I knew you were trouble // zori

I’d really like to know who voted on creating a sun. Because if I could have been there, I would have definitely stolen some of those ballots and thrown them straight into the trash. The sun isn’t useful for much more than making our lives miserable as its rays beat down on our bent backs, forcing us to battle with heat and sweat as we remain hunched over the crops we harvest. My mother says that there are places where the sun isn’t quite so menacing...like in the Capitol. She says that in the winter months, in fact, people have to bundle up in coats, scarves, hats, gloves, and many more things we have never had the need for here in District Eleven. She says there’s this thing called snow that covers the ground, and if you let it touch your bare feet for too long, your toes would turn blue. But that would be nice. I like the color blue. The sky is blue, and water is blue, and you know what isn’t blue? The horrendous sun.

My mother speaks as if she’s been to the Capitol. But I know she hasn’t. Peacekeeper Uncle Gregory has shown her pictures before, but she hasn’t shown them to me. She says she doesn’t want to fill my head with fantasies that we’ll live there someday. This is our home, she says. District Eleven is our home. But her voice always trembles when she says it, as if every time she reaches out to say what she really wants to, there’s always a fence, an electric fence like the one that stretches around the perimeter of the district, that’s there to deliver the shocks.

Still, if she’s so concerned about not filling my head with fantasies, I don’t understand why my mother used to tell us stories about a place where the sun isn’t as menacing as it is here in the dry fields and where there are pieces of white that fall from the sky like tiny angels. It’s like she’s holding a piece of meat in front of a dog and never giving it to him. Except in this case, I’m the dog and the meat is some better life that we haven’t found yet. My mother is the kind of person who will gather the whole family together just to tell a useless story like that: some story about white falling from skies or whatever else she conjures from her imagination. We’re just like any other dysfunctional family for the most part, with a little bit of extra drama. A family that spies together stays together, right? Our house has always been littered with lies: we have cabinets and closets and drawers full of them. There are certainly even a few hiding behind my mother’s smile. My sister, Aubrey, and I been taught to keep secrets from the rest of the world; we’ve been taught the value of make believe. And we’ve been taught so well that our family isn’t just keeping lies from the rest of the world. Surely, we’re keeping lies from each other too.

I suppose we have the “best” lives in District Eleven, though. That’s what mom said. We have a small house that looks just like any others’ on the outside, but when you step inside, it’s apparent that our family is quite privileged in comparison to the rest of the townspeople who spend hours and hours working the farmland just to get a handful of dollars at the end of the day. Mom said we don’t want to flaunt our richness. We want to blend in, she says. We want to be normal. But what’s the point of having money if you can’t use it? When I was little, I never noticed that we were any different. I never realized that we had any more privilege than anyone else in the district. But now I understand that sitting around the dinner table is enough to set us apart from every one of our neighbors. But I still don’t understand why: why my mother wants us to live this way. What’s the point of getting all this money if using it would give away our secret? Mom even makes me work the land just like everyone else in my grade just to keep the increasing suspicion off of our doorstep. She encourages a little dirt beneath my fingernails and some calluses on my hands, even though we have more than enough money for nice clothes and soft skin.

It’s not worth it, I don’t think: every evening when we circle around the table to have dinner and when mom asks us if we’ve seen anything suspicious during the day. What’s the reward? A full stomach, a fake life, and a load of lies? I shake my head at the thought, continuing to plow the land. Sweat drips down my forehead, and I wipe it away with a single hand. My working pace getting slower and slower, and I’m becoming more and more distracted. There’s a boy next to me -- maybe a year older. It takes a few seconds before I recognize him: the Izar boy! The kid who was reaped a few years ago and had his brother in the games. Of course. I can’t help but take a glance towards his pockets, my hands itching to grab something. Something. Something. Anything. I feel my hands tensing and my chest tensing and my heart beating fast fast fast fast and I can’t stand this feeling I need to steal I need it I need it. I bump into the boy from the side, dropping my plow and putting a hand on his shoulder to steady him (or distract him) so that he doesn’t fall. “Oh, I’m so sorry. Man, you okay?” Meanwhile, my other hand has found it’s way to his pocket, and in only a matter of moments, I’ve transported a box of matches from his pocket to my own. Matches? What does he need those for?

An instant wave of gratification washes over me as I realize the matches are safe in my own pocket. I have succeeded: one tiny victory at a time, and who knows what’s next? I take my hand off the boy’s shoulder and listen as the bell rings, signaling the end of the work day. I smile, eager to get away from this boy and his slightly dark demeanor. I pick up my plow and flash him a smile before walking quickly in the other direction.