Filed To Story: Sunrise on the Reaping Book PDF Free
I watch, both fascinated and sickened by the flawless transition from Maysilee’s drawing to Wyatt’s and mine. Not even a hint of Woodbine’s shooting or the turmoil that followed. And there’s my name, and there’s me, and there’s Ma gasping, Sid crying, Lenore Dove with her hand clasped over her mouth.
“That’s not what happened,” I say.
“None of the footage has been tampered with – not really time to do that properly,” says Plutarch. “I just did a little card- stacking to help you out.”
“You did what?” asks Louella.
Before he can answer, Wyatt, who hasn’t opened his mouth except to eat since 12, weighs in. “He stacked the deck in our favor. He shuffled the shots around to give us an advantage.”
Plutarch beams at him. “Exactly!”
A corner of Louella’s mouth twists down. “You mean, like in card games. When people gamble. Isn’t that cheating?”
“It is and it isn’t,” says Plutarch. “Look, we need to sell you to the sponsors. If I showed the audience what really happened – the Chance boy’s head being blown off, the crowd control, Haymitch attacking the Peacekeepers -“
I object. “I didn’t attack anyone. They attacked my girl and I stepped in.”
“Same thing,” says Drusilla. “You’re not allowed to interfere with our Peacekeepers.”
“I’m trying to show you in the best possible light,” says Plutarch.
Maysilee rolls her eyes. “Like when our shop calls stale marshmallows ‘chewy.’ And then charges an extra penny for them.”
I scowl at her. I’ve fallen for that “chewy” marshmallow scam more than once.
“Stress the positive, ignore the negative,” says Plutarch.
“Instead of four violent district piglets who hate the Capitol -” Drusilla begins.
“You’re a quartet of attractive kids who hop right up there on that stage to the cheers of your district, raring to go!” finishes Plutarch.
“You should be down on your knees kissing this man’s feet. Maybe you won’t get any sponsors, but at least you haven’t repelled them. He’s given you a total makeover,” says Drusilla.
“You mean, he’s given the Capitol a total makeover,” scoffs Maysilee. “Made you look competent when you couldn’t even pull off the reaping.”
“I like to think it was mutually beneficial,” says Plutarch. “And the audience is none the wiser. I saw to that.”
I’m entirely the Capitol’s plaything. They will use me for their entertainment and then kill me, and the truth will have no say in it. Plutarch acts friendly, but his indulgences – my family’s good-byes, his fancy sandwiches – are just a method to manage me, because happy playthings are easier to handle than raging ones. To get his footage, he’ll indulge me right into the arena.
As if to confirm this, the door to the sitting room bursts open to reveal Tibby, his face aglow with the sixteen candles on a giant birthday cake.
We don’t do birthday cakes in my house. Seems wrong on reaping day, and Ma thinks it’s unfair for her and Sid to have a cake if I don’t. Instead, she makes something nice for breakfast, like the corn bread and sauce, and saves all of her cake energy for New Year’s Day.
She starts setting things aside months in advance: the dried apples, the sorghum syrup, the white flour. The spices – ginger and cinnamon and whatnot – are so costly she buys them in little twists of paper from the Marches’ apothecary. A couple days before New Year’s, she makes the apple filling and bakes the six layers of cake, and alternates them – cake, filling, cake, filling, until it’s in one big beautiful stack. She wraps it all up in a towel so it can rest, and that sweet apple filling soaks into the cake. Then, on New Year’s Day at suppertime, she pours everybody a big glass of buttermilk and we eat all the stack cake that we can hold.
So the cake in front of me, with its fancy frosted flowers, is all wrong. The candles smack of the Capitol. And the song Tibby leads the Peacekeepers in, while common in 12, is never sung in my house because it would be as unsuitable as a birthday cake.
Happy birthday
To someone special!
And we wish you many more!
Once a year
We give a cheer
To you, Hay-ay-ay-mitch!
Happy birthday!
The cameraman from Plutarch’s crew, sneaking his lens over Tibby’s shoulder to film my reaction, is the cherry on the birthday cake fiasco. Clearly, Plutarch wants to capture my delight so he can broadcast it all over Panem. Look how well the Capitol treats the tributes. How forgiving they are to their enemies. How superior they are to those district piglets in their stinkholes.
I’ve seen similar clips before of the tributes being treated like pampered pets. Being brushed and fed and flattered, lapping it up. Playing into the Capitol propaganda. Maybe it gets them more sponsors, but if they do win, it’s not going to get them a parade back home.
“Don’t let them use you, Sarshee. Don’t let them paint their posters with your blood. Not if you can help it.”
That’s it. That’s what Pa told Sarshee in the Justice Building. That’s what Ma wanted me to remember. Even though – maybe especially because – she had just let Plutarch use her and Sid like puppets. She had failed, but wanted me to be strong.
Plutarch had my family over a barrel when we were desperate for one last embrace, but now he’s got nothing I want. I rise as I weigh my options. I could knock the cake to the ground, hawk and spit on it, or just shove it into Tibby’s stupid face. Instead, I go all Maysilee Donner, turning my back and walking over to look out the window.
In the reflection, I see Tibby deflate. “It has pineapple filling?” he offers.
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