Filed To Story: Sunrise on the Reaping Book PDF Free
Drusilla pretends to draw a name. “And the first gentleman who gets to accompany the ladies is . . . Wyatt Callow!”
In some strange replay, I watch Wyatt, as impassive as before, go by and obediently take his place on the stage.
Drusilla’s hand hovers over the ball, then removes a slip with surgical precision. “And our second boy will be . . . Haymitch Abernathy!” I just stand there in case this is a bad dream and I’m about to wake up in my own bed. Everything’s all wrong. Minutes ago, I dodged this bullet. I was headed home, then to the woods, safe for another year.
“Haymitch?” Drusilla repeats, looking straight at me.
My face fills the screen over the stage. My feet begin to move. I see them cut to Lenore Dove, who has a hand pressed against her mouth. She isn’t crying, so Plutarch won’t get his tearful good-bye. Not from her and not from me. They will not use our tears for their entertainment.
“Ladies and gentlemen, join me in welcoming the District Twelve tributes of the Fiftieth Hunger Games!” Drusilla acknowledges us. “And may the odds be EVER in your favor!” She begins to clap and I hear a huge audience response over the speakers, although I can only see a handful of people applauding in 12.
I locate Lenore Dove in the crowd and we lock eyes, desperation setting in. For a moment, everything else peels away and there’s only us. She lowers her hand and presses it to her heart as her lips form the words silently.
I love you like all-fire.
I mouth back,
You, too.
Cannons break the spell. Confetti showers down on me, on the stage, on the whole square. I lose sight of her in the fluttering bits of bright paper.
Drusilla spreads her arms wide. “Happy second Quarter Quell, everybody!”
“And we’re out,” says the voice on the speaker.
The broadcast has moved on to the District 11 reaping. The canned applause cuts off and Drusilla lets out a groan, dramatically slumping against the podium.
The Capitol TV crew gives a loud cheer as Plutarch appears from the side of the stage, shouting, “Brilliant! Bravo, everybody! Absolutely seamless, Drusilla!”
Drusilla recovers and yanks off her daffodil hat by the chin strap. “I have no idea how I just did that.” She pulls a pack of cigarettes from her boot and lights up, exhaling the smoke through her nose like it’s a chimney. “Well, it’s a great story for dinner parties!”
One of the assistants appears with a tray of glasses filled with a pale liquid. He accidentally offers one to me – “Champagne?” – before he realizes his mistake. “Whoops! None for the children!”
Drusilla grabs a glass and notices the people of District 12 standing mute and miserable while the last bits of confetti drift down on them. “Well, what are they staring at? Filthy beasts. Go home! All of you!” She addresses a Peacekeeper. “Get them out of here before their smell gets in my hair.” She sniffs a lock of her hair and grimaces. “Too late.”
The Peacekeeper gives a signal and the soldiers begin pushing the crowd back. While I see Burdock and Blair put up a struggle, most people rush to the side streets, only too happy to escape the ordeal of the reaping, to hurry home, embrace their children, and, for those who patronize Hattie’s stall, get good and drunk.
I’m panicked by the sight of a District 12 Peacekeeper restraining Lenore Dove. Why didn’t I step in sooner? Why did I wait until I had no choice but to defy that soldier? Was I feeling afraid? Confused? Or just powerless in the face of those white uniforms? Now we’re both doomed. The Peacekeeper’s bringing out cuffs when Clerk Carmine and Tam Amber swoop in. They talk to him fast and low, and I think some money changes hands. To my relief, the Peacekeeper glances around, releases her, and walks off. Lenore Dove makes for me, but her uncles hustle her down a side street.
The other luckless loved ones of this year’s tributes remain behind.
Mr. Donner runs up on the stage with a fistful of cash, hoping to somehow bail Maysilee out, while his wife and Merrilee huddle near their storefront. “Don’t, Papa!” Maysilee cries, but her father keeps waving the money in people’s faces.
There’s a family I judge to be the Callows, where a woman weeps hysterically and the menfolk have come to blows. “You jinxed him!” one accuses another. “This is on you!”
Our neighbors, the McCoys, have their arms wrapped around Ma, who’s barely able to stand. Sid’s hanging on her hand, pulling her forward, as he hollers, “Haymitch! Haymitch!” I’m already so homesick I could die. I know I need to be strong, but the sight of them totals me. How will they manage without me?
What’s supposed to happen next is that the tributes go into the Justice Building for a final farewell to their families and friends. I’ve done this once before. My ma and pa took me when Sarshee Whitcomb, the daughter of Pa’s old crew boss, got reaped. She’d been orphaned that year when her pa, Lyle, died of black lung. Ma told the Peacekeepers we were kin and they took us to a sitting room with a lot of scratchy furniture that needed dusting. I think we were her only visitors.
I know I should wait for the official good-bye time, but the only thing that matters now is to hug Ma and Sid. With Mr. Donner and Maysilee making a ruckus, I get to the edge of the stage, crouch down, and reach for them as they run to me.
“None of that!” I’m yanked backward by a Peacekeeper as Drusilla continues. “No good-byes for these people. They’ve lost that privilege after that outrageous display today. Take them straight to the train, and let’s get out of this stinkhole.”
A pair of Peacekeepers tosses Mr. Donner off the stage. Midair, he loses his grip on his money, which floats down and mingles with the confetti on the ground. Then they pull out handcuffs.
Louella’s been holding it together, but now she looks at me, her eyes wide with fright. I lay my hand on her shoulder to steady her, but as the cold metal touches her skin, she lets out a small squeak, like a baby animal in a trap. At the sound, the families surge forward, desperate to reclaim us.
The Peacekeepers hold them back as Plutarch speaks up. “I don’t mean to be a pain, Drusilla, but I’m really low on reaction shots for the recap. Could I just snag a few?”
“If you must. But if you’re not on the train in fifteen, you can walk home,” says Drusilla.
“I owe you.” Plutarch does a quick assessment of our families and points to me and Louella. “Leave me this and this.”
The Peacekeepers steer Maysilee and Wyatt into the Justice Building, beating back their relatives with batons when they try to follow. Somehow, Merrilee slips by them, and for a moment the Donner twins become one, arms locked around each other’s necks, foreheads, noses pressed together. A mirror image that the Peacekeepers tear in two. I see Wyatt give a final look to the hysterical Callow woman before marching through the door.
Louella and I rush for our folks, but Plutarch intervenes. “Let’s get the footage.”
The crew sweeps an area in front of the shops clear of confetti. A cameraman positions himself while Plutarch poses Louella’s parents and her half dozen brothers and sisters in front of the bakery. “Wait, if you were in the reaping, get out of the picture.” Two of the kids move out of range of the camera. “Good,” he says. “Very nice. Now, what I need you to do is to react exactly the way you did when you heard them call Louella’s name. In three, two, one, action.”
The McCoy family stares at him numbly.
“And cut!” Plutarch crosses to the McCoys. “Sorry. Obviously, I wasn’t clear. When you heard them call Louella, it was a big shock, right? ‘Oh, no!’ Maybe you gasped or cried out her name. Anyway, you did something. And now I need you to do the same thing for the camera. Okay?” He backs up. “So, in three, two, one, action!”
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