Filed To Story: Sunrise on the Reaping Book PDF Free
“Louella McCoy,” says Snow. “Ah, my bread.” He takes a big bite of a roll and grunts in approval. “Fresh. I think we’re done here, if you’d like to return our tributes to their accommodations. Louella, this is Plutarch.”
“Hello, Plutarch.”
“Hello.” He can’t stop staring at her.
“She’s a good body double. We were lucky,” says Snow.
“Yes, Mr. President. She certainly is. This way, kids.” Fake Louella and I follow Plutarch down a few halls of ancestors before he speaks again. “I did not know about any of this. He just said he wanted to talk to you.”
“Right,” I say. “Who is she?”
“Best guess . . . child of traitors. Could be either district or Capitol. She might not even know herself. No question they’ve programmed her. Probably drugged her as well.”
Fake Louella chimes in. “Hello, Plutarch. My name is Louella McCoy. I’m from District Twelve.”
“So, he’s going to send her in, whoever she is, and get her killed in the Games?” I ask.
“That seems to be the current plan,” admits Plutarch. “I don’t approve of this.”
“You’re my hero. I hope I’m just like you when I grow up. Oh, wait a minute, that won’t be happening.”
A Peacekeeper van idles at the entrance. I climb in before they can cuff me. Fake Louella crawls into the van and sits on the floor. “Hello, Haymitch. My name is Louella McCoy. I’m from District Twelve.”
“She’s going to knock ’em dead at the interview,” I say to Plutarch, then slam the door shut myself.
The whole way back, in the dark, I’m terrified she’s going to touch me. I hate her, and I hate what her presence will require of me, even though I know none of this is her fault.
Back at the apartment, Maysilee, Wyatt, and our mentors wait for my return in the living room. When I walk in with Fake Louella, a general gasp goes up.
I point them out. “This is Maysilee and Wyatt. And those are our mentors, Mags and Wiress.”
Fake Louella fixates on the toes of her boots. “Hello, Maysilee, Wyatt, Mags, and Wiress.”
“But they couldn’t have -” Wyatt begins. “Who are you?”
“My name is Louella McCoy. I’m from District Twelve.”
After a long pause, Maysilee says, “That’s not sleeping in my room.”
Mags shushes her. “Where did she come from?”
“President Snow introduced us in Plutarch Heavensbee’s library. She’s been drugged or programmed or something. We’re supposed to pretend she’s real for the cameras. I have no idea who she is.”
“She’s a stale marshmallow,” says Maysilee. “We’re supposed to sell her.”
Mags touches Fake Louella’s shoulder. “Are you hungry?” The girl shrinks away, then looks up at her, confused. “Let’s all have something to eat.”
We gather around the table in the kitchen, where Wiress ladles stew into our bowls. Mags places a spoon in Fake Louella’s hand. She grasps it in her fist, wraps her arm protectively around her bowl, and begins shoveling in the stew while little whimpering sounds escape her lips.
“They’ve starved her,” says Wiress. “Among other things.”
She’s right. While Louella’s wrists were lean, Fake Louella’s tend toward bony. No wonder they had to plump up her face. The irrational anger I’ve held against this girl dissolves into pity as she lifts her bowl to lick it clean like a dog.
“Would you like some more? We have plenty,” says Mags.
“Bread?” Wiress holds out the basket of assorted rolls to her.
Fake Louella stares in fascination at the offering, then her fingers close on a dark crescent-shaped roll dotted with seeds. She holds it to her nose and inhales the scent, her breath coming in short gasps.
Wiress and Mags exchange a look. “Are you from District Eleven, child?” Mags says softly. Fake Louella begins to cry, pressing the roll against her lips and pawing at her ear. “It’s all right, little one. Come with me.” She wraps an arm around the girl and leads her out of the kitchen.
“Whoever she is, I guess she’s ours now,” says Wyatt.
I’m surprised to hear something this kindhearted coming out of an oddsmaker, but we all feel it. We can’t pile any more hurt on Fake Louella. I guess I’ll do my best to look out for her, just think of her as another District 6 dove.
“You’re right,” I say. “But I can’t call her Louella.”
“Something too different may confuse her further,” warns Wiress.
“How about Lou Lou?” suggests Maysilee. “I used to have a pet canary by that name.”
I know this about Maysilee because Lenore Dove caught wind of it and was infuriated that anyone would ever cage a bird, in particular a songbird. But that doesn’t seem a reason to reject the name. “I think I can handle that,” I say. Louella McCoy was definitely not a Lou Lou.