Chapter 2
It's 1pm. I finished decorating every last piece of the baked goods around 12pm. After I had finished at noon I decided to bake up a cake for a family who's having a baby soon. I shaped the cake into a baby monkey and I was putting the final touches of icing on it when I hear my mom scream, grab something—probably something to beat me with—and then she proceeds by yelling my name. She must have come across the iced goods I started putting in the other rooms to dry. I ran out of counter space to store the goods, so I started stacking them on counters in the house. She finds me in the front of our bakery shop. Her face is flushed red, she's staring at me with those angry eyes, and there's a broom in her right hand. I remember when I used to hide from her when I was little, especially after the first time she hit me. I don't bother to hide from her anymore. I just tell myself her hits make me stronger. Stronger for the games. Sometimes I wonder what makes her so angry. I've never asked. I just assume the world's made her the way she is.
She's about to hit me when my dad grabs her lifted arm. He looks her straight in the eyes and says, “not today Agnes. You can't hit him today."
My mother looks shocked that he stopped her and I'm sure I look just as shocked. My dad never intervenes with the way my mom discipline's us. My mom's about to protest but my dad says to her, "I was the one who told him he could frost the goods.” That's a lie, but it's hard to tell because my dad's got such and even voice.
My mother looks at him angry that he would do such a thing and I know she's about to bite his head off. “After the reaping Agnes, you can have him all you want afterwards, but not before.” He takes the broom she was about to hit me with and walks away. She's standing there, frazzled that my dad stopped her, still mad at all the frosted goods and probably calculating her loss from what I've done. Her face is flushed red and sweat is on her head. If I didn't know any better I'd think that steam was about to come out of her ears because she's so mad.
“Go get dressed Peeta,” she says with harsh voice. As I walk pass her, she grabs my arm sternly and says under her breath, “you better hope you get picked Peeta because if you don't, after I'm through with you, you're going to wish that you were.”
Thanks mom. I'm feeling the love now. Love you too. That's what I wanted to say, but I don't. That's that emotion I was talking about keeping in check. I know she doesn't mean it. She says things like that all the time to dad and the rest of us. She's a constant ticking time bomb ready to go off at any moment. I always tell myself something horrible happened to her and that's why she's this way.
I go upstairs to put on something nice. Everyone must look their best if they get picked to go the Capitol. Last year, one of the boys from the seam didn't have anything presentable to wear. His family was so big they didn't have money to afford to buy something nice. It was his 3rd year of getting entered into the games. I saw him before he got to the square. He looked so sad. He and everyone else knew he could get a beating for it because it's viewed as being rebellious. I stopped him, took off my shirt and gave it to him. Then I ran home and grabbed another one. It almost made me late. His 12 year old brother ended up getting picked and killed in the games. It's sad that such a young boy had to get picked, but such is the life of the districts. The funeral was even worse. I never go to them because they're depressing, especially since there's no body to mourn over. The Capitol never sends the dead bodies back home to bury. It's just another way of showing us that they own us. You don't even own your body—we do. After the funeral, I went home and decided I didn't need all my extra clothes. I bagged up all my old dress shirts and gave it to the boy's mother. She just grabbed the bag and sobbed. Their father came over and shook my hand. The next day the boy I gave the shirt to came to our door asking to help out for free. My dad and mother were so confused. They had no idea what the boy was doing there. The boy said something about me and I said I didn't know who he was and that he must be confused. He looked at me with sad eyes. Eyes I'll never forget. It's like he was pleading to do something in return for what I had done for him and his family. But I couldn't. If my mom found out, she would...I didn't know what she would do, but I knew it wouldn't be good. I had already gotten beaten that morning when she couldn't find my one shirt to clean. And then I did something I'll never forgive myself for. I pushed him out into the mud and said as sternly as I could, “LEAVE.” His eyes started to water as he got up and ran away. When I got back in the house that day my mother was so proud of me. She said that I just might have some fight in me yet.
It was 1:30 pm and I made it to the square. Boys are lined up on one side and the girls on the other. Everyone dressed in their best outfits waiting to find out if they will will be picked for the impeding doom. It's interesting that we dress our best, only to be possibly get picked to get slaughtered in an arena. Here we are. Waiting the slaughter house. It makes me wonder what it was like before the rebellion. But even to think or speak of such things is an act of rebellion. Every year its the same scene. The stage is set up in the square and there's three chairs on the stage—one for Effie Trinket, who's our district's representative, one for Mayor Undersee, and one for Haymitch—the only person from our district who has ever won the hunger games and who always seems to be drunk and late every year. My mom constantly says he's such a disgrace to our district. I don't know what I think of him, but I sure couldn't imagine what he went through during the quarter quell. Especially since twice as many people had to die than in a normal game. Wow, did I just say normal? Well it is normal. It's the only normal that I've ever known. That any of us have known. It's normal for families to watch a television screen as their child, brother, sister, friend, neighbor die at the hands of another child. It's all normal for those of us that live in the country of Panem except for those that live in the capitol. They don't have to send their children to an arena where they fight to the death. They don't have watch as their child fends for their life and then dies. They don't have to attend funerals because their child lost the hunger games. They don't have to starve because they don't have enough food. People like Effie Trinket dressed up in her fancy clothes, with her hair colored bright pink, and her strange capitol accent don't have to put their child's name into a glass bowl in order to determine their fate. As the thought passes through my mind, Effie Trinket has just arrived and she's carrying the glass bowl with the girls names in it. Mayor Undersee follows with the boys names. The two glass bowls that determine the future of one girl and one boy every year.
Effie and Mayor Undersee are setting up the bowls on the tables and more people are arriving. I'm usually one of the first ones to get to the square. I don't know why I come early every year, but I do know it's the one time I can spy on Katniss while no one's paying attention. Everyone's too worried about getting picked to notice me looking at her. I never make it obvious. I usually only look out of the corner of my eye and most times I only see her arm or her hair, but never really all of her. It's kind of silly really when you think of it. Why wouldn't I confess my love to her? It's not like we live in a normal society, not that I would know what a normal society would be like. But what if I were to get picked? Then I would never be able to tell her how much I love her. How I've loved her ever since she was wearing that plaid dress. How the moment she sang I fell deeply in love with her. How much it kills me not to say a word to her. How I savor every moment I get to see her even if it's just her arm or hair that I can glimpse out of the corner of my eye. If I got picked I would never see her again. Unless of course I won the games. Maybe that's what I have to do. Maybe all I have to do is get into the games and win it and then she'll finally see me. Then I would have the guts to talk to her. I wouldn't be afraid of Gale or her feelings for Gale because I would be the winning tribute. Who am I kidding? If she has feelings for Gale, what right do I have to take that from her. That's hers and not the Capitol's. That's hers and not mine. There I go again. Putting others before myself. That's exactly why my mom always says I'm soft and that I'll never make it in this world. That's it! I hate being a softy. Being a softy is getting me nowhere with Katniss. If I ever want to be with Katniss I have to man up. That's why I skin those squirrels, lift weights and wrestle. I can win the games if I just put my mind to it. I just need to be smarter than those Careers. Winning the games is probably my only chance at proving to Katniss that I'm better than Gale. It's my only chance of proving to her that I'm all she needs. If that's what it takes, then that's what I'm going to do—I'm going to win the hunger games.
I look up at the stage more determined than ever to get picked, but something catches my eye. Her dark hair tied up, eyes that see through my soul, her pale skin in contrast to her features and her dress stop me in my train of thought. Katniss never wears a dress. Of course she always looks beautiful to me in anything she wears but today she looks stunning. I've always thought she had such a natural beauty. Holding her hand is little sister Primrose—who looks more like their mother than Katniss does with her blonde hair and blue eyes. They separate and Primrose goes to the section with the children that are in her year and Katniss falling in line with the kids who are in our year in school.
The last bit of kids line up and the clock is about to strike 2pm. Effie's never late and she always starts promptly at 2pm. She gets up and steps up to the microphone.
“Welcome, welcome...
(---> Rewrite Effie's speech, Haymitch's entrance and Primrose getting picked. **Sorry folks, I don't have the copy of the first book and I want to keep it true to the scene so I opted to skip this part until I get my copy back. Once I do, I'll rewrite this section.**)
No. It can't be Primrose. She can't be the tribute, she's only 12. It's the first time she's ever been entered into the games. There's no way she got picked. Somebody has to stop this and it's not just because it's Katniss's little sister, it's because it's Primrose. She's too sweet and innocent to go into that blood bath of arena. She will NEVER have a chance in the games. For once I wish I could volunteer so she wouldn't have to go. But the rules are very strict only a boy can volunteer for a boy and a only a girl—
“I volunteer!” I hear a voice scream from to the right of me. Wait who's voice was that? Was that Katniss? No, it couldn't be.
“I volunteer as tribute!”
NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!! Katniss, NO! I'm yelling in my head. Or at least I think I am. I look around quick and see that I've caused no disturbance. Primrose is screaming for Katniss. Gale gets up and is pulling Primrose away. No. This isn't happening. There's no way Katniss is going to the games. Katniss isn't supposed to get picked. I am. How am I going to protect her? There's no way I can get to the Capitol. Or is there? Wait. I work in the merchant class. Shipments go out to the other districts, but what are the train schedules. Blasted Peeta! Why don't you pay more attention? Well at least my minds thinking. I could figure it out. Or maybe I could visit Katniss when she says her goodbye's and figure out a way to escape the Capitol. But how? Am I being ridiculous? NO. I'm NOT being ridiculous. I HAVE to save the girl I love. She's the only person I've ever truly loved and I haven't even told her. What if she dies? Then I will never have a chance to tell her how I feel. There's got to be—
All of a sudden everyone's holding 3 fingers up in the air towards the front of the stage. It's a sign of respect—holding your 3 fingers towards someone. I was so busy trying to figure out how to save Katniss that I missed what happened. I take a quick look around and everyone in the entire square is holding their fingers up to Katniss. It's honestly one of the most amazing things I've ever seen. No one's ever volunteered for anyone in our district. It's just not something you do in district 12. Not when you're already starving and already fighting to stay alive. I've never seen any family in district 12 do that. Most of us just accept the fact that some poor unfortunate child has to fight to their death in the games no matter what age they are. I hold up my fingers, fighting back the urge to curse the capitol for making us accept such a horrible fate and for taking away the one person I love—the only person I've ever loved. Everyone puts their fingers down and Effie steps over to the drawing for the boys.
Since there's no chance of me getting picked, even though now I couldn't even bare getting picked simply because I couldn't watch Katniss die in front of me, I have to figure out quick how I can save Katniss. There has to be an escape from the Mayor Undersee's house. I look over at his house trying to figure out where they have the tributes when they say their goodbyes. Dang it. I should have dated Madge Undersee when everyone said we would make a good couple. If I had just gone on a couple dates with her I could have seen the inside of her house and figured out where they store the tribures while they say their goodbyes. But I couldn't date Madge and I never would have because I would have never been able to look Katniss in the eye if I shared what was hers with anyone else. No. That's the part of me that's mine. It's the part of me that I saved for Katniss and her alone. What am I—
Someone nudges me and I jump back to the present. It's the guy standing next to me. He's looking at me with a somber expression and nods his head forward. I look back at him in confusion and then I hear Effie Trinket say, “Peeta Mellark.”
And then my world just starts to spin. I grab the guys arm and he helps me stand straight so I don't fall flat on the ground and then I put my foot out in front of me and start walking to the front. How many times am I going to scream no today? How could I have wished to be in the games today? It's a cruel evil joke. I get what I want but with a horrible twist. How can I kill the one person I love? I look up and Katniss is staring at me. She looks petrified. I look down. Great. She hates me. I hate myself. Can someone just shoot me and end my misery? No, no one's going to shoot me. I have to be beefed up and prepared to fight in the games. I have to be prepared to kill. A mean lean fighting machine—exactly what I was wishing for this whole morning. Only now I wish someone would just kill me. Which the Careers will have no problem doing and it's exactly what I'm going to allow them to do. It would be better than seeing Katniss die or worse yet—having to kill her. Kill Katniss. I could never kill Katniss. Wait. I don't have to kill Katniss. I don't even have to see her die. I know exactly what I'm going to do. I take the steps and get up in front of everyone feeling more resolve than ever. I'm going to protect Katniss at all costs and then I'm going to let her kill me.
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