The Boy In Love // THG Peeta's POV

The Tributes

My brain refused to process the information that I had jut received. The name echoed in my head. Primrose. Primrose. Primrose. Then it clicked. Katniss' little sister. The sweet 12-year-old girl that sold cheese in the district was going to be shipped off to die. The next thing I realized, though, was much, much worse.

There was no way that Katniss would let her be a tribute. And that meant only one thing. My eyes snapped away from the ground, and I searched the crowd, frantically, for her. I found her in a second, my eyes were drawn to her instinctually, as they always were. She had stumbled, and a boy from the Seam, Thomas I think, was clutching her arm. Despite the situation, I still felt the usual twinge of jealousy. I shook my head to clear my mind and noticed Katniss' eyes flicker to Prim's diminutive frame. I could almost see the thoughts race through her mind.

"Prim!" she yelled. "Prim!" I silently begged her to stop. To hold her tongue and choose life. But I knew she would never pick anything over her dear sister. Just like I  would never pick anything over her. 

Katniss stepped forward to catch her sister. The crowd parted for her, and the second Katniss reached Prim, she swept her sister behind her in a single smooth motion and spoke two simple words that made my blood run cold.

"I volunteer!" she gasped. "I volunteer as tribute!"

I had to bite my cheek to keep myself from screaming in anguish. No! I thought. She couldn't! Being a tribute was certain death in District 12. Here, the word tribute was synonymous with corpse. 

I guess I was unsuccessful in muffling my cry, as I got a few odd looks from the people standing near me, but their eyes returned to the stage when Effie spoke again.

"Lovely!" says Effie Trinket. "But I believe there's a small matter of introducing the reaping winner and then asking for volunteers, and if one does come forth then we, um . . . " she trails off, unsure herself."

Her confusion is certainly warranted. District 12 hasn't had a volunteer in decades, and the protocol has become rusty. The rule is that once a tribute's name has been pulled from the ball, another eligible boy, if a boy's name has been read, or girl, if a girl's name has been read, can step forward to take his or her place.

In other districts, where being a tribute was a great honor, volunteering is a complicated process. But in 12 volunteers are all but extinct. Ignoring Effie's hesitation, the mayor plowed ahead with resignation. 

"What does it matter?" he says. The mayor was watching Katniss with a pained expression that surely mirrored mine. "What does it matter?" he repeats gruffly. "Let her come forward."

Prim begins to scream hysterically, her arms wrapped around Katniss in a futile effort to stop her from volunteering. "No, Katniss! No! You can't go!" she shouts.

Yes! I think. If anyone can stop her, it's Prim. But Katniss, ever one to put on a brave face, attempts to shrug off her sister's arms. I can see her say something to her sister, but it's too faint for me to hear. 

And then Gale is there, doing everything I should be doing. He grabs Prim off the ground and helps Katniss up, whispering something in her ear as he does. Probably something comforting. Despite my jealousy, at that moment I am glad he is there, if only for Katniss' sake.

Pleased about the drama, Effie's eyes are shining as she turns to address the crowd once more. "Well, bravo!" she gushes. "That's the spirit of the Games! What's your name?"

"Katniss Everdeen." At the sound of her voice, I feel as if I have been stabbed. I might never hear that voice again.

"I bet my buttons that was your sister. Don't want her to steal all the glory, do we? Come on, everybody! Let's give a big round of applause to our newest tribute!" trills Effie Trinket.

But no one claps. Not one person even moves. It is not a riot. It is not an uprising. But it is a protest, the boldest form of dissent we can manage. Silence. Which says we do not agree. We do not condone. All of this is wrong.

Then I see a chance to help Katniss. I can make her stand out, make her precious. That will give her a chance. Slowly, I touch the three middle fingers of my left hand to my lips and hold them out to Katniss. It is an old and rarely used gesture of our district, occasionally seen at funerals. It means thanks; it means admiration; it means good-bye to someone you love.

Gradually, the rest of the crowd follows my lead, until almost every person standing in the square is holding out their left hand towards the stage. I can tell that Katniss is touched. I can only hope that she noticed that it was me. 

Suddenly, Haymitch staggers across the stage drunkenly towards Katniss. He threw an arm around her and started to holler in her ear. "Look at her. Look at this one!" he turned away from Katniss and back to the crowd. "I like her! Lots of . . ." He can't think of the word for a while. "Spunk!" he said triumphantly, having finally found the word. "More than you!" he released Katniss and started towards the edge of the stage. "More than you!" he repeats, pointing directly into a camera. 

Is he addressing the audience or is he so drunk he might actually be taunting the Capitol? I'll never know because just as he's opening his mouth to continue, Haymitch plummets off the stage and knocks himself unconscious.

His idiocy gives everyone in the square, including me, a much-needed pause. What was I thinking! My instigation of that symbol would most likely do nothing but make her a target.  I sigh. Never mind that now. As Haymitch is carried away on a stretcher, Effie tries to get the ball rolling again. 

"What an exciting day!" she warbles as she attempts to straighten her wig, which has listed severely to the right. "But more excitement to come! It's time to choose our boy tribute!" Clearly hoping to contain her tenuous hair situation, she plants one hand on her head as she crosses to the ball that contains the boys' names and grabs the first slip she encounters. 

She zips back to the podium, and I don't even have time to hope for my safety or the safety of my brothers before she calls out the last thing I expected to hear at that moment.

"Peeta Mellark."

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Hi readers! Just wanted to apologize for all the exposition. I promise it will get more interesting soon! Thank you for reading my story. Please vote and comment! 

-Siren Song