Capitol Pawns

High above District 7, the morning sun begins to rise. A cool breeze whistles past my ear, causing the branches and leaves around me to rustle. I lean against the giant trunk for balance, but even forty feet in the air, I know I’m safe.

District 7 is my home. We supply the Capitol with lumber while they take advantage of our residents. We’re expected to start working at a young age, and we work long hours. When I was younger, I realized the trees were my second home. I sought refuge high in the air to escape the harsh reality of our world. The trees brought me some sort of inner peace.

I don’t normally find myself in the woods this early, but I woke up before the sun this morning covered in a cold sweat and with a lump in the back of my throat. The butterflies fluttered in my stomach relentlessly until I found myself wandering into the woods. It was like I was in a trance, climbing higher and higher without even thinking; my hands did all the work.

On a normal day, being in the trees clears my mind of every care in the world. But today, not even the gentle rustling of the leaves and the rough feel of bark on my palms can calm my nerves.

Today is the reaping.

I know the odds of my name being called are little-to-none; there’s only one little slip of paper in the bowl with my name on it, but the fact that my name is in there at all is unsettling.

My older brother, Callum, is fourteen and has his name in there three times. If it were up to him, there would be twenty-one slips in the reaping ball with his name, but my father refuses to let us take out tesserae. He says he would rather us be a little less full and have us all safe at home than to let us risk our lives to do his job.

I admire my father’s bravery and work ethic. He works long hours to put food on the table for my three siblings and me, and when food shortages are particularly bad, he gives up his portion to fill our aching bellies.

The sun no longer hides beneath the horizon, but rather sits proudly in the sky. It don’t feel like I’ve been in the trees very long, but by the way the birds chirp, I know it’s getting late.

“Scout,” A sing-song voice sounds through the woods. “Scout!”

My younger sister, Cadence, weaves her way expertly through the trees and comes to the base of my tree. She plants her bare feet firmly on the ground as her hands find her hips.

She looks up and finds me.

“Scout, mama’s gonna worry if’ya don’t come home soon. Sh’says you need to get ready,” She relays.

I tear my eyes from the horizon and let my head roll lazily down to meet my sister’s gaze. “I don’t wanna leave. I wanna stay up here instead of goin’ to the stupid reaping!”

“Sh’says breakfast is gonna be cold if ya don’t come home soon,” Cadence calls, an edge of playfulness in her tone.

My stomach grumbles unhappily, but I pretend not to notice.

“Scout, nothin’ bad is gonna happen today,” She says. “Yur gonna go stand with all yur classmates and someone else is gonna get called.”

I wrap my arms as far around the giant trunk as I can and turn back to the sky. Nothing is going to tear me away from my serene District 7, where the biggest worry is when our next meal is going to be. I don’t even want to think about having to be thrown into some giant arena with twenty-three other kids who all have the same goal as me; get back to their families. It’s just unfathomable.

When I turn my attention back to my sister, all I find is an empty patch of earth. I whip my head around, but she is nowhere to be seen. She probably went home to get the big guns – dad.

I rock back and forth from my heels to my toes as my neck cranes to see the unusually empty lumberyards. Reaping day is the only day of the year when everything shuts down; storeowners flip their signs to closed, school is canceled, and best of all, no work.

But for two unlucky kids and two hysterical families, today will be ruined despite all of that. Today will mark the last time parents will hold their children in their arms, alive and well. It’ll be the last day the kids will be able to be their own person, as they are soon to be transformed into Capitol pawns.

My branch shakes slightly as I felt somebody sit down. I look over to see Callum, who pats the spot next to him. I sit, kicking my legs off the side of the extremity and scoot closer to the warmth of my brother’s body.

“Ya know, you only have one slip, Scout,” He says, handing me a small pouch of food. “And I know that’s something, but think of all the kids whose names are in the bowl forty, fifty times. I know it’s scary, but what can we do, ya know?”

I pick at the potatoes, cheese and sausage link, but suddenly don’t feel very hungry.

“I’m scared,” I whisper.

Callum wraps his arm around me and I lay my head on his shoulder, taking a good look at the vast expanse of the land I called home.

“Yur jus’ workin’ yourself up, Scout,” He says. “In a few hours we’re gonna be back home watching all tha reapings on TV.”

I know he’s probably right, but the sick feeling in my stomach doesn’t go away. Besides, even if my name isn’t called today, I still have six more reapings to get through. And then there are Cadence and Bug, my younger sisters.

“Eat,” He instructs, nudging me with his shoulder lightly. “We have to get home soon, or mom’ll be mad.”

I force myself to eat the cheese and sausage and somehow down the potatoes, which have turned mushy from sitting in the steamy wrap for too long. Finally, Callum makes his way down the tree, stopping halfway to look up at me. I still sit, staring down at him, petrified and unable to move.

The wind whips through his shaggy brown hair. “Come on, Scout. We’ve done worse things before.” A mischievous smile plays on his lips and the sun catches his eyes, brightening them so I can almost make out his pupils from the dark brown irises surrounding them.

I shove the empty wrapper in my pants pocket and slide down the tree after him. When I hit the ground, my toes seep into the cool, soft earth before I take off in a sprint to catch up with my brother.

“Just in time,” My mama says as Callum and I burst through the door. “I thought I was gonna have to climb up there to get you.”

She smiles and ushers me towards the washroom. Once inside, I slip my white sleep shirt over my head and throw my shorts in the corner as mama takes my hair out of its usual messy ponytail and lets it fall down onto my back, just past my shoulder blades.

Mama helps me into the warm tub. As I sit down, she fills a large blue cup with water and pours it over my head.

“You know, you remind me a lot of myself when I was your age,” She announces out of the blue, smiling slightly as she repeats her action to wet my hair.

“How so, mama?” I whisper.

Her smile spreads, until her straight white teeth are all visible. “You’re just like I was. You’re smart, kind, curious, mischievous, loving, strong,” Her voice trails off. “And I was scared like you are.”

“Mama, what happens if… if my name is called?” I ask, uncertainty wracking my voice.

She dollops a small amount of shampoo in her hands and lathers my hair, taking her time to come up with a carefully worded response, but I don’t get one. “I don’t know,” She answers finally. “Then you go into the Games and fight for your life.”

I think about it for a minute. “I feel so bad,” I pause. “For wishing this upon someone else, so- so I don’t have to do it.”

Mama shakes her head and scoops another cupful of water. “Reaping day has a funny way of showing people’s true colors, Scout. It takes a special kind of person to stand up and be given that kind of responsibility.”

I think about the terror the Games brought to mama’s life when she was a kid. She, of all people, knows the pain the Games bring.

“Tell me about Aunt Bea,” I whisper, not daring to make eye contact. I get brave for a moment and I sneak a look.

Mama is obviously taken back by my curiosity. She never talked about my Aunt Bea, but I had seen pictures of happier times. I’ve never seen my mama at a loss for words – I’ve never seen her upset, really, but now it’s obvious I’ve stepped into uncharted territory.

“It was the year I turned eleven,” She starts. “And I was scared because I knew the next year my name would be in the reaping ball. Aunt Bea was sixteen – she had so much ahead of her. When they called her name, my whole world stopped.”

She pauses and hands me the bar of soap. I rub the bar between my hands before accumulating enough bubbles to scrub my body.

Mama leans back against the wall and stares off into space, recalling the day twenty-one years ago.

“Bea, gosh, she was brave. She marched straight up to that stage with her head held high,” Mama closes her eyes and grimaces. I can only imagine the images running through her head. “I was beside myself in agony. I was screaming, crying – I think I made a bigger scene than she did. When we said goodbye, she held me and whispered that she promised she would come home to me, she promised that everything would work out in the end.”

I think about the pictures of mama and Aunt Bea, back when they had been young and innocent, too young to even think about the horrors of the Games.

“Bea made quite the impression on Panem and as terrified as I was for my big sister to die, I knew that she was going to fight until the end,” I can imagine my Aunt Bea in the District 7 chariot, wowing the crowd in some sort of spectacular costume, her natural beauty radiating. “She earned the support of the citizens in her interview, she scored an 11 with the Game Makers, she did everything she needed to, but it wasn’t enough.”

Mama pulls her legs up to her chest and buries her face in her knees. “We were forced to watch as Bea lost ally after ally – as she transformed from this beautiful, innocent girl, into a haunted and hollow shell. Even if she had won, things wouldn’t have been the same. The Games change people. When someone’s reaped, that person has to fight to stay humane, to not turn into an animal.”

“The worst part of it all was having to witness it,” She continues. “To watch live footage of my big sister being mutilated, it’s something I’ll never be able to un-see.”

I’m clean by now and the water is starting to get chilly. I stare at my mom in horror. The feeling in the pit of my stomach is now even worse than before and the lump in my throat seems to have grown by four times.

Mama opens her eyes and looks at me. “Don’t worry, Scout. District 7 is huge, your name is only in there once, and there are plenty of other names in the bowl.”

She leans into the tub and kisses my forehead, hands me a towel and steps back as I climb out of the tub. Mama leaves the bathroom and gives me time to dry off in peace, but it’s hard to after having to see her relive the trauma of her childhood.

Once I’m dry, I walk down the hall to the bedroom I share with my three siblings. Mama stands by the bed, proud of the light blue dress that lay in a neat pile. It’s average to say the least, and not exactly something I would choose to wear.

“A dress?”

Mama giggles. “Oh, Scout. You can’t go to the reaping in your normal clothes,” She explains. “You have to be dressed up.”

I scrunch my nose, but know I can’t say no. Especially knowing it must have taken daddy a long time to save up for the dress.

“Okay,” I huff, purposefully being overdramatic and hard on her. “But I’m not gonna like it!”

Her smile grows larger. “Just like me,” She whispers, more to herself than to me.

She helps me step into the dress and zips up the back once it’s over my shoulders. When I turn to look at myself in the mirror, my mouth falls open in amazement. With mama standing behind me, it’s like staring at a picture of her in a child’s body.

Our long, unruly brown waves lay in the same state of disarray, her dark brown eyes that somehow always seem soft and caring match mine that seem to lack their normal intensity, and that’s when it hits me. I’ve seen this dress before. Daddy hadn’t saved his money to buy it for me; mama had worn it in her first reaping.

I suddenly hate myself for previously thinking it was just average. This dress’ beauty is its history.

“I love it, mama,” I say, turning to her and smiling for the first time all day.

She pats my shoulder for me to sit down and she works her magic, braiding my hair into an intricate fishtail pattern, somehow managing to keep all the stray pieces in line. When she’s done, I find myself wrapped tightly and safely in her arms, her scent of pine needles and soap filling my nostrils with familiarity and comfort.

I pull away and she inspects me one more time.

“You already have dirt on your face, silly,” She says, licking her thumb and wiping my cheek. “There you go.”

Callum opens the door slowly, making sure I’m dressed.

“Dad says we’re gonna miss the train if we don’t leave soon,” He informs us.

“We’re ready,” Mama answers, not tearing her eyes from me.

I find a pair of grey ballet flats under the bed and slip my feet in and find my way down the hallway, dragging my fingernails against the faded paint and into the dining room where my family is congregating.

“Wow,” My dad says, noticing my outfit. “It’s like I was twelve years old again.”

I walk straight into his strong arms and let him hold me like I’m a little girl all over again. He kisses the top of my head and rubs my back, letting me know that it’s all going to be okay in the end.

“Where’s Bug?” Mama asks.

Dad lets go of my body and gets up to frantically search the house for my youngest sister. She has been known to wander off and hide, but she normally shows up after a few minutes of a very intense game of hide-and-go-seek.

“Buggy!” Cadence calls out, searching the cupboards and cabinets and even under the table, but she is nowhere to be seen.

Dad runs his hand through his dark brown hair and, without warning, opens the front door and bolts out.

Callum, Cadence, and I all follow. Dad takes off towards the lumberyard, but the three of us take off for the woods.

“Carys,” Callum calls, branching off to the right once we hit the path. “Bug, we need you to come out, now!”

Cadence continues straight while I branch to the left. This is my trail and I know the area the best, but lately Bug had taken a liking to the woods. I guess it just runs in the family.

“Bug!” I shout. “Bug!”

“Look,” A small voice instructs, high in the air. I crane my neck up and find my youngest sister sitting on a branch nearly twenty feet off the ground. She points her small finger to a nest of tracker jackers on a tree nearby.

I shake my head. “Bug, get down here, now. Tracker jackers can kill you. How’d you even get up there?”

“I climbed, Scout,” She answers sweetly, starting to descend down the trunk. “Just like you and Cal.”

When her feet hit the ground, she saunters over to me and grabs my hand.

“Let’s go wow the Capitol,” Bug says, pulling me back towards our house.

Mama is waiting on the front porch, worry plastered to her face until she sees us walk up. She ushers Bug over and scolds her promptly, but still manages to maintain her sweet demeanor.

“Sorry, mama,” Bug says, her large brown eyes that almost resembled those of a fly, hence her nickname, meet the grain of the wood on the porch. “I just wanted to see what it felt like.”

Once my family has reconnected, we rush into town where we meet the train that will take us on an hour and a half journey to the Justice Building nearly 600 miles away. I have only ever been on the bullet train for reapings, and from what I can remember, it’s a mixed feeling of amazement in how fast the train goes and motion sickness from the blurring landmarks we pass.

“Scout!” I whip my head around to see my friend from school, Willow Partridge, running towards me.

She always finds my family on the way to the reaping because her dad is too drunk to go along and because her mom died when she was very young. In some weird way, I think Willow is part of my family.

I grab her arm and pull her into the crowd beside my family. The last thing I want to do is to get lost from my family at this point.

We find our seats in one of the cars and we are soon on our way. Kids run up and down the aisles, finding their friends and amusing themselves while staring out the windows. For some, this is their first ride on the train, but for others like me, I’m a seasoned pro. I keep my eyes diverted from the windows and instead focus on trying to keep my breakfast down from nerves.

“Are you nervous, Willow?” Cadence asks, leaning across my dad’s lap to see her better.

Willow tucks a strand of her wispy blonde hair behind her ear and nods, shyly. “Yeah, I mean, I took out tesserae for my dad and I so my name is in there three times.”

Cadence nods, knowing not to make a fuss out of how dad wouldn’t let Callum and I take out tesserae. Without Willow stepping up and her dad out of work, it would be a year of extreme hardship.

Willow elbows me in the rib slightly. “What about you? Are you nervous?”

“Considering I’m trying to hold down my breakfast right now, yes.” I answer, only half joking.

She laughs. “Lighten up, Scout. Your names only in there once.”

“One is too many, Willow.”

Willow takes that as a cue to back down a bit and sits back in her seat and let her head lean back against the headrest. Her soft features show her youth and it amazes me that through everything she’d faced in her lifetime that she still has this innocence about her.

Dad puts his calloused hand on top of mine which is gripped tightly to the armrest to my left. I flip my hand and lace my fingers through his.

Even though I’m twelve, I’m still his baby girl. We always had a special relationship because I would rather be exploring in the woods with Callum than at home playing dress up. Sometimes it frustrates my mom how I show zero interest in girly things, but my mom was the exact same way when she was younger. In fact, that’s how mama and dad met – in the woods, exploring. They ran into each other when they were seven and have been best friends since.

About halfway through the ride, a boy in my class at school named Hollis comes over to ask us if we want to play. Thinking it will take my mind off the impending reaping, I look to my dad for approval and he nods.

Willow and I walk unsteadily down the aisle to find a small group of kids from our grade. Kids that normally wouldn’t talk to each other are all sitting together in a group on the floor, brought together by the shared terror for the reaping.

Ramona, the prettiest girl in school, sits with her back against the wall of the car. She smiles and motions for Willow and me to sit down. I take a seat in between a quiet girl who I’ve never talked to before, Sasha, and Declan, the cutest boy in our grade.

Willow finds a seat in between Hollis and Roscoe across the circle from me. She eyes me questioningly, but I just shrug my shoulders.

Ramona deals a hand of cards and explains we are playing BS. That warrants giggle fits from the entire group and when we finally collect ourselves, we play three or four hands before deciding we’re done with the game.

No matter how awkward or how silent things get at moments, there seems to be a collective understanding not to bring up the reaping. The fact that any one of us – or two of us for that matter – could be thrown into an arena and have to fight to the death scares even the toughest in the group.

At some point, Bug wanders down the aisle and finds her way into the circle and right onto my lap. I tell her to leave, but she’s apparently very entertaining to the others who don’t have crazy little sisters who tel stories every waking hour of the day.

“And then the dinosaur eated the guy and he died! Because the dinosaur eated him!” She says, waving her little arms through the air for emphasis. “And that’s why we killed all the dinosaurs; because they were mean.”

“Interesting theory, Bug,” Declan laughs, offering her a high five.

She gladly accepts and continues on with her little stories, managing to lighten the mood of the group so much so that I completely forget we’re on a train destined for the Justice Building.

The PA buzzes as the conductor announces we will be arriving at the Justice Building shortly and advises returning to our seats.

Willow and I say goodbye to our friends and find our seats. As the train pulls into the station, the realization starts to sink in. Younger kids sit on the edge of their seats, jittering nervously and looking for support from older siblings or parents while the older ones sit, knowing what standing through a reaping feels like, but knowing their name is more likely to be called than others.

My family holds hands and makes a chain while exiting the train while the crowd around us buzzes. I kiss my dad, mom, and younger sisters goodbye as they wish me luck. Willow and I find the line for 12-year-old girls and stand nervously, hand in hand, waiting to sign in.

The line inches at a break necking pace if you were a snail – or sloth – or whatever other animal has nowhere of importance to be. Finally, after what feels like two hours, Willow and I reach the table.

We both look at the Peacekeeper who stares back impatiently.

“Name?” He asks, rolling his eyes.

Willow steps up. “Willow Partridge.”

“Finger,” He snaps.

“What?” She asks, confused by his demand and his uncalled for abruptness.

Instead of answering, he reaches across the table and grabs her wrist, jabbing something into her finger and taking a sample of her blood.

“Next,” He says, eyeing me.

“Cassidy Devereux,” I say, handing him my finger and bracing for the pain to come. It definitely comes, but it’s over quickly and Willow and I once again lace our fingers together and find our age group of girls.

The square is filled with hundreds, maybe thousands, of kids lining the cobblestone ground in neat rows. I stare in awe of the giant stage with the two giant reaping balls, wondering which one of the thousands upon thousands of slips contains my name.

Willow and I finnd a group of girls from school; Ramona, Sasha, Ember, and Parsley stand huddled in a group. When they see us, they immediately call us over to join them. On any other day, they probably would have ignored us completely, but we find some comfort in being surrounded by people we at least know.

Once everyone files into the square and each and every kid is lined in their appropriate section, Mayor Worthington comes onto the stage and a hush falls upon the entire crowd. He reads the history of Panem, something we’ve all heard so many times before in school, then reads the Treaty of Treason, and then introduces the previous victors.

“Ladies and gentlemen, let me welcome to the stage Blight!” He announces as the crowd roars, welcoming the man into the limelight once more. He takes a seat at the back of the stage and the crowd quiets once again.

“And let’s give a warm round of applause to Miss Johanna Mason, winner of the 68th Annual Hunger Games!” Mayor Worthington’s voice booms into the microphone as the crowd goes completely insane for the young girl who walks briskly onto the stage and takes a seat next to Blight.

“The time is now,” He continues once more, quieting the ones who still cheer. “To welcome the District 7 escort onto the stage for the reapings.”

My stomach churns and the lump returns to my throat.

“Let’s welcome Mercury Twinklevoss to the stage!”

The crowd is absolutely silent as Mercury Twinklevoss saunters onto the stage in his strange Capitol fashion. Last year his skin was dyed some shade of vomit green but this year he’s opted for a more suitable neon carroty color that looks more like a bad tanning accident than a deathly illness.

Even with his oddly arched eyebrows and glittered-caked eyelids, his confidence soars. Apparently that fashion is acceptable in the Capitol, but here in District 7, he just looks weird.

“Welcome to District 7’s reaping for the 69th Annual Hunger Games,” He cheers into the microphone, trying to ignite some sort of excitement in the crowd. Instead, the crowd responds with blank expressions and gaping mouths. His Capitol accent doesn’t help his cause in being taken seriously, either. He clears his throat. “Well, let’s get started then. Ladies first,”

His wiry, spider-like fingers comb over the bowl as he rubs his chin deciding which piece is the one he wants. Willow clutches my hand tightly, her palm sweating in mine, or maybe mine is the sweaty one, who knows?

Finally, he decides on the slip he wants after digging through the bowl for a good fifteen seconds. He pulls it out and dramatically holds it up into the air.

“And the girl who will be representing District 7 in the 69th Hunger Games is,” He pauses a moment while opening the slip. “Cassidy Devereux!”

“No!” I hear Cadence shriek somewhere in the background.

My head whips around to find my parents in the crowd, but everything seems to become blurry. Willow gives me one last reassuring squeeze before backing away with the rest of the 12-year-old girls who somehow catch on to my identity.

I walk slowly, not able to control my legs as I find myself in the aisle that leads to the stage. I look around in bewilderment; complete shock absorbs my entire body. I feet numb, yet at the same time completely aware of everything that is happening around me.

People talk – whisper, point – at the unfortunate 12-year-old girl who will soon enough be dead, publicly televised nonetheless.

Peacekeepers usher me to hurry up the aisle and I’m just able to catch Callum’s teary eyed gaze. I step carefully up the large flight of stairs and soon find myself staring at the giant screen focused intently on a little girl that looks a lot like me; a lot paler and a lot more nervous, but still me.

“Congratulations, Cassidy!” Mercury announces, offering to shake my hand.

I pay no attention, instead scanning the crowd for my family. I feel Mercury pick my hand up from my side and manually shake it for me, while saying something along the lines of, “The initial shock is just too great for most! Such a high honor, many don’t know what to do with it!”

Up in the balcony, I find my family. Mama has Bug’s head buried into her shoulder and daddy holds Cadence who shakes violently. All four are crying uncontrollably, but it’s Callum who surprises me most. Surrounded by his friends, his peers, his classmates, he breaks down, sobs. His classmates hug him and comfort him and I desperately want that to be me down there.

“Okay, then,” Mercury says, squatting down to my level and making eye contact with me. “Still alive, I see. Yes, yes, time for our lucky male tribute!”

He walks over to the boy’s reaping ball and I assume he picks his prey as carefully as he did me.

“The young man with the honor of representing District 7 in the 69th Hunger Games is,” Again, he pauses dramatically as he opens the slip of paper. “Colby Champion!”

Immediately, the crowd in the 15-year-old section parts and a medium height boy with buzzed brown hair and dark brown eyes slowly makes his way to the stage.

As he climbs the stairs to the stage, we make eye contact and I assume I give him the same sorrowful look he gives me.

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome the District 7 tributes, Cassidy Devereux and Colby Champion! May the odds be ever in your favor!”

He instructs us to shake hands as the crowd gives us sad looks and shake their heads. Colby’s family stands huddled in the crowd, hugging and crying much like my own.

I guess Mercury gets the idea that we’re not as ecstatic about our impending doom as he originally anticipated because he speeds up the process of our extraction to the Justice Building.