Filed To Story: Sunrise on the Reaping Book PDF Free
If anything, the McCoys are more stony-faced than before. It’s not confusion; it’s a blanket refusal to put on a show for the Capitol.
“Cut.” Plutarch rubs his eye and sighs. “Take the girl to the train.”
Peacekeepers whisk Louella into the Justice Building as the McCoys finally crack, crying out her name in anguish. Plutarch motions to the crew to film their reaction. When the McCoys realize he got their distress on tape, they’re infuriated, but the Peacekeepers just muscle them off the square.
Plutarch turns to Ma and Sid. “Listen, I know this isn’t easy, but I think we can help each other out. If I can get a usable reaction shot from you, I can give you a minute with Haymitch. We clear?”
I see Sid’s eyes flicker skyward as there’s a low rumble of thunder, which feels like a warning. I look at my ma’s pale face, my brother’s trembling lips. The words spill out of my mouth unbidden. “Don’t do it, Ma.”
But Ma overrules me and addresses Plutarch. “No, I’ll do it. We’ll both do it, if you let us hold him one more time.”
“Deal.” Plutarch positions them side by side, but Ma moves behind Sid and wraps her arms around him. “Nice. I like it. Okay, so it’s the middle of the reaping, Drusilla is picking the boys. She’s just said, ‘Haymitch Abernathy.’ And three, two, one, action.”
Ma gasps and Sid, confused, as no doubt he was at the time, cranes his head around to look at her.
“Cut! That was terrific. Can we try it once more, and this time, maybe make the gasp a little louder? Okay, in three, two, one . . .”
But it isn’t once. Plutarch keeps calling for more dramatic responses – “Call out his name!” “Hide your face in her dress!” “Can you break into tears?” – until Sid’s crying for real and my ma looks ready to pass out.
“Stop it!” I burst out. “That’s enough! You’ve got enough!”
The walkie-talkie on his belt crackles and I hear Drusilla’s impatient voice. “Where are you, Plutarch?”
“Just wrapping up. There in five.” Plutarch waves Ma and Sid in my direction and they rush into my arms. “You’ve got two minutes.”
I crush them against me for what I know is the last time. But time’s a-wasting and we are not a wasteful family. “Take this.” I empty the contents of my pockets into their hands, money and peanuts into Ma’s, knife and the white sack of gumdrops into Sid’s. Bequeathing them the remains of my life in 12.
Sid raises the gumdrops. “For Lenore Dove?”
“Yeah, you see she gets them, okay?” I say.
Sid’s voice is hoarse with tears, but determined. “She’ll get them.”
“I know she will. Because I can always depend on you.” I kneel in front of my little brother and hold out my sleeve like I did when he was tiny, so he can wipe his nose on it. “You’re the man of the house now. If you were some other kid, I’d be worried, but I know you can handle it.” Sid starts to shake his head. “You’re twice as smart as me and ten times as brave. You can do this. Okay? Okay?” He nods and I muss his hair. Then I rise and hug my mother. “You can, too, Ma.”
“I love you, son,” she whispers.
“I love you, too,” I say.
Through the static of Plutarch’s walkie-talkie, I hear Drusilla’s impatient voice. “Plutarch! Don’t think I won’t leave without you!”
“Got to go, people,” Plutarch says. “Drusilla waits for no man.”
The Peacekeepers move in to separate us, but Ma and Sid hold tight.
“You remember what your pa said to the Whitcomb child?” Ma says urgently. “It still goes.”
I flash back to the Justice Building, and the weeping girl and the sickly scent of decomposing flowers that pervaded the place. Pa is talking to Sarshee, and he’s telling her,
“Don’t let them use you, Sarshee. Don’t
-“
“Plutarch!” screeches Drusilla. “Plutarch Heavensbee!”
Peacekeepers rip us apart. I’m lifted off my feet as Sid begs, “Please don’t take my brother! Please don’t take him. We need him!”
I can’t help it, I should be a good example, but I struggle to get free. “It’s okay, Sid! It’s going to be -” A jolt of electricity racks my body and I go limp. I can track the heels of my boots bouncing up the stairs, over the carpets of the Justice Building, through the gravel on the drive behind it. In the car, I let them cuff me without objecting. My brain’s fuzzy, but I know I don’t want to be zapped again. Wobbly-legged, I climb the metal steps to the train, where I’m tossed into some compartment with a single, barred window. I press my face against the glass, but there’s nothing to see but a grimy coal car.
For all Drusilla’s whining, we go nowhere for an hour. The sky blackens and the storm breaks. Hail clatters against my window, followed by sheets of rain. By the time the wheels of the train begin to turn, my head has cleared. I try to memorize every fleeting image of 12 – the lightning illuminating the dingy warehouses, the water streaming down the slag heaps, and the glow of the green hills.
That’s when I see Lenore Dove. She’s up on a ridge, her red dress plastered to her body, one hand clutching the bag of gumdrops. As the train passes, she tilts her head back and wails her loss and rage into the wind. And even though it guts me, even though I smash my fists into the glass until they bruise, I’m grateful for her final gift. That she’s denied Plutarch the chance to broadcast our farewell.
The moment our hearts shattered? It belongs to us.
SChapter 3
After a while, I slide down the wall, cradling my swollen hands, panting. Pain stabs my chest, and I wonder if a person’s heart can really break. Probably. The word brokenhearted had to come from somewhere. I imagine my heart busted into a dozen glassy red pieces, their hard, jagged edges stabbing into my flesh at every beat. It may not be scientific, but it matches what I feel. Part of me thinks I will die right now, bleeding out on the inside. But it isn’t going to be that simple. Eventually, my breathing slows, and a general despair descends.
I will never see Lenore Dove again. Never hear her laugh coming from high above me in the branches. Never feel the warmth of her in my arms as we lay on a bed of pine needles, my lips pressed into the hollow of her neck. Never pull a stray goose feather from her hair, or listen to her play her tune box, or press my finger into the crease that forms between her eyebrows when she’s puzzling out a thought. Never see her face brighten at a bag of gumdrops or a full moon or the sound of me whispering, “I love you like all-fire.”
It’s all been taken away. My love, my home, my ma, my sweet little brother . . . why did I tell him he’s the man of the house now? That wasn’t fair. It’s too much for someone so young and hopeful to shoulder. My mamaw on Pa’s side used to say Sid was born looking on the sunny side. I think he’s missed a lot of trouble down here on earth, because he’s always studying the sky. He’s fascinated by the sun, the clouds, the bodies that come out at night. Tam Amber taught Lenore Dove about the stars, as the Covey used to navigate by them long ago, and she taught Sid. On a clear night, he drags us all outside to see the pictures they make. “There’s the water dipper, just like ours in the bucket. That over there’s the bowhunter. He looks like Burdock, don’t you think? That one’s a swan, but Lenore Dove says she calls it a goose. And that’s yours, Ma. See the
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