Chapter Text
Sundays are my favorite day of the week.
No one in Panem is permitted to work until at least noon. It is the nation's rest day. For most, my family included, that means just that half-day of rest, but I am glad to have even those few hours. I get to sleep in until eight and wake to sunlight pouring into the window. I get to sit with my family for breakfast. This is usually the only meal we get to share all together for the entire week. The best time of year for this is summer; when I have plentiful work and my father gets his hazard pay. There is fresh sourdough, real butter, salt; even some eggs my mother has managed to trade for. My little sister, Primrose, loves to put dollops of cream onto our plates.
I look forward to every Sunday; except, this Sunday… this Sunday, I am shaken awake.
“What – what is it?” I say, pushing away their hands.
Johanna Mason sits on the edge of my bed. One of my coworkers; potentially my friend. It is hard to tell depending on the day. It appears that today we are friends.
“Did you see the letter?” she asks.
“What letter?”
“From the royals,” she says. She repositions herself to be sitting crossed-legged on my mattress. Primrose, curled into the blankets beside me, sleepily lifts her head. “There’s going to be the Selection. For the prince.”
It takes me a moment to digest her words. Royals are normally so far from my daily thought. It is hard to figure out why we are even talking about them. But I do know what the Selection is. The current king held one nearly thirty years ago. It is a competition for a prince's hand in marriage and the crown. And not exactly something I would be interested in.
Prim, however, sits up in delight.
“That’s wonderful!” says Prim. “He’ll marry a true daughter of Panem, just like his father!”
Johanna rolls her eyes.
“That’s what they like to say,” she says. “It’s just a lot of fanfare, really. And being a princess does not sound that appealing – but! For each week the contestant stays at the palace, their family will be compensated. Good money! Money that a Seven like me has never seen. Even if you’re not selected to marry him, you become a Three!”
I rub my eyes.
“But only the contestant becomes a Three, not their family,” I say.
“As if you wouldn’t just send money their way,” says Johanna.
“It’s a stupid competition,” I say.
“It’s a chance to get out of here,” says Johanna. “They choose the contestants at random. It might be stupid, but all you need to do is get chosen. Even a Three can get a better job than ours.”
“Or you could fall in love,” says Prim with glazed eyes, picturing the fantasy. “The prince is handsome. You could become a One. You could be a princess! The palace always looks so beautiful and they have so many cats!”
I shake my head. Prim has been dreaming of owning a cat, but in our tiny apartment, it’s completely infeasible. There’s just no room, and not enough food – and the city streets outside of our building are far too treacherous.
“How do you know they have cats?” asks Johanna.
“I’ve seen them on the television,” says Prim. “The youngest prince has one. She’s divine. The largest fluff ball of white that you’ve ever seen with such blue eyes.”
“Huh,” says Johanna. “These princes cannot be that bad. Plus, there’s thirty-five contestants. I doubt we would have to suffer much in this Peeta Mellark’s company.”
“Isn’t…” I pause. Suddenly, I remember. Peeta Mellark is the second child of the king and the queen. I expected her to name off his older brother, but then I remembered – only two months ago, the eldest prince had been killed. “It’s him now, huh?”
“My guess is that their hoping this Selection will help distract people from the danger. If this can pull the news away from reporting on the dead prince, then maybe people won’t worry so much about the war.”
In our city, so far from any of the borders of Panem, it is easy not to think about the war. The palace sits low on the southern border; just next to our neighboring country. A country that has been Panem's bitter enemy for a long time. If a prince can be killed there, how safe are any of the contestants?
“Oh, you should do it!” says Prim, grabbing my arm. “It’ll be so fun.”
“No, I can’t,” I say. I pull her to me and hug her. “I’ll miss you too much.”
“I’ll see you all the time on the television!” she protests. “Please! Oh, please, just try!”
Johanna smirks at me. She knew this would happen. Which is why she ambushed me.
“I’m signing up,” says Johanna. “I think you should, too.”
“Why?” I ask. “I get that the money is good. Becoming a Three is better than I could ever hope to be. But you’ve heard the rumors about these competitions…”
Prim looks between us.
“What kind of rumors?” asks Prim.
“Yeah, Katniss, what kind of rumors?” says Johanna.
I scowl at her. She knows I cannot say it in front of Prim.
“Just think about it,” says Johanna. She stands, patting my knee. “I’ll see you at work later.”
Once she’s gone, I lay back down against my pillow. Prim cuddles up to me.
“I wish I was old enough to compete,” says Prim. She is only thirteen. A contestant must be at least sixteen. I turned seventeen just last month.
“Don’t you think these princes will all be fat and spoiled?” I say.
“No!” says Prim. “I’ve seen them. They all look so tall and handsome. I know the youngest loves animals. The oldest… he used to be into horse riding. Him and the youngest would ride all the time and the journalists would get pictures of them outside of the palace walls.”
“But what about this Peeta?” I say. “Have you seen much of him on the television?”
I do not spend as much time as Prim watching the programs. When I am not working, I am doing chores, or helping my parents. Prim, while homeschooling, likely watches far too often.
“Well… not much. But I’ve never seen anything bad. And he’s always smiling when they get pictures of him.”
“That’s what you do when people take your picture,” I say.
Prim pouts.
“Won’t you at least sign up?” she asks. “You might not even be pulled, but maybe just try?”
Considering the sheer number of women who will sign up, I doubt I will be chosen. While the royals claim that the Selection is completely random, I have suspicions it is not. I do not think they would choose me. Not a Seven. Not with my tanned skin, or my calloused hands, or my inexperience with everything it means to be a princess.
“Fine,” I tell Prim. I tug on her braid. “Now let me sleep awhile longer. It’s Sunday.”
Only an hour later we are at the breakfast table.
My mother and I have just finished setting out the food. Prim enthusiastically grabs a spoonful of cream. My father walks into the room. He's got a pile of mail. He frowns at the letter in his hand. A letter with the royal insignia on it.
“There’s another Selection,” he announces to us. He kicks off his boots and settles into his chair.
My mother’s head snaps up at his words, then she frowns.
“I thought the prince…”
“It’s the middle child,” says my father.
“That’s good!” says Prim.
My father continues frowning at the words on the paper.
“What does it say?” I ask.
My father dutifully reads: “‘The recent census has confirmed that a single woman between the ages of sixteen and twenty currently resides in your home. We would like to make you aware of an upcoming opportunity to honor the great nation of Panem. Our beloved prince, Peeta Mellark, is coming of age this month. As he ventures into this new part of his life, he hopes to move forward with a partner, to marry a true daughter of Panem. If your eligible daughter, sister, or charge is interested in possibly becoming the bride of Prince Peeta and the adored princess of Panem, please fill out the enclosed form and return it to your local Services Office. Thirty-five women from any city will be drawn at random to meet the prince.”
“Katniss wants to sign up!” says Prim excitedly.
My father looks at Prim, confused. He swings around to look at me.
“You do?” he asks.
“Well…” I hesitate. “Prim wants me to. And there’s money to be had.”
“Money is not what I care about,” he tells me. “I care about what you want.”
My mother puts her hand over mine on the table. I look over at her, surprised.
“You’ve never said anything about wanting to be in a different caste,” she says.
Of course, I’ve never said something like that. While the caste system in Panem is horrendous and as a Seven, I am barely above the lowest of the low – an Eight – I have never dreamed of becoming a Three, let alone a One. My father is a natural born Seven. The Everdeen family have been Sevens for as far back as the country’s beginnings. My mother, however, was born a Three. Her parents were doctors. They had money and prestige. But as a woman, when you marry, you take on your husband’s caste. She sacrificed that life for love. To have me and to have Prim. To say something terrible about my family’s caste, about our position, would be to insult her choice and to insult my father.
“It’s not about that,” I say. “I just thought… the compensation, it could help.”
“You’ll become a Three,” says my father. There is a surprising amount of grief in his voice. “You’ll be so far from us. We will miss you.”
“Or,” says Prim, “she could win! She could be a princess, and then we will all be Ones!”
I don’t take it as an insult that my parents do not even consider the idea that I could win. They might think I could be chosen, but they only think about what that will mean. I would become a Three. While there’s no rule prohibiting people from mingling within different castes, the housing is divided in this way. I would likely live in a different city. I would have a different job, circulate with different people. I would become unknown to them. Even if I sent money home, what value would it be?
“I won’t do it if you think it’s a bad idea,” I say. I look down at my plate.
I’m surprised that they disapprove. At least, that’s what it feels like. I thought they would be glad to have this chance, at least, for me. And even for Prim. While she may not become a Three, there’s all the more chance that I could meet a Three to pair her with. If Prim marries a Three, then both of their daughters will be lifted out of the hungry tiring life of being a Seven.
“It’s not a bad idea,” says my father. “It’s just a serious one.”
“It could mean marriage,” says my mother. “You’re so young. And the life of a royal can be very hard.”
“I’m not going to win,” I say, pushing scrambled egg around my plate.
“You don’t know that,” says my father.
There is a long silence. I do not want to push for it. Even if Prim does. Or Johanna. All I have ever wanted was to make my parents proud. Seeing the troubled frown on my father’s face makes my stomach toil.
My father sighs.
“Katniss,” he says. When I do not respond, he says, “My daughter.”
I look up.
“I will support whatever you choose to do. Just do not do this because you believe you must.”
With that, he places the form on the table, and then falls to his breakfast.
Breakfast returns to mostly normal. We discuss the upcoming week. My father is still working hard in the mines. With the summer heat, the conditions worsen, but the pay is higher. He says that he will be working a double tomorrow. He asks me about my shifts.
“There should be overtime all week,” I tell him. “With the heat, the gardens are suffering. All of the Twos and Threes are desperate to have the best yards and the greenest grass. You know how they are.”
“Stay hydrated out there in the sun,” he tells me. I nod.
I get ready for work around ten. I’ll have to take a bus to the office. From there, they’ll pack us into trucks and drop us off at various client’s homes. Thankfully, the first client is one that I do not mind too much.
It is a couple. Threes. Beetee and Wiress. While they do not care much about the greenness of their grass, they have a greenhouse. They keep various exotic plants. They take care of them throughout the week, but on Sundays they like to have help with the trimmings. I admire just how meticulously that they care for their plants. More often than not, I will come to a weekly client’s home to find shriveling, thirsty flora. Never them. These plants are like their babies.
When I finish with the trimmings, I bring the scraps over to their work shed. Wiress is bent over a work table. She’s got a welding mask on and a tool in her hand. It looks like such Seven work, for a Three; but I guess technically they are scientists and therefore of higher prestige.
“I’ve just finished over in the greenhouse. I’ve got a little more time. Do you need anything else?”
Wiress glances over at me. “One moment,” she says.
Across the room Beetee places down two heavy buckets of some mysterious substance.
“You’re good to go,” he says. “Just bring those clippings over to my work table. I’ll need them for my most recent experiment.”
I do. Afterwards, I take a moment to wipe my brow. Even in their shed, it’s a balmy temperature.
“You didn’t sign up for the Selection, did you?” asks Wiress. She places her welding mask aside. She looks at me with squinted dark eyes. “We’ll miss your expertise in trimming.”
Beetee laughs. A big belly laugh.
“She doesn’t mean that,” he says. “Well, maybe a little. You’re always so kind with our precious plants. But we would not fault you signing up. It’s a big deal. The last Selection was quite the show.”
“I don’t remember much of that,” I say. I was not alive when it aired. They rarely replay it, and when they do, I am likely working. “And not yet. I’ve only thought about it.”
Wiress looks me over. In my work overalls, covered in dirt, my flushed cheeks.
“You’re too good for any prince,” she tells me.
I cannot help but laugh.
Me? A gardener. A Seven. Too good for a prince?
In most eyes, that’s the thought of a crazy person.
And perhaps, Wiress and Beetee are unusual. But they must still conform to society’s rules. The caste system of Panem is all encompassing. No one can escape it.
“Then maybe I should sign up,” I joke.
“And we’ll cheer for you the entire time,” says Beetee, a smile on his face.
Moments later, I hear the familiar honking of a work truck. I hurry to gather my tools. I wave goodbye to Wiress and Beetee. They see me off. I walk up to the truck, frowning, when I see that Johanna is the one behind the wheel.
“Get out of that seat,” I say to her, walking over to the driver side door. “I cannot stand your driving.”
Johanna grudgingly slides over. I throw my tools into the trunk and climb in. Johanna tells me who the next client is and I drive off. In a safe and controlled manner. Which Johanna does not know how to do. Johanna usually manages to hit more curbs than there actually are on the road, and her road rage is infamous – to the point she has almost gotten both of us fired.
“Have you filled out the form?” asks Johanna.
“Not yet.”
“Why not?”
“I’m not sure it is what I want.”
“You don’t want money?”
“I don’t want to disappoint my parents,” I say.
“Good thing I don’t have any,” she retorts.
Johanna lives with her great aunt. An old cranky woman. Who is more than happy to send Johanna off. She likely will never understand my hesitation.
“You’ve heard what people say. That contestants are expected to say yes to anything the prince asks. Whether it’s a date, or a kiss, or more. I don’t… I don’t want that…”
“It might be true. But I know you. And you know me. We wouldn’t let that happen. We could protect each other.”
This is a surprising statement coming from Johanna. Mostly because I am always unsure what her opinion of me is.
“You think that would work?” I ask.
“Of course. You think I’d let anything happen to you?”
I'm surprised by her sentiment, and by how much it means to me. I swallow thickly.
“But what if only one of us is chosen? Or what if one of us is sent home early?”
“Well, I can’t say we will both be chosen, but we could make a pact. If we both are chosen, we can help each other advance through the eliminations. Or we can try to get kicked together. It can’t be that hard to get kicked.”
“There’s a difference from getting kicked and from getting charged with treason and punished.”
“Well, as far as I know the biggest rule is that we cannot enter into any relationship except with the prince while in the competition. That’s the highest chance of treason. Just don’t do that.”
“I hadn’t planned on it,” I say dryly.
“Then what’s the worry?”
I sigh. I want to beat my fists against the steering wheel.
“Fine,” I say. “I’ll sign up.”
Johanna grins.
“That’s my girl.”