a woman's voice, please.
It's time for the drawing. Effie Trinket says as she always does, "Ladies first !" and crosses to the glass ball with the girls' names. She reaches in, digs her hand deep into the ball, and pulls out a slip of paper. The crowd draws in a collective breath and then you can hear a pin drop, and I'm feeling nauseous and so desperately hoping that it's not me, that it's not me, that it's not me.
Effie Trinket crosses back to the podium, smoothes the slip of paper, and reads out the name in a clear voice. And it's not me.
It's Primrose Everdeen.
One time, when I was in a blind in a tree, waiting motionless for game to wander by, I dozed off and fell ten feet to the ground, landing on my back. It was as if the impact had knocked every wisp of air from my lungs, and I lay there struggling to inhale, to exhale, to do anything.
That's how I feel now, trying to remember how to breathe, unable to speak, totally stunned as the name bounces around the inside of my skull. (…)
There must have been some mistake. This can't be happening. Prim was one slip of paper in thousands ! Her chance of being chosen so remote that I'd not even bothered to worry about her. (…)
Somewhere far away, I can hear the crowd murmuring unhappily as they always do when a twelve-year-old gets chosen because no one thinks this is fair. And then I see her, the blood drained from her face, hands clenched in fists at her sides, walking with stiff, small steps up toward the stage, passing me, and I see the back of her blouse has become untucked and hangs out over her skirt. It's this detail, the untucked blouse forming a ducktail, that brings me back to myself.
"Prim !" The strangled cry comes out of my throat, and my muscles begin to move again. "Prim !" I don't need to shove through the crowd. The other kids make way immediately allowing me a straight path to the stage. I reach her just as she is about to mount the steps. With one sweep of my arm, I push her behind me.
"I volunteer ! " I gasp. " I volunteer as tribute !"
There's some confusion on the stage. District 12 hasn't had a volunteer in decades (…).
"Lovely ! " says Effie Trinket. "But I believe there's a small matter of introducing the reaping winner and then asking for volunteers, and if one does come forth then we, um…" she trails off, unsure of herself.
"What does it matter ? " says the mayor. He's looking at me with a pained expression on his face. He doesn't know me really, but there's a faint recognition there. (…) I am the girl (…) who five years ago stood huddled with her mother and sister, as he presented her, the oldest child, with a medal of valor. A medal for her father, vaporized in the mines. Does he remember that ? " What does it matter ? " he repeats gruffly. "Let her come forward."
Prim is screaming hysterically behind me. She's wrapped her skinny arms around me like a vice. "No, Katniss ! No ! You can't go !"
"Prim, let go," I say harshly, because this is upsetting me and I don't want to cry. When they televise the replay of the reapings tonight, everyone will make note of my tears, and I'll be marked as an easy target. A weakling. I will give no one that satisfaction. "Let go !"
I can feel someone pulling her from my back. I turn and see Gale has lifted Prim off the ground and she's thrashing in his arms. "Up you go, Catnip, "he says, in a voice he's fighting to keep steady, and then he carries Prim off toward my mother. I steel myself and climb the steps.
"Well, bravo !" gushes Effie Trinket. "That's the spirit of the Games !" She's pleased to finally have a district with a little action going on in it. "What's your name ? "
I swallow hard. "Katniss Everdeen," I say.
" I bet my buttons that was your sister. Don't want her to steal all the glory, do we ? Come on, everybody ! Let's give a big round of applause to our newest tribute ! " trills Effie Trinket.
The Hunger Games, Suzanne Collins (2008)
