CHARADE | Glimmer

Chapter One

Trigger warnings: Bullying, Death of family member/friend, Public humiliation, Violence 

Strident chords sound from the violins in rapid succession as their players march up and down on the wooden tables. The large room is awash with noise and colour as dancers sway and onlookers chatter excitedly or stamp and clap along with the beat.

Festival season- the seven days leading up to the day of the Reaping- are the most rambunctious nights of the year in District One. It's a celebration of our endurance of hardships, our triumph over cruel winters and sweltering summers, and it's a time marked to take pride in our loved ones and our strength in each other.

It's also a time where we ignore the pain of what's to come. The great Hunger Games. It's supposed to be a celebration. Or, so the Capitol demands it. And, true, our District usually does very well.

But not all the kids come back. And the ones that do are changed forever.

I sigh, and my gaze falls to the sketch that I've done in ink on a napkin. It's a design for a new bracelet that I want to make. Each bead will have a secret compartment where things can be stored. At least that's the plan. I love making jewellery with multipurpose uses in my aunt's shop but I've never done something this intricate before. My aunt thought it couldn't be done.

"Glimmer! Another!"

A glass lands in front of me, and I swiftly cover up by sketch with my hand and pull me eyes back to the bar I'm supposed to be watching. Technically, I'm too young to serve drinks but my Ma and Aunt are run off their feet with the festival and there was no one to help but me.

When I look up to see who the customer is, I smile, relieved. "You aren't bored of the same?"

The woman in front of me- Daz- just shakes her head. She leans in close, running a hand through her short dark hair and winks a brown eye at me, "I know I shouldn't Glim, but your Ma's cocktails are to die for."

I shake my head, feigning disapproval. My hands move automatically to grab the right ingredients. I know pretty much all the drinks off my heart. Learning them is fun. Actually making them for hours on end? Not so much. But the music is pretty good, and the customers have so far not been too bad.

I watch as Daz flexes. It's amazing how casually she does it, and what's even more amazing is how she seemingly ignores the admiring looks coming her way. In her twenties, she's considered to be one of our best fighters. She was supposed to compete in the Hunger Games but her name got pulled in her last year and someone else volunteered.

Everyone said it was bad luck, though Daz hadn't seemed to have minded. Now she's supposedly marriageable age, and everyone- and I mean everyone - who's single has had their eye on her.

"Hey," She says, as I pretend that I haven't been staring and place the glass down in front of her. It's a red colour, icy with berries resting on the top. She slides the coins across and takes a slip from the straw before speaking, "Do you know who that guy is over there?"

I follow her gaze and freeze. The boy's brown hair is slicked back with way too much gel, he's dressed in a ghastly yellow suit, and is dancing completely off beat to the music with as much grace as a penguin on a pair of stilts. Unfortunately, I do know him. It's Marvel. A school friend that I've been working up the courage to ask out for the best part of the year.

"Um," I flush, "That's Marvel. He's too young for you."

Daz must see my expression because she smirks, "Oh don't worry, he's not my type." She leans in again, and pats my shoulder, "Someone needs to teach him how to dance though."