Invisible and Nameless (Hunger Games fanfiction)
I almost forgot that I wrote this treat for rarewomen too! I always like thinking of backstories for side characters, and Foxface was one of my favorites. This is my take on her life in District 5 and how she got reaped.
For illyriasacolyte.
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I flit amongst the towering slabs of metal, glass, and wiring as they swivel on their bases, chasing the sun. It's hot here. It always is. It only makes sense to put the solar power plant in the sunniest part of District 5, of course, but it sure makes it miserable for people like me.
There aren't many jobs for fifteen-year-olds here. Most kids stay in school for as long as possible - it's the only way to get the good engineering jobs. So when I showed up as a teenage dropout asking for work, no one really knew what to do with me. It wasn't like they could let me work the computers or program the arrays. Those things take training. Training that I don't have. So eventually they just gave me a tool belt and sent me out here to fix the solar panels, because no one else wanted that job anyway.
I take a sip from my canteen - just enough to wet my mouth - as I check the map that I was given this morning. A square on the lower right-hand side of the grid is marked with an X. The X is red, meaning that one of the panels is broken. I don't even need to pause to get my bearings before I am off, swinging between the arrays and dodging them as they turn. I have only been working here for a few months, but already I can move through this place as easily as if it were my own home. I could do it blindfolded.
When I reach the broken array, I sling my backpack onto the ground and rummage in it until I find the replacement panel. These things are designed to be easy to fix. I just remove the broken panel, being careful to get all the pieces, and pop the new one into place.
As soon as I am finished, I hear voices approaching. Quickly and silently, I pack up my things and twirl my body behind one of the nearby arrays. Bracing my hands against the framework on the back, I lift my feet, making myself completely invisible from the front.
"Look at that," I hear Bren say, "It's not broken after all. Damn engineers must have fucked up our maps."
Sada replies, "No, look again. That's a brand-new panel. Someone beat us here."
I know these people by their voices. Like most of the manual laborers in District 5, they are the ones who were not intelligent enough to get the good jobs up in the labs and the towers. Still, they are unfailingly pleasant people, and they have never been anything but kind to me.
So why am I hiding?
It must be pure instinct by this point. I am so accustomed to staying out of sight that I do it even when I don't need to. I consider showing myself, but then I would have to admit that I was hiding in the first place, and that might be difficult to explain. Who reflexively runs and hides when she hears voices coming her way, other than an accomplished thief?
I hang here behind the array as I listen to Bren say, "I'll bet you I know who it was."
I can hear the smile in Sada's voice when she says, "You mean Red? Yeah, I can never keep up with her. You'd think she was born out here, the way she flies around this place."
Red. It's what they call me, because of my hair. For some reason, people tend to give me nicknames. I don't mind it. For me, it's just one more way of staying hidden. There's a sort of power in not letting people know your real name.
"She can't have gone far," Bren mutters. Then he shouts, "Red! Hey, girl!" I don't answer.
"Nah, she's long gone," says Sada, "Come on. There's wiring trouble in Sector 2."
They move away, slow and plodding by my standards. I wait until they are out of sight before I let my feet hit the ground.
My shift is almost over, so I head back toward the control tower. I clock out and turn in my tools and packs. I suck down the last of the water in my canteen before I give that back too. Then I make my way to the cafeteria counter, where I am allowed to pick up a bundle of food that is barely a meal. It's considered part of my pay.
"Hey there, Red," says June as she hands me my food, "How are you holding up?"
"Huh?" I reply. Even the single syllable sounds strange to my ears after not having heard my own voice all day. It's a side effect of staying hidden that I don't often let myself speak.
"You know," says June, "Tomorrow. You worried?"
"Oh," I say. Of course. Tomorrow. "No, I'll be fine."
June smiles sadly. "How many times is your name in there this year?" she asks.
But the line is pressing forward, and I am able to politely excuse myself instead of answering the question. As I scuttle away, I hear June talking to the next person in line. "Poor thing. You know if she's desperate enough to be working here at her age, she must already be buying tesserae."
As I leave the building and work my way back to the road, I open the bundle to find a little loaf of bread and a block of protein. If I were to eat it all, it might almost fill me up. I eat half of it, and bundle the rest back up.
The bus almost passes me as I walk toward town. I stick my arm out, and it slows down just enough for me to hop aboard. "Hey, it's the little delinquent!" laughs Arhne, the driver, "Looking for some trouble?"
"Just heading home," I mumble as I work my way back. I pass several empty seats to get to the back of the bus, where I nestle myself in a corner. From here I can see everyone, and no one is likely to see me unless they turn around and look. A few do just that, taking a peek at the girl Arhne called a 'delinquent,' but I make myself look as uninteresting as possible and they soon look away.
I let my eyes roam over the people with whom I am sharing my ride. Most wear the uniforms of various nearby power plants. Plain jumpsuits, like mine, are for maintenance staff. But I also see a few people in nicer clothes - probably low-level engineers who have enough money to look nice but not enough to ride the monorail instead of the bus. A glint of light catches my eye and draws it to the wrist of one of those nicer-dressed men. He is wearing a very fine watch.
He's young, for an engineer. Certainly no more than twenty-three. He hasn't yet reached the pay level he would like. The watch is probably a gift, since it looks too expensive for someone like him to buy on his own. It might be a cherished possession.
I almost let him off easy, until I remember tomorrow. Whoever that young engineer is, he's too old for him name to be in the jar. Losing his precious watch is the worst thing he has to worry about, whereas I am currently afraid for my life. That's how I justify it, anyway.
As the bus pulls into town, I stand at the first stop. As I walk toward the front of the bus, I pretend to stumble and drop my satchel. It lands right in the young engineer's lap. "Sorry," I mumble as I clumsily retrieve it. As I paw at the bag, seemingly trying to grasp its straps, I deftly unhook the watch and scoop it into an open pocket. My bag is back on my shoulder and I am out the door before the young man even realizes what has happened. If I have done my job right, he won't realize that the watch is missing until he gets home. He might think he just misplaced it somewhere, and never connect its loss to the odd-faced little girl on the bus.
I inspect the watch as I walk. It certainly must be valuable. It could feed me and my mother for a good while, or… Or it might just be enough for something else.
On the way home, I stop at a little, drooping shack off the main road. Anyone passing by would probably think it abandoned, but I know better. As I swing the door inwards, it breaks a laser near the floor and a buzzer goes off toward the back of the darkened room. "No trespassing!" a voice grunts out.
The voice is so gruff that most people would flee. But I know its owner well enough to answer, "Or what, you'll set the dogs on me?"
At my voice, a shaggy head leans itself into the light. Bartram may not be the best-looking man in the District, but he's good at what he does. "Oh," Bartram says, "It's you, Magpie. Come on in."
That's another nickname, this time referring to my habit of accumulating shiny things. Today I live up to my name. "Got something for you," I say, holding up the watch.
Bartram vaults over a low desk and a stack of boxes on his way over to where I am standing. There is so much clutter in the small house that I am amazed that anyone can find their way around, but Bartram manages somehow. "Good," he remarks as he inspects the watch more closely, "Very nice. I'm sure I'll be able to sell it."
I turn the watch over in my hand. "Who would spend money on something like this when they could spend it on food?" I wonder.
Bartram barks a laugh. "People with more money than sense," he says, "What do you want for it?"
I name my price. Bartram's smile disappears.
"Bit steep, little Magpie," he warns.
But I stand my ground. "I need it," I insist, "And I need it today. If you can't afford it, then I have no reason to sell." I close the watch in my fist and move to put it back in my satchel.
Bartram stops me by holding out his hand. "Fine, fine," he sighs, "But I'm only doing this because we have such a long-standing business arrangement, you understand?"
"I understand," I say, but I still don't hand over the watch until he has counted out my money.
"Gonna swindle me out of house and home…" Bartram mutters ruefully as we make the exchange.
"Thanks very much!" I say brightly, and I turn to go.
"Hey, wait!" says Bartram suddenly, "Good luck tomorrow."
As I step out of the dark house and back onto the street, I say over my shoulder, "Luck has nothing to do with it."
Finally, I head home. In the years since my father's death, we've gotten used to smaller and smaller spaces as we downgraded to the houses that we could afford. Now we live in a place that's nicer than Bartram's, but not by much.
I can hear my mother moving about the house as I enter. It's a good day, then.
I find her in the kitchen. Even now, two years after the diagnosis, it still hits me every time I see how frail she has become. "Hey, mom," I say, kissing her hair as I hand her the rest of my meal from work, "You feel good?"
"Better than yesterday," she says, but to me she sounds tired. "How was work?"
"Fine," I say, "I'll get my paycheck next week. We'll have to stretch it a ways, but it'll keep us fed."
She beams at me, but her smile is sad. "I wish you didn't have to do this."
I almost laugh. If she's this regretful over me working at the power plant, then I'll never be able to tell her about the stealing. "I don't mind," I say, "You can't work anymore, and Dad's gone…"
"But you had so much potential," she says, reaching up to squish my cheeks in her hands. She's done that since I was a little girl. Now she can barely reach. "If you had just stayed in school, I know you'd be at the top of your class. On your way to a proper career."
We've had this conversation before. It never ends well. "We've gotta eat," I remind her.
"Yes, well," she says haltingly, "There are other ways of getting food. I mean, there are so many teenagers in the District. It's really such a small chance of you getting picked. Even with your name in there twice more, it's such a small…"
I slam my fist on the counter so loudly that she falls silent. "I'm not buying any tesserae," I hiss.
"You'd be able to go back to school," she counters, "You could catch up with your classmates. You still have a chance to make something of yourself!"
"You think I don't want that?" I'm yelling now, but I can't stop. "You think I didn't want to stay in school? I wanted it, okay? But forgive me for thinking that staying alive is a little more important than getting an education!"
My mother looks so sad, but also so frustrated. "Your name is only in there four times," she reminds me.
"Once is all it takes," I say.
And then her eyes soften. "Are you thinking of Viki?" she says.
My chest shrinks around my heart. My mother has hit the nail on the head. As much as I would like to think that all my actions are rational and inevitable, the truth is that all of this started with Viki Sandling. She was my best friend as a child. Four years ago, she turned twelve the month before the Reaping. I turned twelve the month after.
"Her name was only in there once," I whisper.
My mother takes me by the shoulders. "Just because your friend was unlucky doesn't mean you should throw your life away. They won't pick you. They won't."
My mother is good at denying the possibility of tragedy until it is upon her. I, on the other hand, prefer to prevent it from ever happening. "They would," I say, "They would. That's why I'll never let them put my name in there."
She looks at me curiously. "You can't help that," she says.
I bite my tongue. I've almost said too much. "I mean I won't let them put my name in more times than I have to."
But my mother can't let it go. "With the rations they give out, we could…"
"No!" I shout, stomping toward the door, "No tesserae! Not ever!"
As I slam the door behind me, I can hear her begin to cough. It makes me wilt. She was feeling good for a change, and I've gone and upset her. It's almost enough to make me go back in and apologize, but not quite. I still have something I need to do.
I slink around to the back of the house and, looking left and right, I slide one of the panels off the outer wall. Inside is a thick bundle of money. I press myself to the wall as I count it out one more time, and then add the money I made from selling the watch. It's just enough. Just barely enough.
I walk deeper into town, heading toward the Peacekeepers' barracks. I keep to the shadows, dodging eyes, never letting myself be seen.
It doesn't take me long to find the man I'm looking for. When I see him, I can't exactly call out to him. People might talk if they saw a girl like me making friendly with a Peacekeeper. Instead, I press myself against the barracks wall and turn toward a nearby alley. There, I hover at the edge of the shadow of the building as I try to catch his eye. Just as I am good at remaining unseen, I can make myself visible when I want to. None of the other Peacekeepers sees me, but he does. I duck into the alley. A few minutes later, he joins me.
"Hey there, kiddo," he says.
"Hi, Bastian," I reply guardedly.
Bastian is Capitol pedigree, and it shows. He is in his early thirties and so handsome that it is a little off-putting. He walks with a sort of swagger, as if he is quietly aware that he is better than everyone else around him. I don't know what made him decide to give twenty years of his life to the District 5 police force, and I will never ask. All I care about is whether or not he can give me what I need.
I pull the wad of money out of my pocket and hand it to him.
As he counts it, he shakes his head disbelievingly. "This is no chump change, kiddo," he says, "You sure you want to hand it over?"
"Yes," is all I say, "Can you hold up your end?"
He pretends to look offended. "Have I ever let you down?" he asks.
I shrug. Honestly, I have no way of knowing whether or not Bastian is pulling one over on me. All I know is that I haven't been reaped yet, which is all I can ask for.
He chuckles as he finishes counting the money. He shoves it into his pocket. "That's your third payment this year," he says, "That buys you three fewer slips in the jar."
And here comes the difficult part. I have been dealing with Bastian since I was twelve. That first time I begged him to help me remove my name from the lottery, he set a price so high that he knew I would never be able to pay it. I did. The next year, he doubled the price to take the two slips with my name on them out of the running. Last year, it was three times the original price.
I have paid and paid and paid. I have handed over a small fortune to this man. I have become a thief. I have made friends with every black market dealer in District 5. I have dropped out of school. I have broken my mother's heart. All so that I could face Reaping Day each year without fear.
But this year, the price has finally grown past my ability to pay it. Despite all my efforts, I have only been able to buy back three of my four entries.
"Bastian…" I say, hating the plea in my voice.
"What is it, kiddo?" he asks, smiling like a snake.
"Look, the Reaping is tomorrow," I say, "If you can just get all my entries out of the jar, I swear I'll pay you back for the fourth one. I swear. I just need more time."
He shakes his head. "No can do," he says, "We have our agreement."
I try to remember what my mother said. There are so many girls in the running. The chance that I will be reaped, even with all four of my entries in the jar, is infinitesimal. But still, my mind will not be appeased. All it knows is that Viki was reaped at twelve years old, with no tesserae. Her name was only in there once. Once is all it takes.
I cannot allow my name to go into the jar.
"Maybe…" I stammer, feeling very foolish, "Maybe there's some other way for me to pay you…" I gesture to my body awkwardly.
Bastian's eyes sweep me from head to toe, slowly, and for a moment I almost think he will accept. But I do not even have time to begin to regret making the offer before he laughs, "You don't even have tits yet, kiddo. I'm not a pervert." As he walks out of the alley, he ruffles my hair. "Try that one again next year, and we'll see."
On the way home, I do not even bother to stay hidden. I am shaking, and I want to throw up. When I get home, I crawl into bed with my mother the way I used to as a child and we comfort each other as best we can. She must know, deep down, that I am mixed up in something sinister. She is not an idiot. But she doesn't challenge me, not tonight. She just pets my hair and lets me cry into her nightgown until I fall asleep.
The next morning, it is all she can do to fix up my hair before she is forced to collapse back into bed. Reaping Day always takes it out of her. I finish dressing myself and kiss her goodbye. "Remember," she says, gripping my hand, "Your name is only in there four times." For a second, I think I see a crack in her optimistic shell as she contemplates the possibility that she will never see me again except on television screens as I am fattened for slaughter in the arena.
I smile as convincingly as I can. "Right," I say, "They won't pick me."
I walk into town, one in a throng of serious-faced children.
Amongst the other girls, in the town square, I position myself as far to the side and back as I can manage. I put myself in the shadows where I am most comfortable, as if staying out of sight will keep my name from being called.
I can't see the stage from where I am standing. I just stare at the wall and at the other children as I listen to the videos and the speeches taking place up there. The other girls that I can see all look tense. I know that many of them have large families, and that many more of them are not wealthy. I'm sure that there are any number of girls here whose names are in that jar double their fair share, or triple, or quadruple. My name is only in there once. I tell myself again and again, my name is only in there once.
And still Viki whispers in my ear from somewhere in the back of my mind, once is all it takes.
"Ladies first!" chirps the District 5 escort as he plunges his hand into the bowl. The sound of rustling paper fills the square, amplified by his microphone. It is all anyone can hear.
The rustling stops. I cannot see him pull the paper out and unfold it, but I do hear when he leans forward and puffs into the microphone once before speaking. Every girl in the square is holding her breath as he shouts cheerily, "Finch Meriwether!"
A collective sigh of relief is breathed by the girls around me, and they begin to swivel their heads, looking for the unlucky girl. I do the same for a few seconds until my brain catches up with me and I realize who Finch Meriwether is. It has been so long since anyone called me by my proper name that I almost didn't recognize it.
There is nowhere to hide. One by one, the girls around me see the expression on my face and back away from me, leaving me standing alone.
I do not move. Finally, two Peacekeepers push through the crowd and take me by my elbows to lead me forward. I walk with them, too dazed to resist. They lead me out of my section and into the main aisle, away from the walls and shadows where I feel safe. They lead me into the light and up, up onto the stage where the escort with the willowy body and ridiculous hair is waiting for me and waving to me encouragingly.
I step onto the stage and turn to see my face filling a gigantic screen. It looks warped at such a large scale, and I know that it is now being broadcast all over Panem in all its hideous glory.
I stand there in the light, exposed, named, while the other children applaud me.
And all I can do is smile at the absurdity of it all.
For illyriasacolyte.
-----
I flit amongst the towering slabs of metal, glass, and wiring as they swivel on their bases, chasing the sun. It's hot here. It always is. It only makes sense to put the solar power plant in the sunniest part of District 5, of course, but it sure makes it miserable for people like me.
There aren't many jobs for fifteen-year-olds here. Most kids stay in school for as long as possible - it's the only way to get the good engineering jobs. So when I showed up as a teenage dropout asking for work, no one really knew what to do with me. It wasn't like they could let me work the computers or program the arrays. Those things take training. Training that I don't have. So eventually they just gave me a tool belt and sent me out here to fix the solar panels, because no one else wanted that job anyway.
I take a sip from my canteen - just enough to wet my mouth - as I check the map that I was given this morning. A square on the lower right-hand side of the grid is marked with an X. The X is red, meaning that one of the panels is broken. I don't even need to pause to get my bearings before I am off, swinging between the arrays and dodging them as they turn. I have only been working here for a few months, but already I can move through this place as easily as if it were my own home. I could do it blindfolded.
When I reach the broken array, I sling my backpack onto the ground and rummage in it until I find the replacement panel. These things are designed to be easy to fix. I just remove the broken panel, being careful to get all the pieces, and pop the new one into place.
As soon as I am finished, I hear voices approaching. Quickly and silently, I pack up my things and twirl my body behind one of the nearby arrays. Bracing my hands against the framework on the back, I lift my feet, making myself completely invisible from the front.
"Look at that," I hear Bren say, "It's not broken after all. Damn engineers must have fucked up our maps."
Sada replies, "No, look again. That's a brand-new panel. Someone beat us here."
I know these people by their voices. Like most of the manual laborers in District 5, they are the ones who were not intelligent enough to get the good jobs up in the labs and the towers. Still, they are unfailingly pleasant people, and they have never been anything but kind to me.
So why am I hiding?
It must be pure instinct by this point. I am so accustomed to staying out of sight that I do it even when I don't need to. I consider showing myself, but then I would have to admit that I was hiding in the first place, and that might be difficult to explain. Who reflexively runs and hides when she hears voices coming her way, other than an accomplished thief?
I hang here behind the array as I listen to Bren say, "I'll bet you I know who it was."
I can hear the smile in Sada's voice when she says, "You mean Red? Yeah, I can never keep up with her. You'd think she was born out here, the way she flies around this place."
Red. It's what they call me, because of my hair. For some reason, people tend to give me nicknames. I don't mind it. For me, it's just one more way of staying hidden. There's a sort of power in not letting people know your real name.
"She can't have gone far," Bren mutters. Then he shouts, "Red! Hey, girl!" I don't answer.
"Nah, she's long gone," says Sada, "Come on. There's wiring trouble in Sector 2."
They move away, slow and plodding by my standards. I wait until they are out of sight before I let my feet hit the ground.
My shift is almost over, so I head back toward the control tower. I clock out and turn in my tools and packs. I suck down the last of the water in my canteen before I give that back too. Then I make my way to the cafeteria counter, where I am allowed to pick up a bundle of food that is barely a meal. It's considered part of my pay.
"Hey there, Red," says June as she hands me my food, "How are you holding up?"
"Huh?" I reply. Even the single syllable sounds strange to my ears after not having heard my own voice all day. It's a side effect of staying hidden that I don't often let myself speak.
"You know," says June, "Tomorrow. You worried?"
"Oh," I say. Of course. Tomorrow. "No, I'll be fine."
June smiles sadly. "How many times is your name in there this year?" she asks.
But the line is pressing forward, and I am able to politely excuse myself instead of answering the question. As I scuttle away, I hear June talking to the next person in line. "Poor thing. You know if she's desperate enough to be working here at her age, she must already be buying tesserae."
As I leave the building and work my way back to the road, I open the bundle to find a little loaf of bread and a block of protein. If I were to eat it all, it might almost fill me up. I eat half of it, and bundle the rest back up.
The bus almost passes me as I walk toward town. I stick my arm out, and it slows down just enough for me to hop aboard. "Hey, it's the little delinquent!" laughs Arhne, the driver, "Looking for some trouble?"
"Just heading home," I mumble as I work my way back. I pass several empty seats to get to the back of the bus, where I nestle myself in a corner. From here I can see everyone, and no one is likely to see me unless they turn around and look. A few do just that, taking a peek at the girl Arhne called a 'delinquent,' but I make myself look as uninteresting as possible and they soon look away.
I let my eyes roam over the people with whom I am sharing my ride. Most wear the uniforms of various nearby power plants. Plain jumpsuits, like mine, are for maintenance staff. But I also see a few people in nicer clothes - probably low-level engineers who have enough money to look nice but not enough to ride the monorail instead of the bus. A glint of light catches my eye and draws it to the wrist of one of those nicer-dressed men. He is wearing a very fine watch.
He's young, for an engineer. Certainly no more than twenty-three. He hasn't yet reached the pay level he would like. The watch is probably a gift, since it looks too expensive for someone like him to buy on his own. It might be a cherished possession.
I almost let him off easy, until I remember tomorrow. Whoever that young engineer is, he's too old for him name to be in the jar. Losing his precious watch is the worst thing he has to worry about, whereas I am currently afraid for my life. That's how I justify it, anyway.
As the bus pulls into town, I stand at the first stop. As I walk toward the front of the bus, I pretend to stumble and drop my satchel. It lands right in the young engineer's lap. "Sorry," I mumble as I clumsily retrieve it. As I paw at the bag, seemingly trying to grasp its straps, I deftly unhook the watch and scoop it into an open pocket. My bag is back on my shoulder and I am out the door before the young man even realizes what has happened. If I have done my job right, he won't realize that the watch is missing until he gets home. He might think he just misplaced it somewhere, and never connect its loss to the odd-faced little girl on the bus.
I inspect the watch as I walk. It certainly must be valuable. It could feed me and my mother for a good while, or… Or it might just be enough for something else.
On the way home, I stop at a little, drooping shack off the main road. Anyone passing by would probably think it abandoned, but I know better. As I swing the door inwards, it breaks a laser near the floor and a buzzer goes off toward the back of the darkened room. "No trespassing!" a voice grunts out.
The voice is so gruff that most people would flee. But I know its owner well enough to answer, "Or what, you'll set the dogs on me?"
At my voice, a shaggy head leans itself into the light. Bartram may not be the best-looking man in the District, but he's good at what he does. "Oh," Bartram says, "It's you, Magpie. Come on in."
That's another nickname, this time referring to my habit of accumulating shiny things. Today I live up to my name. "Got something for you," I say, holding up the watch.
Bartram vaults over a low desk and a stack of boxes on his way over to where I am standing. There is so much clutter in the small house that I am amazed that anyone can find their way around, but Bartram manages somehow. "Good," he remarks as he inspects the watch more closely, "Very nice. I'm sure I'll be able to sell it."
I turn the watch over in my hand. "Who would spend money on something like this when they could spend it on food?" I wonder.
Bartram barks a laugh. "People with more money than sense," he says, "What do you want for it?"
I name my price. Bartram's smile disappears.
"Bit steep, little Magpie," he warns.
But I stand my ground. "I need it," I insist, "And I need it today. If you can't afford it, then I have no reason to sell." I close the watch in my fist and move to put it back in my satchel.
Bartram stops me by holding out his hand. "Fine, fine," he sighs, "But I'm only doing this because we have such a long-standing business arrangement, you understand?"
"I understand," I say, but I still don't hand over the watch until he has counted out my money.
"Gonna swindle me out of house and home…" Bartram mutters ruefully as we make the exchange.
"Thanks very much!" I say brightly, and I turn to go.
"Hey, wait!" says Bartram suddenly, "Good luck tomorrow."
As I step out of the dark house and back onto the street, I say over my shoulder, "Luck has nothing to do with it."
Finally, I head home. In the years since my father's death, we've gotten used to smaller and smaller spaces as we downgraded to the houses that we could afford. Now we live in a place that's nicer than Bartram's, but not by much.
I can hear my mother moving about the house as I enter. It's a good day, then.
I find her in the kitchen. Even now, two years after the diagnosis, it still hits me every time I see how frail she has become. "Hey, mom," I say, kissing her hair as I hand her the rest of my meal from work, "You feel good?"
"Better than yesterday," she says, but to me she sounds tired. "How was work?"
"Fine," I say, "I'll get my paycheck next week. We'll have to stretch it a ways, but it'll keep us fed."
She beams at me, but her smile is sad. "I wish you didn't have to do this."
I almost laugh. If she's this regretful over me working at the power plant, then I'll never be able to tell her about the stealing. "I don't mind," I say, "You can't work anymore, and Dad's gone…"
"But you had so much potential," she says, reaching up to squish my cheeks in her hands. She's done that since I was a little girl. Now she can barely reach. "If you had just stayed in school, I know you'd be at the top of your class. On your way to a proper career."
We've had this conversation before. It never ends well. "We've gotta eat," I remind her.
"Yes, well," she says haltingly, "There are other ways of getting food. I mean, there are so many teenagers in the District. It's really such a small chance of you getting picked. Even with your name in there twice more, it's such a small…"
I slam my fist on the counter so loudly that she falls silent. "I'm not buying any tesserae," I hiss.
"You'd be able to go back to school," she counters, "You could catch up with your classmates. You still have a chance to make something of yourself!"
"You think I don't want that?" I'm yelling now, but I can't stop. "You think I didn't want to stay in school? I wanted it, okay? But forgive me for thinking that staying alive is a little more important than getting an education!"
My mother looks so sad, but also so frustrated. "Your name is only in there four times," she reminds me.
"Once is all it takes," I say.
And then her eyes soften. "Are you thinking of Viki?" she says.
My chest shrinks around my heart. My mother has hit the nail on the head. As much as I would like to think that all my actions are rational and inevitable, the truth is that all of this started with Viki Sandling. She was my best friend as a child. Four years ago, she turned twelve the month before the Reaping. I turned twelve the month after.
"Her name was only in there once," I whisper.
My mother takes me by the shoulders. "Just because your friend was unlucky doesn't mean you should throw your life away. They won't pick you. They won't."
My mother is good at denying the possibility of tragedy until it is upon her. I, on the other hand, prefer to prevent it from ever happening. "They would," I say, "They would. That's why I'll never let them put my name in there."
She looks at me curiously. "You can't help that," she says.
I bite my tongue. I've almost said too much. "I mean I won't let them put my name in more times than I have to."
But my mother can't let it go. "With the rations they give out, we could…"
"No!" I shout, stomping toward the door, "No tesserae! Not ever!"
As I slam the door behind me, I can hear her begin to cough. It makes me wilt. She was feeling good for a change, and I've gone and upset her. It's almost enough to make me go back in and apologize, but not quite. I still have something I need to do.
I slink around to the back of the house and, looking left and right, I slide one of the panels off the outer wall. Inside is a thick bundle of money. I press myself to the wall as I count it out one more time, and then add the money I made from selling the watch. It's just enough. Just barely enough.
I walk deeper into town, heading toward the Peacekeepers' barracks. I keep to the shadows, dodging eyes, never letting myself be seen.
It doesn't take me long to find the man I'm looking for. When I see him, I can't exactly call out to him. People might talk if they saw a girl like me making friendly with a Peacekeeper. Instead, I press myself against the barracks wall and turn toward a nearby alley. There, I hover at the edge of the shadow of the building as I try to catch his eye. Just as I am good at remaining unseen, I can make myself visible when I want to. None of the other Peacekeepers sees me, but he does. I duck into the alley. A few minutes later, he joins me.
"Hey there, kiddo," he says.
"Hi, Bastian," I reply guardedly.
Bastian is Capitol pedigree, and it shows. He is in his early thirties and so handsome that it is a little off-putting. He walks with a sort of swagger, as if he is quietly aware that he is better than everyone else around him. I don't know what made him decide to give twenty years of his life to the District 5 police force, and I will never ask. All I care about is whether or not he can give me what I need.
I pull the wad of money out of my pocket and hand it to him.
As he counts it, he shakes his head disbelievingly. "This is no chump change, kiddo," he says, "You sure you want to hand it over?"
"Yes," is all I say, "Can you hold up your end?"
He pretends to look offended. "Have I ever let you down?" he asks.
I shrug. Honestly, I have no way of knowing whether or not Bastian is pulling one over on me. All I know is that I haven't been reaped yet, which is all I can ask for.
He chuckles as he finishes counting the money. He shoves it into his pocket. "That's your third payment this year," he says, "That buys you three fewer slips in the jar."
And here comes the difficult part. I have been dealing with Bastian since I was twelve. That first time I begged him to help me remove my name from the lottery, he set a price so high that he knew I would never be able to pay it. I did. The next year, he doubled the price to take the two slips with my name on them out of the running. Last year, it was three times the original price.
I have paid and paid and paid. I have handed over a small fortune to this man. I have become a thief. I have made friends with every black market dealer in District 5. I have dropped out of school. I have broken my mother's heart. All so that I could face Reaping Day each year without fear.
But this year, the price has finally grown past my ability to pay it. Despite all my efforts, I have only been able to buy back three of my four entries.
"Bastian…" I say, hating the plea in my voice.
"What is it, kiddo?" he asks, smiling like a snake.
"Look, the Reaping is tomorrow," I say, "If you can just get all my entries out of the jar, I swear I'll pay you back for the fourth one. I swear. I just need more time."
He shakes his head. "No can do," he says, "We have our agreement."
I try to remember what my mother said. There are so many girls in the running. The chance that I will be reaped, even with all four of my entries in the jar, is infinitesimal. But still, my mind will not be appeased. All it knows is that Viki was reaped at twelve years old, with no tesserae. Her name was only in there once. Once is all it takes.
I cannot allow my name to go into the jar.
"Maybe…" I stammer, feeling very foolish, "Maybe there's some other way for me to pay you…" I gesture to my body awkwardly.
Bastian's eyes sweep me from head to toe, slowly, and for a moment I almost think he will accept. But I do not even have time to begin to regret making the offer before he laughs, "You don't even have tits yet, kiddo. I'm not a pervert." As he walks out of the alley, he ruffles my hair. "Try that one again next year, and we'll see."
On the way home, I do not even bother to stay hidden. I am shaking, and I want to throw up. When I get home, I crawl into bed with my mother the way I used to as a child and we comfort each other as best we can. She must know, deep down, that I am mixed up in something sinister. She is not an idiot. But she doesn't challenge me, not tonight. She just pets my hair and lets me cry into her nightgown until I fall asleep.
The next morning, it is all she can do to fix up my hair before she is forced to collapse back into bed. Reaping Day always takes it out of her. I finish dressing myself and kiss her goodbye. "Remember," she says, gripping my hand, "Your name is only in there four times." For a second, I think I see a crack in her optimistic shell as she contemplates the possibility that she will never see me again except on television screens as I am fattened for slaughter in the arena.
I smile as convincingly as I can. "Right," I say, "They won't pick me."
I walk into town, one in a throng of serious-faced children.
Amongst the other girls, in the town square, I position myself as far to the side and back as I can manage. I put myself in the shadows where I am most comfortable, as if staying out of sight will keep my name from being called.
I can't see the stage from where I am standing. I just stare at the wall and at the other children as I listen to the videos and the speeches taking place up there. The other girls that I can see all look tense. I know that many of them have large families, and that many more of them are not wealthy. I'm sure that there are any number of girls here whose names are in that jar double their fair share, or triple, or quadruple. My name is only in there once. I tell myself again and again, my name is only in there once.
And still Viki whispers in my ear from somewhere in the back of my mind, once is all it takes.
"Ladies first!" chirps the District 5 escort as he plunges his hand into the bowl. The sound of rustling paper fills the square, amplified by his microphone. It is all anyone can hear.
The rustling stops. I cannot see him pull the paper out and unfold it, but I do hear when he leans forward and puffs into the microphone once before speaking. Every girl in the square is holding her breath as he shouts cheerily, "Finch Meriwether!"
A collective sigh of relief is breathed by the girls around me, and they begin to swivel their heads, looking for the unlucky girl. I do the same for a few seconds until my brain catches up with me and I realize who Finch Meriwether is. It has been so long since anyone called me by my proper name that I almost didn't recognize it.
There is nowhere to hide. One by one, the girls around me see the expression on my face and back away from me, leaving me standing alone.
I do not move. Finally, two Peacekeepers push through the crowd and take me by my elbows to lead me forward. I walk with them, too dazed to resist. They lead me out of my section and into the main aisle, away from the walls and shadows where I feel safe. They lead me into the light and up, up onto the stage where the escort with the willowy body and ridiculous hair is waiting for me and waving to me encouragingly.
I step onto the stage and turn to see my face filling a gigantic screen. It looks warped at such a large scale, and I know that it is now being broadcast all over Panem in all its hideous glory.
I stand there in the light, exposed, named, while the other children applaud me.
And all I can do is smile at the absurdity of it all.