“It’s time for the drawing. Effie Trinket says as she always does, “Ladies first!” and crosses to the glass ball with the girls’ names. She reaches in, digs her hand deep into the ball, and pulls out a slip of paper. The crowd draws in a collective breath and then you can hear a pin drop, and I’m feeling nauseous and so desperately hoping that it’s not me, that it’s not me, that it’s not me.”
Caesar Flickerman: “Now see that! I love that! Two young people, holding their hands up, saying; ‘I’m proud I come from district 12. We will not be overlooked.’ Now I love that!”
I can hardly recognize myself in the cracked mirror that leans against the wall.
“Come away little lamb, come away to the slaughter.”
For a moment, the cameras hold on Peeta’s downcast eyes as what he says sinks in. Then I can see my face, mouth half open in a mix of surprise and protest, magnified on every screen as I realize, Me! He means me! I press my lips together and stare at the floor, hoping this will conceal the emotions starting to boil up inside of me.
I am not pretty. I am not beautiful. I am as radiant as the sun.
I realize only one person will be damaged beyond repair if Peeta dies. Me.
