The Boy In Love // THG Peeta's POV

The Reaping

"Hey." I turned away from the mirror to see James leaning in the doorway. "Nervous?"

"A little," I admitted. I pivoted back to the mirror and ran a comb through my damp blonde hair for the umpteenth time. I fiddled with my collar, but I couldn't get it right.

"Yeah. I get that. Even though I can't be chosen this year, I'm still freaking out. I just can't shake this feeling that..." He sighed. "Never mind. I'll just stress you out more." James reached over and straightened the collar on my blue linen button-down shirt. "It's going to be fine. This is your second to last year. " I was still worried, but I gave him a sad smile.

"Okay. I'll be downstairs in a second."

"Alright. I'll get Luca." James walked out of the room in search of my brother, and I stepped away from the dusty mirror and over to the dresser. I pulled open the top drawer and patted the underside of the top shelf. My fingers brushed against a lump and I yanked on it, pulling loose a very small folded square of cloth. The silky fabric falls open in my hand to reveal a small, smooth river stone engraved with a compass. This was my token. I had used it every reaping since I was 12. My father gave it to me for my first reaping. Just in case. When he gave it to me, his explanation for its significance was simply that it belonged to someone he loved. No matter how much I pressed him, he never said anything else. I slid my thumb across the familiar and comforting pattern of the compass rose, and tucked the rock in my left breast pocket, right over my heart.

As the clock nears two, my family arrives in the town square. It's already almost full, so Lucas and I separate from the group and go to the registry desk. Almost everyone in the district is here, as well they should be. Unless you're quite literally moments from death, attendance at the reaping is mandatory and unexcused absences are punishable by imprisonment. People file in silently and sign in. The reaping is a good opportunity for the Capitol to keep tabs on the population as well. 12 through 18 years-olds are herded into roped off areas marked off by ages in the square. Family members line up After signing in, my brother headed over to the 18-year-old section and went to the 17-year-old section. I searched my area and saw Gale just a few feet to my right. I followed his gaze and spotted Katniss in the 16-year-old quadrant directly to my left. Her eyes were squinted against the sun as she watched her younger sister Prim with the other 12 year-olds. I could see the concern clearly etched on her face, and I found myself mimicking her expression. I found my mind returning once again to al the what-ifs. What if Luca was picked? What if I was picked? Or, worst of all, what if she was picked? There would be nothing I could do. My line of sight was cut off by a huddle of 14 year-olds shuffling by and high pitched whine from the microphone on the stage caused me to flinch and focus on the elevated platform, diverting my thoughts from Katniss. The stage was disproportionally large for the things upon it, merely a podium, two large glass balls full of paper, and three chairs, two of which contained people. The first was a tall, balding man who held the practically meaningless title of Mayor, and the second was Effie Trinket, District 12's escort. In 12's dreary, gray background, her freakishly white grin, tall pink hair, and spring green suit stood out like a sore thumb. The third seat remained open, and the stress of that vacancy was clear on both of their faces. Finally, as the town clock strikes two, Mayor Undersee steps up to the podium and begins to read the same thing he reads every year: the story of Panem. He lists the disasters that tore apart the place once called North America, the fires, the wars, the encroaching seas. From the ashes rose Panem, a shining Capitol ringed by thirteen districts. Then came the Dark Days, when the districts rose up against the Capitol. Twelve were subdued, and the thirteenth obliterated. And as a yearly reminder of our treason, the Hunger Games were born.

The rules of the games are simple. In punishment for the uprising, each of the twelve districts must provide one girl and one boy, called tributes, to participate. The twenty-four tributes will be imprisoned in a vast outdoor arena that could hold anything from a burning desert to a frozen wasteland. Over a period of several weeks, the competitors must fight to the death. The last tribute standing wins. Taking the kids from our districts, forcing them to kill one another while we watch — this is the Capitol's way of reminding us how totally we are at their mercy. How little chance we would stand of surviving another rebellion. Whatever words they use, the real message is clear. "Look how we take your children and sacrifice them and there's nothing you can do. If you lift a finger, we will destroy every last one of you. Just as we did in District Thirteen."

To make it humiliating as well as torturous, the Capitol requires us to treat the Hunger Games as a festivity, a sporting event pitting every district against the others. The last tribute alive receives a life of ease back home, and their district will be showered with prizes, largely consisting of food. All while the rest of the districts battle starvation.

Next, the mayor reads the pitiful list of past District 12 victors. In 74 years, we have had exactly two. Sad, I know. The only living one is Haymitch Abernathy. He is a slobbering, middle-aged drunk that appeared at that very moment at the corner of the stage, staggering and muttering. He slumps into the third chair and turns to hug Effie, who dodges and sprints to the microphone. Her huge, shiny, pink wig is slightly askew, but she ignores it and begins with her signature greeting. "Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be ever in your favor! It is such an honor to be here today with all of you!" She pauses for applause and receives only silence. "*Ahem* Well then. Time for the drawing. Ladies first!" Effie takes a moment to straighten her wig, then zips over to the glass bowl on the right and plucks a piece of paper from the bottom. Then she goes back to the microphone and unfolds the slip slowly. The crowd holds it's breath. A crow caws in the distance. I'm feeling dizzy and desperately hoping that it's not Katniss, not Katniss, not Katniss. Effie clears her throat and reads out the name in a loud voice. And it's not Katniss.

It's Primrose Everdeen.