Chapter Text
The Reaping is bigger this year.
The last crop of eighteens was pretty small. Maybe that was because of lower birth rates. But I think it was really the fire that burned Yard Sector 15, back when the nineteens now were fifteens. They lost a lot of people. I was lucky I lived; none of the Sectors escaped the burning. I was a thirteen, then. Thirteens take school part time, and I was taking a shift in the classroom. I never saw the fire, nor did I see the flayed bodies left behind. A lot of us thirteens died, that day, but at least half of the fifteens were gone.
The rest of us make up for that loss in years of our life spent in the Yard.
When Peacekeepers stopped the burning, we found over a thousand dead and gone. Nobody left had any injuries or burns. Everyone touched by the fire was lost, whether they died in the Yard or in a sick bed. We would've had funerals for them; families would have buried sons and daughters, but the bodies were taken to the Capitol to have a special burial. I didn't lose anyone I knew well, but it would have been nice to at least see some of the footage on television. They didn't tape it, though. I guess it wasn't much of an event.
While I'm herded into the larger group of seventeens, I look for the oldest class involved in the Reaping. Eighteens. Almost safe. None of them are very tall, their spines curved into themselves from ten years spent in the Yard. But even the skinny ones have some amount of lean muscle. Mostly. The ones that don't must come from Mill families, because they're covered in sawdust, and they stand apart from all the others. None of the Mill rats ever attend school, on account of them not needing to know much, and on account of their families being poorer than dirt. They need the money, not the education. They've never had to work with the rest of us in the Yard, from dawn till dusk with their class, their second family. It's no wonder they're so hated by the rest of us. They're almost as bad as the yuppie turds, the merchant kids from Town. They'll get to inherit their parents' market stalls and stores, but they'd never show at the Reaping. They're almost always eliminated in preliminary rounds. And between just us poor people, it's the Mills we really hate.
Sometimes I feel a little sorry for them, too. I'd hate to live their lives. But in a way, they're lucky. Their lives are simple. Short. They'll never lose family to the Yard, because Mill families tend to die all at once. Together, that way. Nobody left behind, you know.
But then I see Arden, sweet Arden's face in my mind, think I see a glimpse of her burning red hair in the clump of sixteen's Mill rats. She hasn't grown an inch since the last time I saw her. How old were we then? Ten? Eleven? She can't be much higher than my shoulder.
I know I could beat her, beat any of those kids in combat. They'll die in the arena, you know. Seven's got a hard time out there, but they're especially doomed. I feel sorry for them, I really do. But I feel worse for myself, heart sinking at the thought of what's to come. I won't be chosen; the odds are in my favor. But the Hunger Games aren't the only thing that can kill a person. I know I'll die out here, in the Yard. Even if I grow old, hair gray, become a loving granny-my life will end in youth, with the bite of an axe and the smell of dead wood in my hands, on my hands. Or maybe I'll marry a rich yuppie. I'd be as happy and lively as Reed, with that kind of money.
Get yourself together, Jo. I hit my head, over and over until my thoughts quiet. Stupid. There's no sense in reminiscing, no sense in indulging the ghosts of my past, not when I might soon become one. I watch the Peacekeepers count and eventually close off the crowd of seventeens, section us off with red rope. I can't breath, can't see, can't make sense of myself in the tangle of bodies around me.
mom i want my mom
breath, Johanna
I hear Mayor Starch giving the opening speech, hear the anthem play.
mom i cantsee my mom i want my
breath, Jo
Then she's introducing a skinny man with a ridiculous blue mustache. I know her mouth is moving to form words, but I can't hear what she's saying.
marya i want marya -no you haveto- breathbreathbreath
The skinny man thanks Starch, walking up to the podium Mayor Starch just spoke from.
-i want my dad i- can'tihaveto haveto breath
I'm crouching now, in a ball on the ground. Maybe if no one sees me, surrounded by a mess of seventeens, I'll be safe.
where's reed where's reed i -comeon- breathJobreath
There's a lone somebody cheering in the middle of the crowd, closer to the fourteens. It couldn't be for the man with the blue mustache, no one in Seven would celebrate that Capitol freak.
breath
Whoever it is must be drunk. Seven's an excitable district, full of drink and partying, but not on Reaping day.
Never on Reaping day. Which is why it's so obnoxious someone is. Today is a day for sleeping, and then maybe a little mourning depending on who gets chosen.
Today is not a drinking day.
i want to go home breathbreathyouhavetobreath
i'mscared
And then there's Marya, good Marya's voice in my head, counting my breaths until I can breath again.
I crane my neck, searching the square until-there. Reed, grinning and waving like a maniac. Jumping up and down and screaming my name. His hair is tangled up in front of his face, but I know he doesn't care. Marya hides behind him, head in her hands, but I see her embarrassed smile between her fingers. I might cry, seeing their faces. And oh. Next to them stand my parents. My beautiful, hardworking parents, faces covered in soot and hands bloody, the features of their faces perhaps lost, to strangers, in wrinkled and ruined skin, but I'd know them blind. My ma and dad are here, and nobody can hurt me now.
The mustached man clears his throat into the microphone, clearly ready to get the games started. Nobody, not even a Peacekeeper, responds.
Finally able to push air through to my lungs, I'm capable of observing my surroundings. There's a weight on my shoulders, a weight that wasn't there before I had a total meltdown in front of everyone. Face burning, I turn around, spinning on my heal, ready to excuse my weakness. I stumble a little, then right myself, straightening my shoulders until I'm looking into dark black eyes. Oh thank God.
I leap into familiar, warms, arms. "I thought you didn't make it to the last round," I say, trying for a scowl, but I'm too happy to frown. "I thought you'd be sleeping now. You shouldn't still be in the Reaping"
"Nah, I got shafted by some yup-" but his voice is cut off by a louder, higher pitched squeal. I hardly have time to react before Felice, the other part of our trio, is upon us. She nearly knocks me over in her excitement, and I'd be angry if it were anyone else. But it's Felice. Nobody can stay mad at her for long, least of all me.
She screams something that sounds like my name, shaking me over and over. I look over her shoulder at Griff, but he won't meet my eyes. He'd laugh if he did, that I know.
Impatient, Felice grabs my shoulder, tugging me down until her lips reach my ear. "Check out the new free spirit they brought in from the Capitol."
I grin. "The guy with the-" I pause, mimicking a mustache with my fingers.
"I swear, he's been making eyes at me this whole time." I've got to give Felice credit. Even under my best attempt at a glare, she manages to give me that impish grin of hers.
I roll my eyes, turning over to Griff for some validation, but he's already on Felice's other shoulder. Of course, he’s hanging on to every word of her bullshit, nodding at all the right times, and then blurting out his own gossip whenever she finally takes a breath. If I didn't love the both of them so much, I'd probably hate them.
Stach clears his throat again, getting impatient.
Griff tilts his head sideways, examining the new Capitol ambassador. "You know, he makes me miss Dendridge. If that's, you know, possible."
"I don't think so," I say. "Nothing can make for forgive his-what was that he said to Markus?" Markus was another seventeen. Actually, we were fourteens then-so, another fourteen, I guess. He was poorer than poor, but he was a damned good lumberjack, and his mother's only son. He was her great hope. His Reaping was miserable. Dendridge was even worse.
Felice groans. "He asked Markus if he was crying he was nervous about being dressed up like a tree."
But that's not too funny, on account of Markus brutally dying in the Games, so we don't really laugh.
"Hey." Griff nudges me, pointing to a figure somewhere in the crowd of eighteens. "Isn't that the kid whose ass you beat last year?"
Felice shakes her head. "No, that was Preach. Different kid, same ugly haircut."
I shove him, then her, suddenly aware of the Peacekeepers hovering around. "Can't you pretend to pay attention?"
"Nuh uh. It's just Cyrus, and you know he's drunk anyways."
Felice and I nod in agreement, though I'm still a little salty.
The crowd starts to roar, and the three of us quiet in preparation for the Victors. They're not much; Seven doesn't win much, and all are above the age of forty. But they're ours, and that means we'd live and die for them. I stand a little straighter when I see them, strain my voice screaming, all in the hopes they might notice me. Of course, there's only one Victor who really matters.
We've got three. The oldest by far is Thayer Radstraat. He's so ancient, nobody I know was alive to see his games. Though I doubt we're missing all that much, seeing as Thayer's got the personality and charisma of a wet handkerchief. If I'm being generous, that is. There's just no entertainment value with that kind of guy, and if I'm being truly honest, I don't care much for him. Whatever's left of him after his eighty-four years alive, he's wasted on the morphling. Really, he's a very pathetic man. The only good thing about him is how angry he makes Blight. Blight Caddel's around fifty, but that's about all I know about him. There's not much to a guy like Blight. He just is.
It's Isolde Sable we all cheer for. She's around sixty, but the word “old” doesn't fit her. She's too alive to be old. She doesn’t look at anyone, her silence emphasized by Blight and Thayer's inability to be quiet. Perhaps they're cheering, but it's more likely they're arguing again.
Every move she makes, the crowd seems to lean in. We hold our breath, watching her walk across the stage, each step careful, calculated, her step is the sinister, calculated one of a predator. She doesn’t rush. Her pace is slow, but each step feels like a decision made long before she even takes it. She prowls toward her fellow victors; she must know every eye is on her. Because only when she's distanced herself enough from the others does she offer a curtsy, ensuring that the applause is hers alone.
Despite the attempts of numerous Peacekeepers to silence the crowd, we only quiet after what must have been a half hour.
The little mustached man stomps up the the microphone. His displeasure is obvious, though it's clear he doesn't care to hide it. For several minutes before speaking, he tugs on his mustache in frustration, as if to prove us that, he, too, is capable of making others wait. I pointedly avoid meeting Felice's eyes, though she doesn't make it easy. It's hard enough for me to prevent myself from cackling without her making me.
As if he can tell I'm two seconds away from losing it, the man glares at the seventeens and clears his throat. Before speaking, he plasters on the phoniest smile I've ever seen, and I have to duck my head and bite my sleeve to keep my composure. Griff pinches me on the arm, and I offer him a silent thank you for pulling me back into reality.
Again, the man clears his throat. "For those of you who are unfamiliar with me, my name is Cletus Delacroix." I close my eyes. I will not laugh at this man, not at the Reaping. I open them.
He's still wearing that garish smile, but thoughts of what is to come sober me up. I reach for Griff and Felice, and hold them tight. I will need their support now, and they will need mine.
Sensing my fear, Felice leans in. "We'll be alright, Jo." She tugs at a strand of hair fallen out of Marya's knot. "We always are."
I turn to Griff, whose breathing has gone heavy. He nods. "We always are." I nod, but there's a pit in my stomach.
Cletus clears his throat for what must be the hundredth time today, but he quickly snaps his face back into his normal, plastic smile. "Ladies first!"
For some reason, my lungs are tensing up again, and I look, craning my neck back to Marya for reassurance, but my family is no longer standing where I saw them before. Panicked, I whirl around, searching the crowd for Reed's curls, or Marya's musical laugh. But they're nowhere to be seen, and neither Griff nor Felice can calm me down. I know Cletus is still speaking, is probably calling out the first name, the girl, but I can't focus. There is no Marya, no ma, dad, or Reed. Until I find them, there will be no calming me. And there's this honking, blaring alarm noise, it must be in my head, but it's drowning out all noise. It's drowning me.
I can't breath. not again not again not again. I grab my throat with one hand, as if something in choking me, and I'm-I don't know, trying to fight it? End my suffering more quickly. I must be going insane with oxygen loss. There's a roaring in my ears, as if I'm underwater, and I think I might faint. I wobble around, nearly fall as I try pushing my way through the crowd of seventeens, praying I might find ma if only I stand a few feet to the right. i can't move i'm stuck
Griff grabs my arm, yelling my name. I shove him off of me, angry. His nails leave an ugly red stain on my arm. Marya made me so pretty this morning. I'll kill Griff if he ruins that.
"JOHANNA? Jo, can you hear me?" I want to scream. Griff's never been good about taking hints, but this time, it's seriously getting on my nerves. But when I turn around to give him a piece of my mind, there's no laughter in his eyes. I scan his face, searching for some joke I'm not seeing.
is it felice what's wrong what's happening what'swrong
"Leave me alone," I snap, but I've already forgotten his intrusion, too immersed in my search. On my tiptoes, I think I catch a glimpse of Reed behind Griff. He's lucky I'm waiting till later to yell at him.
wherearetheywhere'smaryawhere'sma
I hear the crack of Felice's hand before I feel it. I grab my cheek in pain, tears welling up in my eyes. I've never been known for my toughness-not to anyone who knows me well. Which is what makes Felice's whispered "get yourself together Johanna. Right. Now," so confusing.
"What was that for?" I hate myself for it, but the tears in my eyes are trickling down, caking my face in salt and water.
where's mom where's mom
Before Griff or Felice can answer me, I see the Peacekeepers, fighting through a mob of seventeens. And that insidious honking from earlier-it comes from the speakers, it comes from the stage. That's why I couldn't escape it. "Johanna Mason, seventeen. Johanna Mason?"
breath
breath
breath breath breath breathbreathbreathbreathbreathbreathbreathbreathbreathbreathbreathbreathbreath-
i'm going to die at seventeen.
Fuck you too, Cletus.