Jasmine Ricci D11 {fin}

Name: Jasmine Ricci

Age: 15

Gender: F

District: 11



Hi, there. My name is Jasmine Ricci, and I’m 15 years old. I live in District 11, so as you can imagine, I’m not exactly rich. In fact, my family is very poor, probably poorer than most because of my parents.

Let me get this out of the way. I hate them! They’ve never been nice to me, only treating me as a source of income. The one good thing they’ve done for me is set me up with a job at Farmer Fillion’s, Peter’s.

They think I’m ugly, too bone-thin to ever capture a guy’s attention. They tell me a lanky girl like me, standing 5’8” even at this age, isn’t worth loving. I’ll die alone, they say, with nobody to love me. Then, my bones, already so pronounced, will be all that remains of me. “You’re nothing but an albino rat,” they yell. They’re referencing my fingernails, gritty from the work I do and gnawed on constantly, my hair, so blonde it’s practically white, my teeth, far too crooked to be desirable, and my skin, almost as pale as paper. I’m not actually albino, but for some reason, my body refuses to tan like the rest of the district. I alternate between red and white with no in-between. I’ve been sunburnt so many times in my life that I’m practically immune to the pain, though the various markings on my upper back show what I’ve been through.

Yet for every nasty remark they throw my way, I know that when I go to work, Peter will have something nice to say. I think he sees me as the daughter he’s never had, so he’s always so kind to me. He tells me my eyes are as wonderful as the sky, the same shade of blue. When he goes outside, he sees my face mirrored in the sky’s beauty. My blonde hair, he remarks, streams down my back like the golden waves of grain in his field. He knows I prefer to smile with my lips together to avoid showing my teeth, so he tells me the two distinct pink lines are more beautiful than two white rows could ever be. I don’t quite buy that one as much, but I appreciate that he tries to make me feel better.

Between the two narratives I get, from my parents and from Peter, I don’t really know how to evaluate my looks. I know that I dislike my teeth and the sun-caused marks on my back, but as long as I keep my mouth closed and keep myself covered, I think I’m decently attractive. I hope.

Luckily, everyone else I know in the district is really kind. In school, my friends know the hardships I go through, so they always look out for me. My teachers know that I’m not lazy or careless, so even if I don’t understand something, they generally don’t give me a hard time. They work through the issue with me until I understand. They’re all just so kind and gentle. To be honest, I think everyone except my parents is good, and I just had to be oh-so-lucky and get stuck with the two biggest pieces of trash in the area.

OK, maybe I should clarify a bit. I don’t want you to think I’m naïve or stupid or anything like that. Trust me, my feet are firmly planted on the ground, and while I may be pretty tall, my head isn’t in the clouds. No, I don’t actually think everyone in the world is 100% pure and innocent. I’ve seen my fair share of people involved in the same activities as my parents, drugs and drinking, which makes me wonder if they’re the same as them. I know that taking drugs and drinking doesn’t make someone evil seen by default, but still the thoughts remain. I’ve watched the games for years, so I know that people are capable of committing cruel deeds. True, some do it out of necessity, like the victors from our district. But there’s always a few with a genuine darkness to them.

The truth is that, because I’m kind to others, people tend to be kind in return. I think that by interacting with me, they want to be better people, so that’s what they become. Some might say I’m wrong, that I’m too trusting and am a horrible judge of character. That the only people I’ve properly pegged are my parents and a few of my close friends, and that I interact with some horrible people on a day-to-day basis without realizing. Some might say I let people use me and abuse my trust. But that’s not true. Surely, if I can recognize that darkness exists in the world, if I see it in my own parents, I’d know if it was staring me in the face under another guise, right?

The truth is my parents are the only bad people in my life. Everyone else I interact with is goodhearted. Take Peter, for example. I’ve been working for him since I was only twelve. As I said, setting up this job was the one good thing my parents have done for me. For the first twelve years of my life they barely kept me alive provided for me, so when my birthday rolled around they celebrated by coming into my room and giving me this one present. “You’ve been nothing but a burden since the day you were born, nothing but a drain of our resources. We work hard, and it’s about time you start doing the same. If you’re eligible for the Reaping, you’re eligible for a job.” Clearly being the one responsible for every. Single. Chore. In the house hadn’t been enough for them. They wanted me to bring in money. More money to support their disgusting drug habits. The very ones that made us as poor as we were, as poor as we still are.

But I digress.

They told me they already had someone waiting to take me on. Later that day, we went over to one of the many farms in the district. A sign by the pathway to the owner’s house read “Farmer Peter Fillion.” As my parents knocked on the door, I was scared, I’ll be honest. I didn’t know who this man was, but since my parents were close to him, I feared the worst. Yet, when the door swung open, I instantly felt myself relax. Standing there was a man around my parents’ age, early to mid-thirties. Age had been kind to him, though he could still certainly pass as my father.

“Rose, Matt,” he greeted my parents with a smile. He embraced them one at a time, his tanned muscles visible through his button-down, typical for a farmer I suppose, then turned his eyes toward me.

“And you must be the birthday girl, Jasmine! Happy Birthday, sweetie!” My parents smiled, a sight to which I was unaccustomed, but as I stood there taking in the scene, I noticed the corners of their mouths flip over as they started to glare at me.

“Just because it’s your birthday don’t mean you forget your manners, Jasmine,” my father scolded. “What do you say?”

“Thank you, sir,” I hurriedly replied, embarrassed, knowing that my parents would more likely than not remind me of this moment later on.

“There’s no need for formalities, Jasmine. You’ll be working for me, yes, but the job will take up most of the day, so we’d be better off on a first name basis. Call me Peter.”

That day, he explained what my duties would be. A lot of the work involved running through the fields, picking grain or helping plant it. In his orchards, I would climb the trees and get the various fruit ready for harvesting. Seeing how thin I was, Peter didn’t give me many strength-based tasks, but I did end up having to run a lot to get my tasks done on time. To get everything done, I would have to come to the farm right after school, where I would stay until sunset. In the mornings, I was expected to put in two hours before school started helping out as well.

The next day was my first, and the work took up 7 hours. I walked home with $35 dollars in my hands, happy to have some money of my own. I should have expected that my parents would instantly rip it out of my hands, telling me not to “think of hiding any of it from us. We’ll give you how much you deserve.” According to them, I didn’t deserve a single penny.

Peter, on the other hand, told me he felt he was underpaying me. He wouldn’t give me any more money, as he knew that would only benefit my parents, not me, but he’d compensate by feeding me over the course of the day. That worked out just fine with everyone. My parents had one less mouth to feed breakfast and dinner, and since they figured I was eating enough in school anyway, they didn’t feed me lunch either. I, on the other hand, got to eat meals that were miles better than any of the slop my parents had fed me. Over time, I grew stronger and fuller. I was no longer deathly thin, though I’m still skinny enough for my parents to mock my weight.

Because Peter was so much gentler and caring, I started looking forward to going to the farm. Eventually, we made an agreement that allowed him to extend my hours. He came up to my parents and told them his harvest was huge this year and that he wanted to expand operations in the future, so he would need me for more hours. My parents are only sorters, who separate the bad grain from the good grain before it gets shipped to the Capitol, so they didn’t know the details of farming and readily agreed. After all, it meant having the house to themselves on the weekends and more money in their pockets.

As I said, I think he sees me as the daughter he never had, maybe his only family. He doesn’t talk much about his family, but from what I understand he was an only child and never married. He doesn’t say anything about his parents, so I can only guess what they were like. Maybe they were as cruel as, or worse than, mine, and he’d rather forget about them. What I think is more likely is that they were as good as he is, and he worries telling me about them will only upset me because mine could never compare.

As I spent more time with Peter, he took on the role of a surrogate father. If there was ever a day when I finished work early, which was rare, but it happened, we would sit and talk or go walking through the fields, his arm around me, holding me close in a protective embrace. Unlike my parents, he genuinely cared for my well-being. He would ask me about school, make sure I was happy and healthy.

That’s probably also why he enjoyed holding me close so much, as a sign of his love. His touches were, are, always so gentle. His hands are always so warm and caressing. My parents never touched me like that, but they never loved me. Even now that I bring home money, they see me as nothing beyond that, a source of additional drug money. Peter, on the hand, never fails to show his love. His hugs, his kisses, and his touches are only compliments to the endless compliments he pays me and the support he provides.

At this point, there are nights when I don’t return home. My parents don’t mind, don’t care. Peter only has one bed in his house, but we fit without issue, especially when he holds me close to him, arms wrapped around me in a way that makes me feel warm and safe. Peter’s done so much for me, I can only imagine what else he can do to show his love. No matter what, I know I will always be grateful.

Though I do have two questions that sometimes play in my mind:

1. Why is a man as kind and gentle as Peter living alone, unmarried?

2. Why would he associate himself with the likes of my parents?

Not that it matters. If either of those situations were different, I wouldn’t be here right now. Which reminds me, it was nice meeting you, but I have to head over to work.