Chapter Two (Excerpt)

It’s time for the drawing. Effie Trinket says as she always does, “Ladies first!” and crosses to the glass ball with the girls’ names. She reaches in, digs her hand deep into the ball, and pulls out a slip of paper. The crowd draws in a collective breath and then you can hear a pin drop, and I’m feeling nauseous[1] and so desperately hoping that it’s not me, that it’s not me, that it’s not me.

Effie Trinket crosses back to the podium[2], smoothes the slip of paper, and reads out the name in a clear voice. And it’s not me.

It’s Primrose Everdeen.

One time, when I was in a blind in a tree, waiting motionless for game to wander by, I dozed off and fell ten feet to the ground, landing on my back.[3] It was as if the impact had knocked every wisp of air from my lungs, and I lay there struggling to inhale, to exhale, to do anything.[4]

That’s how I feel now, trying to remember how to breathe, unable to speak, totally stunned[5] as the name bounces around the inside of my skull. Someone is gripping my arm, a boy from the Seam[6], and I think maybe I started to fall and he caught me.

There must have been some mistake. This can’t be happening. Prim was one slip of paper in thousands! Her chances of being chosen so remote that I’d not even bothered to worry about her. One slip. One slip in thousands. The odds had been entirely in her favor[7]. But it hadn’t mattered.

Somewhere far away, I can hear the crowd murmuring[8] unhappily as they always do when a twelve-year-old gets chosen because no one thinks this is fair. And then I see her, the blood drained from her face, hands clenched in fists at her sides, walking with stiff, small steps up toward the stage, passing me, and I see the back of her blouse has become untucked and hangs out over her skirt.[9] It’s this detail, the untucked blouse forming a ducktail, that brings me back to myself.

“Prim!” The strangled cry[10] comes out of my throat, and my muscles begin to move again. “Prim!” I don’t need to shove through[11] the crowd. The other kids make way immediately allowing me a straight path to the stage. I reach her just as she is about to mount the steps. With one sweep of my arm, I push her behind me.

“I volunteer!” I gasp. “I volunteer as tribute!”

There’s some confusion on the stage. District 12 hasn’t had a volunteer in decades and the protocol has become rusty.[12] The rule is that once a tribute’s name has been pulled from the ball, another eligible[13] boy, if a boy’s name has been read, or girl, if a girl’s name has been read, can step forward to take his or her place. In some districts, in which winning the reaping is such a great honor, people are eager to risk their lives, the volunteering is complicated. But in District 12, where the word “tribute” is pretty much synonymous[14] with the word “corpse”, volunteers are all but[15] extinct.

“Lovely!” says Effie Trinket. “But I believe there’s a small matter of introducing the reaping winner and then asking for volunteers, and if one does come forth then we, um...” she trails off[16], unsure herself.

“What does it matter?” says the mayor. He’s looking at me with a pained expression on his face. He doesn’t know me really, but there’s a faint recognition there. I am the girl who brings the strawberries. The girl his daughter might have spoken of on occasion. The girl who five years ago stood huddled with her mother and sister, as he presented her, the oldest child, with a medal of valor.[17] A medal for her father, vaporized[18] in the mines. Does he remember that? “What does it matter?” he repeats gruffly[19]. “Let her come forward.”