Against All Odds

The class is silent as we practice tying the new knots that the teacher displayed on the board at the front of the room. The only sounds come from exasperated children who knotted the ropes too tight to undue, and the only movements other than nimble hands come from necks that look up long enough for eyes to gloss over instructions.

I only look up to see the progress of my friends, who are far behind me. My net is half way done, but I don’t think much of it; my father is the best net-maker here in District Four. He enlisted me to help him with his craft when I was about seven years old. Five years have passed and I have greatly increased my skills. Morgan and Marietta, a couple of my friends, like to say I’m good at this class because of my long fingers. But I don’t know if that’s true.

The next half an hour is in silence as I, and everyone else in the room works on their knot tying. Our teacher periodically walks between the rows, occasionally stopping to inspect the nets. No words are spoken, which I have always found odd. In all of our other lessons the class is absolutely rowdy, but I guess their concentration calls for the quiet.

We are dismissed informally, by the wave of the teacher’s hand at the bell, and all make our way to lunch. The cafeteria is never fully stocked, and today is no exception. Students of all ages are either gathered in a line, or are already seated with their lunch.

Marietta and Jack go to get a table, while Morgan and I wait in line to gather theirs and our lunch. The line always moves quickly, as everyone gets one fish stick each. We are seated with our friends soon enough and get to talking about tomorrow’s Reaping.

This is the first year that my name will rest in a giant bowl, the first year I am entered in The Hunger Games. Thankfully, I am quite well off, as my father has a successful business and there is only me and him to feed. Jack is not so lucky, and must be signed up for tesserae; he has two younger siblings, and his mother and father are poor fish mongers. His name will be entered five times.

“Annie,” Jack says to me, his face eerily serious for a twelve year old, “can you promise me that your dad will help my parents if I’m chosen?”

I’m not stunned by his request; I have seen many people ask their friends these kinds of questions over the years. “Of course,” I say, quite honestly too. In equal honesty, I add, “But I don’t think that you have to worry as much, Jack. There are people entered way more times than you.”

It’s true, and he nods to acknowledge this, but thanks me anyway. Marietta is more concerned with what to wear. But her chatter goes silent at one point, and she coughs while looking at me. I crinkle my brow, but quickly catch up when I feel someone tap my shoulder.

I turn around to see Finnick Odair, the handsome boy who’s a bit older than me, and the boy that every girl in the school is enamored with and every boy dreams to be. I’m not infatuated though, because I only know him superficially; his father often sends him on errands to my father’s shop.

“Hi Annie,” he says to me, looking unsurely at my friends who shamelessly ogle at him. Thankfully he doesn’t say anything, just shakes his head and focuses on me. “How are you?”

“I’m fine,” I say, “you?”

“Same, but nervous for the Reaping,” he replies. I nod to show I share the same feelings. “My dad wants to know if the next order is almost ready.”

I know the project he talks of; a seaweed net imbedded with small fish hooks at every knot. “Yeah, it’s finished, but I know the cost of the fish hooks was a bit more than my father anticipated.”

“Would a couple of extra fish cover it?”

“Three fish and I think it will, Odair,” I say.

He grins. “Deal, Cresta. I’ll even throw in a couple of shell fish.”

“Those little shrimp?” I ask hopefully.

He smiles. “If they’re available. See you.”

The rest of the day goes by quickly, and soon enough I am back at home and am tell my dad about my day. I tell him about what I promised to Jack, which he thinks is reasonable, and about the Odair’s net order. We would talk even more after dinner, but he tells me to go to bed- I have a big day tomorrow.

Every child has a big day tomorrow.

----

I wake up early; the light was just turning red outside of my window. But I don’t move. This isn’t the first Reaping I’ve attended, but it is the first one I’m a part of. What everyone has feared all week, what I have been indifferent about all week, finally catches up with me.

I’m terrified now, and don’t want to leave my house. But that would mean the Peacekeepers would deal with me later, and even though they’re slack, I’d rather not be punished.

So when the time seems appropriate, I get up and go downstairs for breakfast. My father was already awake, and had set up a plate for me; a roll of salty bread, buttered with the butter that Morgan and Marietta’s parents make. I gobble it all down within a minute, and regret it because I start to feel queasy. Thinking of Marietta now, I suddenly realize that I don’t have anything special to wear to the Reaping.

My father has thankfully thought ahead. He leads me to the closet, and takes out a dusty old box that was previously hidden from my eyes in the top corner of it. Blowing the dust off of the lid, he opens it and pulls out a pretty sea-foam green dress that is exactly my size.

“It was your mother’s,” he says as he unfolds it and tries to smooth out the wrinkles the dress has accumulated. “Thought it would be adequate.”

I quickly wash and dry myself before I put on my new dress. I hate being vain, but I really think that I’ll look the best out of my friends, as the colour of the dress matches my eyes exactly. Immediately I feel guilty for thinking these thoughts, they really sound mean.

But my emotions override my thoughts as my father and I arrive at the Justice Building and town square. He must stay on the outskirts of the area as I am lead into the large group of kids. I go and stand with the rest of the twelve year olds. They’re all just as nervous as I am.

Time flies and soon every child is there and everybody in District Four is watching us, the cameras have been set up and the mayor has given out the annual speech and now Xiomara- the representative from the Capitol in Four- has taken the stage. She’s almost pretty; her light brown skin is covered in dark green swirling tattoos that look like the ocean after a stone is dropped into it. Her hair matches the colour of her tattoos. What is off-putting about Xiomara, other than her Capitol voice, are her eyes and hands. They change colour every year. This year her eyes are a deep blood red, and her nails are painted the same shade of red and are so long and sharp they remind me of the talons on the birds that hang around the docks.

“Welcome to the Reaping of the 65th Hunger Games!” Xiomara says, her voice too squeaky and too perky for the situation in my opinion. “May the odds be ever in your favor! Now, ladies first!”

I realize I’m holding my breath as she reaches her talons into the giant bowl that holds my name, holds the name of every tense girl here. Xiomara takes time twirling her hand around the bowl before she actually picks out a slip of paper.

“And the girl tribute from District Four,” says our Capitol representative, who is clearly relishing the moment, “is Marietta Hotchstone!”

I know the cameras pan on Marietta, who is standing right beside me and is rigid. I don’t know when I started crying, but I don’t make a sound as water finds its way out of my face. But Marietta is braver than I could hope to be; with her head held high she walks out of our row and up to the Justice Building. After she climbs the stairs and turns back around, I realize she is crying too, but the same way I am.

The whole audience seems to sigh- it always seems unfair when a twelve year old is reaped.

Xiomara seems to dig her talons into my friend’s shoulder as she says, “Any volunteers?” into the microphone. I look over at Morgan, Marietta’s brother, who is desperately looking around, hoping that someone will raise their hand, that someone will dash out and switch places with his sister.

No one does.

“No takers?” Xiomara asks, almost sounding disappointed. “Okay, now for the male tribute form District Four!” She does the same, excruciatingly long routine with the boys’ bowl of names before pulling out a name.

“Finnick Odair!”

Although Finnick is fourteen, there is another collective sigh from the District. Mostly from the teenage girls. No surprise there.

Nobody volunteers for him either, but he isn’t silently weeping like Marietta. Instead his jaw is clenched and his look is cold- no doubt seeming tough for the cameras.

After the on-camera formalities are over, the rest of the District is dismissed. I look for my dad and find him talking to Finnick’s father and Marietta’s parents.

These Hunger Games will be hard to watch.