I do not own any of the Hunger Games characters owned by Suzanne Collins.
This story is based around an orphaned Peeta Mellark.
Each District serves as a sort of capital city in the country of Panem, which is the United States in a post-war era.
District Twelve is not unlike the others- in this story, Katniss's family is not poor, nor is the city. They are a middle class family living outside of the city.
Enjoy!
STARGAZER
Mrs. Trinket has always been kind of a prick, but for some reason I've always had a soft spot for her. With her tightly curled bleach-blond hair and bright red lipstick that's always leaking into the folds around her lips, she looks like one of those women who try to look younger than they actually are.
"Peeta," she says in her quivering, singsongy voice. I sigh and turn to glance at her, my fingers dragging across my face. My pointer finds a stray, single pimple right at the edge of my hairline that's been bothering me all day. My eyes trail her pale blue ones as they follow a bright red convertible that zooms by us with a rusty groan.
My nose stings with peppermint— my gum, which is beginning to lose its flavor. Each shuddering breath is a cool one, and I sniffle a few times. I don't want Mrs. Trinket to have the satisfaction of knowing that I'm nervous for this family.
This family. I nod to myself silently and turn my head heavily back to the window. My eyes self-consciously flicker to the rear view mirror, which is smudged with some leftover morning dew. A teenaged boy, his mouth twisted with nerves against a gray morning backdrop, stares back solemnly. I breathe out through my minty nose and swallow hard.
This family. I'd seen pictures of them in the folder I'd received a few weeks ago.
A mom. Pretty. The type of woman who must have been beautiful when she was younger. Tan skin. Dark hair. I think her name is Rosette.
A young daughter. Primrose. She had a missing front tooth, and she was eleven. Long, shiny blonde hair and sparkling blue eyes. She's blessed with beautiful eyes, like I am. My hair isn't as light as hers, though.
And a daughter. Katniss. I can't forget her name. Nor her picture. My heart speeds up in the car right now just thinking of her picture. Long, dark hair. Unlike her sister, she had gray eyes in the photo. They seemed to drift off, away from the camera. Lost in thought, maybe. The ends of her hair were what had caught my eye. They were dyed a bright blue. Not some sloppy dip-dye job like I had seen other girls do in the other cities. This looked like an even dye; one she had spent time on. The look on her face wasn't bored, nor was it some sort of discontent. She just had looked calm. Beautiful. Stunning, even. She didn't have the high cheekbones from her mother, so she must have gotten her looks from her father. She was just… Just.
My eyes wander along the dashboard as I think about this family. They seemed happy. That's a plus. Some of the other families I've stayed with have been at worse terms than this one seems to be at.
My gum has lost its flavor. I want to spit it out, by I know how Mrs. Trinket feels about me throwing trash around in her car. I can just see her red lips pursed together in disapproval in my mind. Trash is for the cans, not the cars, Peeta.
"Peeta." It's Mrs. Trinket again. I snap out of my daydreams, remembering how she had addressed me before.
"Sorry, Mrs. Trinket," I try politely. Mrs. Trinket just purses her folded lips together into a straight line and stares straight ahead at the road.
"It's alright, dear." She's drifted off to focus on the road, but I know she wants to say something. Maybe it's about the family. My thoughts drift back to the girl. Katniss. "Peeta," Mrs. Trinket begins. I pause to listen. "I want you to be on your best behavior. This is a nice city. Nicer than the last." Right. Some dump in District 4 where I was teased and I broke a kid's arm. Nice memories there. "And the parents aren't in the middle of divorcing." Uh-huh. Like District 7. That was a lovely experience.
"I know," I tell Mrs. Trinket, and she glances over, if only for a moment, surprised.
"You read the folder this time?" she asks, like it's a huge accomplishment for me. I almost roll my eyes.
"I always read the folders," I tell her quietly, suddenly feeling a little embarrassed for no reason. I can just see the corners of her mouth twitching. Her eyes are still glued to the road, but they flicker to me once or twice. Maybe she's suspicious about my interest in this family. Hopefully she isn't one to comment on beautiful members.
"You'll like it there, Peeta," she tells me, as if it's some huge secret. It's a stolen moment of pity for me. She's even leaning over toward me slightly. "I promise. It's a nice city and it has a good school. They're fantastic people." Her pin curls are bouncing, the wrinkles around her eyes visible now that she's smiling a little.
"Alright," I manage. I still feel a little unsure. My gum is making my mouth taste bitter. The trees seem to blur together as I glance back out the window. My head rests on my hand again. Please don't be the same old town. Please don't be like that. Maybe this time, if I tried, I could have a nice life. Maybe I could be happy.
…
I can feel the car slowing down. Mrs. Trinket is getting more anxious, her manicured fingers beginning to tap the black leather of the steering wheel. Her tan Highlander lets off a steady whirring sound as she slows at a red light. I stir a little, paying more attention to the city around me.
District 12. We had entered the city from the southeast, according to the small compass on the rearview mirror. The suburban and rural trails began to turn into skyscrapers around ten minutes ago. I sigh and glance outside at the cafes lining the streets. Maybe I'd get to see the buildings that were on the postcards. The old mining shafts or something.
"Peeta," Mrs. Trinket says suddenly, breaking my silence. She always addresses me by saying my first name before everything. It's like a sort of warning. "Ten minutes. They live a little outside of the city."
I don't reply, but I let her know that I've heard. My gum is beginning to separate, so I open the glove compartment to look for a napkin or something. I find one in the little boxy storage thing between the two front seats. I spit out my gum and lean back toward the window. Buildings pass by. People whisk around in a blur. It's just about the end of summer, so while some teens are wearing shorts out, others are donning their coats for the brisk fall.
Mrs. Trinket grows increasingly more nervous as we near the edge of the city. The house is only a few minutes away, and I can sense the tension in the car. Maybe this time. Maybe this time.
Twelve. That's how many houses I've lived in over the last (almost complete now) two years. That's how many families I've had to bear living with. Seven is the number of different major cities I now despise.
My name is Peeta Mellark. My parents, who were bakers, died in a car crash the summer before my sophomore year of high school. Just to get it out of the way. Tragic, yes? I still think so. I loved them. I looked up to them.
Life had been hell from then on out. City after city, it was rough. Some families had issues. Massive issues. Some were alright, but it usually was either the people or the schools that got to me. I've been called everything. Every insult people can possibly throw at me: from "gay" to "fag," I've heard everything. I've even heard someone recite a whole passage from Oliver! I guess I haven't helped the situations.
I'm not a bad kid. I'm not "troubled" or anything. I'm just stubborn. I broke a kid's arm in District 4 when he tried to kiss my foster sister and then teased me. In my defense, she was pretty and didn't want anything to do with him. I punched an abusive father in District 6. I cried myself to sleep every night in a different part of District 6 because my foster family picked on me every single day.
Life had been hell up to this point. Now I have hope. Just a little sliver of it. Some little part of me wants to curl up and just die in a hole. The other parts tell it to shut up and think positively. Maybe I'm overthinking everything. Maybe I'm too confident. Maybe I'm wrong about this family.
Or, maybe this will be different.
"Peeta," Mrs. Trinket says, shaking me out of my daze again. I snap up with a start. I can feel a mark on my cheek where my nails have dug into my skin. My blonde, wavy hair is sticking up at the back, so I quickly push it down. "We're here."
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