stop all movement, their fingers poised over strings and keys and buttons.

Their enemy was approaching, a large group clad head-to-toe in blue. The confidence around them was visible, a mixture of arrogance and assuredness. A soft, voiceless tune followed them, almost too quiet to be heard over their marching. It was a delicate hum, vibrating with energy, shifting between high notes and low, sharps and flats, human and machine-made.

A soldier in the trenches screamed. He dropped to the ground, an arrow appearing out of his neck. Two more men dropped, then a fourth and a sixth, and then the whistle blew again, three short blasts, and the trumpeters turned their horns to the sky and blew.

The ground underneath the blue-coats exploded. Their forces scattered. Grass clouded the air. Dirt fell from the sky in an imitation of rain. Commanders shouted for order, men and women shouted for surrender, their voices blending together and vanishing within the sounds of the battlefield erupting.

A group of string players, one with a damaged cello and three more with violins, regrouped behind an old shack. Those who still held onto their bows raised them to the strings; the others prepared to use their fingers. The cello player nodded, then drew out a few notes as his other musicians followed.

The dry grass was quick to light. One long stroke of a bow and the fire darted along a newfound trail to the trenches. A quick succession of three plucked notes made embers pop out of the flame, landing nearby and starting new blazes.

Other blue-coats who had managed to escape the onslaught of detonations picked up the tune easily, adapting it to their instruments. The addition of a clarinet added height to the fire, while a lonesome piccolo made extra flames leap out of the fire like arms, outstretched and beginning to grab enemy soldiers directly from the trenches.

“Fire! Fire!” The word spread across the trenches. Soldiers ran, the fiery hands curling around their instruments and consuming them, already reaching back to snag the owner. It was chaos, pure and simple and growing worse as the instruments grew louder.

The whistle rang out five times.

The percussionists began, lined up in a row, facing the fire head-on. Every hit against a drum beat the flames back. The fire lashed out and curled, folding in on itself and growing at the same time. Tongues licked across soldiers’ faces and left welts and burns. Skin fell and smoldered. The harpists joined in on the tune.

Massive swells of water soared from the ground. The waves crashed into the flames, dousing them in seconds. The field was flooded. Soldiers swam, and when they couldn’t swim any longer, they drowned. Some were pulled under by fierce rip currents. Others were simply overwhelmed by the initial surge and had the water forced up their noses and into their mouths, where it filled their lungs and suffocated them.

The steady drumbeat continued, although the harps stopped as soon as they had started. The water sunk back into the ground, leaving a muddy, nearly-empty wasteland.

A man in a blue coat trembled on the center of the battlefield. His oboe was on the ground next to him, broken into pieces.

“Mercy. Have mercy,” he croaked. His eyes were wide with fear as the commander of the brown-coated army approached him.

She looked down at him, her eyes narrowed. His dirty boots, his torn pants, his holey shirt, and the three badges of honor pinned snugly on his vest. She reached for the instrument on her belt.

“Please! Please, no!” He fell to his knees. Tears streamed from his eyes. “Please, have mercy, have mercy!”

She frowned, then reached forward and pulled one of his badges off. “The Blue Ribbon badge. One of the highest honors of your people. Received for learning information from multiple prisoners of war. How did you learn this information?” She didn’t give him time to answer. “By torturing them. I see your instrument. I know how you did it.” She kicked the largest oboe piece to the side, black sparks hissing off as it skidded across a rock. She flung the badge after it.

The man didn’t say anything. His lips struggled to move. He could only whimper as she stood above him. Her coat billowed out behind her, like she was a god of death, come to tear his soul from his body.

“Please,” he whispered. “Have mercy.”

She shook her head and struck the triangle.

[volleybabe101]

The 68th Hunger Games - Chapter 2: The Reaping

       The stage creaked as District 10's escort strode up to the microphone. The entire area had gone silent, the occasional ruffle of clothing or a soft cough being the only reprieves. Tatiana Asquith cleared her throat in the microphone, her pursed, brightly colored lips standing out from her pale white skin. Where our skin was light bronze, hers was like pale milk. The red of her lipstick was reminiscent of the blood shed in past Games, and for a moment I wondered if she would be so cruel as to plan it like that.

       She smiled down at us, her teeth straight and shiny. "Welcome, District 10! Happy Hunger Games!" Tatiana launched into the story of the Dark Days and the birth of the Hunger Games, one that everyone in the districts has heard so many times that we could recite it along with her. She took short breaks between sentences, making our history feel more disjointed and strange.

       Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the 12-year-old girls clumped together. They held each others hands, small bodies pressed tightly against each other, and all I could think about was how that sense of community would end soon. The Hunger Games caused just enough damage to destroy any togetherness we might have while we're still able to be reaped. If we worked together as a district, maybe there would be a way for us to do something about the Games, to fight back somehow.

       But when Tatiana spoke the infamous words ("May the odds be ever in your favor!") and I felt the crowd recoil from their neighbors, I knew that we would not be able to fight back for a very long time. We might not ever be able to fight back.

       Tatiana's puffy black sleeves seemed like they would interfere with her ability to snatch a name from the bowl, but with the elegant poise of someone who had been on TV for so many years of her life, she just smiled at the camera and reached in.

       The girls around me scrunched away. We were all in our own little bubbles of fear, of what if's and anxiety. Tatiana slowly unfolded the slip of paper. I closed my eyes. My heart pounded. I swallowed heavily, thinking of Maisie's confidence, of Mother and Father's quiet reassurance, of Bailey's kind eyes. We were a family. We were survivors. We would be okay.

       I opened my eyes, staring straight into a camera as Tatiana Asquith called my name as the female tribute from District 10.

      I let out a strangled gasp, or maybe the person next to me did, and then I stopped breathing. Ice cold fear wrapped around my body and squeezed. The girls around me moved away even more, making a path for the Peacekeepers to retrieve me when they saw I wasn't moving my myself. The men who took money from the Capitol grabbed my arms, pulling me, urging me, to walk. I couldn't feel my legs, but when I looked down they were moving at an awkward pace, like that of a newborn calf. I swore they were trembling, but my vision was beginning to blur with tears, and I was just trying to keep the sob from escaping me.

       The Peacekeeper's hands were covered with black gloves, but that didn't make their grip any less harsh. Bruises were probably already forming with the way they were dragging me across the main square. I probably wouldn't be alive long enough for the bruises to heal. I felt bile climbing up my throat.

       They brought me to the foot of the stage, then released me. I froze, but with a shove in the back, my feet began to climb the steps. My district was still silent. My palms were sweating and my heart was beating faster than I could ever remember as Tatiana shook my hand, beaming down at me. Up close her eyes were sleepy and framed by dramatic makeup. She said a few words to me (maybe a "Congratulations!" in her Capitol accent), dropping my hand a second later.

       "Are there any volunteers?" She waited for a second, scanning my district with joyous eyes. "No? Then we'll move on to the boys." It was a production to her, some elaborate staging before the real show. The people in the Capitol who would watch this would be enraptured with her breezy manner as she reached into the bowl to pick out the boy's name.

       The boy I would have to fight to the death.

       I looked over the crowd, not processing that these people, my neighbors, the people I've traded with, the people I've survived with, were sending me to the Capitol to kill other kids. Their faces all blurred together, even Colton's, who I'm sure was swimming somewhere in that ocean of people. I tasted my breakfast on my tongue again, this time in the form of a thick liquid that was begging me to open my mouth. I swallowed it back down, my heart hammering against my ribs.

       For a fleeting moment, I regretted all the tesserae I'd taken for my family. I couldn't remember how many times my name was in the bowl Tatiana stood behind. If I hadn't done it, if I hadn't taken so much, would I have even been called?

       And then my moment of anger and selfishness was over, because I'd reminded myself of how I contributed to keeping my family alive, and because Colton's name fell out of Tatiana's blood-stained lips.

       For one of the only times ever, fear overcame Colton's normally placid features. The Peacekeepers forced him to the stage too, the usually short walk dragging into seconds, then minutes. My little brother's big brown eyes were wide as he looked around. He didn't seem to be processing anything besides the simple action of walking, and even with that he was struggling, stumbling over the uneven stones. My little brother, my baby brother, my best friend. The person who would have to die for me to go home, if I even wanted to go home without him. Our eyes met and all I saw were the promises we'd made that would never get fulfilled, the jokes we'd laughed at, the plans we'd concocted, and then I had to look away before I began wailing at the unfairness.

       My gaze landed on Tatiana. Clothed in a black dress, she looked like the Grim Reaper. The black bonnet on her head was her hood, only it didn't mask her face, it provided a stark contrast to her pale flesh. Her red nails were piercing the white slips of paper as if they were her a part of her death book. I could practically see the blood that dripped down her lips, smearing onto her exposed chest and coating her hands scarlet. Her scythe was the microphone propped up in front of her, helping her cull the children of the districts down into manageable numbers. My body shook with anger.

       Colton shambled up the steps. I grabbed his hand, clammy palm meeting clammy palm, and looked at him, my eyes conveying my emotions far better than I could hope to.

       "Any volunteers to be the male tribute from District 10? Any volunteers at all? No volunteers? Then these are your tributes, District-"

       "I volunteer!" The boy who stepped out of the crowd had no shoes. His shirt was ripped, his pants covered in stains. I didn't know his name but I had seen him before near the orphanage where he lived. He was dirty and poor and now he was my hero.

       I hadn't even turned to Colton before the Peacekeepers were there, dragging him back off the stage for the orphan boy to take his place. The Peacekeepers tightened their hold around Colton, who was now fighting to get away from them, finally broken out of his stupor. They pushed him deep into the crowd, the kids who composed it swallowing him without another thought, accepting him back into the district.

       The orphan boy stood next to me. He smelled strongly of manure, and I saw Tatiana's nose wrinkle briefly before her wide, TV-ready grin reappeared. I could only stare at him in awe. He had saved my brother's life.

       "What's your name?" Tatiana asked the orphan.

       He looked up at her, then to the crowd, then back at her. His mouth was set in grim determination. "Wesley Cofield." He had only a small grimace as he said his last name, which all orphans in District 10 had. Wesley looked down at his dirt-stained feet.  

       "Your tributes, District 10!" Tatiana clapped. The look of pride in her eyes was real, and it made beads of sweat drip down my back. My toes curled in my shoes. The district softly clapped. They felt relief. Relief that it wasn't one of them, that it wasn't one of their kids. That it wasn't someone who mattered to them. Just a poor farm girl and an orphan boy, I could almost hear them saying, now let's go back to work.​​​​

       I hated my district for turning their backs on us, but I could remember all the times I'd breathed a sigh of relief after another reaping went by and I was able to return home. I never spared a thought to the two kids who could and likely would, die that year, until the Games went live. And then I would feel pity, because, God, being murdered by other victims was a terrible way to go. I had thought this while I snuggled back into my threadbare blanket, while I sipped a spoonful of broth, while I became more and more compliant with the Capitol.

[volleybabe101]

The 68th Hunger Games - Chapter 1: District 10

The sun streamed in through the cracks in the wooden walls. I clenched my eyes shut for a second and then forced myself to open them. Colton was already out of bed, his footsteps impossibly quiet against the dirt floor. My younger brother usually woke up before me, slipping out from beneath our covers without so much as a shift in the mattress. I attempted to do the same even though the other bed in the room was already empty, and, despite stumbling over a small mound of dirt, I managed it.

       I could see the ghost of a smile on Colton's face, and I matched it with my own toothy grin. He turned and crept out of the small room. I slipped past the bed I shared with Colton, maneuvering around Maisie's and my mother's bed to grab my boots. The night before I'd tossed them in the corner of the room in a fit of exhaustion. Colton and I had gone to the trading market across town after school ended, and then we'd hurried to the fields to start our farming shift. The Peacekeepers were more agitated than usual, barking out harsh orders and brandishing their weapons. Four people were whipped before the second hour was over. The day before the reaping always caused raised tensions. Colton had fallen into bed the second we got home, spreading more dirt onto our thin sheets, but I didn't mind. I was just happy that we both took our shoes off before we fell asleep.

       I tugged my boots on and ambled out of the room, ignoring the way my feet pressed against the tight heel. I was so proud of my shoes since I had saved the money from my farming shifts to buy them. They were the one thing I truly owned, and even after all the years of wearing them, I still got a swell of pride when I put them on in the morning.

       A fire was already going in the corner of the main room. My mother and my sister Maisie, who was sitting on a crude stool instead of helping my mother prepare breakfast, were talking with Colton. Maisie smiled when I came to the table, reaching a hand out to stroke my hair, teasingly poking the knot it was all gathered in at the base of my neck.

       "We're gonna have to do something with this before the reaping starts. Gotta make sure you look good for those cameras, right? Steal the spotlight from all those other kids, maybe you'll get adopted by the Capitol." She winked, her tongue poking out of the corner of her grin. Her lighthearted teasing gave me giddy joy, but I saw our mother cringe at the mention of the Reaping.

       "I was already planning on changing my hair for today. How do you think two knots would look?"

       Maisie laughed. "We'll never even be able to get it out of this." She lightly tugged on my cluster of hair, pulling me closer. I reached out to push her away, still smiling, but our mother stepped between us, abandoning the roots she was cutting up. She put a calloused hand on my thin wrist, and another on Maisie's skinny arm. Both of them were far older than me, Maisie being 19, my mother somewhere in her 40s, she figured (somewhere between the 50th and 60th Games she had lost track of her age), but we were all close in height. Most of my district was this short, stunted by daily starvation and marked by wrinkles and scars that showed our hard work and determination to live. The people of the Capitol would laugh at our dirt-stained faces and short statures.

       "Girls, no fighting today. Get your sister and Reed from their room, it's time for breakfast. Colton, get your father from outside, tell him we have enough wood for the fire." Mother spoke in commands, a firmness to her voice that made my 13-year-old brother and me listen, but Maisie had been around it longer. She was less affected, so when she smiled and told our mother that no she would not be getting Bailey and her husband from their room, our mother only shook her head and muttered under her breath, wearing a smile she reserved for moments like these.

       Colton stepped outside and disappeared from my view, while I scampered across the room to a door. It was next to the door to the room I shared with Colton, Maisie, and my mother, but this door was in better shape. This addition to the house was newer, something my grandparents had constructed a little before Maisie turned two. They died before I was born, but Bailey still remembered them, so sometimes when she got home early from her job as a butcher's apprentice, she would sit with mother and father around the fire, and I could hear their wistful tones from my bed.

       I knocked on the door, and Reed soon opened it. Bailey was behind him, one of her hands placed gently on his back.

       "Breakfast is ready," I chirped.

       Bailey nodded. "We'll be right out." She grinned softly but closed the door so quickly that I wasn't sure if the smile was for me or Reed.

       Mother called me back to the table, my mouth watering at the smell of food.

       "When did we get three eggs?" I asked in amazement. Mother must have taken them off the pan only a few seconds ago because I could still see the steam rising off of them.

       She turned her head away from the pot over the fire, glancing at me for a second before she looked back at the food. "Daryl noticed the hard work Maisie's been putting in. He said he hasn't been so proud of a milker for a while. Said he might even put in a good word with his cousin who's a breeder." Mother wasn't facing me, but I could feel the pride in her voice.

       Maisie's face was the picture of delight. "He also smuggled us out some pig entrails. I'm starting to think he's sweet on me." She laughed.

       I scrunched my face up. Daryl was an experienced rancher, good at his job but too devoted to it. He had a few remaining teeth, all yellow, which he used to chew on tobacco when he could convince his Peacekeeper friends to order him some.

       Father and Colton walked into the room, and then Bailey and Reed, and then it was sweltering hot. The heat of all of our bodies was pleasant during cold winters, but during the summer months, it felt like I was only seconds away from passing out, although the dizziness in my head and the panicked racing of my heart could also have been because of the reaping.

       I sat on one of the stools to eat, mindlessly taking a sip of water to calm myself. This wasn't my first reaping, and it wasn't Colton's either, but it was Maisie's first year not being eligible, and the thought of having to stand alone, without my sister somewhere in the crowded area, was terrifying. Since our district is so large, only those eligible to be reaped were kept near the stage. The others watched from a screen in the market.

       I was having a harder time breathing now, sweat trickling from my hairline, across my prominent collarbones, down my bony spine. Everyone was too quiet, the air too heavy. We had no reason to be nervous. Maisie had gotten old enough and had never been in the games. We had no reason to worry, no reason to worry, no reason to-

       "Jo, I have a dress for you, if you want," Bailey was talking to me now, standing next to Reed as she ate a small piece of bread and a bite of cheese. She said she'd already eaten her portion of the eggs, but I saw her push it onto Colton's plate.

       I nodded. "Yea, that'd be nice." And then, because I saw a flash of worry in her eyes, I smiled. "I hope it matches my shoes." I pointed to the mud-crusted boots. Bailey laughed, relief settling back on her soft features. The strained environment relaxed.

       Breakfast was over quickly, with only one argument between Mother and Father. The gravity of today wasn't lost on even them. Father shooed me away from the wash basin, telling me to go get ready. Mother was on the opposite side of the room stirring the stew for tonight. It had bits of rabbit meat in it that Colton and I had traded some grain, 2 wild onions, a handful of blueberries that we'd been lucky to find near the fence, and a block of cheese for. My stomach growled, breakfast already forgotten, and I hurried to Bailey's room before either of my parents could hear.

       Maisie and Bailey were already there, talking in hushed whispers that stopped the moment I entered the room. Maisie's smile was warm, but Bailey's was strained, matching the dark bags under her eyes. Before I could question them, they were speaking, loudly talking about what they needed to do to get me ready. Change her clothes, change her hair, no the hair won't get out of the knot, okay then we have to do something about the shoes, she won't change her shoes you know that.

       Their simple bickering was typical, but less common now that Bailey worked more. I didn't say anything, just stood there while they brought out a dress and then tried to drag a brush through my hair. It was a lost cause, we all knew that, but I was still curious to see how far it could get, and it seemed like Maisie just needed to do something.

       I wondered what it would be like to have to let Colton go by himself to be, possibly, reaped. It would happen in four years when I turned 19, but then it would only be two years where he was alone. How much guilt would I feel when the camera filmed the crowd and his face flashed across the screen? How helpless would I feel if he ever got picked?

       Maisie and Bailey, Mother and Father, even Reed were in that position every year. I put on the dress, a soft, pale yellow thing that was baggy around my waist and chest. I wasn't sure I'd ever be able to watch my children participate in the reaping. Bailey dabbed a bit of our precious homemade perfume on my wrists. What would my family do if one of us got reaped?

       And then it was time to leave, and I was paraded out of the house, standing side by side with Colton. Our parents led our little procession to the check-in stands, then, one by one, the adults slipped away, leaving with a hug and a kiss, and whispered words of encouragement.

       There wasn't a speck of worry in Maisie's eyes, which cemented my belief that she was the ultimate role model, the picture of perfection that I should try to be. She left last, practically skipping away, which I later figured out was something she did to feign happiness. I didn't realize I was holding Colton's hand until the Peacekeepers separated us and pushed us to our age groups.

       He found a spot between the other 13-year-old boys, giving me a rare quirk of his lips before the crowd swallowed him. I planted myself firmly in the middle of the pack of 15-year-old girls, away from the stage, away from the Peacekeepers, and away from the cameras.

       A Capitol woman stepped onto the stage, and the reaping began.