Chapter Text

1

Everyone in the village swears it was a muttation. The Capitol was supposed to remove all of the mutts from our waters after the war was over, and they did for the most part. Except for The Shark, that is. The Capitol and skeptics in the district maintain that there’s nothing there. But the old fishermen with tangled white beards say that he’s still out there, left behind to scare us. Left behind as another reminder of how powerless we truly are against the Capitol. Even as one of the wealthier districts in Panem, District 4 still has to participate in the Hunger Games, and still has a murderous beast lurking in its waters.

Years ago, we would send out search parties who were armed with harpoons to take down the mutt. But each party would come back empty handed, so now we’ve all but given up. A lot of people have settled into thinking that The Shark really is just a myth being passed down in old sea shanties. Yet, if a foreigner or citizen of the Capitol was to inquire about our shark infested ocean, they would swear up and down that he really does exist. I think that, deep down, everyone knows he’s there.

Now he’s all anyone will talk about. Him and Allie.

I let these thoughts swirl around in my head from the smooth, wooden floor of my dinghy. The gentle ocean rocks me back and forth and the sun is already bright and high in the sky. It threatens to blind me, and, of course, there’s not a single cloud protect me from its power. Instead, the sky is endlessly blue and it meets the sea like an old friend at the horizon. Lovely weather for Reaping Day.

I sit up, wincing as my sunburned skin complains. Unlike most citizens of District 4, I burn easily. Most people here are well adapted to the sun, each kissed by its rays and tan. I’m as pale as the underbelly of a cuttlefish. Fortunately my dad has concocted a special salve for my loser skin.

Dad.

Another wave of grief crashes over me.

He’s taken Allie’s death the hardest.

I dip my fingers into the water, maybe hoping that The Shark will come and get me too. Come and get all of us. My eyelids are heavy and the rocking of my boat so soothing that I somehow drift off to sleep. I haven’t really slept in a while. It’s torture hearing your parents mourn the loss of your little brother through the night. He wasn’t even old enough to be reaped.

A ringing bell stirs me. It’s off in the distance. Sounds like the bell in the lighthouse. I resurface from my dreams, rubbing the sand from my eyes and the soreness from my cheek. I had fallen asleep with my cheek against the lip of my boat. The bell. It means it’s time for the reaping. The reaping I should be at.

I quickly abandon the dinghy and start swimming to shore. I can swim much faster than I can row. Luckily, I had not drifted out too far from the beach while I slept. In no time, my bare feet are hitting the hot pavement of the village square. The Peacekeepers who are responsible for keeping track of attendance give me a knowing look as I sign in. I was late for last year’s reaping too, not because I was saddled with grief, but because I have a tendency to daydream.

The older kids are positioned near the back of the square and I slip underneath the netting that holds the seventeen year old girls together.

District 4 is so large that the Reaping is set up in each of our four village squares. But there are only two enormous glass globes that hold every boy and girl’s name in the district. There is only one Capitol escort and only two victor mentors. I see them all on the platform that sits before the twelve year olds in front of me.

The twelve-year-olds seem to be the only ones nervous for the Reaping. The rest of us know that it doesn’t really matter whose name is fished out of the glass bowl since there is no shortage of volunteers in District 4.

The Capitol anthem begins to play and the screen in front of us me cuts to a message from President Snow. The crowd in the square begins to settle, and people sit on the beach blankets that they brought to protect their bare legs from the hot pavement. The Reapings in District 4 are known to take ages because of the complex protocols involved in selecting a volunteer. We might as well get comfortable now.

I realize that I’m still standing when a pair of warm hands eases me down into a squat.

“Are you okay Annie?” It’s Waverly, my neighbor and best friend.

“Yes, I’m fine,” I reply breezily, “Happy Hunger Games.”

My sentiments are echoed by the woman who has replaced President Snow on the screen.

“Happy Hunger Games!” She repeats in her Capitol way. Some people in the crowd cheer, and the woman looks rather pleased. She hasn’t been the district escort for very long, in fact it’s only her second year. The old escort died in some kind of improbable water slide accident. I guess it’s a blessing we don’t have water slides here.

Her name is Thora Sugarcane and she looks delighted to be here. She claims to ‘love love love’ District 4, and even decorates her elaborate blue locks with little boats and sea creatures. I can’t help but concentrate on a steely shark nestled in a tubular curl in her wavy hair. In effect, she is The Shark. But I choose not to hold it against her. She’s naïve and green and actually very nice. I try to stop being so cynical. What ever happened to naïve and green Annie?

“Let us select the girl tribute first!” She chirps, plunging her hand into the globe filled to the brim with tiny blue slips of paper. The slips undulate as she rustles around. She’s trying to buy time before she has to ask for volunteers. Career kids jumped on her last year as soon as she got the word ‘volunteers’ out, and she nearly broke down in tears. My eyes wander over to the mentors, first concentrating on Mags and then Finnick.

I’ve never met our victors, or anyone who was ever involved in the Games.The age gap between our mentors is particularly striking, Mags at eighty and Finnick at just nineteen. Other than that, I can’t say I’m very knowledgeable about District 4’s most honorable citizens.

Well actually, I head that Mags suffered a stroke a few years back and her health has been deteriorating ever since. But she’s awfully old. I think she’s the oldest living victor, and the last victor to have lived in a time before the Games. She leans on a cane and tries to stand still. They’ll probably drag a chair in for her once the volunteering begins.

I feel sad looking at her, so I shift my gaze to Finnick Odair. While Mags wins the oldest victor award, he wins the award for most attractive. He really looks like the rest of us, though, except for me. Tan skin, eyes the color of the sea. But somehow he’s more beautiful than the rest of us. Right now he just looks bored.

My thoughts are interrupted by the trill of a name.

“Annie Cresta,” Thora announces, holding the little blue slip up triumphantly.

My heart begins to race and Waverly gives me a gentle nudge. I stand, clearly visible in the assembly of sitting children. I’m forced to say goodbye to the worn towel I had planned to spend the afternoon on as I watched the chaos of the volunteer selection play out. Volunteers. Someone will volunteer for me. This gives me courage as I make weak strides towards the stage.

My image dominates the screen. I look crazy. My hair is matted, skin is red and irritated, and eyes are sleepless. Not to mention the fact I’m still dripping from my swim. Thora looks frightened by my appearance, but comes over to congratulate me anyways. Then she asks for volunteers.

I feel as if I’m in a thick fog. I can almost feel the mist from a blurry gray morning by the sea enveloping me. My eyes lock on the shark I had spotted earlier in Thora’s hair and I think of Allie. Sweet innocent Allie. It was a muttation they say. It was the Capitol they say.

I glance away from the shiny clip and over the energized crowd. Everyone wants to be a tribute. Then I see a solemn old fisherman with a tangled white beard. He nods at me. I nod back. I say no.

The crowd gapes at me. “But she hasn’t trained for this,” they think.  

“No volunteers.” I repeat, not yet released from my daze.

“Well then, congratulations Annie Cresta. You are our female tribute for the 70 th Hunger Games!” Thora beams, taking my sandy white hand and raising it in the air.

I can’t even begin to explain my actions. Regret and fear wash over me and I feel like I’m holding my breath. I struggle to resurface. I scan the crowd for that wise fisherman to help me get my bearings. Where did he go?

A few kindred spirits in the crowd clap for me, but their applause is weak. As a whole, the congregation is displeased. A sardine is standing in a spot normally reserved for devil rays, eels, and piranhas. I avert my eyes from their glaring faces.

My parents lean on each other for support as their friends gather around them in the walk space surrounding the square. I can tell they’re doing all they can to keep from falling apart. My father begins to cry, his shoulders heaving, and they excuse themselves from the Reaping.

I feel faint, and steadily lower myself to the floor to avoid falling off the stage altogether. The wood beneath me is already coated in a layer of sand. I clutch my knees with my hands, feeling the inescapable need to escape. I want to run away and hide in my dinghy for the rest of the afternoon.

There goes my chance for sponsors. What will the Capitol people think of a girl who refuses volunteers but is so weak she cannot stand? I glance over at my new mentors. Mags looks despondent, Finnick raises his eyebrows at me but still appears to be disinterested.

Meanwhile the Reaping is still taking place around me. Thora has retrieved a blue strip of paper from the depths of the boys’ globe.

“Dylan Calder!” The woman with a shark in her hair warbles.

The previously aggravated crowd quiets as the little boy named Dylan Calder mounts the stage. He has red hair and freckles just like Allie. He’s so tiny, yet he looks so brave up there on screen. Up here standing beside me. His presence settle my stomach a little, so I regain my footing and stand next to him.

“Volunteers?” Thora asks, and there’s an uproar of excitement.

Five boys ultimately volunteer and they are ushered onto stage, each of them fit, tall, and strong. One by one, they tell Thora their names and ages. Then, the attendance taking Peacekeepers join us. One of them holds a hefty, leather-bound book in his white gloves and confirms the identity of each of the boys.

I sneak another peek at the mentors. Sure enough Mags has been given a chair. She resting now, but her expression hasn’t really changed. Finnick seems to be working out something in his head and looks relatively excited. This is what he was waiting for, a real contender who might actually make it out of the arena alive.

The five volunteers’ names are written on new shreds of paper and then the shreds are deposited into a globe that looks like an old fish bowl. Now the crowd is really quiet. Thora dramatically closes her eyes and feels around inside the bowl. She grasps a paper and the populace takes in a collective breath. They exhale as she releases it and continues her search. Finally, her delicate fingers leave the bowl and she reads the name aloud.

“Pacific Lum! Congratulations you are our male tribute for the 70 th Hunger Games!” Thora exclaims as she tugs the boy with dark hair and tan skin to center stage. She raises his triumphant hand in the air and a victorious expression lights up his features.

Pacific Lum shakes my hand. He could probably break it if he wanted. He isn’t broad shouldered like the other volunteers, but I can tell he’s powerful. Instead of being bulky, he is lean and wiry, kind of like Finnick. But that’s where the comparisons stop. Like me, he is rather average looking. Our designers are probably disappointed.

We’re lead into the Justice Building and I’m shut up in a tiny room with wicker furniture and pure white upholstery. The wind blows airy white curtains inward and I inhale deeply. Will this breath of sea air be my last?

My parents are admitted into the room first and I can tell they’ve been crying. First their son is stolen from the world and now their daughter has willing stumbled towards death’s door. They should be angry with me but they aren’t.

We exchange loving words and they smooth some skin salve over my shoulders and face. My dad tentatively peels away my angry sun-burned cells, leaving behind soothed pink skin. My mother brings the edge of her sleeve to her mouth and then wipes my face clean. Then, with a final embrace, they’re casted out of the room by a Peacekeeper.

A new group of visitors is admitted. This time it’s some of my friends, all teary and telling me that they’ll miss me. No one thinks I’ll make it back home alive.

My last visitor is Waverly. Her expression surprises me. Her normally peaceful face is livid.

“You can’t keep running away Annie!” She shouts at me. “You know that right? You won’t be able to run and hide from this.

“What?” I ask quietly, playing innocent. I think know what she means, and I don’t dare to look her in the eye. Instead, I gaze steadily down at the glossy wooden floor. A few grains of sand blemish its gleaming surface.

“Ever since he died you’ve been hiding in your boat. But he’s all that anyone will talk about, so you’re running as far away from this place as you can,” she explains, but I can tell she’s losing her resolve.

Tears are leaking from both of our eyes and we manage to hug before she’s torn away.

Soon after, I’m prodded onto a train by some Peacekeepers. Now I’m face to face with my new friends and family. Thora, Pacific, Mags, and Finnick Odair.