Archive of Our Own

I wake up early on reaping day, shooting up into a sitting position and looking down at Katniss beside me. She's still asleep. Usually, Prim sleeps between us, but I see her cuddled in my mother’s arms in bed. It's her first reaping, and I know how stressed she is.

I slowly get out of bed. I want to go out and hunt, but my hands are shaking. It would be a waste of time. I’d never be able to hold my knife steady. While Katniss is a natural with a bow, I'm one with a knife.

Anxiety sits in the pit of my stomach. I have a terrible feeling about today, which does nothing to ease me. I shake myself out and get dressed, tucking my shirt into my pants and pulling on my boots, brushing through my dark hair with my fingers before slipping outside.

Our part of District 12, nicknamed the Seam, is usually crowded with coal miners heading out to the morning shift at this hour. Men and women with hunched shoulders, swollen knuckles, many who have long since stopped trying to scrub the coal dust out of their broken nails, the lines of their sunken faces. But today the black cinder streets are empty. The reaping isn’t until two. May as well sleep in. If you can.

Our house is almost at the edge of the Seam. I only have to pass a few gates to reach the scruffy field called the Meadow. Separating the Meadow from the woods, in fact enclosing all of District 12, is a high chain-link fence topped with barbed-wire loops. In theory, it’s supposed to be electrified twenty-four hours a day as a deterrent to the predators that live in the woods — packs of wild dogs, lone cougars, bears — that used to threaten our streets. But since we’re lucky to get two or three hours of electricity in the evenings, it’s usually safe to touch. Even so, I always take a moment to listen carefully for the hum that means the fence is live. Right now, that’s not where I’m heading.

I’m on my way to the Victor Village. There was only one person there, his name Haymitch. He's a paunchy, middle-aged man that no one seems to like much. I do. Haymitch, however involuntary it was, took over as a dad when my father died. I had really only known him for four years.

My first reaping, I went to him. I knocked on the stranger’s door because he was the only one I knew who survived the Games. He had opened the door with a rightfully annoyed expression, but I guess he was sober enough to pity me since he let me in. I used to never eat to leave more for my family, but he put food in front of me and even smiled, though it was a bit sarcastic.

He promised my name wouldn’t be pulled and swore I’d never be in the Games. Even if I somehow was, he said he’d make sure I came home. I knew he didn’t believe what he said, but I didn’t mind. I believed him. He was an odd, cranky old man who had every reason to be. Maybe he likes me because he knows I understand that. I was a hurt girl prone to angry outbursts, and I knew I liked him because he understood that.

Whenever I need someone, I go to Haymitch. We drink because I need a coping mechanism, and to him, it's the only one that works. He either tells me about his life or lets me have a drunken meltdown, and neither of us judge each other. Even though I've never experienced what he has, he knows I have every right to feel how I do.

I knock on his door, but there’s no answer, so I push it open.

“Haymitch!” I hear a groan, and I take a moment to sigh to myself before walking into the kitchen in time to watch him pick his head off the table.

“Oh, you again.” I roll my eyes with a small smile and sit across from him. “What can I pour you this fine morning?”

“It’s reaping day.”

“So, the bottle?” I chuckle and shake my head. “More for me.” He tries to drink one of the many open bottles, but I gently push it back down onto the table.

“I’m freaking out here, Haymitch.” He sighs and sits back in his seat, nodding for me to speak. “This is the year, I know it. I can feel it. It’s not like last year.” I said that every year, but this time, I really meant it. Haymitch sighs again, and I wait for him to tell me what he always does with his same annoyed tone.

“I think you’re right.” I freeze completely, like a statue. “Dahlia, I don’t know what to tell you this time." I look up at him, and the sight before me is painful. Something about him just looks more hurt than any other time I’ve seen him. “I know that feeling. I can see it, feel it from your sweaty ass hands.”

“Sorry.” I quickly let go of his bottle and rub my palms on my pants.

“I know because I felt the same when I was reaped,” Haymitch continues, like I never spoke. “So I suggest you do what I didn’t and say goodbye.” I tilt my head.

“I thought people said goodbye before the tributes left.” Haymitch nods.

“They just don’t look the same as they used to, then.” I swallow. “And you don’t get the chance to say goodbye to everyone. And if — when you get back,” I can’t help but smile when he corrects himself, “they still won’t look the same, to you or at you.”

I grab my own bottle and take a sip.

“And do something you’ve always wanted to do. You won’t want to do it when you come back.” I nod slowly and stand.

“You still promise to get me home, right?” I look down at him, but he won't look at me. He nods anyway, slowly, then quickly, like he wants to convince himself.

“You’re coming home.” I sigh and nod.

“That’s enough for me.” I smile at him. As long as he could still lie to himself, I could still believe him. I leave without a goodbye. We never say goodbye.

I feel stupid, but I know immediately what one thing I want to do before I leave. If I’m going to change and everyone else around me will, too, then I want to do something that’s always terrified me.

I walk through District 12, smiling and waving at some of the familiar faces, and stop outside the bakery, seeing the youngest son through the window and feeling my heart race. I’ve never talked to him, and I don’t think he’s ever noticed me, but I’ve watched him since Katniss came home with a loaf of soggy, burnt bread, the same one that had saved her from starvation when I had spent the entire night searching for her and the same one he threw to her.

People have shown us kindness before, but I’ve been too selfish to ever want to return it with anything more than a thank you. When I first came to the bakery to thank him, I saw him in the window like now and ran right back home, heart pounding and palms sweating with no idea why. Now I’m determined to push through that and have one conversation with him before my chance is gone.

I take a deep breath and open the door, clearing my throat at the bright smile that greets me. I want so badly to see the same nervousness in him that I think that I actually do. How desperate do you need to be to start hallucinating?

He clears his throat as well and asks, “What can I get for you?” I shake my head.

“I came in to taunt myself with what I know I can’t have,” I joke, though it’s real, and I wish he knew I was talking about more than bread. “You know, the healthy thing to do.”

“Doesn’t sound very healthy.” I flush a bit and lean back against the wall.

“I was being sarcastic.” His blush is brighter than mine, and he looks down at the dough he’d been kneading.

“Right.” It’s awkwardly quiet for a moment. Had he known it was a joke? Was he joking back, and I was just too dense to notice? “What’s your name?”

“Dahlia. Yours?”

“Peeta.” I already knew that. “That’s a pretty name. Dahlia.”

“Thanks.” I blow some hair from my face and cross my arms, wanting to maybe look a little cooler than I feel. “How’s reaping day treating you?” It was the topic that always hung heavy between people our age. It was more awkward to avoid it than to just bring it up.

“I’m stressed,” Peeta answers with a nervous chuckle. I nod with my own. “How many times is your name in?” I have to think for a moment.

“Twenty-five now.” Peeta’s eyes go wide at the number.

“Mine’s a fifth of that.”

“I guess we know who’s got the better luck between us.” He laughs, but we both know it’s not funny.

I push off the wall with a sigh. “I should probably head back and get ready.” Peeta nods.

“Yeah. The one good thing about reaping day is a longer break….” Now it’s my turn to laugh.

“I’ll see you around, bread boy.” I give him a smile and head for the door.

“I’ve got some stale loaves in the back.” I stop and turn to him. “My parents will have my head if I give you a fresh one, but I don’t think a stale one going missing will be noticed.” The idea of him going behind his parents and giving me a loaf of bread seems to make him almost as anxious as the reaping.

“You’d do that?” I tilt my head at him, and he goes to rub the back of his neck with a flour-covered hand but stops himself. “You don’t have to.”

“I want to.” He smiles and disappears before I can argue, coming back with a loaf of bread that looks about as solid as a rock. But it's still bread and something we can still use. “It’s barely edible —”

“Thank you.” I smile at him when he hands it out, and take it. “I don’t really have anything, though. I can’t —”

“Just get out of here before I get caught. That’s payment enough.” He smiles at me, and I nod and go for the door again.

“I’ll pay you back.”

“By coming to the bakery again?” That has me freezing in my spot again, blushing at the nervous look on his face. There I go imagining it again.

“Yeah,” I say almost breathlessly with a nod, finally leaving and heading back home with the loaf in my hands.

I see Katniss and jog up to her. “Look what I leeched off the baker’s boy.” I smile at her goods from the day. “I would’ve gone out with you, but….”

“I understand.” It’s hard for Katniss to get mad at me on reaping day. I put my name in more, so she won’t have to, which basically gives me a pass to be lazy. “District’s heartthrob strikes again.” I chuckle.

She’s not wrong. I’ve been able to charm lots of vendors into giving me free things — if not them, their sons, and sometimes their daughters. I hadn’t even been trying with Peeta, but Katniss can’t know that. It was just him acting from the kindness of his heart again. She’d never let me hear the end of it if she knew I had a crush, especially a crush on someone like him.

There’s not anything wrong with him; he’s just different from us. He’s not rich, but he isn’t our poor either. Stories like my mother’s and father’s only happen once. No one leaves town for the Seam.

Inside, I find my mother and sister are ready to go. My mother wears a fine dress from her apothecary days. Prim is in Katniss’ first reaping outfit, a skirt and ruffled blouse. It’s a bit big on her, but my mother has made it stay with pins. Even so, she’s having trouble keeping the blouse tucked in at the back.

A tub of warm water waits for Katniss, and I get dressed. I wasn’t out hunting and getting dirty, and I had gotten cleaned the night before. I'm surprised to see a dress from my mother’s apothecary days laid out for me as well. Mine is a nice red, and the one beside it for Katniss is a soft blue, each with matching shoes.

“Are you sure?” I ask. Her clothes from her past are very precious to her.

“Of course. Let’s put your hair up, too,” she says. I let her comb it and twist it up on my head. I can hardly recognize myself in the cracked mirror that leans against the wall.

“You look beautiful,” says Prim in a hushed voice.

“If I’m beautiful, what does that make you?” I give her a small smile and pull her to my side in a one-armed hug. She’s about as safe as you can get since she’s only entered once. I wouldn’t let her take out any tesserae either. But she’s worried about me. That the unthinkable might happen.

I protect Prim and Katniss in every way I can, but I’m powerless against the reaping. I can sell myself to everyone for my family but Snow. Maybe it will be different if I can win.

“I’m going to step outside.” I give Prim and my mother a smile before walking outside. I don't sit, so I won’t get my mother’s dress dirty. Katniss comes out at some point to tell me we're having breakfast, and I shake my head.

“Dahlia….”

“I’m not hungry.” Katniss doesn’t argue and just walks inside.

At one o’clock, we head for the square. Attendance is mandatory unless you are on death’s door. This evening, officials will come around and check to see if this is the case. If not, you’ll be imprisoned.

It’s too bad, really, that they had the reaping in the square — one of the few places in District 12 that can be pleasant. The square’s surrounded by shops, and on public market days, especially if there’s good weather, it has a holiday feel to it. But today, despite the bright banners hanging on the buildings, there’s an air of grimness. The camera crews, perched like buzzards on rooftops, only add to the effect.

People file in silently and sign in. The reaping is a good way for the Capitol to keep tabs on the population as well. Twelve- through eighteen-year-olds are herded into roped areas marked off by ages, the oldest in the front, the young ones, like Prim, toward the back. Family members line up around the perimeter, holding tightly to one another’s hands. But there are others, too, who have no one they love at stake, or who no longer care, who slip among the crowd, taking bets on the two kids whose names will be drawn. Odds are given on their ages, whether they're Seam or merchant, if they break down and weep. Most refuse dealing with the racketeers but carefully, carefully. These same people tend to be informers, and who hasn’t broken the law? I could be shot on a daily basis for hunting, but the appetites of those in charge protect me. Not everyone can claim the same.

The space gets tighter, more claustrophobic as people arrive. The square’s quite large, but not enough to hold District 12’s population of about eight thousand. Latecomers are directed to the adjacent streets, where they can watch the event on screens as it's televised live by the state.

I find myself standing in a clump of sixteens from the Seam with Katniss next to me. We all exchange terse nods, then focus our attention on the temporary stage that is set up before the Justice Building. It holds three chairs, a podium, and two large glass balls, one for the boys and one for the girls. I stare at the paper slips in the girl’s ball. Twenty-five of them have Dahlia Everdeen written on them in careful handwriting.

Two of the three chairs fill with Mayor Undersee, who’s a tall, balding man, and Effie Trinket, District 12’s escort, fresh from the Capitol with her scary white grin, pinkish hair, and spring green suit. They murmur to each other and then look with concern at the empty seat that I know is supposed to be for Haymitch.

Just as the town clock strikes two, the mayor steps up to the podium and begins to read. It’s the same story every year. He tells of the History of Panem, the country that rose up out of the ash of a place that was once called North America. He lists the disasters, the droughts, the storms, the fires, the encroaching seas that swallowed up so much of the land, the brutal war for what little sustenance remained. The result was Panem, a shining Capitol ringed by thirteen districts, which brought peace and prosperity to its citizens. Then came the Dark Days, the uprising of the districts against the Capitol. Twelve were defeated, the thirteenth obliterated. The Treaty of Treason gave us the new laws to guarantee peace and, as our yearly reminder that the Dark Days must never be repeated, it gave us the Hunger Games.

The rules of the Hunger Games are simple. In punishment for the uprising, each of the twelve districts must provide one girl and one boy, called tributes, to participate. The twenty-four tributes will be imprisoned in a vast outdoor arena that could hold anything from a burning desert to a frozen wasteland. Over a period of several weeks, the competitors must fight to the death. The last tribute standing wins.

Taking the kids from our districts, forcing them to kill one another while we watch — this is the Capitol’s way of reminding us how totally we are at their mercy. How little chance we would stand of surviving another rebellion. Whatever words they use, the real message is clear. “Look how we take your children and sacrifice them, and there’s nothing you can do. If you lift a finger, we will destroy every last one of you. Just as we did in District Thirteen.”

To make it humiliating as well as torturous, the Capitol requires us to treat the Hunger Games as a festivity, a sporting event pitting every district against the others. The last tribute alive receives a life of ease back home, and their district will be showered with prizes, largely consisting of food. All year, the Capitol will show the winning district gifts of grain and oil, and even delicacies like sugar, while the rest of us battle starvation.

“It is both a time of repentance and a time for thanks,” intones the mayor.

Then he reads the list of past District 12 victors. In seventy-four years, we have had exactly two. Only one is still alive. Haymitch, who at this moment appears hollering something unintelligible, staggers onto the stage and falls into the third chair. He’s drunk. Very. The crowd responds with its token applause, but he’s confused and tries to give Effie Trinket a big hug, which she barely manages to fend off. I can’t help but chuckle, but it’s always sad to see him like that.

The mayor looks distressed. Since all of this is being televised, right now, District 12 is the laughingstock of Panem, and he knows it. He quickly tries to pull the attention back to the reaping by introducing Effie Trinket.

Bright and bubbly as ever, Effie Trinket trots to the podium and gives her signature, “Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be ever in your favor!” Her pink hair must be a wig because her curls have shifted slightly off-center since her encounter with Haymitch. She goes on a bit about what an honor it is to be here, although everyone knows she’s just aching to get bumped up to a better district where they have proper victors, not drunks who molest you in front of the entire nation.