Chapter Text
District 9 was like staring out into freedom but knowing it was a lie. District 9 was like tasting abundance but never having your fill. District 9 was like running, running running running, but getting tired too soon and realizing you were still in the same place.
This was something Neela knew with crystal clarity. The wide, stretching plains of gently rolling fields, dotted only with token clusters of spruce trees and occasional streams taunting with the memory of freedom, of openness, but only she could taste it because she knew what freedom was. The sheer amount of grain passing through her fingers - sand in an hourglass but the hourglass kept being turned and the sand kept falling - whispered of bread, pastry, bun, cake, cookie, and other things she'd forgotten about. As one of the largest districts, life should brim with travel and culture and opportunity. Instead, stuck somewhere on what had once been southern Canada, Neela walked to school along the cheery river that surely descended from a distant mountain, cold as it was, and tried not to think about the annual reaping. It was an old dance, but with only two years to go before being free, it was one she was growing good at. Besides, pretense was one of her fortes. She could pretend her district didn't stretch far into a southern warmth while she was kept to one of the district towns up north, she could pretend not to know what a better life was because that'd drive her insane, she could pretend a teacher's cough didn't sound like decay and death.
The a low hill's sudden incline, a moment of peace atop its golden-green vantage point, and then down the gently curving road to the school. The packed dirt was dry to walk on, rid of the puddles and mud pools that plagued the area during spring, but Neela still kept an eye on the younger children rushing past, chasing each other to the miserable plot of land serving as yard. The school was in an old administrative building and the children congregating there all looked similar: shades of blond and red hair, light eyes, pale eyelashes, square builds. Some had freckles, others snaggled teeth. All, even those from the strange, precarious middle class emerging from rock bottom, had short, stubby nails and rough hands. Life was not so good parents could afford sending their children to a school without said children having to lend a helping hand in home, garden, and community. To call her own family middle class was a joke, but Neela was the only one who was in on it.
"Careful," she called out sharply to three young girls running towards the river bend circling the school. "The current's still strong."
The girls glanced distrustfully down at the water, appraisingly up at her, and decided it wasn't worth it, leaving the giggling river to play further away from its icy call. At the end of summer, when the waters were quiet and soothing, she would teach them how to swim. Of course, knowing how to swim did nothing when falling into waters so cold the body cramped up and you gasped for breath but only swallowed water instead. But it remained the least Neela could do.
"Miss Jane is sick," said Old Pol, a woman as small and wrinkled as a raisin who was very particular about hierarchies. That was probably why Old Pol had been headmistress since the war. "You'll be Miss Neela today."
"Yes ma'am," said Neela, setting down her thin, worn rucksack in the teacher's corner. It was something she regularly did. Jane, nearly as old as Old Pol, was sick often. In a year and a half, when Neela turned eighteen, she'd take her place as teacher for the youngest.
About to leave the room, something rare caught her eye. Somebody had placed a wooden bowl on the teacher's table. In it lay apples. District 11 may be the one famous for lush orchards and groves, but District 9 was lovingly labeled Panem's Breadbasket, and though it specialized in grain, apples grew well here. It remained a strange sight, though. They weren't even bad, or wrinkled. Just there. For free.
"The Games are tomorrow," said Voss, the unusually dark-haired man teaching those aged fifteen to eighteen. "Chances are it'll be one of our kids. An apple won't do anything, but I've learned that having something sweet doesn't hurt either."
"I suppose," Neela said quietly, and took the juiciest-looking one without remorse. "Maybe this year it'll be kids from one of the shacks. They always have more tesserae."
District 9 was one of the largest by area, and though its population only middling, there were another two schools on the other end of town. Only those who didn't care if their children could count sent their kids there, though. Everybody knew that if you went to the shacks, all you really did was sit in for the necessary lessons before being pulled out to work. Officially only those eighteen and older worked. Reality, as in most districts, differed. The Peacekeepers didn't really care as long as there were no major incidents. The district had three towns connected by a heavily guarded rail track that cut straight through fields and forest: the northernmost, where Neela lived, called North, then Middle, and finally South. Uninspired names, utilitarian, reminders that their position was more important than a real identity. Except for reaping day, only those with special blue permission documents were allowed to travel between them, like the mayor, or the Peacekeepers, or other administrative authorities. When the wind came from southwest, Neela could hear the trains thundering along the old tracks at night, transporting wheats, barley, oat, and rye, and turnip, carrot, radish... Things that could survive the taiga landscape.
"The odds aren't in their favor," Voss hummed, finished scribbling something on a paper, and left the room. It was lilt only by an oil lamp and watery weak sunshine filtering through the windows, which had been recently washed with sponges and rainwater. There wasn't much to light up here, sparsely furnished as it was, but its gray and brown simplicity, in the center of which shone bright red and green apples, didn't seem like a bad place to spend the next two decades. There was a simple peace in it, a simple honor.
Neela headed out onto the yard again. It'd filled with more children, most playing happily despite tomorrow's looming presence. Laughter rung in the air. Somebody threw grass. Another braided hair. The older ones were tense, however, as though the winter's frost had returned to lock their joints. She could feel that same fear nipping at her heels.
Old Pol rung an old cow bell with vigor that surprised Neela to this day. The sound cut through the laughter, and the teachers began calling out for their students to come inside. There were three classes, each overflowing with students: seven to ten, then eleven to fourteen, and finally the class she should be in, taught by Voss. Rumor had it richer districts had one class per year. Rumor had it poorer ones couldn't separate their children at all.
"Are you teaching today," said little Carla happily, grabbing her best friend's hand. "Phew! I didn't do my homework, please don't tell Mom!"
With that, Neela's younger sister ducked into the classroom. She had many sisters, and many brothers too. Carla, at nine, was the only one in this class, thankfully. She'd lose all authority if another sibling got comfortable in the chairs as she tried to teach malnourished children about food pyramids.
Old Pol grabbed Neela's arm once the last student hurried into the classroom. Her grip was cold and tight.
"We have to go over the Games' history today. The usual. Do you know what that means?"
"Yes ma'am," said Neela again.
Old Pol dragged herself over to the next teacher, and Neela shut the classroom door behind herself. This room, too, was gray and brown and utilitarian, all pine on concrete. The lights that flickered on when she smacked the button were a cold off-white that made each child look ghostly.
"Good morning," she greeted in a loud, clear voice, and smiled.
"Good morning Miss Neela," they chorused back, even little Carla, who was still glowing with delight that Jane wouldn't catch her slacking. Each seat was filled, despite some being home sick with colds and flues, but the wave of hopelessness that usually washed over Neela when realizing she'd have to wrangle over thirty kids all alone remained absent. It had the past ten times.
"Tomorrow, as you know, is a big day," she opened with, speaking in a slow, carrying voice and keeping her back straight like she'd practiced. "Many of you have older siblings whose names will be in the bowl. Others have cousins, or friends. The Hunger Games is dramatic event that has gone on for now 53 years. Who here knows why it exists?"
At first everybody glanced at each other, but then one boy shot his hand up, followed by his friends, and suddenly the entire class wanted to prove their knowledge. Within moments a few were shouting it out loud.
"Silence," Neela called, tapping the cracked blackboard with a pointing stick made of a twig. The buzz quieted. "Yes, you there."
"Because the districts rebelled," said the boy who'd stuck his hand up first. "The Capitol punishes them because they made a really bad war that killed lotsa people."
"Punishes us," an older boy corrected.
"Us," amended the little boy.
Neela nodded, pretending disseminating propaganda didn't bruise her heart. "You're precisely right. Thirteen Districts rebelled, and a terrible war ensued. The Capitol emerged victorious after wiping District Thirteen off the map - that means completely destroying it, until there's nothing left - and created the Hunger Games as a punishment, and as a reminder." She gazed across the tiny round faces, and thought, none of this is your fault how could you be sent to death how can they be so heartless. "A reminder that nothing is as terrible as war, as families being torn apart, as starvation. Can anybody tell me what starvation is?"
Fewer hands this time. Those who weren't sure avoided her keen gaze, Carla and her friends included.
"Yes," she nodded at a girl with copper pigtails. "What does it mean?"
"It means being really hungry."
"Very good," smiled Neela, unwilling to let the disconcerting topic make her cold and unfriendly. She was already seen as stern, the impatience of knowing more than others made her seem that way from a young age. The best way she could help these children was to make them like coming to school so she could teach them about the world. That meant not scaring or boring them, and not saying something that could get her fired. Like that the Games were bad.
The girl brightened.
"Starvation," Neela went on, "means being so hungry you feel sick, but there being no food to make you feel better. Sometimes it can lead to death."
The girl stuck her hand up again, and upon receiving a nod, asked: "Do people die like that in the Games?"
"They... Starvation weakens them, but it's very insidious. Sneaky," she clarified automatically. "It makes them weak, so they can't run or fight when someone or something attacks. What's even more dangerous is dehydration. Can anybody tell me what that is?"
Two hesitant hands. Neela picked the student who hadn't answered a question yet.
"It's when you're super thirsty but there's no water."
"Correct," nodded Neela. "Dehydration is when there is no more water, and you die because your body runs out of water as well. People die of that in the Hunger Games. People die of that in summer in southern districts, too."
One of the boys by the window blurted out: "Why would we do a war if it's so terrible?"
"We raise our hands in this class," Neela said meaningfully.
He raised his hand, and after she nodded, asked the same question again.
"The Districts waged their war," she began slowly, tasting each word before speaking it, "because they didn't like how the Capitol ruled. They rebelled to overthrow it and put a new order in place."
There. Textbook. Nothing to note.
She clapped her hands together. "Now! Let's put these new words up on the board, shall we?"
Turning around, she breathed out, closed her eyes for a moment, and gathered herself. Then she put the chalk to the board and wrote:
HUNGER GAMES
REBELLION
WAGE WAR
STARVATION
DEHYDRATION
PUNISHMENT
"Whoever chose the names Hunger Games, did so because of the starvation the war caused," Neela spoke, using the stick to point at each word on the board when she said it. "The Games are meant to punish us for rebelling, and many die of dehydration in them. An other common reason for death is disease. Disease," she went on, and put the word in capital letters on the board as well, "means sickness. If you have a disease, you are ill. Fever, flu, cough."
"Why's it spelled weird," a girl asked.
"Hands."
She put her hand up. "Why's it spelled weird."
"Because those are the rules," Neela smiled primly. "We'll go over spelling today, don't worry. The ea of disease is the same as in easy, or mean, or fleas. Go on, write down the words."
Those who had pen and paper, about a third of the class, scribbled it down in notebooks. The rest used charcoal on the white tables, something they'd later have to wipe away with their sleeves. As they wrote, she recited propagandist information about the games that Old Pol required all teachers to give. Only some listened. Since she kept tapping the board to make them keep writing, they probably wouldn't remember it well.
"Everybody done?" Neela asked chipperly once nobody was writing anymore. "Good. Let's go over double consonants again!"
She quickly wiped off the board and began writing HAPPY, GLASS, SLIPPER
"See these double letters in the middle of each word? Can anybody tell me what these words would sound like if there was only one such letter? Here, I'll write the wrong, one-letter version down..."
By the time school ended, Neela was exhausted. After ushering the last kid out of the classroom she took her time cleaning the blackboard and rearranging anything she'd used, like the old posters of different grains that the kids should learn to spell. Carla had been instructed to tell their parents Neela would run late and help with the dishes rather than the food preparation. Finally, after scrubbing away the black smudges on a table a kid hadn't cleaned well enough, she sunk into its chair. It was old, but had been made with care and carried her weight with nary a creak. Small, fit for children, her legs bending awkwardly in strange angles to avoid pressing against the underside of the table.
Mattis, she remembered vaguely. The kid who sat here was called Mattis. Bright, energetic, easily distracted. He wasn't old enough to get reaped yet. Thank goodness. Nor was little Carla, or the second youngest, Cailee. But the third youngest, her only younger brother, Cassen, was thirteen. Neela was the middle child, with a younger brother and then two younger sisters, and the opposite arrangement for the older ones: the eldest was a girl called Gemma, then there were two brothers, Gabe and Gert. Gert had turned nineteen yesterday, making her and Cassen the only ones who could be reaped. Gemma had even moved out and was expecting her second child, while Gabe's new wife had moved into the family home. It was a very crowded home. Too many people, always too many people.
Another Poppyn, the teachers always commented when Neela joined a class, are there any more after you?
Why have so many children in a world that wanted so desperately to destroy them? Why have children at all? But that was a hypocritical question. Neela loved children, even if she pitied them more, and wondered if convincing herself to not have any would mean letting the Capitol win. She'd love to have kids one day. As a teacher, she could more easily catch the eye of somebody working an administrative job in a ministerial office than she could as a simple farmer's daughter. Her father's exact job title didn't matter if he still had to go out and sow during the harvest rush. A good life, with an airy apartment, sounded lovely. There'd be children, two or three, and when the first whispers of the rebellion would start, she'd take them and go to where District Thirteen was rumored to be and live an ordinary life as far from harm as possible.
No high dreams, not a step out of line, only quiet acts of kindness until the nightmare was over and she could live out the remainder of her life breathing deeply and freely.
"My pay," she demanded upon entering the headmistress' rickety office. Small and cramped, it remained a den filled with Old Pol's desperate longing for safety and stability through power. Nothing could touch her if she was necessary. Nothing could touch her if she was acknowledged.
"You're under eighteen," answered Old Pol without looking up from her papers.
"Yes," nodded Neela, calm despite the zap of impatience whispering down her spine. It had been a long day. "just like I was last week, and the month before that. Pay me another way, then. Right is right."
After that it was a haggle. It always was. Old Pol thought Neela had done her duty well, but that duty was duty. Neela thought Old Pol should value her employees and prove Neela was making a wise decision staying in school to teach. Old Pol thought Neela would stay regardless because there were no better options. Neela thought maybe she could go for an administrative job. Old Pol thought Neela knew better than to delude herself. Neela though she might stop being deluded if Old Pol would pay her for a hard day's work.
In the end, she received a jar of cherries from Old Pol's backyard and a bit of goat cheese. Neela thanked the old crone graciously and, once she'd made it over the tiny hill, gobbled up the cheese. She'd split the apple with Cassen, who needed the vitamins, and share the cherries with the family.
"You're home earlier than I thought," said Mom from the kitchen when Neela shouldered open the door, jar of cherries in hand. "We've got the food, help Cassen and see to Grandma."
Neela avoided Carla and Cailee running through the dining area, which would have been large if filled with a normal table but was instead cramped due to the massive one in its place, and joined Mom in the kitchen anyway.
"I got this," she said simply.
Mom - who was actually called Gemma too but that always got confusing - glanced away distractedly from the garden grown potatoes she was dicing and took a moment to light up.
"Oh, marvelous, hide that up there will you," she said hurriedly, the way she usually spoke since people were often cut off here, "now off you go, kitchen's too cramped."
Gabe was still out with Dad overseeing the turnip plots (much like Gemma was named for her mother, Gabe was named for his father) and Gert worked as a simple harvester for now, so Mom was being helped in the kitchen by the newest addition to the family, Gabe's wife Anja. Neela shared a wall with the couple, and thought it wouldn't be long before her sister-in-law grew with child.
Not more kids in here, there's too many of us, it's too crowded.
Neela was happy to leave the kitchen, once again sidestepping her younger sisters playing. Much like the dining area, the house would have been large if not for all the people squeezed into it. It had two floors and a cramped attic, where Grandma lived, fitted with actual windows and functional insulation and running water. With five of its inhabitants earning wages, the Poppyn family could afford it.
Faded curtains were pulled shut in the narrow room Cassen rested. At thirteen, he was going through a growth spurt that left him gangly and awkward, all knees and elbows. Neela had looked the same at that age, and knew that like the others in the family, Cassen would soon grow into a stockier frame, all shoulders and thighs instead.
"I got you an apple," she said as greeting. The room smelled of shut-in coughs, but he didn't look as pale anymore. "Here, you have half."
She cut the apple in half with practiced ease, deseeded it with a few deft jabs, and tossed the riper half to her brother in a kind, easy-to-catch arc. He bit into it without hesitation, juices spilling down his chin. Neela carefully wiped her pocket knife clean on her skirt before sliding it back into the leather sheath and pocketing it again.
"Where'd you get it?" Cassen asked through a mouthful, staring up at her with blue-green eyes. "Was it a boy?"
Neela snorted. "No. I got it from school, had to jump in for Jane again."
"I don't think she'll live very long," he said frankly, taking another bite. "She's older than Grandma."
"Don't speak through a mouthful," she chastised gently. "Swallow first, there you go."
Cassen rolled his eyes. "You're being teacher-y again, it's awful."
"See if I bring you apples again, then."
Cassen changed his tune very quickly, turning Neela's expression smug and sharp which in turn had him groaning and telling her to be nice to him because he was sick, didn't she know.
"Better do your homework," she reminded before leaving the sickroom. With a family this large, there was always somebody sick and this room, initially a storage space but turned into a livable place after Dad sawed a window into the wall, was always occupied by somebody. "Your teacher won't accept it not being done just because you were sick."
"Yes she will," said Cassen. "She never cares. There's too many of us, and besides, others can't even read. Only you care."
"And I will make her care about your homework," Neela threatened before closing the door. She'd be sent to bring him supper soon, probably.
But first-
"Grandma," she greeted, climbing into the attic. Like the sickroom, it was dark due to pulled-shut curtains and smelled of coughs since she refused to open the window. Grandma refused to do most things, on principle.
"Girl," she croaked. "Food?"
"No, Grandma," Neela smiled and placed a mug of lukewarm water by the old woman's bed. "Here, for you."
"With mint?"
"Yes, Grandma, just the way you like it."
Grandma slurped half the mug's water before taking a long enough break to say: "The mint's grown weak. Tend to it, girl. Tend to it."
"Yes, Grandma."
Grandma put the mug down, protested when Neela tucked the blankets up high, grumbled "I can do that myself" when Neela hung a reaping dress on the wardrobe to let it air overnight, and complained when Neela forced the window open.
"Close that thing, girl!"
"Yes, Grandma, soon," said Neela patiently. "I'll just to tend to the mint first."
Grandma muttered something and went back to sleep. Neela climbed back down the attic ladder and went downstairs to set the table.
"Everything alright with them," asked Mom, focused on the onions she was cooking. "No bad changes?"
"Everything's normal, Cassen's doing better," she reported, and began setting the table. The cutlery and tableware was mismatched but perfectly functional, better than most. "I opened Grandma's window, you didn't do it this morning. I'll close it again after dinner."
"I didn't? Oh well, good it's done now, then." Mom waved with her wooden spoon in the direction of the hidden cherries. "I thought we could eat them tomorrow. A treat after the reaping. Sweet things are always enjoyed best in company, and nothing is sweeter than relief."
Neela didn't answer right away. The reminder of the Hunger Games always sent nausea roiling low in her gut this time of year. "We should start growing mint again."
"That grows like weed," Anja spoke up for the first time. "Best keep to potatoes, beets if you really want to. There's only so much space, Nella."
"Neela," said Neela, suddenly hard and sharp as struck flint. Too many people, middle child, always fussing, always giving, she did it gladly but acknowledge what I do remember my name I don't ask much but I demand that one sliver. "My name is Neela."
The sound of the front door opening trembled in the air, followed by loud, argumentative voices belonging to Dad, Gabe, and Gert. The house got even more crowded, and Neela wondered if Old Pol needed somebody to help in her house. She certainly wouldn't get bustled around like that there, and as she sat down to dig into potato, kale, and onion, the same food as yesterday and last week and last month, thought that there, she wouldn't simply be part of a gradient either. Gemma was gone, but she'd had auburn hair, and Gabe had reddish brown, and Gert was a bright ginger, while Neela's hair was strawberry blond. Cassen, though not at the table, had dirty blond hair, while Cailee was golden and Carla's hair was almost white.
There's too many of us, she thought again, barely able to hear her own thoughts over the laughter and shouts and impatient snaps. Please don't take any of them from me, please don't let their names be drawn.
On the morning of the reaping, Neela woke up on time. She let Mom wake the younger children and got started with breakfast, throwing out some of the herbs that were a poisonous cousin to the ones they were meant to be growing.
"Learn to tell them apart, dammit," she snapped at Gert, who blinked blearily at her. "We could've spent the day throwing up on live camera, can you imagine how terrible that'd be?"
"Sorry," he yawned. "Is food ready soon?"
"If you'd help out, then yes," Neela muttered, and Gert moved to help. It was a strange world, void of sexism in some ways yet riddled with it in others. "Take the warm water to Grandma. If she asks if there's mint, say it's a special new blend today. She can't taste the difference anyway. Up you go, shoo!"
Ordinarily he'd snap at her, or comment on her unusual temper. Not today, though. Gert understood today was different. Neela never spoke much at home, save if somebody asked her something, but when she did her voice was different from the rest: slow, deliberate. Everybody wanted to be heard, and usually she was drowned out in their chaos, but when she decided she had to say something she never rushed it.
But.
Just now her voice had come out in a hurried stab.
Once he'd left, she stole a single cherry from the jar and savored its sour-sweet flavor while honeying the porridge. Honey was only for birthdays and special occasions, and surely no occasion was more special than today. Death came knocking, dressed in glitter and pearls and camera flashes. If only she'd had salt, but salt was a luxury only the mayor and head Peacekeeper had in District 9.
She set the pot of porridge on the table, boiled water with a few dried nettles to give it flavor, and retrieved the herbal spread from the fridge. Put plates, mugs, and scattered cutlery on the table. Replaced flowers in the vase. Dad entered with a lovely loaf of bread from the bakery, nothing like the simple one Mom makes, and Neela forced a smile and said something sweet and meaningless, but her nerves were growing colder and colder and soon they'd shatter into a million shards of razor ice. He left again, shouting at Carla and Cailee to be quick with their baths, and somewhere else in the house Gabe began arguing with Anja about tesserae. Anja was very proud to live in a real house in town rather than one of the huts most farmers lived in, and considered her marriage to be an upward step on the social ladder. Gabe was of the opinion the family could do with an extra tesserae for grain and oil. Anja thought this was absurd, only the poor needed that. Gabe pointed out they, too, were poor. Anja countered they weren't as poor.
"It increases chances of one of us dying!" Anja eventually interrupted in a shriek. Neela thought it was about time somebody mentioned this. "If you want more grain and oil then you should've put your name in a hundred times last year!"
Anja, at eighteen, could still be reaped. Gabe burst out crying and apologized and before long they were telling each other they loved each other until death.
Neela silently finished setting up the table. By the time she was done most had taken a bath, filling the kitchen, and her hair was dry. Avoiding Grandma, who made a rare trip down from her attic, she fled to the room she'd shared with Gemma until a few years back. Now it was just hers. It meant, of course, that it was stuffed with the family's winter clothes and such things since she was considered to have extra space, but it was still hers. A moment of safety.
She breathed out, jagged and weak, and sunk down on the floor by her bed. The apron she wore over her reaping dress was the same color as the floor, as though merging with it, pulling her along into the grainy wood. It wouldn't be a bad way to disappear.
My name is only in six times. Cassen's in twice. All our names are in the minimum required. We're fortunate. I'm fortunate.
Only in this world would middle class mean not signing up for death in an arena more times than necessary. It garnered dislike, of course, but the Poppyns never bragged about it like the other few lucky families did. They knew better. When Mom and Dad were of reaping age, they'd both still had to buy tesserae. Not many, but enough to resolve that their own children should never have to buy any.
Burying her face in her hands, Neela fought tears. Crying always made her face puffy and blotchy, and she didn't want her younger siblings to see her like that. Besides, if she gave in and cried now she was likelier to be unable to hold it back later when one of her classmates was potentially called up, and she didn't want the kids she'd be teaching see her wailing. Kind but firm, they should think of her, steady, patient, good. Somebody they could come to with any issues and know they were in good hands, hands that wouldn't shake or strike. She doubted she'd be able to do much, but wanting help was more than most did as it was.
"Sunsets," she whispered to herself, "sunsets and bunnies and swimming in summer."
Smiling faces, laughter, open fields, the comfort of home, the safety of family. Friends high in a crooked pine, telling her to come up there, telling her not to mind the needles. Warm blankets, secret smiles, delight when realizing today's teacher was Miss Neela, not Miss Jane. Kindness. Humanity.
Neela breathed a little easier. Things would be fine. Today was no longer than any other day, it'd be over soon. Getting ahold of herself, she got to her feet and hung the apron on the hook by her door. She was still clean from her tepid morning bath, but didn't want to risk smelling like porridge and opened the jar on her bedside table. It contained various flowers soaking in water. She'd prepared it a few days ago, carefully selecting strong-smelling flowers that wouldn't give rashes to create makeshift perfume.
Vain, Mom would say. Mom always had one special criticism for each of her children, and Neela, whenever glancing twice at herself in a mirror or wondering what would be appropriate to wear to school, was consistently called vain.
Other's have half of what we do, and you ask for another dress for your birthday, Mom had said only half a year ago. Ask for berries from the market, or a ribbon. Do you want the rumor we don't sign up for extra tesserae to start back up again?
Neela had three dresses. Two for work - be it school or making ropes in factories during summer - and one for special occasions. It'd been Gemma's before, but when Gemma got the dress it'd been brand new. The maroon color hadn't even faded yet, and Neela had fixed up the simple white embroidery around its square neckline last week. The rest of the time she wore trousers tucked into boots and roughspun shirts. During peak harvest and sowing season, everybody was called in. Well, nearly everybody. Those in high administration never had to touch the seeds they sent to the Capitol. Neela appreciated having the option to teach in a completely different way now than she had before learning what field work was like.
She grabbed a handkerchief, made from an old shirt that couldn't be salvaged, and soaked it in the flower water. It was cool against her skin when she smeared the softly smelling cloth against neck and collarbone, over her forearms, even dabbing it against her dress. There. Better. Almost fragrant, almost. She had no luxuries like makeup, but a friend from school had taught her that the little red flowers that grew beyond one of the smaller creeks could be mixed with beeswax and create a faintly red lipstick. The color wasn't glaring, but flattered her enough to almost feel like she had a bit of her old home here. Cailee would want to learn how to make it as well, too. Soon twelve, she was beginning to grow an interest in things like that. Soon twelve, she was beginning to grow pale with an entirely different kind of horror as age forced her to become aware of death with an entirely different brand of intimacy.
Neela had hidden a necklace beneath an old nightdress, a simple thing made of colorful glass beads strung on a simple chord, and put it on. A jade ribbon that made her eyes look more green than gray was tucked behind a winter jumper, and after brushing her again again, willing it to shine just a little, she tied it around her head like a headband. Mom had left a pair of red slippers for her to use: they were a little faded, remnants from Mom's time as an accountant in one of the factories, but fitted softly around her feet and had actual soles, which would keep her from feeling each and every piece of gravel on the road the way slippers usually did. They didn't go perfectly with the dress, but Neela had a bracelet made of dyed wooden pearls in shades red and green that tied the whole thing together.
"Vain," said Mom when Neela took her seat at the table.
"Pass me the porridge," she told Cassen, who did so without coughing. He almost looked healthy again. Only the glaze of his eyes betrayed him.
When Neela had been a child by another name in a happier world, she'd had a teacher called Mary-Louise Andersen. She couldn't remember the teacher's face, or what she'd taught, but the name had been carved into her memories. Mary-Louise Andersen always dressed prettily, and spoke in a rich, calming voice. She'd had gentle hands when resting them on Neela's shoulder, but been firm when scolding her for something or another. Every day, Neela had wanted Marie-Louise Andersen to approve of her, to give a smile. She'd adored her, idolized her. Going to school was a joy.
That's something this world needed.
"District 9 could use more prettiness," said Gabe, smiling wryly.
Gert winked at her. "Trying to impress somebody?"
"No," said Neela, at the same time that Cassen said:
"Yeah."
She heaved a long, exasperated sigh and let the ensuing chatter wash over her. Nobody would believe her protests and denial. Besides, if she did impress one of the office workers it wouldn't be so bad. Now that she stood in for Miss Jane more often than not, her name was being spoken by many children. Neela Poppyn had become part of the district in the way only the necessary people were. Her past life hadn't given her special tricks to thrive, but it had given her enough to build something resembling comfort. A degree in classics, specializing in old mythology, didn't serve much of a purpose here except laugh at Capitol names. Knowing how to spell, count, and memorize anatomy lessons (and have a modicum of human decency), however, made her valuable.
Since Neela made breakfast, Mom and Anja cleared the table. Dad and Gabe checked on the chicken coop while Gert and Cassen hung out the sheets to air, and once Neela and convinced Grandma to walk with Carla and Cailee on either side of her, the family was ready to go.
"Gemma will meet us there," said Mom distractedly as she ushered out any stragglers. "Hurry up now, come on, we don't want to be late. No, Nora, we're not stopping for herbs on the way, market's closed on reaping day, you know that. Cassen, do your top button. Oh Carla no don't-"
The Poppyns lived on the outskirts of town center, which meant the walk should only be five minutes. It took much longer today. People had gathered and were squeezing through the streets like clogged arteries, everybody heading to the single train station. It'd take them to Middle, the largest of the towns, which housed the Justice Building and the grand square where reapings were held. Today was the only time ordinary people were allowed on the district train. Peacekeepers in white uniforms and black boots milled around like ants, determined to keep the crowd placid as it steadily streamed past the officials documenting the names. Gemma, auburn hair tied back prettily, joined with her toddler son in her arms and husband at her back once they reached the station.
"Poppyns," said Dad to the official at the desk. They formed a line of white-dressed administrators across the station, all of them women with a pin-straight hair parting and low bun. "There's ten of us. Nora, Gabe, Gemma, another Gabe, then Gert, Neela, Cassen, Cailee, and Carla, as well as Anja."
The woman checked each name on a datapad, nodded, and said: "Carriage 4. Next!"
Neela ushered Grandma forward, Carla and Cailee still holding each of her arms. The train looming over them was massive and metal, and ordinarily meant to transport goods. Carriage 1 was reserved for the local leaders and was permanently fitted with actual seats, while carriages 2-6 had wooden benches placed for the day. The remaining fourteen were bare and would be stuffed with all citizens for the hour-long ride to Middle. Dad helped Grandma into the cart, and Gert helped her find a place by the wall so she could lean against it and not fall off the rickety wooden bench and onto the old metal floor when the train started. There were no light bulbs, no windows. Once the door closed, heavy and loud, only a plate-sized hatch in the door had been left open for air and a sliver of light. The train started moving with a jerk. Grandma almost fell.
Cailee and Carla began tearing up.
"None of that," Neela hushed them, wrapping an arm around each of their skinny shoulders, holding them close. "Did you know, some districts are so small there's only a single city in them? Everybody lives in the same place there. No trains, no wide fields, no overnight barracks. Can you imagine?"
"You're lying," sniffled Carla.
"How do you know that," Cailee muttered distrustfully, staring up at Neela through squinted eyes.
Both were successfully distracted.
"Well," she began, "in District 12, there's only one place to live and they get to the mines with a simple cart. Everything there is close. You've seen them on TV, haven't you? So much coal dust. District 3 is another small one, and they have roads that go over the roofs since the ground there is so uneven. Can you imagine the roads being higher than buildings?"
"That's crazy," whispered Carla.
"How do you know that," Cailee asked again.
"I'm older, and smarter, and a teacher has to know things." She winked, barely discernable in the dark of the train. "When you're my age, you'll know lots of things too."
The train sped up, thundering along the tracks with lots of rattling and shaking. Neela's center of balance suddenly shifted, and she leaned to the side to keep herself upright as the train turned left. Her old life told her this had all been a book once, but she couldn't remember much of it. It was a pity, but the series she'd read as a teenager a lifetime ago was faded and tattered. She could remember history and music, favorite places, lost family and friends, even other books she'd obsessed over - but this particular series had been a figment of her earlier teenage years, a fascination that led to consuming other literature, a stepping stone left in the dust. It was of little help in this world, only giving her a single lifeline by assuring her this hellish system would end within her lifetime. This didn't mean her old life was useless, though. Critical thinking, logic, compassion, reason, philosophies, maturity. All of it helped. It was how she could be confident in what she inferred about the Capitol, about other Districts, about other people even, when information was a jealously hoarded scarcity. This world was a puzzle where each piece had two sides and she had to figure out which one was the fake, while also dealing with missing pieces, fake pieces, pieces from the wrong puzzle altogether. Coming to the right conclusions was vital.
The train curved again along the tracks. Soothing wind blew through the door hatch, but it wasn't enough to keep the steadily rising temperature at bay. They'd packed as many people as the benches could fit into the carriage, and paired with the dark metal absorbing the sun's early summer heat, the sweating began. This morning had been lovely, but it was no longer lovely now. Carla wiped her forehead, Cailee shifted uncomfortably. Neela hoped the perfume would keep her from stinking. She sniffed at her wrist, catching traces of pansy and daisy.
"They used to need two trains," said Mom when noticing her discomfort. "The sun was high by the time the second one departed. Any effort you'd made to look decent for the cameras was gone by the time you arrived, sweaty and ill from the heat. Of course, you lot have the luxury of sitting. I didn't."
"Why don't they need two trains anymore," asked Cailee, infinitely more curious than Carla. It'd get her in trouble one day if she wasn't careful.
"There was a sickness," Neela told her. "Twenty years ago. Lots of people died, it's why our population doesn't match our district size."
The train curved again, and although it was far too warm to keep touching, Neela kept ahold of her sisters. They didn't protest. Somebody in the carriage sneezed, another groaned, a third sobbed. In the beginning of the ride, the carriage had buzzed with quiet conversations. Now it was slowly growing quiet, save for the baritone clickety-clacking hiss of the train racing across the rails, rushing them towards death. Powerful, rhythmic, industrial. She was the grain.
Eventually, like the slow smile of a Capitol Escort, the train ground to a halt. Everything smelled of iron and despair and beets. And just the barest whiff of flower. Neela hoped her hair hadn't frizzed. It always did when it got moist, and considering the amount of people stuck in the transport train...
She could hear the distant sound of a gathering crowd beyond the door, a low tremble in the air, but it took an agonizing few minutes before the train door slid open. Light and air cut into the dark space, sudden and sharp as a knife. A child burst out crying. Maybe it was Gemma's. They hadn't been able to find each other since the glimpse before boarding the trains.
"Well, come on then," Neela said to Cailee and Carla. "No use sitting about here. Let's go."
Everybody shuffled out of the train with resignation. Middle was only some two degrees warmer than North, but after two hours of stewing in a dark, steamy cart, Neela shivered. The baby hairs around her face tickled her temple. Somebody in front of her gave into nerves and vomited all over the platform. She quickly steered her sisters away and ushered them to Mom.
"Cassen and I have to go now," she said when they hesitated. "I'll see you in a few hours. The train ride back with be short as a blink, you'll see."
Carla began to cry again. Mom grabbed her shoulder and steered her away in Grandma's direction. During the few moments none of the youngest were looking, Cassen being talked to by Dad and Gabe in low voices, Mom threw her arms around Neela and hugged her so fiercely she couldn't breathe.
"It'll be over before you know it," Mom said sternly - maybe that's where Neela had taken inspiration for her scolding teacher voice - and tucked loose strands of hair beneath the pale green ribbon. "Only one more year to go."
Neela opened her mouth to say something but choked on the words. Dry, growing, sharp, stuck in her throat. Swallowing them down with effort, she managed a jerky nod.
Gemma appeared from the crowd, pregnancy barely showing and toddler in her husband's arms.
"You're pale," she said, and squeezed Neela's cheeks so they would suffuse with color. "Hm, lucky. You don't even have bags beneath your eyes. I haven't been able to sleep for days."
Before she knew it, she and Cassen walked hand-in-hand to District 9's great square. Its tiles were faded shades of beige, and the buildings standing proudly around it - the Justice Building proudest of all, but also the Peacekeepers' quarters, a rarely used theatre, the fanciest stores, a cheery bar, and an agricultural office - built in yellow brick that shone in the sun. Neela had been told it was a lovely place when not hosting reapings. She wouldn't know. She was only ever here to know who'd die. Panem's banners waved from all sides, interspersed with cameras. Both those from the Capitol, and those here permanently to keep watch. His hand trembled. She didn't comment on it.
"Neela! Neela!"
She turned around, glimpsed a crying little girl, but was ushered along by the crowd before being able to say a thing. The girl disappeared, and the next time Neela saw her she'd been calmed by a bystander and was ushered into the pen of twelve year olds. It was one of her old students, one of the first she'd taught.
"I'm scared," whispered Cassen when they reached the area for thirteen year old boys. "I'm so scared."
He didn't ask her to stay.
"I know," murmured Neela, and dared obstruct the crowd long enough to hug him. "I know, Cass, I know, I know."
They separated like a torn apart knot, sudden and unwilling. He rushed to the other thirteen year olds without daring to glance back, and Neela marched onwards to the seventeen year old girls. On her way a fourteen year old girl gasped and sobbed, covering her mouth in horror as though she'd already been reaped. But, Neela noticed with a surge of pity and compassion, all that had happened was that she got her period at the most inopportune of times. Red trailed down her legs in a premonition of the blood about to be spilled.
Neela hurried on and took her place among familiar classmates and coworkers. Nods and wan smiles were exchanged with those she knew. Glares from those who recognized the rare prettiness of her dress were ignored. None mustered the energy to speak. Now that Neela was alone, isolated in the crowd, there was nobody she could focus on to distract herself. She clasped her hands tightly in front of her and stared emptily up at the stage. Each breath was controlled and useless. Wreaths of wheat and poppies had been prepared for the day, spun proudly around the stage's fence like gold and ruby boas. The mayor, a portly man who loved to laugh and did everything in his power to give himself reasons to, currently chatted to the Escort, thin and shiny Laronius Dazzle whose latest cane flickered with sapphires. He didn't need it, always dancing about in a show of vitality, but he enjoyed the shimmer of gems. Last year he'd sported topazes.
The other three chairs were filled by past Victors.
The newest was Perry Jay Dale, winner of the 41st, still anxious and trim and eyes like he was ready to set off running at any time. Not running to flee, though. Running at wherever somebody aimed him. There was a lifeless determination about him that had faded from his seniors. The sedate and unimpressed Ryetta Farfield had won the 30th and whispered to old Brice Rukavin, the half-blind winner of the 17th games who couldn't quite fit onto his chair anymore.
Neela waited restlessly. The square kept filling even though it couldn't possibly fit District 9's sixteen-thousand inhabitants, and based on the slight shift in accents, the train from South had arrived as well. One district, three separate lives. It was unnatural. The minutes crept by, each trying to inject terror into her veins. It scratched at her skin. Finally, after people began fanning themselves with straw hats and hands and whatever else available, Mayor Pips joined the lonely microphone at the front of the stage.
"Welcome! Welcome! We are here for the 53d Hunger Games," began Pips, round cheeks rounding further as he forced a smile for the cameras. Unfolding a creamy sheet, he recited the usual speech of Panem's history and the Capitol's glorious justice. At the end, the square filled with the anthem and Neela ducked her head, letting it sweep over her with its hungry, consuming sounds. The worst bit about this was being forced to act like the Games were a joyous occasion, an adventure, a celebration. It was the World Cup, it was Disneyland. Everybody had to be happy because oh, wasn't it such an honor for their kids to fight to the death in an expensive arena as millions watched and remembered every pained squeak, every stifled sob, every glimpse of madness when kindness was peeled away from teenagers like skin from muscle. Everybody hated it. In Neela's darkest moments, she enjoyed their hatred and found comfort in the knowledge the Capitol eagerly dug its own grave. It was fascinating to behold, like a terrible train crash where passengers were crushed into fleshy smears and metal screeched and smoke danced and the sun shone, shone, shone, shone.
The Capitol-issued clip played, and then Laronius Dazzle took to the stage, the opposite of Pips with his long, thin limbs and sincere grin and flashy colors. He'd been stretched out in post-edits, been elongated in the VFX. Not enough to look inhuman, but something about the proportions unnerved Neela. Thin in a world where those who starved were thin, yet he did not starve. He began his speech, complimenting the crowd on their engagement and cheer, but she hardly heard a word. Not until the line that had even the bravest of false smiles freeze was spoken coyly into the microphone:
"As always, ladies first!"
He stuck his arm into the massive glass bowl. It contained thousands of paper slips, and like all the years before, he lingered above them to stoke the tension. Long fingers curled above the names like spider legs swimming in the air, and finally, the sudden snap of predators, his hand closed around a paper. The girl next to Neela trembled. Laronius scanned the name, gave the District his slow, curling smile that flashed every single one of his straight white teeth.
"Neela Poppyns!"
Every year, Neela experienced a wave of monochrome resignation the heartbeat before Laronius read the name out. This is the one, she'd always think, this time it's my name. And some of the years, if even a few of the letters corresponded, she'd tense as though zapped by live wire and think her name had been called. Nessie Reppers, two years ago, had her convinced it'd been her name for an awful three seconds before reality caught up.
But this time, once that moment of terror passed, no assurance came.
Instead the other seventeen year old girls jerked away from her as though being drawn was contagious, as though she'd already died and the stink of death would choke them. She took a step forward, then another. Maybe Laronius would clear his throat and clarify he'd meant to say Anise Piper, one of the classmates currently staring at her with dread. But he said no such thing and her slow steps, heavy with hesitance and disbelief, slowly sped up. She'd been the grain on the train, and now she was the train, helplessly making its way from A to B. Programmed. A cog.
Neela blinked, and suddenly she was at the staircase. On the stage Laronius smiled broadly and extended an inviting hand. Gradually, she became aware of the heavy silence of the square and the cameras on her. A show. It was all a show. People were watching. From the Capitol, from here, from North.
Neela mustered a close-lipped smile, and accepted the hand. Hers was small and pale and dry compared to the rich bronze of his. She meant to say thank you, but it came it so weak and dry the microphones couldn't possibly catch it. Laronius must've expected it, though, because he laughed, nodding energetically, as though she were something special to grace his stage. Once she'd taken her place to the left side of the microphone, he asked:
"Any volunteers?"
But of course, nobody wanted to take Neela's place. The silence was the signature on her death contract.
Laronius hadn't expected anybody to speak up and left her in favor of the boy's glass bowl. He took his time there too, and Neela had the chance search the crowd for familiar faces. Cassen stared at her from the back, paler than when he'd been at his most sick and mouth open as though unable to breathe. One of his friends, a stricken boy Neela had helped with multiplication only a few days ago, clutched Cassen's shoulder. Gemma and her little family were stood on a doorstep at the back of the crowd, just barely peeking over the other heads. The rest of the family had to be stuck watching the reaping on a big screen on one of the side streets, because she couldn't see their red to blond gradient in the crowd. To be fair, the crowd, too, was a gradient of blonds and browns with a higher than average number of gingers.
Laronius returned to the microphone, unfolded the piece of paper, and beamed: "Miller Fenn!"
Neela was from North. Chances were low it'd be another one from her town, and the universe granted her this tiny mercy. He was a complete stranger. A skinny boy with sandy brown hair to his shoulders stumbled to the stage from the group of twelve year olds. His eyes rapidly gained pink rims as he battled tears. She wasn't sure if the sight broke her or made her feel nothing at all: all Neela knew, looking back across the vast crowd, was that this couldn't be it. This couldn't be how her story ended.
She couldn't die before she'd begun to live.