The Reaping
Theme music: “Apologize” by OneRepublic
*~*~*~*
“I volunteer! I volunteer!”
No. No, not that voice. Not that girl. Not her.
I can’t watch. I stare straight ahead, glaring at the weathered and warped stage - what I can see of it through the crowd in front of me, past profiles and untrimmed hair and wrinkled shirt collars. Everyone is looking toward the aisle. Everyone except me because there is no one there. There is no one stepping forward to die.
“I volunteer as tribute!”
I clench my jaw, fist my hands, squeeze my eyes shut. This is not real. I did not just hear her voice. I did not just hear her say those words. I didn’t hear them because they’re not real.
“District Twelve’s very first volunteer!” Effie Trinket, the district escort, nearly squeals with glee into the microphone.
No. You’re wrong.
I am not listening to Primrose Everdeen’s screams of denial. I am not listening to the Peacekeepers escorting her older sister toward the stage; there are no measured footsteps taken in women’s shoes up to the platform. I hear none of this because there is no volunteer. Katniss wouldn’t… She wouldn’t-!
“What’s your name, dear?”
I hold my breath, willing the terror-scape to break. Please. Not her. Not her!
Silence presses in on my ears and I hold onto it. As long as she doesn’t say it, it’s not true. It’s not real. It’s not-
“Katniss Everdeen.”
My jaw hurts. My hands ache. My lungs burn. I sob in a breath through my gritted teeth just as Effie Trinket coos, “I bet my buttons that was your sister, wasn’t it?”
“Yes.”
No. No, no, no-no-no-nononoNO!
“Let’s have a big round of applause for Katniss Everdeen!” Effie Trinket trills. She claps daintily and I hear the reaping slip flutter in her grasp. The microphone picks up the sound, bouncing it off of the buildings in the square until it becomes indistinguishable from the feathery flapping of birds’ wings as they escape, abandoning the girl who could charm them into silence.
They will not listen to Katniss Everdeen sing again. And neither will I.
The pain of that thought forces my eyes open. I watch as, one by one, everyone in the square salutes her in silence. My hands are still fisted. If I loosen my fingers, I’ll break, crack down the middle like a hot brick under a shock of ice water. I refuse to say goodbye to her. This is not goodbye. It’s not.
But it is.
My mind blanks with defeat. This is it. I’ve lost my chance. I’ll never tell her. I’ll never speak to her. But no. I can. I could. My last chance will be when the tributes are allowed to say their goodbyes to their friends and family in the Justice Building. I could go. I could ask to see her one last time.
And say what, idiot?
I swallow thickly, determined not to glance in my mother’s direction, determined not to flinch at what she’d say if - when - she finds out that I’ve gone to see Katniss Everdeen. I will not let her stop me. I’m going to tell Katniss how special I think she is, how strong, how amazing and talented and beautiful and-
“Peeta Mellark!”
What?
The boys in front of me shift nervously, glancing back and shuffling away as if I’m ill with something contagious. Well, forget them. I need to figure out what I’m going to say to Katniss. She has to win. She has to win and come back home to Twelve because… because…!
Someone sighs out a relieved breath behind me and that tiny sound snaps me out of my daze.
Oh.
That was my name, wasn’t it?
Oh, God.
I blink once and then I force my feet to move. If I don’t, the Peacekeepers will drag me up there and that would be too humiliating for words. I walk toward the stage, glancing right and left, waiting for someone to put out a hand and stop me, tell me that there’s been some kind of mistake, that it wasn’t my name that was called.
No one stops me, so it must have been real.
I take the steps one at a time, staring at them as I ascend, wary of stumbling. I will not stumble in front of Katniss. I may not be as brave or as strong as her, but I will not fall to pieces.
I make it to the top and look out over the crowd. I’ve never seen the square from this angle before. It’s terrifying and I know deep down that I will never forget a single bit of it. I could sketch this from memory years from now.
You don’t have years. More like days.
A hand on my arm startles me. I turn at the rasp of impractically long fingernails brushing against the fabric of my shirt.
“Well go on, you two. Shake hands,” Effie Trinket invites.
Shake hands. Right. Okay. I reach across the space between us in an automatic gesture and the instant her hand fits against mine, I realize that Katniss Everdeen is my district partner and we’re expected to try and kill each other and-
I can’t.
I glance up at her through my lashes, a shock of panic zipping down my spine. God, what the hell am I going to do?
And then our hands fall away from each other and I’m furious with myself. I hadn’t even been paying attention to the feel of her palm against mine, her fingers and skin. I can’t remember a single thing about it. My regret follows me into the Justice Building. I’m simmering with disappointment - just like the last time our paths had crossed. Why had I just tossed her that bread? Why hadn’t I gone out in the rain and handed it to her? Why?
Because you’re a coward.
Well, I suppose this is my last chance to fix that, isn’t it?
I’m still trying to figure out how to do that when my mother’s voice breaks the oppressive silence in the room I’d been directed to in the Justice Building.
“District Twelve might finally have a winner this year,” she almost sneers. My father and brothers look up at her in amazement. Hell, I look up at her in amazement. She can’t mean me. I’ve never done anything in my life to warrant that kind of faith. I’ve never stood up to her, never fought back, never-
“She’s a survivor, that one,” my mother continues, her face pinching as if the admission tastes like two-week-old buttermilk.
Of course Katniss is a survivor. Still, I’m amazed that my mother and I can actually agree on something positive regarding a girl from the Seam. That, in and of itself, is a miracle.
“I’m sorry, Peet,” Duff says suddenly and I almost wonder if I’d just imagined my mother’s remark. But no, it was real. Duff proves it by continuing to speak of my co-tribute: “She volunteered for her little sister. I should have-”
“No!” I almost shout, instantly horrified. Duff is eighteen. This is his last year of eligibility. “No, I’m glad you didn’t.” And I am glad. Relieved. “It’s fine this way. You guys don’t need me.” Baxter and Duff can work in the bakery. They’re actually a lot better at baking than I am. The only thing I’m especially good at is decorating the cakes. And who cares about that stuff, anyway? The people of District Twelve have never made pretty things a priority. So my family doesn’t need me. They never have, really.
I guess, in some weird way, that makes it okay that I’m going to die in the Games. Like this is my sole purpose in life. I was born so that someone more useful doesn’t have to die this year.
The only person who has ever needed me was a little girl on the brink of starvation. In that single moment in the rain one late winter afternoon over five years ago, I’d been needed. I’d been useful. Maybe I could be again.
The sound of my dad’s hoarse sob interrupts my thoughts. Without a word, I go and sit down next to him on the aged sofa. He puts his hand on my shoulder. My eyes mirror his, burning with tears. I don’t try to fight them. A man shouldn’t cry alone and these moments are my dad’s last gift to me, to show me that he loves me, that I matter. “You’re a good boy, Peeta,” he rasps thickly.
My throat closes up. And then Baxter sits down on my other side. He would’ve ruffled my hair if our mother weren’t in the room, but she is, so he somehow resists the urge to put me in a headlock. Duff stands awkwardly nearby, still looking a little shrunken with guilt. I’m just glad he’s not the kind of person to feel like he was shown up by Katniss’ display of self-sacrifice. If my mother had loved him any less than me, she probably would have screamed for him to take my place. Just for the sake of family pride. Or merchant pride, more like. Townie pride.
My stomach clenches, rolling with heat, and bile climbs up my throat. I swallow it back down.
I brace my elbows on my thighs and lean forward to contemplate the hardwood floor. “Don’t worry about me, dad.”
We don’t say anything else and our time passes in silence. My mother is the first one out the door when the Peacekeepers come. I get brusque hugs from Baxter and Duff.
“You take care, Peeta,” my dad says quietly, gripping my shoulders firmly as if he has to force himself to push me away.
I sigh. “You know I’m not…” I stop. I’m not cruel enough to finish that thought aloud. I rephrase, “Katniss is going to come back.”
“I know,” he answers. Our eyes meet and I know that he knows. Maybe he’s always known. Ever since that first day of school when he’d pointed her out to me in an effort to ease my nerves, in an effort to help me make a friend. The irony is that she’s the only person in our grade at school that I’ve never spoken to.
My dad gives my shoulders one last squeeze and then the door closes behind him.
That’s it then. No going back. I’m in this for Katniss.
I do my best to cling to my commitment, but when I’m sitting in the back of the car which is transporting us to the train station, I’m suddenly overwhelmed. I’m never going to see my home again. I’m never going to run into Katniss on the street and charm her with the perfect words, words that I just haven’t thought of yet. I used to be convinced that they existed, that one day they’d come to me in a burst of inspiration, that all I had to do was be patient.
But I was too patient, and it’s too late now. I’m never going to hold her hand, duck behind the bakery with her to steal a kiss, whisper secrets and dreams and promises in her ear. None of my humble wishes are ever going to come true. I’m leaving them here to die a quiet, lonely death, starved of hope.
I can hear Effie Trinket rattling on about our schedule. All I can do is look out the window and try not to cry.
The moment I step onto the train, a strange peace descends. Or maybe it’s not peace but emptiness. The dreams have fallen away. I have lost everything. What’s the point of being afraid now? Soon, I’ll be dead. This is the beginning of the end.
I stare at the grandness surrounding me and I think how unreal all of this is. None of this finery matters. What matters now is Katniss. She needs me. She just doesn’t know it yet.
Strength infuses me at the thought. I can do this. I can make my life - my death - mean something. I have a purpose.
I just hope the odds are in my favor.