Chapter Text
Thud! Another throwing knife hits the target, straight in the center, and knocks one of my other knives onto the ground. I grab the last two remaining knives from my belt, one in each hand, and twist around, as I try to see what else I can practice on, a real-life object. I finally decide on two trees close together, just a little to the right of my target. I pull my right arm back, aim, and throw. The knife firmly embeds itself into the bark of the tree. I repeat the motion with my left arm, and it lands, parallel to the other knife on the opposite tree. I wipe my brow and jog over to retrieve my knives, both from the trees, the target, and the ground.
“There you are!” A familiar-sounding voice says from behind me.
I turn around. Gloss. “Here I am!” I stick the knives back into my belt and give him a tired but triumphant smile. Gloss reaches forward and ruffles my hair, then gives me a lopsided grin. “Stop!” I whine, as I smooth down my already wind-blown hair.
“Cash and I have been looking everywhere for you,” he says.
“Well, I’d be getting in more practice. This is only my third reaping, and I don’t want to go in yet. But, if I do, then I’ll be at least semi-prepared.”
Gloss chuckles to himself, “you always were quite the go-getter.” Suddenly his eyes turn stormy, and he lowers his voice, “what about Raptor?”
Right, Raptor. My little brother just had his twelfth birthday a few weeks ago, which makes him eligible for the Reaping. I worried about him turning twelve for quite a while now. Just the thought of his name typed on a slip of paper, lying in the boys’ bowl deeply unsettles me. He's too young, too innocent, and has barely started his training at the academy. Gloss, Cashmere, and I had begged him to enter at a younger age, but he refused, saying he wanted to do other things to occupy his time. He paints, and he paints extremely well, too.
He paints every day; he has so many paintings that there's an entire room of Gloss and Cashmere’s house devoted to his talent: a studio. He has multiple easels and tons of paintbrushes and paint. If you don't know where he is, nine times out of ten, he's in his studio, painting away. Many of his paintings, his favorite ones, are hung up around the house. In the living room, dining room, kitchen, bathrooms, the bedrooms, basically you name a room, and at least two of his paintings hang in it. He has also painted self-portraits of Gloss, Cashmere, me, himself, and, our little sister, Ophelia.
The idea of him being in the Hunger Games, having to fight for his life against people much older and stronger than him, causes me to gag, as I sway on my feet and grasp for balance. I feel big, strong hands on my shoulders that steady me. I take a deep breath. “He won’t be reaped. His name’s only in there once. It won’t happen.”
“If it does?” Gloss questions, as he raises an eyebrow at me.
I shoot a glare at him. So much for making me feel better. “Then you and Cash will mentor him and get him out alive.”
Gloss nods seriously, “Of course, we will. We’d never let him die.” I smile, relieved to hear that. I know he and Cashmere care about me and my siblings deeply and will do everything they can to keep us alive, but deep down, I know what happens in the Games won't depend on their mentoring. It never does. It depends on the tribute.
“Promise?”
“Promise.” He glances at his watch. “It’s almost time for reaping. Half an hour. Cutting it real close, Callie.”
I glance down at my watch. He was right. “I’ll be ready in ten. Just a little more practice.” I insist. I pull a knife out of my belt and prep to throw it. As I pull my arm back, Gloss swiftly catches it. He rips the knife from my grasp and pins my arm to my chest.
“You need a lot more practice.” He smirks, and I roll my eyes at him. Of course, I need more practice, but what could Gloss expect in a fight between us? He's three years older than me, way more experienced, stronger, taller, and a victor. But I'm quicker, smarter, and sneakier.
I use my free hand to twist his arm away from mine, and once I'm free from his grip, I kick his left knee, hard. When he doubles over in pain, I grab the knife from his hand with both of mine. He looks up at me in shock, some pride hidden under his expression. “Not as much as you think,” I smirk, in response to his last comment.
“You’re good, Callie, but I’m,” he twists my body around, so my back's flush against his stomach. He wraps his arms around me, and quickly presses my knife to my neck, “better.” I can't even see his face, but I know he's wearing a proud smirk.
“You know your biggest weakness, though? People you care about. Like me. So, let me go.” I order, and Gloss immediately unwraps his arms and hands me my knife. I turn to face him, and he puts his hands in the air as a surrender.
“I thought we were just playing. I’d never hurt you, Calista, I thought you knew that.” He says. His eyebrows furrow as he awkwardly shoves his hands in his pockets.
“Of course, I know that.” I smile and punch him playfully on the arm. “Now, we’ve got a reaping to crash.”
On that note, the two of us set off toward Victor’s Village, side by side, and make small talk along the way. I'm too nervous for more than that. Gloss talks quickly and steadily; he hardly stops to let me get in two words edgewise. I know he's trying to take my mind off the Reaping and my brother, but it, unfortunately, isn't working. My thoughts keep going back to the problem at hand. If my brother gets reaped, I can't volunteer for him. Gloss is already a victor, and we don't have any other male family members, as our parents died years earlier. I have no idea if we even have any other living family members; we were never informed, instead pushed into the most recent victors' house, by the peacekeepers, of course.
I'm extremely thankful to live in such a beautiful house with more food, clothes, and money than I know what to do with, but I just wish I knew what happened to my parents, and the rest of my family. Cashmere and Gloss pretty much fill the roles of my parents, even though they aren't much older than me. As we near the familiar gate of Victor’s Village, I try my best to tune back into the conversation, only to find I have no idea what Gloss is going on about.
“…and I hate feeling that way, but sometimes, I think you can’t avoid it, you know? Have you ever felt like that? I mean, of course, you have, but like to what extremity? And how did you push that feeling aside?” He says, and finally, takes a long and slow deep breath, which gives me a chance to respond.
“Um…I’m not going to lie. I have no idea what you’re talking about. Sorry.” I shoot him an apologetic glance, but he just laughs and shrugs.
“Honestly, me neither. I was trying to take your mind off…you know—”
“—Raptor. The Reaping. Yeah, I know. He’ll be fine.” I pause, “right?”
Gloss takes a deep breath and opens his mouth, but no words come out. He tries again, and after a lot of hesitation, “right.”
I nod firmly, as I set my mouth in a straight line and stare at the snowy pavement under my feet. With a few more steps, we reach Gloss and Cashmere’s mansion. I take another glance at my wristwatch and hurry toward the door, throwing it open. I rush up the stairs, down the wide hallway to my bedroom. I only have twenty minutes to get ready and make it to the Reaping. I rush to my closet, as I scan my selection of dresses. I don't have a ton of plain dresses. Most of them are largely extravagant flowery, sparkly, and glittery dresses that Cashmere bought for me as small gifts.
I have three options that are suitable for the Reaping. A pale pink dress that falls just past my knees, complete with a pink ribbon that ties into a bow right above my waist. It has form fitting and short sleeves, but something about the dress makes me feel twelve or thirteen, maybe even eleven. It's a little too childish for me, and plus, I haven't worn it in almost a year, so there's no guarantee it will fit, and I don't have time to see if it would.
The second option is a dark forest green dress that hangs a couple of inches above my knees. This dress I wear all the time, as it's extremely comfortable, complete with pockets, a cinched waist, and long sleeves. It's also easy to style. The last option also hangs a couple of inches above my knees and is a solid white color. It's cinched near the waist and halfway down the skirt and has a sweetheart neckline, complete with sleeves that reach just past my elbows. Not form fitting sleeves, though. After a minute or so of thought, I decide the white one seems a little too formal for the Reaping, so I slip into the green dress.
I hurry over to my dresser and grab my favorite necklace—a silver one with my initial, a C, on it—small silver hooped earrings, and two thin silver bangle bracelets for either wrist. I grab my brush and brush out my long, thin blonde hair. I braid it into two fishtail braids, and tie them with dark green hair ties to match my dress. I grab a pair of silver two-inch heels and run out of my room, with a quick glance at my silver watch. Twelve minutes.
“Callie?” I hear a small voice shout and look up abruptly from my watch. Ophelia stands directly in front of me, and I halt my run, as I come to a quick stop.
“What’s the matter? Are you ready?” I ask her as I take in her appearance. She wears a lavender colored skirt and a white button-down blouse with lacy features. She's barefoot, and her hair's a mess, so I guess I answered my question for myself.
“Almost. Could you braid my hair all pretty like you did yours?” She asks and gives me a big smile. Then she hands me a hairbrush and two hair ties, both lavender.
“Of course, I can, Fifi. Go get your shoes and meet me downstairs at the kitchen table, okay?” She smiles even bigger and nods in response, and skips down the hallway to her room. I shift the hairbrush and hair ties into my left hand, my right hand already holds my heels. When I get downstairs, I see Cashmere and Gloss sat at the kitchen table, as they talk softly. They look up and stop talking as soon as they see me, much to my annoyance.
“Wow, I love your outfit, Callie!” Cashmere gushes. She gets up from her chair and smiles at me. Gloss stands, too, and looks at me with an expression I can't read. “You have such an eye for fashion.”
“So do you, Cash.” She wears a long golden dress, complete with golden accessories and heels. My gaze shifts to Gloss, who wears a golden suit, and I hold back a laugh. “You clean up real nice, Gloss.”
“I know that look.” Gloss mutters and slaps my arm softly. “Callie thinks it’s funny we’re matching, don’t you, Cal?”
I nod and bite my lip to keep my laughs inside, but I'm also puzzled at how he figured that out. I guess he just knows me that well. Cashmere shakes her head at me, but suppresses a smile. Just then, Ophelia bursts into the room, who also holds her heels in her arms. She kneels to put them on, and I do the same with mine. I straighten back up just in time to see her wobble around.
“You okay there, Fifi?” I ask, and hold her arms out to the side to steady her. She nods at me confidently and turns her back to me, which indicates it's time for me to do her hair. I kneel once more and part her beautiful golden hair, as I begin to fishtail braid two halves. I hear the hushed voices of Cashmere and Gloss probably continuing the conversation they had earlier and strain my ears to hear them behind me.
“…really nervous…you know we can’t…” That's Gloss.
“…but you’re the one who promised…stupid move…heartbroken…” Cashmere.
I sharply take in a breath as I realize what they were talking about. Gloss promised to me that if Raptor gets selected for the Hunger Games, he and Cashmere will get him out, period. But, based on their conversation, Gloss is nervous, about either keeping the promise or Raptor getting reaped. And he knows that him and Cashmere can't keep him alive. But Cashmere points out that he's the one who made the stupid move to promise such a thing in the first place, and that I'll be heartbroken if Raptor doesn't make it.
“I think it’s time to go.” Raptor. I tie the second hair tie around Ophelia’s second braid and stand up, as I admire my handiwork.
“All done.”
“Thanks, Callie,” she says.
“If everyone’s ready, yeah, we should leave now.” Cashmere announces and grabs Ophelia’s hand. I walk over to Raptor and admire his clothing choice. He's wearing a tan suit with black dress shoes. I ruffle his hair and grab his hand.
“You ready?” He looks up at me through his bangs and gives me a toothy grin and a thumbs up. My eyes water as the image of him fighting for his life once again invades my mind.
“Okay, let’s go.” Gloss said and lightly pushed me from behind. I obliged and Raptor and I walked through the front door, followed by Cashmere and Ophelia, and finally, Gloss, who locked the door behind himself.
As we walk forward, toward the town square, a gut feeling develops in my stomach. If Raptor gets reaped, let’s be honest, he's done for! There’s no way he can make it out alive, no matter how Cashmere and Gloss decide to help him. No matter what sponsors do, no matter what special training he might get. He's done for. Period. I take a sharp breath and Raptor squeezes my hand tightly, which jolts me out of my troubling thoughts.
“You’ll be fine,” he says. “I know you will.”
“Thanks, Raptor. You’ll be just fine yourself.” I reach forward and bop him on the nose, and he giggles.
“Don’t worry about me.” He says, which causes me to worry even more. How can he not be nervous? How can he not want us to worry about him?
Before I knew it, someone shoves me toward the line of kids getting their fingers pricked, and Gloss, Cashmere, and Ophelia leave me and Raptor as they file into the crowd of anxious parents and younger/older siblings. “Next.” Raptor bravely steps in front of me, and a woman grabs his finger and quickly pricks it. She pushes it against a piece of paper with his name, and it makes a bloody print of his thumb. “Next.” Raptor walks ahead, and I signal for him to wait for me. The same lady grabs my other finger. She pricks it, places it against the paper, and says: “Next.”
I rush forward and pull Raptor off to the side of the finger-pricking station. “Listen to me. Everything’s going to be alright, okay? There’s the age group for 12-year-olds.” I point over to a section near the front of the stage, which already has tons of girls and boys his age who stand tightly together. “As soon as it’s over, find me, or Cash, or Gloss, okay? Then we’ll leave and you can go home and paint, okay?” He nods, and without saying anything, starts to make his way to his age group.
What’s up with him?
I brush the weird encounter I had with Raptor off, wring out my hands, and make my way to my age group. I stand beside two twin sisters who went to my training academy. Katherine and Elizabeth. I don't know them that well, but they're popular at the training center, so I know which is which. Katherine's standing with her hands crossed over her chest, with fiery red hair, thrown up in a messy bun, the taller one out of the two. Elizabeth's standing with her hands on her hips, she has platinum blonde hair, cut to fall just past her shoulders. “Hi,” I say, “this is really nerve-racking.”
“Why?” Katherine says, and doesn't even look at me, just out at the sea of kids who wait anxiously.
“Well, like, it’s the Hunger Games. But also, my little brother Raptor is in the reaping for the first time this year, and I can’t volunteer for him if he gets picked…” I hate that I'm tell them all my feelings when I barely even know them, but it's just one of my quirks. When I get nervous about something, I talk a lot and fast.
“You wouldn’t volunteer for him even if you could, Caddie.” Elizabeth scoffs, as she flips a section of platinum hair over her shoulder. At this comment, Katherine turns around and high-fives her and gives me a disdainful look.
“Yes, I would,” I counter, “if we’re going to talk about people who wouldn’t volunteer for their siblings, let’s talk about you two. I’ve seen both of you in training. Y’all can barely pick up a spear, let alone throw it.”
I'm fired up, angry with the two of them for two reasons. (a) because they act like I won't volunteer for my little brother even if I have the chance, and (b) because they got my name wrong. Caddie instead of Callie. And I know they know my name was Callie. They called me Caddie to spite me. Funny.
“You know what? I hope Raptor does get reaped.”
“And I hope no one volunteers for him.”
“And I hope he dies in that arena.”
“And I hope he suffers a long, brutal, bloody death.”
I bite back my reply, which causes me to bite my tongue so hard, it even draws a little blood. My hands curl and uncurl into fists, as I debate whether to attack the two right here and now. I finally decide not to, and that I'll get my revenge later, in the training center.
“You know,” I start, “that’s real big talk coming from people who’ve had their own sister die in that arena.” I take a deep breath, “Or did you two already forget her?”
“You little bitch!” Elizabeth screams, and throws a weal punch at me. I quickly duck and kick her in the stomach. She doubles over in pain and clutches her stomach. I raise my eyebrow at Katherine, which asks if she wants to try me. She glares at me and grabs her twin’s wrist. Katherine yanks Elizabeth through the crowd and away from me.
“Yeah, run like the cowards you are!” I yell after them and smile to myself.
Callista 1, Bitchy Twins 0.
“Welcome,” A sudden voice booms over the microphone. Our district escort, Lettie Hildegard. “My friends of District One, in anticipation of the Sixty-Fifth Hunger Games, I welcome you to Reaping Day!”
She pauses, as if for applause, and there was thunderous claps, although everyone seems timid instead of excited. “Now, before we begin, we have a very special film brought to you all the way from the capitol!”
“War. Terrible war. With those, an orphan, and a motherless child. This was the uprising that rocked our land. Thirteen districts rebelled against the country that fed them, loved them, protected them. Brother turned on brother until nothing remained. Then came the peace. Hard fought. Sorely won. The people rose up from the ashes and a new era was born. But freedom has a cost. And the traitors were defeated. We swore as a nation we would never know this treason again. And so, it was decreed, that each year, the various districts of Panem would offer up a tribute: one young man and woman to fight to the death in a pageant of honor, courage, and sacrifice. The lone victor, bathed in riches, would serve as a reminder of our generosity and our forgiveness. This is how we remember our past. This is how we safeguard our future.”
Lettie smiles, “I just love that!” She notices that her microphone awaits her halfway across the stage, so she teeters over to it. I shake my head at her appearance: she looks ridiculous in her eight-inch heels and poufy dress. She reaches the microphone and smiles out over the crowd again, and turns her head to smile at everyone, which causes her bright blue ten-inch wig to bobble, and it almost falls off her head. She reaches up, flattens it back onto her head, and clears her throat.
“Now, the time has come for us to select one courageous young man and woman for the honor of representing District One in the 65th annual Hunger Games. As usual, ladies first.” She carefully walks over to the huge glass bowl on the right and plunges her hand deep into it. She moves it around a couple times before she clenches her fist on a slip of paper. She pulls it out, takes the black tape off, and reads: “Starlette Dankworth.”
I've never heard of this girl before, and I crane my neck as I try to see her in the crowd. Far in front of me, the crowd of twelve-year old girls part, and I see a very small girl who breathes heavily and shakes her head persistently. Tears form in her brown eyes that threaten to spill as she covers her ears and tugs at her dirty blonde hair. My heart lurches for her, as I feel her pain. She's too young, too tiny, too innocent-looking to to go into the games.
“Starlette! Don’t be scared, come on up!” Lettie calls and extends an arm to her, which invites her onstage. Starlette shakes her head again, and this time actually bursts into loud sobs, and starts shouting.
“MOM! DAD! JAMES! I DON’T WANT TO—I DON’T—HELP ME—PLEASE!” Her screams were quickly put to a stop as peacekeepers pick her up forcefully, one grabs her arms and gags her with a piece of rope, and another grabs her legs and waist. Together, they carry her through the crowd of twelve-year-old girls and up onto the stage, then set her down next to the girl’s bowl, beside Lettie.
They start to walk away, but Starlette bolts, and gets halfway down the steps before the two peacekeepers realize what she's doing. They shout at her to stop, and point their guns at her, then signal the others to do the same. She immediately stops in her tracks, trembles thoroughly, and raises her hands slowly into the air. Girls all around me talk in hushed whispers. They wonder if the peacekeepers will shoot. And if they shoot, are they going to shoot to kill or just injure? No one seems to know; nothing like this has ever happened before, especially not in District One.
Wait.
Why aren’t any career tributes volunteering?
I turn around and glance at the older tributes, and they all stand silently as they watch the scene unfold. None of them make any moves to volunteer. It all seems very strange to me, as many career tributes volunteer each year, and fight it out either beforehand or onstage. It doesn't make any sense that none, not even one, was volunteering. Nevertheless, I shrug it off, and turn back to the scene as it unfolds before me.
Starlette shakes and covers her mouth as she cries loudly. She clearly tries to quiet her sobs.