The Reaping of the Red Wheat | The 72nd Hunger Games

Chapter 2: Reaping Day: July 4th, The Year of the 72nd

About month later, I was sitting in the middle of my living room floor, as my mother braided and weaved my hair until it was styled suitably enough for her. Today was Reaping Day, and nerves were high in the Whittaker household.  My name was in the reaping bowl 13 times, as opposed to usual 3 times it would have been in there at my age of 14. All because of the stupid agreement. Today, the odds weren't really in my favor.

After my mother finished toying with my hair, we loaded up and got ready to leave. As we walked past all of the fields, I said a silent goodbye to our property. It could be the last time I ever see any of it. I said goodbye to the grain fields, remembering how I used to lay in there for hours, hiding from my parents. I said goodbye to the tool house, filled with sharp scythes that I had tried to wield as skillfully as the field boys. I said goodbye to the berry syrup we used to enrich the plant's growth that I had longed to taste ever since I was little, but my father always told me not to. 

After feeling sentimental, I quickly reassured myself. I was acting like I had already been reaped even though we hadn't even left home yet. I was just scaring myself. There was only a small chance that I could be reaped, despite my extra entries. There were other children with way more entries that I had. All of this nervousness would disappear after the Reaping was over and my name wasn't drawn, I told myself until I finally calmed down enough to leave our land.

I hopped in our car, and buckled my seatbelt, ready for the voyage. Understandably, considering the poor population of 9, plus my father's career we were some of the only people in District 9 who had enough money to afford a car. Of course, it wasn't very glamourous however-- We had ownership of the car for many years, and it wasn't in prime condition. It was nothing like the cars of the citizens of the capitol to put it nicely.

The car ride to the justice center was in reality, not very long, but to me it felt like an eternity. I kept spiraling from possibility to possibility of me being reaped. I decided, about halfway through However, that I wasn't going to focus on that. Instead, I made a point to look out the window and observe the landscapes before me. My favorite part about our area District 9 was the mile long wheat fields. The kinds that the capitol made us grow, brown, white, and red, staggered over the hills all throughout the land that we drove past. I would one day inherit this segment of the fields, someday.

Half an hour later, we had reached the Justice Center. My hands began to tremble as I opened the car door and stepped out into the warm July air. I quickly composed myself and got in line for the identification test. I approached the female peacekeeper manning the table. When she reached for my hand, she scowled at the sweaty feel of it.

After I had been counted, I took my place alongside the other 14-year-old girls of District 9, beside Winter Angelo, a girl who I had mutual friends with at school. After moments of searching, I found Ryle on the other side, and gave a silent "Hello" to him. He repeated the gesture, but something was wrong, there was a mix of fear and guilt on his face. I wondered if he had felt the same feelings, I had felt this morning, dreading these moments.

Before long, Mayor Kenway gotten on stage and welcomed us to the reaping. After that, he began his well-rehearsed speech that he had used every year that I can remember, about how The Hunger Games began, and the nature of the games. He announced the victor from last year, Johanna Mason, of District 7, and how he hoped that the glory of winning would be brought to District 9 this year. He concluded his speech by wishing good luck to the picked contestants.

Immediately after, our District escort, Clementine Lockheart entered the stage, wearing a rather ridiculous outfit, that seemed to have to color scheme at all. Like most people from the capitol, she was extremely extravagant. Her hair was dyed a bright green, but her skin was dyed a light pink. her defining feature, however, was that she never stuck with one color. For example, her eyeshadow would always be two different colors, as with her lipstick, today the colors of choice were violet, orange, and yellow. And her outfits, were always a whole other stage of ridiculousness, one part would be super short, while the other super long. One sleeve super puffy, while the other, nonexistent. It was like she was having an existential crisis, and her attire was the only way to prove it. She perfectly represented the chaos of the both the capitol and the games.

Clementine approached the mike, and gave her usual spiel, in her erratic capitol accent. "Thank you, Mayor Kenway, for that wonderful speech. Hello district 9! I believe it is that time of year again, where we decide who will have the honor and privilege of representing your District in the 72nd Annual Hunger Games. May the Odds Ever be in Your Favor! But first, let's watch our special film, provided by our very own beautiful capitol, that two of you will get to experience shortly!" She clutched a remote in her hands, and with the click of a button, began the all-too familiar propaganda video. I tried to focus on it but found myself trembling again. I tried to comfort myself. It won't be me. It won't be me. It won't be me. Somehow, the reassurance didn't help.

After saying this, she walked between the crystal balls containing each of the names, and I swear, I think her existential crisis began to slip out. She at first appeared visibly confused between the two sets, and then physically began to run over to each back and forth, as if she was being pulled in each direction, not being able to pick which to start with. One thing was for sure, this woman was crazy. She finally settled on the girl's section, after moments of this.

This was it. This was the moment that Clementine Lockheart would decide the entire trajectory, and length, of the rest of my life. What a dangerous sentence to say. I began to experience some last-minute confidence. There was no way I could be picked. There were girls who had their names in the bowl ten times more than I had.

I watched as she swirled her hand around the bowl multiple times, before finally deciding on one.

She held the slip of parchment up to her face, examining it, before reading it out loud.

My heart began to pound in my chest.

In her sickly Capitol Accent, she read:

"Elsie Whittaker."