Sunrise on the Reaping (The Hunger Games, #0.5)

by Suzanne Collins

I guess we’re going to talk about it. “It’s going to be all right,” I say, which rings hollow. “You don’t really believe that, do you?” “Maybe not. But I try to. Because the reaping’s going to happen no matter what I believe. Sure as the sun will rise tomorrow.” Lenore Dove frowns. “Well, there’s no proof that will happen. You can’t count on things happening tomorrow just because they happened in the past. It’s faulty logic.” “Is it?” I say. “Because it’s kind of how people plan out their lives.” “And that’s part of our trouble. Thinking things are inevitable. Not believing change is possible.”

And if Sid should ask, “But why do I have to do this?” We can only say, “Because this is the way things are.” Lenore Dove would hate that last bit. But it’s the truth.

They will not use our tears for their entertainment.

I’m already so homesick I could die. I know I need to be strong, but the sight of them totals me.

It’s not confusion; it’s a blanket refusal to put on a show for the Capitol.

I crush them against me for what I know is the last time. But time’s a-wasting and we are not a wasteful family. “Take this.” I empty the contents of my pockets into their hands, money and peanuts into Ma’s, knife and the white sack of gumdrops into Sid’s. Bequeathing them the remains of my life in 12.

That’s when I see Lenore Dove. She’s up on a ridge, her red dress plastered to her body, one hand clutching the bag of gumdrops. As the train passes, she tilts her head back and wails her loss and rage into the wind. And even though it guts me, even though I smash my fists into the glass until they bruise, I’m grateful for her final gift. That she’s denied Plutarch the chance to broadcast our farewell. The moment our hearts shattered? It belongs to us.

Part of me thinks I will die right now, bleeding out on the inside. But it isn’t going to be that simple. Eventually, my breathing slows, and a general despair descends.

He’s as unpredictable as lightning. Might be worth staying on his good side.

Now, of course, her chances of growing up are nil. She’s frozen forever at thirteen.

Plutarch acts friendly, but his indulgences — my family’s good-byes, his fancy sandwiches — are just a method to manage me, because happy playthings are easier to handle than raging ones. To get his footage, he’ll indulge me right into the arena.

Look how well the Capitol treats the tributes. How forgiving they are to their enemies. How superior they are to those district piglets in their stinkholes.

An apology? From a Capitol guy? Then I see it for what it is: another way to manipulate me by pretending I’m a human being, worthy of an apology. I don’t even acknowledge it.

Personally, I never gamble. If Ma heard I’d been spending money on cards, she’d kill me, and beyond that, I just don’t get the thrill of it. Life in general seems risky enough to me.

NO PEACE, NO PROSPERITY! NO HUNGER GAMES, NO PEACE! It’s the same campaign they used on our square back in District 12, but with slogans geared to the Capitol residents. Seems the Capitol has to convince its own citizens, too.

“You’re beautiful,” says Plutarch. I guess she’s just another plaything he has to handle, only what controls her are compliments.

Then they trim my nails, honoring my request to leave me enough to fight with because, as Proserpina says, “You might need your claws.” I wonder if she thinks of my nose as a snout, my hair as fur, my feet as paws.

I attempt to rouse her, try to find her pulse, but she has flown her body.

I see four Peacekeepers making a beeline for us amidst the medics and handlers and dazed tributes. They want to take Louella away, to hide her tidily in a wooden box along with their crimes, and ship her home to District 12. They don’t want to feature this death on the Capitol’s watch, unplanned and highlighting their incompetence. This is not the blood they want to paint their posters with.

Maybe this is where I paint my own poster.

I dismount the chariot and lay Louella down, taking a step back so Snow can’t pretend he doesn’t see her broken little bird body. Then I gesture to him and begin to applaud, giving credit where credit is due.

“I’d rather be despised than ignored.”

The funny thing, if anything can be called funny in a Hunger Games, was watching the Gamemakers attempting to deliver her sponsor gifts, which they repeatedly failed to do. They were as blind to her spot as the tributes. And while they joked about it, you could see they were embarrassed to have a girl from District 3 understand their arena better than they did.

You wanted to cheer for her, given that she’d outsmarted the Gamemakers, but she was just too unnerving.

It’s Maysilee who surprises me. Back home, she isn’t popular, she’s known. She’s not respected, she’s feared. Not deferred to, but avoided.

From this point on, the Games evolved from pure punishment to unapologetic entertainment.

The Capitol citizens lose it and so do I, until I remember the joke’s not just on Panache. It’s on all of us stupid, clawed district piglets. Animals for their entertainment. Expendable for their pleasure. Too dumb to deserve to live.

“But the nickname should call them stupid without being stupid itself,” Plutarch goes on. “We need some wordplay. Something clever or rhyming or catchy. But not crude — this is a family show.”

All pretense is over. We are being propelled forward, faster and faster, to the inevitable moment when the gong sounds. All the tribute preparation — the costumes, the training, the interviews — was just a distraction from the real agenda. Today some of us will die.

My lips move, but no sound comes out. “Buddy?” I stumble forward, spotting his tracker, wedged just below his elbow. There is no one to comfort, to ease out of this world. Ampert’s been swallowed up by the Capitol, and his coffin will hold only these pearly white bones. A cannon fires.

She lifts the lid, and a cloud of bean and ham hock soup steam dampens my face. Mags. Trying to reach us, to let us know we are not alone in our pain, to give us strength to go on. Tears fill my eyes, forcing me to admit my presence in the only world I know. Not an imaginary one. The one where I am in the Hunger Games for real.

Her emphasis on manners, her pretty picnics. And I remember her words that first day on the train. “Listen, Louella, if you let them treat you like an animal, they will. So don’t let them.” This morning’s poster says, We’re civilized. We appreciate beautiful things. We’re as good as you.

“I’ll try to keep that in mind in the arena. More ice cream?” Mags and I tried not to laugh, because Proserpina wasn’t born evil; she just had a lot of unlearning to do. I’m not sure what Mags is trying to impart now. A directive to stay positive? A reminder of Maysilee’s sass? Just a delicious bowl of ice cream? Maybe all three. I pick up the spoon and take a bite. Tears come, and I let them fall, unchecked, while I empty the basin. It’s okay to cry around Mags.

I become intensely aware of the three of us, huddled around this tree, the last trio of human heartbeats in the arena. Sad, desperate, but also a rare moment of district unity in the Games. You know what would make it even better? I drop a handful of chocolate balls into the night. A startled sound. The sobs soften to sniffles. A candy wrapper crackles. Quiet. Not a bad poster, all in all.

Blinded by my desire to paint my poster, I left the real treasure unattended.

I’m the hero of the moment. The star of Panem. The victor of the Quarter Quell. And that can only mean that President Snow has won the day.

So, what am I? A rascal? A cheater even? Maybe. But clearly I do not rise to the standard of a rebel.