第7章

  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 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 re-
  ally, but there’s a faint recognition there. i am the girl who
  brings the strawberries. the girl his daughter might have spo-
  23
  ken of on occasion. 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 ac-
  tion 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.
  to the everlasting credit of the people of district 12, not
  one person claps. not even the ones holding betting slips, the
  ones who are usually beyond caring. possibly because they
  24
  know me from the hob, or knew my father, or have encoun-
  tered prim, who no one can help loving. so instead of ac-
  knowledging applause, i stand there unmoving while they
  take part in the boldest form of dissent they can manage. si-
  lence. which says we do not agree. we do not condone. all of
  this is wrong.
  then something unexpected happens. at least, i don’t ex-
  pect it because i don’t think of district 12 as a place that cares
  about me. but a shift has occurred since i stepped up to take
  prim’s place, and now it seems i have become someone pre-
  cious. at first one, then another, then almost every member of
  the crowd touches the three middle fingers of their left hand
  to their lips and holds it out to me. it is an old and rarely used
  gesture of our district, occasionally seen at funerals. it means
  thanks, it means admiration, it means good-bye to someone
  you love.
  now i am truly in danger of crying, but fortunately hay-
  mitch chooses this time to come staggering across the stage to
  congratulate me. “look at her. look at this one!” he hollers,
  throwing an arm around my shoulders. he’s surprisingly
  strong for such a wreck. “i like her!” his breath reeks of liquor
  and it’s been a long time since he’s bathed. “lots of . . . “ he
  can’t think of the word for a while. “spunk!” he says trium-
  phantly. “more than you!” he releases me and starts for the
  front of the stage. “more than you!”