Chapter Text
At sixteen years and eight months of age, I have transitioned from only child to oldest. I finally have the brother I’ve always wanted.
Maxwell’s not chubby like a three-month-old baby ought to be; quite the opposite, really. He’s shriveled, his skin hugging him like a blanket has been wrapped over his delicate little bones. Premature birth took its toll on my baby brother, anybody could see it. The nurses at the hospital didn’t think he’d make it. Even if he did, now he is too small for the world and struggling to grow, even three months later.
His head is the only large feature about him; the nurses told us this was a normal feature in babies that have not reached full gestation. It’s about the size of a large orange and crowned with a soft nest of hair. While he doesn’t have a full head of hair by any means, the few fine, fuzzy strands he does possess stick out at odd angles, as if he is perpetually shocked by static. The sight makes me—well, not laugh, necessarily; “exhale through my nose” is more situationally appropriate. I’m not the most expressive girl, I’m told. I don’t know how to feel about that. Perhaps that proves their theory.
Proofs and theories, theories and proofs. Unchanging and steady, unlike fleeting and unreliable feelings.
And yet…and yet. Even if I don’t show it, holding him elicits something in me. Something profoundly repressed just slips out so easily when I have him in my arms. I can’t name the emotion; I can’t even tell if it’s a good or bad one.
I rock him gently, one hand supportively handling the dip of his neck. His hair is a dull black, just like mine and Mama’s and most citizens of District 3. Soft and fuzzy, like a mouse. Mousy, that’s the word. My little mouse. Mousewell. Maybe that’s what I’ll call him when he’s old enough to tease and tease me back. My long-overdue yet still premature baby brother. Is he too early, like what the doctors said? Or is he too late? And late for what? Regardless, there is an underlying dread in me, a mantra that repeats over and over like a broken radio: he has arrived at the wrong time. Perhaps he understands it too, at that basic, instinctive level all humans have. The animal part of our brain. Do you have it, Mousewell?
I snap myself out of my pessimistic spiral: I mustn’t think that way. He is alive and on his path to wellness. He will grow up and Panem will grow alongside him. Both will become something better, healthier than they are now. I convince myself of it, and it satiates me for now. My mind always finds something else to occupy itself with; right now, the distraction happens to be Max’s babbling, which has transformed into something decidedly more tempestuous. The emerging unpleasant scent and sudden warmth at my forearm lets me know that he has expelled his waste on me for what must be the hundredth time this week. I don’t even feel particularly disgusted anymore, just a little annoyed, as if one of my experiments at school has suddenly shut down and sputtered oil all over my face. I dart into our shared room and lay him down in his metal crib while I search for clean cloth diapers, which are becoming worryingly scarce.
“Hickory dickory dock,” I hum absently in response to his cries, “the mouse went up the clock. The clock struck—”
“Wiress!” Mama’s voice rings from the other side of the house. “I’m home.”
I finally fish out a sage green cloth that, while lightly stained from previous uses, is still passably clean-looking and washed. I wrestle with Maxwell’s resistance and ear-piercing scream as I mount him upon my study table and hold his flailing legs upwards. I cautiously pull down his soiled diaper, making sure that he’s finished with his excrement so he doesn’t sully my pinafore: “Be right there, Mama!”
“It’s alright, Wirey. I think I need to lie down. Don’t come into my bedroom, please.”
She must be bleeding again. It’s been an issue ever since she gave birth. Nearly every day for the past three months, I’ve been dreading going into Mama’s room. At first, she’d tried changing the sheets after she bled through them. Eventually, she gave up; now she just sleeps in the bed anyway, blood and all. It looks like a crime scene. The room always smells like metal now, so overpowering that it gets unbearable. I purse my lips, swearing internally.
I’m starting to worry. Mama really shouldn’t be working at all. She needs rest, maybe medical attention. But, like many others, she returned to work less than a week after Max was born. Even with Mama’s full-time job at the screen manufacturing factory, we probably won’t be able to afford another hospital visit in the near-future. Admitting her for Max’s birth cost us a small fortune. We’re not rich enough for continuous hospital visits. Both Max’s and my father aren’t in the picture.
One day, I’ll bring her in; I just hope it won’t be too late by then. Mama’s working herself to death and all she seems to be nowadays is exhausted. In the meantime, I come up with other solutions.
On weekdays, I stay 6 hours after school. I may not be much, but I’ve been told I have quite a brain on me. I just happen to learn things quickly and efficiently; recruiters from engineering firms and tech factories seem to like that about me. I’ve been scoring in the 99th percentile in district exams since I was 12. So, the natural progression is to tutor others. People need help with schoolwork, I need the money. It’s a mutually-beneficial symbiotic relationship. If people are too confused or straight-up lazy folks with good money, I simply charge more to do the work for them. Even teachers have started paying me to grade their papers; I can’t say I have any complaints about this arrangement.
Tesserae helps, too. The first time I signed up for my first tessera, I was 14. Mama was livid. When I entered 2 tesserae last year, she wouldn’t talk to me until after the reaping. Nowadays, she’s too drained to care—or perhaps too busy. Regardless, the arguments ceased this year. I’m glad she finally seems to understand; more food can’t hurt. Maxwell is an extra mouth to feed, as grim as that sounds. We need it. This year, I entered for 3 tesserae. My name will be in the reaping bowl 21 times this year.
I knock on Mama’s door gently. “Can I help, Mama?”
“Nothing to help with, thunderbird. I’m okay, Wirey. Really.” Her voice comes out faint. “Maxwell needs to eat soon. I’ll stand in a minute.”
I nod, although she can’t see it. Softly, noiselessly, I crack open the door. Mama is shivering, and while she doesn’t look pleased, per se, relief washes over her face that is approval enough for me, a wordless veto of her previous request to not come in. She is curled in the fetal position; the irony is not lost on me. She is shivering, as well, despite a thick woolly blanket being draped over her body. I knit my eyebrows together in confusion. It’s July, possibly the warmest time of year for District 3. She should not be shaking like this.
“Mama, just stay down,” I prompt, even though it’s not needed. She doesn’t look strong enough to stand right now. I press the back of my hand to her forehead; it’s dangerously warm. I frown. “You’re running a fever.”
Mama’s unflinching face proves that she knows and perhaps has known for the past few days. “Only a minor one, my thunderbird. Plus, it’s hot outside. You know how your Mama gets hot flushes.”
It’s a feeble excuse and we both know it. This is most definitely not a hot flush. “I can bring Max to you, Mama,” I offer, feeling powerless. I wish I could do more to help.
“Thank you, Wirey.” She smiles at me weakly. Then, straightening herself to sit up despite the great wave of pain that it clearly causes her, she looks at me intensely. This is the authority that Mama possesses, even in her vulnerable state; it’s a quiet strength that scares me somewhat, if only because the severity seemingly comes out of nowhere. “But after I’m done, I want you to go to bed.”
“Yes, Mama.”
“You have a big day tomorrow.”
The temperature in the room cools at least a few degrees. “I know, Mama. Reaping Day again.”
Mama hums a short affirmative, and I know that the conversation is over. My feet make soft “pat” sounds against the cold wooden floor as I wander down the hall and pick up Max, who has become fussy with hunger.
“Tomorrow’s your first Reaping Day, Mousewell.” Whatever I was about to say falters and dies in my mouth as he gazes at me. I might be hallucinating, but I swear he looked up at me just now. And I swear there is a moment of clarity in his brown eyes. As if he knows that his big sister is holding onto him a little tighter tonight. He lets out a sob, and something in me can tell that it’s not just hunger anymore.
“It’ll be alright, little mouse. It’s just a quick ceremony. Maybe it’s a bit loud, but it’ll be over before we know it.” The words fall unbidden from me in a gentle stream. Part of me knows that he is not the only one I am comforting tonight.
“Besides, there are about one-thousand, three-hundred girls in District 3. Statistically, the odds of me getting reaped are less than 1%. Lower than that, even.”
I nod at Max, assuring myself. Yes, this is true. Just doing the mental math, even with my 21 entries, I am still not likely to be a tribute. District 3 is simply too large in population & poverty. There are countless kids with more tesserae entries than me. Although it may not feel like it, I’m very privileged.
I am not lucky, make no mistake. I’m not much of a believer in luck. What I do believe in is proof. The proof is in the numbers, in the odds stacked heavily in my favor, and that is enough for me.