peetas story

Chapter 2

Oh, shit.

An eerie silence greets this announcement and I think it again: Shit. Then I think: this has to be a mistake. Primrose - Prim - Katniss' younger sister is only 12. It's her first Reaping. And at the very most, she has four slips in the bowl. But that's unlikely, considering how protective Katniss is of her. One slip - one - that's all Prim probably has - had - in that bowl.

The silence starts filling up with unhappy murmurs and the hot afternoon takes on a surreal quality as the wisp of a girl - so tiny, she might be eight or ten - walks slowly up from the back of the square. She takes after her mother, slight and pale, with bright blue eyes. I know her, actually, quite well. She comes to the bakery and stares at the window displays, sometimes with her sister – sometimes without. Once, I heard Katniss insist loudly to my father that they were not there to beg – that Prim just likes looking at pretty things. Nonetheless, my father has been known to hand her something fresh from the counter, as long as the coast is clear. The one time I questioned the wisdom of this – mother's a strict accountant – he told me that, as an artist, I should appreciate my audience. Not many in Panem ever will.

But that was just one of his misdirections. My father has a soft spot for fragile things, for unfortunate people, and for the little girl who looks like her mother.

She's dead, I think to myself. She's dead - that little girl. I glance down the row to see how Katniss is handling it. At school, her reactions to things are impossible to predict, especially since her father died, leaving her with not only huge responsibilities but a grudge against the world. I've seen her talk back to teachers; snarl at older, bigger kids; refuse invitations with a sneer. That's not all the time, but enough that we mostly just leave her alone.

Prim passes us; she lifts her chin as she walks up to take her place on the stage, and there's something about the gesture so courageous that tears actually start in my eyes. But it seems to strike her sister another way - all of a sudden, there is a commotion in the square.

"Prim!" she screams, pushing her way out of the row, heading straight toward the stage, behind her sister. "Prim!" For a second, I have a wild thought that she's going to attack the Peacekeepers or something equally outrageous, but no – the Peacekeepers pause, as does her sister, and there is a collective silence. Katniss takes a deep breath – her entire body shudders with it.

"I volunteer!" she cries out, and her voice is strangled. "I volunteer as tribute!" she repeats, more decisively.

A shockwave rolls over the crowd, and as it hits me, I feel faint - I feel my knees actually start to buckle. This is allowable - it's the one changeable thing about Reaping Day. One girl can volunteer for another girl - one boy can do the same. There are districts where - although it's technically against the rules - kids start training for the Games as soon as they can walk - and 18-year olds consistently volunteer, and one of them usually wins. But in District 12? This never happens - it's never happened in my lifetime, for sure.

All the noise of the crowd - everything that is being said on stage - the screams of her sister as Gale moves up to pull her away - recede as I watch Katniss walk up to the stage and turn toward us with a pale, but determined, face. Her eyes sweep the crowd and my vision blurs. This is impossible– my mind will not accept it. Not only did Katniss Everdeen not escape the net of the Capitol - she walked willingly right into it. To her death. On purpose. I'm filled with both incredible awe and unbearable heartache.

In the meanwhile, Effie is calling on us to applaud the volunteer, and it seems like such a strange thing to do, so inadequate a response. My hands don't even leave my sides and silence again fills the square. Then someone, in the midst of this, has a sense of proportion to match the occasion and before I know it, we are all touching our three middle fingers to our lips and raising them in the air. It's the farewell gesture we sometimes use at funerals, especially when a death is unexpected, or traumatic, or in some way admirable. At any rate, it's a good-bye forever, solemn and real - not grotesquely festive. And it's a protest - definitely a protest, of sorts. You can feel it - the frisson in the air - excitement, tinged with fear, but silent, silent.