Filed To Story: Sunrise on the Reaping Book PDF Free
I give my head a slight shake.
“A miscalculation on my part,” Plutarch says. “Take it out, Tibby. I’m sorry, Haymitch.”
An apology? From a Capitol guy? Then I see it for what it is: another way to manipulate me by pretending I’m a human being, worthy of an apology. I don’t even acknowledge it.
It makes me feel pretty bad, though. That cake. The last thing I needed was a big Capitol reminder that this would be my final birthday. The same goes for all of us. And while we’re not all allies, I appreciate that no one’s shouted out, “Well, hold on, I’ll take a piece!”
After my cake and Capitol well-wishers have withdrawn, Plutarch continues. “Back to business. Along with your mentors, District Twelve will be assigned its very own stylist.”
“And not a moment too soon.” Drusilla snorts and gives Louella’s gingham dress an appraising look. “Honestly, where do you people find these things?”
“My ma made it,” says Louella evenly. “Where did you find yours?”
Louella’s holding her own, but Maysilee lands the insult. “I was wondering the same. It’s like someone mated a Peacekeeper and a canary and . . . there you are.”
“What?” says Drusilla. She rises from her chair but wobbles a bit before she finds her balance on her spiked heels.
“Careful,” says Maysilee. She drips sugar as she goes for the jugular. “Might be time to rethink those boots. Wouldn’t something closer to the ground be safer for a person your age?”
Drusilla hauls off and slaps Maysilee, who, without missing a beat, slaps her right back. A real wallop. Drusilla’s knocked off her boots and into the chair I recently vacated. Everyone freezes and I wonder if we’re about to be executed on the spot.
“Don’t you ever touch me again,” says Maysilee. The color’s gone from her face except for the print of Drusilla’s hand. You got to hand it to Maysilee, nobody’s using footage of her for propaganda.
“Why don’t we all take a deep breath?” Plutarch suggests. “It’s been a tough day. Everybody’s emotions are running high and -!”
Drusilla flies up, rips the riding crop from its boot clip, and begins beating Maysilee, who cries out and raises her arms to protect her head. But the blows keep raining down, forcing her to the floor.
“Drusilla! Stop! Drusilla, we have to put her on camera tomorrow!” Plutarch warns. He has to summon two Peacekeepers from the hallway to pull her off.
“Nasty, disgusting creature,” Drusilla pants. “I will destroy you before you even make it to the arena.”
The welts have already risen on Maysilee’s arms and neck, but she ignores them. I doubt she’s ever been hit before, let alone whipped. I haven’t much either. Mamaw used to cuff me on the head, but it was more to get my attention than to hurt me. Maysilee slowly pushes herself up from the floor, using the wall for support, before she responds. “Really? How? You’re not a Gamemaker. You’re not even a stylist. You’re nothing but a low-rent escort hanging on by your fingernails to the trashiest district in Panem.”
This hits a nerve. Fear flickers across Drusilla’s face before she recovers. “And you’re headed for a bloody and agonizing death.”
Maysilee gives a bitter laugh. “That’s right. I am. So why should I care what you say? Unless I win, of course. But even then, who do you think will be more popular? The victor of the Quarter Quell . . . or you?”
Drusilla’s expression twists into a leer. “I hope you do win. You have no idea what’s in store for you then. You know nothing.” She limps to the door.
“I know my grandmother had a jacket like yours, but we wouldn’t let her wear it out of the house,” says Maysilee.
Drusilla tenses, but tries to make a dignified exit.
There’s a long pause, then Plutarch says, “You may find Drusilla ridiculous, but be smart. You four don’t have your own district mentor. Your stylist’s job begins and ends with your appearance. It might not be fair, but Drusilla may be the best advocate you have in the Capitol. Think about it before you burn that bridge entirely.” He leaves, quietly closing the door behind him.
“You okay?” I ask Maysilee.
“Never better.” She gingerly touches the welts, bringing tears to her eyes.
I can’t help feeling sorry for her and a little impressed by how she stood up to Drusilla. Even though she’s rich, she’s not trying to cozy up to the Capitol people. We’re all equally beneath her. “There I was, trying to be so high-and-mighty about the cake, and then you go all wildcat on us.”
Maysilee gives a small smile. “Well, I have strong opinions on fashion.”
“I guess you do,” says Louella.
“It’s high time someone told Miss Matchy-Matchy she looks hideous,” says Maysilee. “But you look fine, Louella. Your mother did a nice job trimming your dress.”
The girls eye each other. I can feel a slight thaw, but all Louella says is “I think so, too.”
A Peacekeeper beckons us from the door and we follow her back through the train to a compartment with two sets of bunk beds built into the walls. A door leads to a small bathroom with a toilet and sink. “Toothbrushes and towels in the bathroom, and you each get your own bed.”
She waits, as if we’re supposed to be grateful, but the only person who responds is Maysilee. “It smells like cooked cabbage in here.”
“In the old days, we used to put you in cattle cars,” the Peacekeeper replies, then locks us in.
On the pillows are pajamas, which we sort out based on our sizes. We take turns in the bathroom and retreat to our bunks. Shades automatically slide down over the windows and the bulbs above the door dim, leaving us in twilight. Wyatt falls asleep almost immediately, judging by his snores, and Louella follows suit. Maysilee sits on the top bunk across from me, holding a wet washrag to her welts. I lie on my back, staring at the ceiling, trying to make sense of the day.
My fingers wrap around the flint striker hanging from my neck. The picture of Lenore Dove, drenched and wailing in the storm, overtakes me, and my heart begins to splinter again. I squeeze my eyes shut tight and reach for her across the miles, knowing she is reaching for me, too. I hear her voice singing a piece of her poem, her name song.
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
New Book: Returned To Make Them Pay
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