[92nd] The Reaping - District 4

j u l l i e t t e .

Juliette was having a bad time. It had started as soon as she’d been rudely woken up.

Get up princess, it’s reaping day.

So what if she was spoiled? Take it up with mom and dad, yeah? She’d rolled over in bed, only for her older sister to yank the covers off and drag her off of the mattress.
Rude. Katrina had been trying to mother her since they’d been little, for all the good it had done. Julie had figured out pretty quickly that school was not for her, and neither was career training. She’d made friends with kids a couple years older than her and she’d gotten to go to a lot of parties.

She stumbled over to the sink and rubbed at her face blearily. The party scene in four involved a lot of beachside bonfires and underage drinking. It made her feel ill, but it was what all the cool kids were doing so it had to be good right? She told herself she’d get used to the taste eventually.

After using way too much mouthwash, she’d pulled on enough of an outfit that no one would bother her and hastily redid her eyeliner and a few other things. She had to be presentable enough, and then once reaping day was over, she’d crawl back into bed and forget that stupid things like the sun existed.

She barely remembered getting to the town square, even with Irene and Katrina poking and prodding her, she kept shutting her eyes under the sunglasses and hoped beyond hope that neither of them had ratted her out to their parents yet. She’d gotten maybe 4 hours of sleep? That sounded about right.

She yawned, feeling the cottonmouth and wanting to gag. What was the legal drinking age in Panem again? Whatever it was, her foggy mind reminded her that she was too young to be knocking those back and her liver was going to make her suffer for it in 20 years or so.

Juliette Sykes!

Of course, that was assuming she lived that long.

She took an unsteady step forward and then let out a wail, for all her posturing and partying, for all of her trying to be someone, the fact remained that she was too young for all of this.

Too young to be drinking. Too young to be smoking. Too young to be considering dropping out of school and definitely too young to die.

k a t r i n a .

There’s something special about the ocean. Something real purifying like. At least that’s what runs through my mind when I break the surface and gasp for air. The early morning chill hits me like a brick and I shiver without meaning to. It’s part of my reaping day ritual, you know? Swim for an hour or two before heading to the town square. A few years ago, the peacekeepers on dock duty gave me crap for it, but then I hit puberty.

Lotta people give me a wide berth now that I’m 6’1 with the build of an athletic swimmer. Hell, I won a gold medal in the Panem Olympics when I was younger. That should have been all the credential people need. It’s just water dammit. Or did the ever benevolent Capitol buy the ocean when I wasn’t looking?

Someone blows a whistle on shore and I sigh but head back towards it. Peacekeeper telling me to come in. He’s been watching me the whole time, and I doubt its outta concern for my safety. God, what a creep. At least it ain’t Officer Clay. Everyone knows to stay away from that bastard. But I make it back to where I tethered my dinghy, even with that fucker’s eyes glued to my backside and fish out that bag I’d left in it.

Only takes a few minutes to shrug on a pair of jeans, grab a white t-shirt with a red flannel to go over it and slip on my favorite and only pair of steel-toed boots. I know someone that needs to be introduced to them too. As I turn to go, I rap my knuckles on the hull.

“I’ll be back for ya, don’t you worry.”

And then I flip officer lifeguard off as I leave the dock, He’s too much a chump to do anything about it.

The throng grows as I make my way off the beach. Everybody looks to be feeling good, and why wouldn’t they? We have the best careers. What sucks though, is finding work that utilizes those skills after you age out. Guess I’ll catch lobsters or swordfish or something. Gotta say that lately though, I ain’t picking up what my trainers are putting down. I read my books, even though I don’t seem the type. Historically speaking, being a career means jackshit.

Coach chalks it up to lower district rats fighting like wild animals when they get cornered but I’m not so sure. Feel like coach is underestimating some of ‘em. I get what he’s saying. I, and people like me have an edge. I ain’t bruising my knuckles for nothing, but I know whether it’s in the hands of somebody that knows how to use it or not, a knife can still gut ya like a fish.

We have one other edge too. I mean we have five, count’em five living victors. Only other districts that can say that are 1 and 12. So the Capitol should really pull the career funding away from those losers in 2 and put it somewhere useful. District four is where it’s at. We had back to back to victors before that great-great grandnephew or whatever from nine went and fucked our streak up. Ain’t nobody had back to back victors since those retirees in 11.

Man, look at them all up there on the stage. The girl who lived (and if the tabloids are to believed, wishes she was dead) looking all at sea, little broken Becky all grown up, Nixie “Pixie” Summers, and Richie Rich. No sign of old man Krigel, but he’s a whatchacallit.

A recluse these days.

Y’know, I don’t care about the celebrity gossip but it’s all anyone talks about in the career centers. Can’t get away from it, even when I’m training alone. Everybody’s trying to be the next Hailsham, the next Grey, and so on and they missed the point. Not me. I’m not trying to be the next anybody, I’m trying to be the first me.

Understand?

All I need is a shot.

Juliette Sykes!

Speak of the devil and he’ll appear. Would you look at that?

My stomach flips, feeling that age-old challenge. It’s that adrenaline rush that kicks in when I’m excited or when I’m nervous. Maybe both.

Don’t get me wrong. I care about my sister’s well-being. But I care about making a mark too.
Just—not the kind she’s making. Fuck’s sake, at this rate she’s gonna piss herself.

“Oh for—quit crying twerp,” I scowl darkly, feeling the heat of anger rush to my face. “Way to be a goddamn embarrassment in front of the whole district.” And in that moment, my mind is made up. It doesn’t take too long to push through the throng and shove Julie back into her line.

“Hey, I volunteer!” I shout as the corners of my mouth turn up in a grin. The heaviness of my steel toed boots crunch out a staccato rhythm on the gravel underfoot as I swagger up to the stage. All eyes are on me now, but that’s never bothered me. There are two kinds of people in this world. Those who make things happen and those who let things happen to them. I’ll give you three guesses which kind I am, and the first two don’t count.

I’m making history here and after that cash prize sets my family up for life, I’m gonna use that clout to buy myself a private island off the coast of four and swim whenever the hell I want to. So I take my stand behind the podium and imagine my name up in lights like the greats and the not so greats sitting in the chairs behind me, and when I lean over to the microphone I crack my neck into it so that its audible to the whole district.

First impressions are important you know.

“Katrina Sykes,” I say with a cocksure smile to the district's victors. "Save me a seat for next year, will ya?” I turn to go as the next kid comes up and shoot Sailor a playful wink as I stand off to the side. Sure, she’s way too old for me but there’s a chance she’ll be my stylist. Doesn’t hurt to let easy on the eyes over there know what I’m about.

Like I said, first impressions.

I yawn and stretch, working out some of the kinks in my back. It’s just a competition. I’ve been winning those since grade school. So these other kids better watch the fuck out.

Hurricane Katrina is headed their way.