Snowdrop

Chapter 1

My mother smiles at me through the cracked mirror as she rinses the last of the soap from my hair. How long has it been since we sat like this? Years, it must be. And perhaps it's only because she knows that there's more of a chance that I'll be picked this year.
She carefully pats my hair dry, then drapes the towel around my shoulders and starts to comb out the tangles. I say nothing; only watch her through the mirror as she places a gentle hand against the back of my head and works the knots out. I long for her to be more like this all the time, but she hasn't been the same. Not since Father was struck down by disease when I was twelve.
She braids my hair, ties it off, and wipes her hands on the towel. "There we go. You look lovely."
I don't really. Not like the girls from the merchant families, with their soft, expensive dresses and blonde hair. I've just got the typical Seam look – dark hair, grey eyes, olive skin. I've heard that girls long ago wanted to be thin, but not as thin as us from the Seam. Not like us, where it's normal to have your ribs sticking out and elbows so sharp they're like the blade of a knife.
I turn and bury my face in my mother's dress, inhaling her earthy smell. She wraps her arms around me, resting her head against mine.
I hear footsteps, but I don't move. "We'll have to go shortly," says Burnet. "It's almost one, and you know how packed the square gets."
My mother pulls away from me, but I don't want her to. She lifts her hand, strokes my cheek.
"You'll be all right. You're my big brave girl, and no matter what happens, you'll be all right."
I nod, biting the inside of my cheek, because I know I have to. I have to be okay.
My mother leans forward and kisses the top of my head. "Good girl. Now, I think I have a dress from when I was your age. I know it's not as pretty as the ones the other girls will have, but you might like it." She opens her rickety dresser and pulls out a cream-coloured dress. I'll have to wear my old, worn shoes from last year's reaping, but my mother's kindness makes me want to hug her again and never let go.
I change, and she smiles. "You look beautiful."
"No I don't," I say. I look far nicer than usual, but I wouldn't call myself beautiful.
We head out to the main room. Ember has combed back his hair and is dressed in his good shirt and trousers. It's just us who have to worry about the reaping. He's seventeen, and has his name in the reaping ball fourteen times because of tessera rations. Because I'm fourteen, mine is in six times.
Kaitlynn and Burnet, who have been ineligible for the Games for only a couple of years, are both wearing their cleanest, least coal-covered clothes. Even little Posy, who has seven years before she even needs to worry about being reaped, has her hair braided back and wears one of my old dresses.
She clutches her doll and sticks her thumb in her mouth. Even she knows what today means.
My mother takes a deep breath and smiles. "We've all had lunch, haven't we? I'm sure we'll have some lovely supper after the reaping, and perhaps I'll find some mint leaves in the cupboard to make tea."
She's trying desperately to be cheery, but my stomach squeezes into knots as we leave and make for the square.
Forty-eight tributes this year. Forty-eight children, marching to their death. I could be one of them.
The square, usually bright and full of chatter, is grim and silent as people sign in and move to their designated area.
Ember and I go towards the roped-off section for the potential tributes. He grips my hand, and I feel how clammy it is. He's just as scared as I am.
We have to split to stand with kids from our age. I'll be standing further towards the back than Ember, since he's more likely to be reaped.
"I'll find you after," he says, then lets go of my hand. He's swallowed up by kids almost instantly.
I make my way to the group of fourteen-year-olds from the Seam. We exchange small smiles, but only out of politeness. None of us feel like smiling. Not today.
Someone grabs my hand. Bailey beams at me, but her eyes don't light up like they usually do.
Of course not. This year, her younger sister Willow is in the reaping. If this were a normal year, Misty wouldn't worry about her.
"She'll be fine, Bailey," I reassure her. "Don't worry. If we should be scared for anyone, think about you. Twelve times."
"Yeah, but that doesn't stop me worrying," she says, the smile falling from her lips.
At two o'clock, the mayor steps up to the podium. He clears his throat and begins to read the history of Panem. The storms, the fires, the disasters that nearly destroyed the country, the war that came afterwards. He speaks of the Dark Days, a rebellion that obliterated District Thirteen. The remains of Thirteen still smoulder, unable to be inhabited even after fifty years.
Then comes a list of the past victors of District Twelve. It's hardly a list; we've only had one victor. Acacia Hawnett, a young woman who sits with her hands folded in her lap in one of three chairs on the stage. She won the 41st Hunger Games purely by hiding and outlasting the other tributes. She almost starved to death, but the boy from Two was stung by poisonous insects before she did. Most victors I've seen on television have been crippled by drink or morphling, but not Acacia. Perhaps this would be the case if she'd been mentoring tributes for longer and had seen more die.
After reading the Treaty of Treason, the mayor then introduces Maximus Redpath, a Capitol man with bright blue hair and a matching suit. He takes the mayor's place, a huge grin plastered on his face, and speaks.
"Welcome to the fiftieth Hunger Games! May the odds be ever in your favour!" he exclaims.
"Yes, because they're very favourable odds this year," Bailey mutters, and I snort.
"It's such an honour to be here, for the very exciting Quarter Quell!" Maximus goes on a bit, and people start fidgeting in the crowd. It's hot and cramped, and the smell of sweat permeates the air. Perhaps it's the heat, perhaps it's nerves.
"Now, it's time for me to pick who will be going to the Games this year. Ladies first!" He reaches into the girls' bowl and snags a name.
I squeeze Misty's hand, desperately hoping that it's not me, it's not me, it's not me. My friend's odds are worse, but I can only think of myself...
"Willow Birling!"
I exhale. It's not –
I look over at Bailey. Her face is pasty white; she looks like she's about to faint. I hear her breath catch mid-inhale, then she lets go of my hand. I open my mouth to shout, but she shoves me aside and runs.
"I – Willow! I volunteer! I volunteer as tribute!" she screams.
I'm having a hard time staying upright myself. How could she do that? But then I realise. I might have done the same for Posy.
"A volunteer?" Maximus looks up abruptly. "Oh, I think that we – um – then..."
We haven't had a volunteer for years, if ever. Maximus looks unsure of what to do, but the mayor just nods. "Let her go."
Maximus stares at him, then he grins once more. "Well then! Let's have a round of applause for our volunteer! Come on up, dear."
Bailey walks slowly up onto the stage, her face grey. Her eyebrows knit together, and even from here I can see that her jaw is set. She's determined not to seem weak.
Willow sobs, and is led away to her mother by a Peacekeeper. I watch them through the crowd. My mother wraps an arm around them, mutters assurances.
She's a brave girl, your Bailey. She knows how to take care of herself.
"What's your name?" Maximus asks, then tilts the microphone toward Bailey.
She swallows. "B-bailey Birling."
"Oh, my! Was that your sister?"
"Yes."
"Well, that's unlucky. But we must be getting on. Now for our next female tribute!" Maximus grabs another piece of paper.
My mind is racing. My best friend... in the Hunger Games.
"Maysilee Donner!"
I hear screams and one girl crying somewhere in front of me. I don't know who they are.
I take a deep, shuddering breath. Open my mouth.
"I volunteer as tribute!"