It's the day of the Reaping. The name Elsie Pearce is in 57 times, as we need as much tesserae as possible. I am standing in front of my small closet, trying to decide what to wear. I only have few options. A smart, pastel blue dress with a lace collar or a stiff, white dress with small dots forming diagnal lines. I pick the blue one and slip it on over my still wet hair.
"Come on, we're going to be late!" Calls my little sister, Delilah.
She doesn't know what she's in for.
"What's the Reaping like?" Delilah asks cheerfully for the millionth time.
"Grim. Don't look excited. Your name's in only once."
Delilah suddenly stops skipping towards the Square. "How many times is your name in?"
I stare at the gray cobblestone. "Fifty-seven times." I mumble.
A mixture of sadness and realization crosses her face. "So you could be called?"She grabs my arm, holding on like her life depended on it.
"It's likely. Don't worry, your name won't be called. Even if it is, you're not going." I yank my arm out of her grasp and give her a gentle push in the direction of the Square.
"Why?" She moves on, not skipping but walking in a slow, not-so-steady pace.
"Because then I'll volunteer." She gasps.
"Elsie, no! You can't!"
"Delilah, you won't be called anyways."
"I'll volunteer if you're called, then!"
"Then I'll have Robin stand beside you and not let you move or shout."
She looks away, knowing she's been defeated.
"Over there." I shove Delilah in the direction of the 12 year olds.
"Why can't I stay by you?"
"Because you have to go to your division. It's the rules. The rules made by the Capitol." I say through gritted teeth.
I actually want to cry and hug her and say goodbye to her forever, but that isn't an option. If I show my tears, that gives my sister permission to show tears. And she can't be weaker than I know she already is.
"And the male representative from District 12 is..." Julie Hicks, a plump lady barely supporting her own weight on her red kitten heels, reaches in the clear glass bowl. "Wilson Covert!"
I can breath again.
Robin Sigala, the name that's in 68 times, has not been called. Robin Sigala, my best friend, will live for another year at least. I quickly hold my breath again, bracing myself for the next name to be called. A hunch-backed man hobbling on a cane dips his hand in the paper-slip-filled bowl.
"Amy Zeock." He wheezes. No. She's not going. She's 12. We have a better chance with someone else...someone like...
"I volunteer! I volunteer as tribute in place of Amy Zeock!"
