Filed To Story: Sunrise on the Reaping Book PDF Free
W? That’s yours.
W for your name, Willamae, and flipped around it’s an
M for Ma!”
And Ma always looks pleased, because when does she get anything nice, let alone something so fine as her own set of stars? It’s all about her giving things to us. I pretended not to see her bring in a chicken last night that I’m sure she planned to fry for my birthday. Probably took on extra wash to afford it. Will she be able to make ends meet without my wages from Hattie? She will, or she’ll die trying. Ma . . . oh, Ma . . .
Plutarch was right. I did mess up. Big-time. And I will pay for it with my death and with the broken hearts and lives of everyone who loves me.
I stare out at the trees flying by. I always thought if one of us shook free of 12, it would be Lenore Dove. Her people were great travelers once, going from district to district to perform their music. Tam Amber remembers it, as he was about my age when the war ended and the Peacekeepers rounded up the Covey, killing all the adults and confining the kids to our district. Nothing Lenore Dove loves better than those stories of the old days, with her kin rattling around in a broken-down pickup. When fuel got scarce, they resorted to hitching it up to a team of horses. By the time they were herded into 12, the team was pulling an old wagon and most of them were on foot, but they were making it work. Cooking over open fires, rolling into towns, playing in warehouses like the Hob, or fields if none were available, famous in their way to the locals. I’m sure their life had its trials, but she has such a romantic view of it, I never mention that. Returning to it is impossible, since no one can leave 12, and her uncles would never entertain the idea of hitting the road again. But Lenore Dove’s convinced there must be people outside of Panem, far to the north. Sometimes she takes to disappearing deep in the woods, and I worry she’s not coming back. Not really, but a little. Guess I can let that go now.
Either we outrun the storm or it outruns us. The lingering raindrops on the window make me think about the cistern, and how I ran off to see Lenore Dove instead of going home to fill it. I don’t regret that precious final rendezvous with my love, but I wish I could’ve left Sid and Ma with a full tank, not just the few gallons the rain barrel might provide. Not that I think Ma will be able to do laundry this week. Or, I don’t know, maybe she will. She didn’t miss a beat when Pa died. Just made a giant pot of bean and ham hock soup, the way we do in the Seam when someone dies, and got back to work. I remember sitting by the stove, my tears splashing on the floor a few inches from a puddle under a miner’s shirt. In winter, clothes have to be hung inside to dry. Something’s always dripping.
The train keeps rolling on, putting miles between me and everything I’ve ever known or loved or hoped for. Dreams of one day letting Ma quit the laundry business. Leaning on Sid about his schoolwork so he might get a coveted aboveground mine job – like keeping books or loading trains – where he could always lay eyes on the sky. And a life with Lenore Dove, loving her, marrying her, raising up our kids, her teaching them music and me doing whatever, digging coal or making white liquor – it wouldn’t have mattered if she was with me. All gone, all lost.
Woodbine no longer seems reckless since he got to die in 12 and not in some sadistic arena out west like I will. A few years ago, the arena would go darkish without warning, and these giant coal-black weasels would melt right out of the shadows and attack the tributes. I think of those pointy teeth ripping off the face of the girl from District 5 . . .
I should’ve run. Should’ve let the Peacekeepers blow off my head on the square. Plenty of things are worse than a quick, clean death. By now, I might be wrapped in white linen, sleeping with my kin under the Abernathy headstone. We don’t tend to let bodies ripen in the heat.
Several hours pass before a key’s turned in the lock and Plutarch sticks his head in my compartment.
“Feel up to joining the others?”
He says this like I’m recovering from a bellyache, not from being tased and torn from my life. I don’t know what to make of this Plutarch. I hate him for forcing Ma and Sid to playact for the cameras. But he did let me hug them when Drusilla said I couldn’t. And he probably saved Lenore Dove’s life by asking to keep her for the tearful good-bye. He’s as unpredictable as lightning. Might be worth staying on his good side.
Besides, I need to check on Louella. I’m all she’s got now.
“Sure,” I say.
Plutarch orders the Peacekeepers to uncuff me, then leads me down the rocking hallway of the train to another compartment. Molded plastic seats in an array of neon colors line the sides of the car. I slide in next to Louella, across from Wyatt and Maysilee.
“Anybody hungry?” asks Plutarch. No one replies. “Let me see what’s cooking.” He withdraws, locking the car door.
I nudge Louella with my elbow. “Hey, girl.” I offer her my hand.
Hers slips into mine, icy cold. “Hey, Hay,” she whispers. “Wasn’t fair how they took you.”
For the first time, I consider this. Fair? It sure wasn’t. My reaping was irregular, maybe even illegal. But the number of people in the Capitol to whom I could plead my case is exactly zero. I’m nothing but an amusing tale for Drusilla to tell between the caviar and the cream puffs.
“For me or anybody else,” I tell Louella. Her little face is so pinched that before I really think it through, I ask, “So, are you going to be my ally or what, sweetheart?”
She actually smiles. It’s an old joke. When she was five and I was eight, she decided she was my sweetheart and trailed after me, telling anyone who’d listen. It lasted about a week, then she transferred her affections to a boy named Buster who gave her a bullfrog. I think her heart would’ve moved on anyway, as you’re probably not too stuck on someone you have burping contests with, but we’re still good buddies. If I had a little sister her age, I’d want her to be just like Louella, and I’ve harbored the hope that she’d wait for Sid to grow up before settling on a real sweetheart. Now, of course, her chances of growing up are nil. She’s frozen forever at thirteen.
“I’ll be your ally,” she says. “You and me, we can trust each other.”
You might think this would kick off a general District 12 alliance, but as I consider the other candidates, I’m not sure that’s desirable. I can’t get a read on Wyatt. On the one hand, that blank stare doesn’t suggest a lively mind. On the other, he’s fairly good-sized and I’ve never heard anything bad about him, which is more than I can say for Maysilee. I have no shortage of information on her, most of it gathered firsthand, and none of it flattering.
Maysilee Donner – where to begin? Right from when we started school, she and Merrilee made an impression on me. Not just because of their town ways, but because my ma had recently lost a set of twins. Two little girls, tiny things that came too early. She grieved them mightily in her way, scrubbing clothes against her washboard until they shredded, and while Pa was never one to show his feelings, I heard him bawling when he thought I was asleep. The Donner twins have always held a certain fascination for me, as I wondered what my own sisters might’ve been like. Not like the Donners, I hope. I guess Merrilee isn’t too bad, except she tends to go along with everything Maysilee does. And Maysilee’s been too good for the rest of us from day one. Prissing around in her shiny shoes and nail polish, and never without some kind of ornament. How that girl loves jewelry.
I look at her now, staring out the train window, her fingers entwined in the strands of a half dozen necklaces. Some beaded, some braided cord, some with trinkets hanging off of them, and at least one real gold. While Seam folk might have a treasured ornament or two, nobody has six necklaces. And if they did, they wouldn’t show off by wearing them all at once.
Plutarch slides open the door and steps back to admit a Capitol attendant bearing a tray heaped with sandwiches. Each one’s loaded with a day’s wages of meat – fresh ham or roast beef or chicken cut thin and piled high – and sports a small paper flag of Panem on top. My mouth starts watering and I realize I haven’t eaten since breakfast.
The attendant offers the tray to Louella, who hesitates, overwhelmed by the bounty before her. The McCoys can go weeks without meat, and what they do get generally comes from a tin. The attendant registers her discomfort and adopts a patronizing tone. “Is there a problem, miss?”
Louella reddens – the McCoys don’t lack pride – but before she can answer, Maysilee snaps, “Of course there’s a problem! Do you expect her to eat with her hands? Or don’t you have plates and silverware in the Capitol?”
Now it’s the attendant’s turn to blush. He stammers out, “They’re just sandwiches. I mean . . . people pick them up.”
“Without even a napkin?” asks Maysilee. “I seriously doubt that.”
The attendant turns to Plutarch, thrown. “Do they get napkins?”
“Certainly. They’re our guests, Tibby,” says Plutarch mildly. “I’ve got to check on something in the kitchen. Let’s see if we can scrounge up a few plates, too. Excuse us.”
When the door clicks shut, I can’t help laughing.
“Shut up,” says Maysilee. “Listen, Louella, if you let them treat you like an animal, they will. So don’t let them.”
It’s a little too much for Louella. Her eyes narrow and she retorts, “I wasn’t planning to. Somebody cut me off.”
“Fine,” says Maysilee. “You don’t need my help.”
New Book: Returned To Make Them Pay
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