Charlene

A breeze stirs my hair, tugs my dress, winging its silent way over the throng of citizens, gathered in the square of District Eight. My dress is a patchwork of colours, matching my district's industry. My name is Charlene, I am eighteen years old. And this year, I'm going to volunteer for the annual Hunger Games.
Last year, the father of the boy who was reaped staged an uprising when his son was killed. No one was stupid enough to join him, of course, and he was swift repressed and punished. There's been a rumour recently that he was only allowed to live because his daughter was going to be reaped this year. Once she dies, everyone suspects the father will meet with a quiet "accident."
The escort comes out on stage and I shudder. His metallic gold and silver makeup and clothing looks out of place, more appropriate to shiny One or Five. He minces his way across the stage, tapping the microphone twice. Loud echoing booms emerge to deafen us all and he clears his throat, leaning closer to it. "Welcome, welcome, to the annual reaping!" He left off which one. Can he not even count? "And may the odds be ever in your favour!" Stop nattering and get to it, I think sullenly. To my surprise, he obeys my silent command. Mincing his way to the boys' reaping ball, he pulls out a random slip and reads off, "Timothy Traunt!" A sullen looking sixteen-year-old slouches onto the stage, as the escort wobbles primly across to the girls' ball.
As everyone expects, he reads off the name, "Satinee Moyla!" A terrified twelve-year-old slowly ascends the stairs. "Are there any volunteers?" he calls rotely, then motions the two together. "Shake hands, you two."
But before they can, I call out, "Yes, I volunteer." Heads turn my way, confusion and astonishment written on the faces of those looking around. What I have done is hardly unprecedented, but volunteers are much more common in districts such as One, Two, and Four, than in survival-oriented Eight. The escort dithers a moment, not knowing what to do, then Peacekeepers surround me to march me onto stage. The escort shoos Satinee off the stage to make room for me. As she goes, she sends me a look of pure gratitude before running straight to her father, who falls to his knees and hugs her tightly to him.
I climb the steep stairs to the stage, my admiration for the escort rising a couple of points. I don't see how he manages the ridiculously steep stairs and uneven stage as well as he does in those outrageous shoes he wears.  "What's your name, love?" he asks me.
"Charlene Whipple," I reply clearly into the microphone.
"Shake hands, shake hands," our escort trills and I shake hands with Timothy, who looks even more sullen now that he has yet another older, taller opponent.
The escort shoos us off the to Justice building and I suppress the urge to laugh. He's really rather fluttery, like a brightly coloured piece of paper pinned to a clothesline. Seating myself in the large room assigned to me until we go to the train, I mentally review my strategy. The door opens and I look up, as the Moylas enter. I had half expected to see them, and stand with a smile. Satinee smiles back shyly, clinging to her father's hand. They cross the room to me and Mr. Moyla reaches out, taking my hand. "I can never thank you enough for what you did," he says fervently. "Is there anything we can do?"
I smile. "Train her - they'll probably try again next year. I don't have family, no one who will need me. I'll be fine."
Satinee shyly holds out a wilting bouquet of dandelions. "Thank you," she says softly, and I smile, taking them.
"You're quite welcome, Satinee," I say warmly. The Peacekeeper comes to run my visitors out and I take my seat again, tucking the dandelions into my carefully done-up hair. I fold my hands in my lap, waiting composedly to go to the train.