The square’s quite large, but not enough to hold District

12’s population of about eight thousand. Latecomers are directed

to the adjacent streets, where they can watch the event

on screens as it’s televised live by the state.

I find myself standing in a clump of sixteens from the Seam.

We all exchange terse nods then focus our attention on the

temporary stage that is set up before the Justice Building. It

holds three chairs, a podium, and two large glass balls, one for

the boys and one for the girls. I stare at the paper slips in the

girls’ ball. Twenty of them have Katniss Everdeen written on

them in careful handwriting.

Two of the three chairs fill with Madge’s father, Mayor Undersee,

who’s a tall, balding man, and Effie Trinket, District

12’s escort, fresh from the Capitol with her scary white grin,

pinkish hair, and spring green suit. They murmur to each other

and then look with concern at the empty seat.

Just as the town clock strikes two, the mayor steps up to

the podium and begins to read. It’s the same story every year.

He tells of the history of Panem, the country that rose up out

of the ashes of a place that was once called North America. He

lists the disasters, the droughts, the storms, the fires, the encroaching

seas that swallowed up so much of the land, the

brutal war for what little sustenance remained. The result was

Panem, a shining Capitol ringed by thirteen districts, which

brought peace and prosperity to its citizens. Then came the

Dark Days, the uprising of the districts against the Capitol.

Twelve were defeated, the thirteenth obliterated. The Treaty

of Treason gave us the new laws to guarantee peace and, as

our yearly reminder that the Dark Days must never be repeated,

it gave us the Hunger Games.

The rules of the Hunger Games are simple. In punishment

for the uprising, each of the twelve districts must provide one

girl and one boy, called tributes, to participate. The twenty four

tributes will be imprisoned in a vast outdoor arena that

could hold anything from a burning desert to a frozen wasteland.

Over a period of several weeks, the competitors must

fight to the death. The last tribute standing wins.

Taking the kids from our districts, forcing them to kill one

another while we watch — this is the Capitol’s way of reminding

us how totally we are at their mercy. How little chance we

would stand of surviving another rebellion.

Whatever words they use, the real message is clear. “Look

how we take your children and sacrifice them and there’s

nothing you can do. If you lift a finger, we will destroy every

last one of you. Just as we did in District Thirteen.”

To make it humiliating as well as torturous, the Capitol requires

us to treat the Hunger Games as a festivity, a sporting

event pitting every district against the others. The last tribute

alive receives a life of ease back home, and their district will

be showered with prizes, largely consisting of food. All year,

the Capitol will show the winning district gifts of grain and oil

and even delicacies like sugar while the rest of us battle starvation.

“It is both a time for repentance and a time for thanks,” in tones

the mayor.

Then he reads the list of past District 12 victors. In seventy four

years, we have had exactly two. Only one is still alive.

Haymitch Abernathy, a paunchy, middle-aged man, who at

this moment appears hollering something unintelligible, staggers

onto the stage, and falls into the third chair. He’s drunk.

Very. The crowd responds with its token applause, but he’s

confused and tries to give Effie Trinket a big hug, which she

barely manages to fend off.

The mayor looks distressed. Since all of this is being televised,

right now District 12 is the laughing stock of Panem, and

he knows it. He quickly tries to pull the attention back to the

reaping by introducing Effie Trinket.

Bright and bubbly as ever, Effie Trinket trots to the podium

and gives her signature, “Happy Hunger Games! And may the

odds be ever in your favor!” Her pink hair must be a wig because

her curls have shifted slightly off-center since her encounter

with Haymitch. She goes on a bit about what an honor

it is to be here, although everyone knows she’s just aching to

get bumped up to a better district where they have proper victors,

not drunks who molest you in front of the entire nation.

Through the crowd, I spot Gale looking back at me with a

ghost of a smile. As reapings go, this one at least has a slight

entertainment factor. But suddenly I am thinking of Gale and

his forty-two names in that big glass ball and how the odds

are not in his favor. Not compared to a lot of the boys. And

maybe he’s thinking the same thing about me because his face

darkens and he turns away. “But there are still thousands of

slips,” I wish I could whisper to him.

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

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, smoothes the slip

of paper, and reads out the name in a clear voice. And it’s not

me.

It’s Primrose Everdeen.