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There is no room for any other thought in my head. It is impossible to make space. Over and over, all I hear between my ears is, four slips. Four slips. Four slips.
Four pieces of paper with my name scrawled on them. It doesn’t matter that there are thousands in that bowl. Any one of those four slips could be picked. That is the way the reaping works.
It’s excruciatingly hot. The sun beats down on the top of my head, and it is the time of year when the air is so warm and humid and thick it feels like you could catch it between your fingers and watch the sticky residue run down your hand. I think even if it was a frigid winter morning, I would be sweating. My palms are clammy and moisture pools on my upper lip. I swipe it away, but it returns again and again. So many things feel wrong with me at once. My heart pounds. My stomach is rolling. I wonder if I’ll even make it to the square. Maybe I’ll die here, on this nondescript road in the Seam.
The tears want to form. They prick behind my eyes but I force them away. My little sister is watching me in her peripheral vision. This isn’t easy for her, either. I don’t want her to worry. I pull my shoulders back and put on my bravest face, or rather, attempt to put on my bravest face. For Prim, I won’t die. And I won’t cry.
As we grow closer, I fall into step with kids much bigger than me, the dust swirling around our best shoes. My mother gave me a skirt and ruffled blouse to wear. I’m too bony for it to look nice. The shirt hangs awkwardly off of my shoulders, and she had to pin the skirt to keep it from falling. I let her dress me, though. It was all she could handle before she retreated into her mind, so I did my hair. Alone. It hangs in a single braid down my back.
Prim told me I look beautiful.
All I could see was an animal that has been prepared for slaughter.
My muscles are stiff and it is a chore to get them to move, but I persist. Families begin to separate from their children. Prim wraps me in a tight hug, her breathing growing hard. My mother gives me a kiss on my head and leads Prim away. Where I’m going, she can’t go. At least not yet. And I don’t want her to go. Ever. But if there is one thing I can’t protect her from entirely, it is the reaping.
The square looks much nicer today than it usually does. I see the camera crews perched on the rooftops, ready to capture the first glimpse of our tributes. I curl my hands into fists, willing myself to swallow around the large lump in my throat. I need to keep going. I feel as though I’m walking to my execution. I suppose I might be. The thought makes my nose burn and tears threaten to spill onto my cheeks, but I won’t let them. I need to be brave. I shut my eyes for a moment and take as deep a breath as my lungs will allow, and then I step forward.
I hardly have to move after signing in. The oldest stand in the front while the youngest are in the back. I’m not exactly large for a twelve year old, so I can’t see much of anything. It’s near silent. The only sound is the shuffling of bodies around me. I grow hotter, sweatier, more frantic as the crowd squeezes together. My legs are wobbly and I’m feeling light-headed, like I’m moments away from collapsing in the dirt. My breath comes in sharp spurts and I feel a desperate need to be anywhere but here. I look around wildly, for what I don’t know, and that’s when I see him.
He’s with a few of his friends. They’re not very close to me but I can see him clearly. As always, a feeling of guilt arises when I look at him. But other things do, too. I don’t really know what.
He looks calm, but I notice something that gives away his nerves. His curls have come free from the slicked-back style they’d been forced in, and he keeps running his hand through them. I wonder if he’ll get in trouble for that later.
I watch as he fidgets with the sleeves on his too-large button up shirt. His pants are obviously hand-me-downs as well, pooling at his ankles. He’s not yet lost the baby fat that only seems to linger on Merchant children, and his chubby cheeks are pink from the heat. Or anxiety. Or both.
Only a few months back, he saved my life. And Prim’s life. And my mother’s. And I never even thanked him for it.
I decide to do him a favor now. He has only one slip, I’m sure, and should be as safe as they come. But I will use all of my energy to hope that his slip does not get chosen.
Watching him gives me a distraction and helps me breathe easier. I study the way he glances around, perhaps looking for one of his friends. I step just out of his eyesight when his gaze gets too close to me, waiting until I think he’s moved on. When I shuffle back, he is facing the front again and listening to the mayor speak.
There is a history lesson, then the reading of the past victors from our district. Only one is still alive. Haymitch Abernathy staggers forward for a brief moment, clapping the mayor on his shoulder before tripping back into his chair. He nearly misses it, almost landing in the lap of the new escort. She pops up immediately, which must be hard to do in those shimmering silver heels she’s got on. I don’t think I’ve seen her before, but all of the Capitol people I’ve ever seen look odd, and she is no exception with her metallic blue hair and matching lipstick. She introduces herself as Effie Trinket in a bright and bubbly manner, wishing us a Happy Hunger Games.
“And may the odds be ever in your favor!”
My panic has returned, my entire body shaking in fear. I try to keep my movement to a minimum, to keep my face devoid of emotion, but I’m sure I’m failing. Effie Trinket is swirling her fingers around in the glass bowl. Four slips. Four slips. Four slips.
Not me. Please, not me.
I’m holding myself back from dry heaving when she returns to the microphone. I’m so sure she’s going to say my name that I don’t properly hear who she’s called. But it isn’t me.
It isn’t me.
I could collapse from relief, but I force myself to straighten up. The lingering nausea threatens to upend my measly breakfast, and I can’t afford to lose any food, even if I’m not going into the Games. I remember my promise as Effie teeters to the other glass bowl, the one that has a slip with his name on it.
Not him. Not him. Not him.
My head practically bursts from how hard I’m wishing for him to be safe. All of the energy I can muster is going into this, willing another boy’s name to ring out. Any name but his.
And it’s not him.
I glance back over at him and though there is relief in his expression, I also see sadness. And I think that he is so kind, it makes sense he is upset for the two children from the Seam on the stage rather than simply happy that it isn’t him. I think perhaps he is goodness personified.
When he turns, presumably to find his family, we make eye contact. It’s brief, our eyes flitting away almost as soon as they meet, but we seem to be drawn to one another like magnets. When our eyes meet again, he gives me a small smile. I look down at my feet, scuffing my shoes in the dirt.
When I look back up, he is gone. But the warm feeling that his smile gave me seems to linger. And I’m glad it wasn’t me, but I’m so glad it wasn’t him.