Filed To Story: Sunrise on the Reaping Book PDF Free
“Got me beat there,” I have to admit.
“And nobody tells them what to say. That bird is who I want to be when I grow up. Someone who says whatever they think is right, no matter what.”
No matter what. That’s the part I’m worried about. That she might be saying something rash. Or even doing something beyond dangerous words. Something the Capitol won’t warn but whip her for. The year she turned twelve, she crossed that line twice.
First, on the night before they were to hang Clay Chance in the square, someone shinnied up the gallows and filed halfway through the rope. Next morning, in front of a crowd, the rope snapped and Clay fell to the ground, where a dozen Peacekeeper bullets took him out. As the night had been pitch-black and snowing, the security camera didn’t catch much, but someone in the town had spotted Lenore Dove leaving the square and reported her. She was hauled into the base prison for questioning and would only say she hadn’t done anything wrong. The Peacekeepers didn’t know what to do with her. A little bit of a thing sitting there, her feet dangling inches from the floor, her wrists too skinny for the cuffs. Then Clay’s sister, Binnie, who’d been on borrowed time for a year due to a bad heart, confessed she’d done it. Three days later, Binnie died in her cell, and the uncles were allowed to collect Lenore Dove, promising she’d stay home at night.
After that, Clerk Carmine kept her on a shorter leash. But the morning of the Forty-sixth Hunger Games, our first year in the reaping, smoke began seeping from beneath the temporary stage as we gathered. The Peacekeepers pulled out a wad of smoking cloth that turned out to be the flag of Panem. Burning the flag gets you ten years in prison, or likely more if it’s broadcast across the nation, but all traces were removed before the cameras rolled. The stage had been assembled only the evening before, and the Peacekeepers hadn’t thought to install security cameras beneath it. Under the platform, a grate leading to utility pipes had been disturbed. Apparently, a candle, lit hours before, had burned down to ignite the kerosene-soaked flag. It could have been anyone. With no proof and no witnesses, they rounded up those with a history of suspicious behavior, and Lenore Dove was arrested again. She said she’d been home, writing her will in case her name got called in the reaping. Then she read them said document, seven pages in which most of her worldly belongings went to her geese. Maybe it was overkill, the way she’d prepared. Maybe the Peacekeepers could sense they were being played. They let her go again, but this time with a strict warning that they had their eye on her.
It was her, though. Both times. I know it in my heart, even though she’s never quite admitted it to me or her uncles. She says all the Covey girls are a mystery, it’s half their charm. When I press her, she just laughs and says if it’s true, that information could put me in danger, and if it’s false, what does it matter? “Didn’t do much good anyway, did it? Clay’s dead and the reaping’s alive and well.”
Since that year, she’s had a clean record. Last New Year’s, the Covey even played at the base commander’s party, though Lenore Dove wasn’t thrilled about it. Clerk Carmine said a job’s a job, and music can be a bridge to better understanding between people because most everybody loves a good tune. Lenore Dove said most everybody loves breathing, too, and where did that get us? Some loves don’t signify.
Comments like that make me feel like she’s still got the potential to make trouble, and that side of her is just laying low.
I’m not sure what I’d have done yesterday if the roles had been reversed. I’d have wanted to follow Lenore Dove, maybe stowed away on the train and helped her escape or died trying. Or at least burned the Peacekeepers’ base to the ground. But in reality, whatever plans I might have concocted would’ve been kept in check by the thought of Ma and Sid trying to get by without me. I’d probably just have gone quietly insane. It’s different for her. No one depends on Lenore Dove for their livelihood. She can run as wild as the wind.
After an hour or so, Peacekeepers drop off two nut butter sandwiches and my first banana. While I wouldn’t call it fruit – too starchy and juiceless – it tastes pretty good. I wash it down with a bottle of water filled with bubbles, which seems like a stupid thing to do to water, since I just burp them all up anyway.
The Peacekeepers pull the curtains back and I can see everybody’s been given the same prep. Some of those Careers had full beards earlier, but they look younger and less scary clean-shaven. Losing the chest hair didn’t hurt either.
Juvenia arrives with a woman pushing a rack of fancy clothes, and the District 1 prep teams trot after them into the boys’ locker room to get ready for the chariot procession that’s the centerpiece of the opening ceremonies. The Peacekeepers unchain their tributes and take them in. In a few minutes, the same routine plays out with District 2 and the girls’ locker room. A half hour later, the District 1 tributes, looking almost Capitol in green ball gowns and sparkling suits, parade across the gym.
As they pass us, Maysilee says loudly, “Looking good, Silka! I hope we all get to wear snot green!”
Laughter breaks out around the gym. Silka, who must have eight inches and a hundred pounds on Maysilee, starts for her, only to get a swift baton to the ribs from a Peacekeeper. Silka looks at Maysilee and draws her finger across her throat.
Maysilee pouts back. “Now, pretty is as pretty does. How about a smile?”
Louella grins at me from her table. “They did not hit it off in the locker room.”
“Not a fan of One myself,” I admit, watching them head to their van as District 2 struts by in purple leather and studs.
“Where are they all going?” I hear someone ask.
“To their photo shoots,” a Peacekeeper answers. “Then the chariots.”
The teams for 3 and 4 appear next, and I know we’ll be last. The place slowly empties out. Proserpina, who’s sporting freshly dyed puffs, and Vitus, cranky because his mother’s turned his bedroom into a bar for the party, return. The District 11 tributes get whisked away by their stylist just as Drusilla comes clacking across the gym floor in her platform boots, fur hat tucked under her arm.
“Where’s that idiot Magno?” she asks my team. They shrug helplessly. “He’s making us late for one of the biggest parties of the year!”
She’s all about the parties, our escort.
Another ten minutes pass. “I need to take a piss,” I say.
The Peacekeepers uncuff us and bring us into the girls’ locker room, where we get to relieve ourselves. Still no Magno. I sit next to Louella on a bench. They fixed up her braids and gave her dramatic eyebrows. Maysilee’s blond locks are in a fountain of tight curls, which somehow suits her, and Wyatt looks exactly the same as before his prep.
“If he doesn’t come, do we get to skip the chariot part?” asks Louella. “Or do we just go wrapped up in paper?”
No one seems to have considered that. Suddenly, everybody panics, including me. As much as I reject all of this, I don’t want to make my big entrance in a paper sheet. If I’m to stand any kind of chance, if I’m to get sponsors, I can’t go out there with my rear end hanging in the breeze.
“Where’s the dress I came in?” demands Maysilee. “I can pin it back together.”
“Already burned,” says a Peacekeeper.
With the clock running out, Drusilla orders the prep teams to lend us pieces of their own outfits. I’m trying to squeeze into Vitus’s blue velvet shorts when our stylist rolls in with a plastic bag slung over his shoulder.
Magno Stift’s sun-leathered skin has been tattooed with a snakeskin pattern. He wears a long shirt made of metal diamonds and no visible pants. His sandals lace all the way up to his pelvis, and from each of his ears dangle tiny, living garter snakes that twist and turn in misery.
“You know those have been banned!” steams Drusilla. “I’ll report you.”
“Oh, Drusie, they’ll be dead in a few hours anyway,” says Magno. He dumps the contents of his bag on the floor, revealing a half dozen of the same costumes I’ve seen on District 12 tributes for as long as I can remember. He lifts his arms in mock triumph. “Now, who’s ready to knock them dead?”
We’re all so stressed that even these hand-me-down outfits are snatched up, which I’m sure is how Magno planned it all along. I climb into a pair of smelly black miner overalls held together with safety pins and strap on a cheap plastic coal miner hat without complaint. The boots pinch my toes, but I lace them up, relieved to have any footwear at all.
Only Drusilla holds him to account. “What happened to their shining new look?”
With a flourish, Magno flips on the light in Maysilee’s hat. The weak beam barely registers. “Ta-da! I replaced the batteries.”
“And this is what you brought for the Quarter Quell? If this doesn’t get you axed, I don’t know what will,” Drusilla says with satisfaction.
Magno just laughs. “No one cares about Twelve. Especially you. Get these brats chained up and to the stables. My job here is done.”
New Book: Returned To Make Them Pay
On her wedding anniversary, Alicia is drugged and stumbles into the wrong room—straight into the arms of the powerful Caden Ward, a man rumored never to touch women. Their night of passion shocks even him, especially when he discovers she’s still a virgin after two years of marriage to Joshua Yates.