Disclaimer: I don't own the Hunger Games trilogy. Everything belongs to Suzanne Collins.
Hello!
This was a story I'd been working on years ago, and while I haven't worked on it in quite a while, I decided to re-post what I originally had written. Back when I was working on it, I also went back and added some new scenes, so if anyone remembers this story (back then it was titled Romance, Art and a Hawk. But I ended up changing it to Love, Art and a Hawk), I hope you'll get some enjoyment out of revisiting it. I apologize if sentence structure and grammar and spelling isn't 100% perfect. It was a while ago I wrote this. One of these days, maybe I'll dive back in and tidy everything up. For now, I'm simply posting them for reading purposes.
For any new readers, I hope you like what I had written.
Unfortunately, I'm really not sure if I'll ever get around to finishing the story completely. I've been really busy with life in general and I just haven't had the drive to return to working on this story. But who knows? One of these days I might revisit these chapters and think, "You know what? I should really bring some closure to this."
Anyway, as for the story, it's set in a universe different from what we see in the Hunger Games. This universe takes place prior to the beginning of the Hunger Games. There is actually something different that has been occurring for years, but that's not something that would be revealed and explained till closer to the end of the story. So I hope I find some inspiration again to return to this story so I can spill all those secrets.
Please feel free to stop by and say hi :)
CHAPTER 1
SEPTEMBER
Peeta Mellark made his way eagerly through the countless halls of Madderson High in purposeful strides, holding a school map while occasionally glancing down at it. He was sixteen, his first day of high school was continuing to unfold, and so far his day had gone fairly well. He'd only gotten lost once which had surprised him what with how enormous in size the impressive building was. While clusters of people were heading this way and that, stepping into wrong classrooms, winding up on unrecognizable floors, and ending up on the opposite side of the school, his map was doing a decent job at serving as a guide. Certainly better than he'd expected.
He had just one class remaining and it was the one class he'd been preparing for and getting himself pumped for during his last few days of summer. Now that he was mercifully close to attending that class, his anticipation as to what it was holding in store for him was only increasing.
His destination?
Art class.
He'd already spent his free – an hour-long period where students could dedicate time to studying for upcoming tests or finishing assignments – wandering the school in the hopes of better familiarizing himself with it.
On top of that, he'd already been to math and biology which from his viewpoint weren't the most thrilling subjects – math in particular. His friend Marvel would have dozed off like a log in math if he hadn't nudged him awake, warning him that Ms. Coin would have punished him with a tedious, ten-minute lecture about snoozing in class. Surprisingly, he'd managed to keep the guy awake till the bell signaling the end of class had rung but every now and then he'd catch him closing his eyes and dropping his head, noticeably uninterested. It had taken him a grand total of three minutes to conclude that Marvel was indubitably less fond of the world of tenth grade mathematics than he was.
After having sat through a grueling hour of biology with Mr. Boggs – a strict, no-nonsense type of teacher – he was dying to make his way to a class he knew he'd one hundred percent fall in love with. Having listened to Ms. Coin ramble on from ten till eleven hadn't made the day all that fascinating either. Her droning, unenthusiastic voice suggested that she was just as bored teaching math as students were scrambling to pay heed to what she was emphasizing, jot down significant points and absorb the material. It made Peeta question why she'd become an educator in the first place. If she didn't take pleasure in what she was discussing, then why had she decided to assume a permanent career in teaching?
He didn't spend much time pondering about it as his mind was no longer focused on math or biology.
It was purely and gleefully on art.
What he was downright excited for was getting the chance to create some expressive, transcendent art. Where some would have felt content with producing a simple, easy piece of work, his mind went far beyond this. For as long as he could recall, he'd never viewed art as an effortless, speedy procedure but rather, one that required patience, dedication and meticulous focus. What he craved more than anything was the opportunity to mold in to existence a masterpiece that was thorough and unique while using every utensil he could imagine.
It was all that had been mulled over in the past few weeks.
He'd always had a passion for using his artistic mind to create beauty with colors, lines and shapes of all sorts, but he hadn't gotten to do any profound art-making. Not the type he'd been craving, anyway. That was due to his mother having never permitted him to go out and purchase all the materials he'd want and need. It confused him as to why she prohibited such a basic and innocent request. They cleared a sufficient amount of money with the bakery they'd been managing for years, unarguably enough to acquire some brushes and canvases. So what was the rationale for stringently disallowing her son to obtain these necessary instruments?
As their business ran so efficiently, her justification for denying what he'd asked for wasn't to do with the fact that they were impoverished, as they weren't. Residing in a home where three meals a day were guaranteed and salaries poured in on a regular basis, impecunious was a word that couldn't be applied when classifying their stature. They weren't scraping by, shivering at night from the unforgiving winds of winter or scrounging for morsels like some deprived, famished inhabitants were. Far from it. Yes, there were bakeries that proved wealthier than themselves but the establishment the Mellarks had running was in no way unprofitable. The issue didn't involve a consistent lack of money or plunging status, as their family was living life just as comfortably as the next.
No, he knew what the real reason was and it didn't concern how much they grossed.
In such complex situations where one's frame of mind was incapable of undergoing persuasion, wealth was virtually irrelevant.
So then why was the door so frequently slammed in response to what he cared to possess?
It was because his mother just didn't care.
She deemed it simply ridiculous for her son to squander such valued earnings on things to do with art when he had all the cakes he could ever need right in his very home. She'd constantly be chiding him, "You aren't gonna go out and waste our hard-earned money, Peeta! It doesn't grow on trees you know. It needs to be earned, cherished and not used to bring such worthless junk into the house! There's plenty of cakes right here for you to adorn so quit asking to buy paints, brushes, canvases and all those rubbish items you blather on about. They'd take up too much space as it is and the last thing we need is a cluttered house. Tripping over brushes, stepping in paints and god knows what else. For the thousandth time, Peeta, the answer is no, so get your ludicrous head out of the clouds and smarten the hell up!"
This unyielding strictness meant her son would receive as little exposure to art as possible, which was precisely what had happened.
Her unswayable eight rules for the duration of his confined life in relation to art had been as follows:
ONLY the paper and pencils from home are to be used for art purposes.
NO equipment – expensive or not – will be obtained and brought into the house.
NO one-on-one tutors – or any tutor for that matter, expensive or not – will be hired.
Registration in classes outside of school is NOT acceptable. Expensive or not, they are not to be enrolled in.
Online subscriptions via phones, laptops and mobile devices are NOT authorized, expensive or not.
Engaging in swaps at school will NOT be approved of.
NO course of action with the intention of collecting art necessities is to be attempted.
NO money is to be wasted on art.
His father, on the contrary, had continually felt bad Peeta and wished he could have picked up some tools for his imaginative son, but his wife would not have tolerated it. She'd have flown into an outrage if she discovered her husband was making an effort to go against her wishes and violate her carefully laid out rules. If she caught him in the act of throwing away their beloved cash all so their son could have more to engage himself with than the limitless supply of cakes stored in their bakery, then it would have been world war three. His cold-as-stone wife was the primary voice and final decision maker of the house. Consequently, nobody – not her husband nor her three sons – dared kick up a fuss or tried to change her opinion on how she demanded things be.
Doing so would have been worse than foolish.
It would have been pointless.
So for years Peeta had kept busy decorating and finalizing the various cakes displayed in the double-paned windows of his family's bakery. It was enjoyable, and he liked inspecting the final piece of what he'd embellished, but what he desperately ached for was to try something besides frosting and baking. He wanted to draw on papers used exclusively for water colors, pastels and charcoals, as opposed to everyday loose-leaf and white paper. He wanted to paint on canvases and have no limitations to what he could fashion with his hands and imagination. He knew there was so much more he could be challenged with and not carry on performing the same, identical thing over and over, day after day, week after week. So many cakes he'd designed and frosted and it was starting to feel less invigorating what with how much he'd begun fantasizing about sketching and painting. To expand his horizon on what he could bring to life with art and how it could enliven his own life and repetitive routine was what he longed for.
His hunger for exploring the undiscovered layers within art had initially arisen in the later years of preschool.
Lessons at Saybrook Elementary had offered a mixture of activities – finger painting, developing illustrations with buttons, leaf printmaking, weaving cups, recreating cave art, thumb print art, fabric mosaics, paper mache animals and collages. It wasn't that Peeta hadn't appreciated all they'd organized with art for the children because he had, but he'd repeatedly pined for a taste of thoroughness. To dive deeper, to burrow beneath the outermost coating of artistic aptitude and uncover profundity was what he'd thirsted for.
And teachers were all too quickly aware of this.
"Are you not having fun drawing, Peeta?" his third-grade teacher had asked, observing him curiously. Noticing his eyes transfixed on the crisp autumn leaves fluttering out near the playground, Ms. Paylor had wondered why he wasn't remixing his brush in the puddles of colors.
"Oh, I am," he'd responded with a nod, his eyes still preoccupied with the mingling of red, orange and yellow. "It's just…I just can't wait to learn more about art."
"No worries. You'll learn all you need to once you're in to your higher grades."
Settling in to the fifth grade, Mrs. Lyme had sensed how fluent of a learner Peeta was in comparison to the other students.
"You okay, Peeta?" he'd heard her say. He'd paused halfway through a nicely-unfolding portrait depicting an inviting cottage tucked away in the rolling hills of a serene countryside.
"I'm okay," he'd answered, smiling at the wooden cottage nestled snugly in the nearly finished surroundings of his portrayal. "I just can't wait to try new techniques and use new brushes and add more to what I make. There's just so much to learn about art and I wish I could know it all now."
"All in good time," Mrs. Lyme had stated.
By sixth grade, he was greatly anticipating the education that would assist him in furthering his journey of expansion and confidence.
A few months later and he'd been shocked him to learn of the setup at Sanford Junior High.
Where art had been one of the classes available for selection at Saybrook, it was completely absent at his newest school. Accordingly, his three years at Sanford had involved no drawing, painting, sculpturing or any art-associated activities. Hence, he'd grabbed any opening he could where he could lie contently on his bed, loosen up and spend hours envisioning and drafting whimsical characters in picturesque sceneries. So often his evenings had consisted of him stretched out on his stomach, eyes glued to his phone, immersed in online videos and step-by-step demonstrations.
And while he may not have been provided with hands-on experiences, he reveled in the chance to delve in to the inspiring stories of renowned artists. Thankfully, it seemed like they always had productive advice to communicate to those longing for a future in art.
Historic names like Weldon Shofur, Priscilla Cordell, Flynn Harding and Augusto Worn were all ones he'd grown to admire. From their outstanding expertise and life-long dedication to acknowledging their enthusiasm with art, Peeta had been treated to an assembling of sage guidance from notable scholars. Listening to their words and dissecting the concealed meanings had boosted his keenness. With such a varied assortment of adept professionals, he'd felt that all the abundance of knowledge he'd been exposed to would rejoin him once high school began.
This assumption couldn't have been truer.
It was strolling through the corridors of Madderson High that he was currently appreciating just how lucky he was going to be. He was now on his way to a class that would provide him with everything he could ever possibly want and even more.
Simply put, there would be no boundaries to the creative potential he could unlock from within in a class like art.
Needless to say, that had been embedded in his mind since kindergarten.
When he arrived at room C4 in pod three – which was located at the far, right-hand side of the institution next to the gymnasium – he walked straight in. Upon entering, he immediately took in what an extensive room it was with a dappled ceiling resting squarely over his head. Anyone might have assumed it had been splashed with an array of exploding colors, explaining the thousands of polka-dots sprinkled across the plaster.
A quick glance around showed there were exactly forty people and ten tables with four students situated at each desk. He'd gotten a brief look at rooms in the math, science, history and health departments, but this was by far one of the largest ones. Some rooms had contained only a maximum of twenty or thirty individuals, but he figured that since art was likely one of the most popular subjects, it would explain the enormous room and crowd of students.
Not only was the room big enough in size, but it was garnished and bursting with colors that lit up the room like it was the most splendid art gallery in all of Panem. Unlike schools whose walls were painted in drab browns or boring grays, the walls of this room were coated in a stunning forest green. It was a perfect shade of green too; not too bright so as to be unattractive to gaze at, but not dark enough to appear dreary and dejected. There were two rectangular, glass-paned windows that looked out on the back of the school, an area comprised of four basketball nets and endless woods that were brimming with thriving trees. Two tall plants were even positioned on either side of the windows, giving the impression that the room was just as much outside as it was indoors. Both were about five-feet tall with olive-colored leaves, a sturdy stem dotted with tiny, curved thorns and slender petals that were a gorgeous crimson pink. They weren't like any flower Peeta had ever seen but the shade of pink was so beautiful and the scent smelled like a refreshing combination of fully-bloomed roses and magnolias.
Next were the paintings.
Wherever Peeta's eyes landed, he saw framed paintings on the walls – gentle waves crashing against the shore of a sandy beach, a breathtaking sunset with morphing hues of orange and red; a flock of twittering birds taking to the sky; a house at Christmas time with crisp, powdery snow falling and billows of smoke rising out of a chimney; a faint, but visible rainbow stretching the length of a meadow and a man unexpectedly stumbling across it with awe-struck eyes; two lovers swept up in a fervent embrace while a torrential downpour drenched them from head to toe, and even a little boy with his back pressed against a tree, engrossed in an unputdownable book loaded with selfless knights and wondrous adventure.
There were definitely more than enough paintings and if he had to guess, he would have estimated there was close to fifty in total. It was absorbing the splendor of the many paintings that he knew this teacher was evidently a lover of art. Knowing this, he could barely wait to be taught the skills that would enrich and inspire his inventive mind for years to come. And who better to be educated by than from a man who was undeniably just as zealous about the world of art as he was?
There was no arguing that this vibrantly-adorned room was where he was destined to be.
But aside from the eye-popping colors, exotic plants and detailed canvases, what really stood out for him were the supplies. There were dozens of them and even as he allowed his eyes to inspect them one by one, it would have taken him over an hour to go through such a collection; there were just that many of them. Regardless of where his eyes were fixed – on shelves, countertops that were lined with essential equipment or numerous tables that were randomly scattered with an ample of goods – there was something to take in. There was paper of all dimensions and textures, freshly-sharpened pencils, charcoals, canvases, tubes of paints, brushes, watercolors, easels, markers, sketchbooks and all that was needed. It was all here, ready to be used and if put in the appropriate hands, could help a student mature into the potential artist they dreamed of one day becoming.
In a way, it was like the supplies were speaking directly to Peeta, informing him that he was now equipped to embark on his lifelong dream of eventually becoming an artist.
He was raring to go.
This is gonna be awesome! His excitement was rising to much grander heights and he hadn't even been instructed yet on what his task for the hour would be. Sixteen years I've waited and now I can finally do whatever I want with art, and see just how much there is to create. All the paints and brushes and papers I can use! I'll get to learn how to use all this!
He shifted his eyes to a picturesque landscape that momentarily transported him to a wide-open prairie. White, downy clouds drifted lazily along the expanse of an afternoon sky while a herd of cattle grazed on the patches of dew soaked grass below.
I wonder what the teacher's got planned for the first day?
Next to it was an abstract representation portraying a fictional woman who was partially human, partly animal. A silky bundle of hair flowed down to her shoulders, but it was debatable as to whether or not the golden hair wasn't in actuality the mane of a lion. The pistachio green reflected in her gleaming eyes echoed that of a cat's, yet interestingly, were still visibly feminine. With the rounded snout of a pig, pointed ears of a hare and black face markings of a shifty raccoon, Peeta was positive of one imperative observation.
Mr. Odair was a man with a sense of humor.
The title of the amusing creation?
Human? Animal? You tell me!
Peeta hadn't a clue, but he was starting to have an idea of what this gifted expert had arranged for the semester's beginning class.
Something fun, he concluded with a mounting burst of fervor.
He settled on selecting a seat closest to the back so he could go on scrutinizing more of the materials and develop a sense of what sort of tools he'd be relying on for projects. When he was seated, right off the bat he spotted a teeny, cube-shaped delicacy in front of him. He gingerly picked up this miniature-sized square and following closer inspection, recognized it for what it was – a sugar cube. Letting his eyes float from one table to the next, it was revealed that each of them held one of these delectable treats. Though it wasn't the most outlandish sight he could have perceived, it wasn't the most common either. Common would have included papers, pencils, erasers, sketchbooks, brushes or some art-related tool.
Not sugar cubes.
Sugar cubes? Peeta felt nothing but puzzled as he carried on contemplating what kind of connection art could share with these exceptionally sweet tidbits. Perhaps the objective of that hour would be to re-create their three-dimensional structure. Maybe it's got something to do with what we'll be doing? Not sure what he's got in mind though unless he plans on offering us tea. That would be cool. Art and tea would make a nice combination.
While he wasn't one for including sugar in his tea, that didn't mean he'd refuse an invitation for snacks.
Not when the confections were compacted granules of sugar.
He set the cube back down on the table and only one thing crossed his mind as he went on eyeing it. Whatever they're for, I hope we'll get to eat them!
Already seated on his left was a girl with crimped, black hair and a guy with a pretty spectacular-looking afro. They were discussing how their classes had gone, which teachers they liked and didn't like, and what they hoped to accomplish in tenth grade art.
He reckoned the two were friends and as he analyzed how the girl was responding, it was hard to mistake the gleam in her eye as she listened to the guy with the rainbow-colored afro speak. It was catching this joyous spark in her eye that Peeta instantly knew the two weren't just friends – they were joined by a fastened bond of love. Lingering about them was a romantic air and it was one that couldn't have been easily overlooked.
It was when the girl's cheeks broke out in a cherry red after receiving an irresistibly charming grin from this guy that Peeta was abruptly struck with a sense of…lonesomeness. Plenty of instances in his life and more times than he would have liked he'd experienced what loneliness was. Based on the years that had recently left him, he was by no means a stranger to the sentiment that had stuck with him like a virus to a targeted host.
No, he was all too familiar with that unpleasant sensation, and vice versa.
It surfaced almost daily at home, which was where the worst of it emerged. Latching onto his vulnerable self and burrowing painfully into the core of his overwhelming yearnings, it pursued him everywhere. Day in and day out he'd be forced to endure this unbearable suffering. Clearly, this would promote the materializing of it in circumstances that had yet to be acknowledged and predictably…it had.
Incidents where his eyes had fallen on the interlocked hands of enamored couples as they sauntered aimlessly by had commonly re-triggered it. Gazing at the smiles they wore and sensing the genuine affection they shared was for him, equivalent to a throbbing punch to the gut. The flirtatious joking was a noise that had followed him in the hallways at school, out in the crowded public and above all, in the stillness of his room at home in the bakery.
Despite his endeavors to block out the resurfacing of these exchanged jokes, smiles, embracings and forged bonds, they hadn't diminished. Like a film placed on rerun, they'd persisted to replay and relentlessly overpowered his ability to vanquish them.
It was right then that he realized how truly lonely he'd been for the past several years.
Naturally, he couldn't help wish the girl he loved – Katniss Everdeen – was sitting right alongside him. He wished they were together and that he could give her an irresistibly charismatic grin that would send her cheeks flushing madly. He would have given anything to see a sparkle in her eyes that told him she'd opened her heart and unreservedly combined it in unison with his.
Unfortunately, there was no hiding from the unavoidable truth that the likelihood of this happening was terribly slim.
Unfeasible even.
For the previous nine years, not once had the two spoken face to face in school. The most they'd ever addressed the other with was a quick, casual glance. Never had he actually approached her in class, at her locker, in the hall or by the entrance doors to say hi, ask to hang out with her and possibly become friends. His nerves had proven too great and the hesitancy and possibility of rejection had only intensified as the years passed by.
Thus, he'd spent every year in school admiring her in silence and wishing so deeply the two could somehow bump into each other; he knew he wouldn't have it in him to pluck up the courage to make it reality. He was just too shy, quiet and timorous and it was these three maddening attributes that had been holding him back for so very long.
Nevertheless, there was no point in brooding over it forever. He was now in the class he'd been so thrilled to get started in, so he did his best to concentrate solely on that.
How swiftly his attention was diverted.
Tucking his orange-colored bag under his table, he went on sitting there with his arms stretched out along the wooden plane. His fingers were lightly drumming the desk in a rhythmic pattern of tap-tap-tap-tap-tap, doing so out of sheer exuberance. To say that he couldn't wait for class to begin was an understatement. He felt sure that he was unquestionably the most excited, but he doubted everyone else's mothers behaved as callously as his by refusing to let their child buy things as simple as paints and brushes.
No, he was positive only his mother was that insensitive.
This was confirmed when the guy with the brilliant afro and the black-haired girl began sharing why that summer had been so particularly splendid.
"Ms. Shaylo was genius," the guy remarked, recalling the weekly art sessions he and his girlfriend had attended in July and August. "She really taught us a lot."
"She knew her stuff, that's for sure," the girl agreed.
"I'll probably re-register this summer," he replied, digging into his pack and pulling out a photo of a model sculpted meticulously out of clay. It was a delicate carving with a variety of components – a branch derived from a flourishing fruit tree with a half-eaten peach attached to it; two speckled eggs burrowed in a cup woven out of twigs; an inchworm sliding hungrily towards the leftover fruit, and a feline's scratch marks notched on the tree's exterior.
The girl examined the snapshot and chuckled in amusement, "I remember that! Poor old Jimmy the inchworm. All he wanted was a nibble of that peach. And the villainous cat who couldn't stop trying to snatch up that trio of eggs for supper. Still can't tell who's hungrier. The worm or the cat?"
"And I remember yours." He beamed at her and threw in jokily, "Have to admit, it wasn't all that mind-blowing and was kinda average, no offense. That palm tree could have used a few more coconuts, and the leaves should have been longer and thicker."
"Average, huh?" she shot back, raising a brow in false irritation. It then faded rapidly and as anticipated, he was shown one of her playful smirks. "Think you got that mixed up, pal. What I built was in no way average so I recommend you re-think that."
"Alright, I surrender!" he shot back, lifting his hands up and guffawing. "You win."
"I win!" she proclaimed victoriously. Nudging him in the arm, she whispered, "Again."
"Yes, again," the guy sighed, meeting her eyes with a jocular expression.
"Yay me."
"Yours was awesome though," he complimented, tucking the photo back into his bag. "I'd have to say your beach recreation was one of the best I've seen. The wave, palm tree, shells on the sand, it was all lovely."
She shrugged modestly. "No lovelier than yours."
"My dear, I'd say that's highly debatable," he countered with a charismatic wink.
"If you say so," she said, and she too was sending him a wink.
"Good thing my mom told me about that program," the guy went on while twirling his pencil in circles. "Who knows if I would have found out about it? Soon as school was out, I flipped through a bunch of ads but didn't find any art ones. They had summer camps, tutors for summer school, volunteering events and brochures for traveling throughout Panem, but no art seminars. And whatever tutorials I did find, they were all booked up."
"They filled up fast," she commented with an incredulous shake of her head.
"Too fast. July wasn't even here yet and spots were already booking up."
"Those people were in a hurry to get going."
"So was I. And if mom hadn't signed me up, I wouldn't have been given a spot."
"Same with me," the girl said, crossing her legs. "If you hadn't told me about those classes, I wouldn't have joined you."
"That would have left me without a partner."
"That makes your mom a hero then."
"Yeah," he chortled, realizing her statement wasn't too far off from being accurate. "Makes sense too. She's the one that helped me get a spot in those classes. Who would have known mom would end up jumping in to save the day?"
"And summer vacation."
"That too."
Instantaneously, Peeta's mother's ruthless words crawled once more into his pensive mind. Amplified in volume and more stringent than ever, it sucked him back to a few days ago. It was when she'd unnecessarily recapped her unbending expectations to her youngest son. As if afraid he'd furtively disregard her parameters and disobey her, yet again she'd hammered her orders into his consciousness.
No equipment will be obtained and brought into the house.
No tutors.
No registration in classes.
Get your ludicrous head out of the clouds!
Smarten the hell up!
No money is to be wasted on art!
Obviously, it was because of her uncompromising attitude that Peeta hadn't partaken in any art tutorials. Where handfuls of students were registered and participating by the end of June, Mrs. Mellark's son had strived to not let these invisible chains dampen his mood. He took advantage of his laptop and phone which gratefully, weren't categorized as unnecessary by his mother. To ensure continual academic achievements in junior and high school, she encouraged the use of such technology. This meant that to guarantee grades of A's and B's with research papers, assignments and online collaborative discussions, her son had to have daily access to the internet.
What he chose to do in his spare time on computers was trivial to her. Solitaire, music, browsing the web, who cared?
All that mattered was maintaining as excellent of grades as possible…and assisting at home in the bakery.
Lugging hundred-pound sacks of flour, kneading, shaping and cooking bread, applying elegant motifs to multi-layered cakes and operating the cash register was only a small fraction of the duties he was responsible for fulfilling. Also responsible for pitching in were his two older brothers – Rye and Luchi – his mother, and his father who'd originally founded their local business.
Nowhere was it allowable for him to incorporate art-related hobbies into this schedule.
Not now and not anytime soon.
That was why he was so extremely excited to be there in that class. His mother irrefutably set restrictions pertaining to art at home but her influence was officially and eternally broken in that classroom.
Now freedom at last could be relished.
For an entire year, he could now have all the supplies he desired, newly-bought and all at his very fingertips. Having sat through an hour of introductory algebra and an hour of learning the in-depth arrangement of plant and animal cells, he was more than psyched for a challenge. His mind was still sorting out and deciphering what he'd been taught earlier that morning, but there was still an adequate amount of space for digestion of what this teacher had prepared. Fortunately for him his mind was in a state of ambitiousness as creating a work of art was what he'd been awaiting for all summer. To have a sketch, painting or accomplished artistic production he could smile at and think proudly I made this! would be all but gratifying.
After ten years of patiently waiting, his childhood aspirations were about to come true.
And although it would have been wonderful if Katniss too could have been there to bask in the excitement, she wasn't.
In any case, as much as he would have been elated by her company, he wasn't about to dwell on it. Time was precious and he wanted to savor in the opportunities this class was about to deliver.
He didn't have long to stay wrapped up in his intriguing reveries, however.
Finnick Odair – one of the cooler teachers of Madderson High, who taught grades ten, eleven and twelve art – was presently introducing himself. While carrying an armload of papers, he strolled into the center of the room where he set down the towering pile on one of the tables. What Peeta couldn't help notice was how strikingly green the guy's eyes were. The pigmentation in his irises was so lively and radiant that they reminded him of the color of a tranquil sea or dazzling jewel. Judging by the youth that glowed so perceptibly on his face, he presumed he was a man in his early thirties. He was near six feet tall with tan-skin and thick, bronze-colored hair and as he was of a muscular build, he was notably athletic. There was no disagreeing with the fact that he was a handsome gentleman. He was dressed nonchalantly in a brown t-shirt and denims that were splattered with various tinges of paint – cherry reds, sapphire blues, emerald greens and lavender purples. Though his pants weren't like any jeans Peeta had ever observed, what so prominently stood out about him were his eyes. Not only were they entrancing, but there was a level of enigmatic depth to them that paralleled the bottomless depths of a colossal ocean.
"Welcome everyone!" Mr. Odair gregariously announced. "Name's Finnick Odair and I'm gonna be your tenth grade art instructor from now until June. Great to see so many of you here. Now I know some teachers prefer to go into detail about their lives and whatnot, but I don't want to go ahead and bore you all to sleep with my story. That's all blah blah blah to you, though if you ever want to hear a story or two of mine, just give me a shout. I'd be more than willing to spill some of my wildest adventures and believe me…art's full of them. As for the gist of my life, there's really not much to tell. I've been in love with art for years and I've been fortunate to have been able to pass on my knowledge at Madderson High for just as many. Every second of it I've enjoyed immensely and it's a job I wouldn't trade for any other. The way I see it, every day helps me see art in a new, invigorating light, so I'd say that makes my job feel like a pretty exciting one. Between a lifetime of researching all the artists that came before ones like myself and putting what I've learned into practice, I feel I have much to share with you."
He rubbed his chin in contemplation and with a broad smile, continued, "Guess that's just about all you need to know about me. I love art, I love teaching it and it's my personal goal to ensure all of you leave this class at the end of the year with a greater appreciation and perception of art than when you first walked through that door. If I can pull that off, then I'll have done my job. I know not everyone is crazy about art but I can promise you this will be a relaxed and pleasurable environment. There's no need to fret as there isn't much to stress yourself with in this class. If you do your work and try your best, it's absolutely impossible to end with a failing grade. Trust me on that. The most important factor to commit to memory is: keep an open mind and don't hesitate to explore and expand your imagination. That alone is the most incredible gift you've got when it comes to art. Whether you choose to delve into what your enormously packed minds have to offer is choice entirely."
It was then that Peeta found his concentration shifting gradually elsewhere and unable to ignore it, he turned his head to identify what it was.
What his probing eyes encountered was a strange, but remarkably captivating picture hanging high up on the wall. A quick glance at the top and he saw the work was titled Struggled, Shattered, Survived. He made an effort to try and decipher what significance could be obscured within those three words, but was unsuccessful. He was stumped as to what implications might have been integrated into this canvas, but he could easily unravel its features.
The entwined colors and alien shapes were distinctly chaotic and made him think of a roaring, out of control storm that couldn't be tamed. Its hues were gloomy and inferred that whoever had constructed this painting must have been experiencing a time of distress in their life, and they'd expressed their woe through multiple, interweaving colors.
But this work of art wasn't only of blending shadows that engulfed like ravenous phantoms.
When Peeta studied the painting more methodically, he detected the tiniest streaks that trickled like rivers along the edges of the frame. Scarcely detectable, they were buried like treasure in the cloudiness of grays and browns that acted as a disguise but nonetheless…they existed.
There was luminosity in what resembled twinkling stars in the dead of night.
In all, he thought the elaborate image was both haunting and extraordinary. Signs of apparent sadness and affliction were shown what with the murkiness but in contrast, it wasn't all dim and of consuming depression. A faint, but noticeable glow wound its way into the gloom. It was like this narrow light was boldly fighting to break out of the clutches of despair and strengthen its color and beauty.
From his own perspective, it was a piece that was unforgettable.
He could visualize himself in the years to come, still fascinated over this dismal-yet-inspiring depiction.
He was still looking the painting over with the greatest of interest and contemplating if he'd at one point be capable of crafting such a dramatically marvelous piece…when someone quietly approached the entrance to the room.
The new arrival didn't say a word or even give a curious look around at her fellow pupils or the numberless compositions strung up on the walls. She merely went on standing in the doorway as if feeling a tad bit tentative about entering. Her eyes weren't darting from table to table or canvas to canvas, as Peeta's had been. They were peering downward, seemingly frozen in place and apathetic towards the buzzing chatter.
Checking her map briefly and then stuffing it back into the pocket of her bootleg jeans, she strode inside.
"Come right in!" she heard a man welcomingly telling her. "Just sorting out a few last papers but please, make yourself at home! Shouldn't take me long to get things rolling here. In a few more minutes, the much talked about show that's tenth grade art will be underway."
"I'm not late, am I?"
"Late? Not at all," he reassured her. "Still got about three minutes till I get this show on the road so no, you're not late. He gestured to the clock on the wall and added frivolously, "Three minutes from now and you would have been though."
Peeta's eyes were off that painting in a flash.
The various shapes, colors and zigzagging lines no longer appeared as compelling as they had about five seconds ago. What had temporarily snatched his attention so readily was now fading and receding from his central vision.
No longer did the darkness that exhibited such grays and blacks or the uniqueness come across as dark or unique. Not a single aspect of that work of art came across as fantastic anymore, and that was all due to what had crept so out of the blue into his peripheral field of vision. Now smoothly penetrating into his central vision, the magnificence of that artist's illustration was less mesmerizing.
Mesmerizing was who he was now unintentionally gaping at.
It was the one, unshakable thing he'd been hoping for the moment he'd stepped into that room and taken a seat.
The first, initial thought that sprang to Peeta's now whirling mind was: is that really her?
It was.
As unbelievable and totally unforeseen as it was, it was her.
The second thought that popped into his realm of swirling musings was: I hope my head doesn't explode.
He couldn't refrain from watching her, his head racing in a million directions as the girl walked around in search of a seat. She first checked to her right and concluding that every seat was occupied, awkwardly made her way over to the opposite side of the room.
A dark green t-shirt, jeans and running shoes that had gotten much use out of them was what she was wearing. Her long black hair was fashioned in a practical braid that fell straight down her back and out of the twenty-five girls gathered, hers was the only one in that specific style. It was the grayness in her almond-shaped eyes – both entrancing and mysterious – that cast Peeta under a mesmerized spell. A deep raptness arose in him and reaching the surface, he almost forgot what class he was in. She was exactly the same as she'd always been with her olive skin, silvery eyes and typical braid, but he was suddenly feeling as if it were his first time seeing her. He'd laid eyes on her practically every day of his life in school, but it felt like all these reminiscences were getting wiped out and replacing them was this one, single moment of her winding up in his high school art class.
The amazing realization that she was an enrolled student in what would end up as his most beloved class was indeed playing tricks on him. He was starting to have serious doubts as to what class he was in, where he should be and what time the persistently tick-tocking clock was displaying.
Art? He was unsure if that was even correct but when he considered math and biology that made no sense in the slightest. He'd been to both those classes prior to lunch as well as free, so all three were implausible which left only one logical explanation remaining.
Shaking himself together and understanding how dangerously close he was to allowing his nerves to get the best of him, asserted firmly, you're in art, Peeta! Art. You're in art but she's…she's in it too. Two things you love are coming together. That's all…no big deal. It's just the girl you've loved for eleven years now in what's gonna be your favorite class. Just keep calm.
The majority of seats as the girl soon saw were already taken, so she remained off to the side, appearing and feeling rather awkward. It didn't help that there were so many students and pointing out an available seat wasn't as easy as she'd supposed it would be, especially since she didn't want to be in that class in the first place. She wasn't there because she wanted to be – she was there only because it was required of her. If she intended on completing high school and ultimately graduating with a well-earned diploma, then she'd have to have a minimum of one art credit listed on her final transcript. If she failed in achieving that, then she wouldn't be declared eligible to join her friends on the celebratory day that was the sixth of July.
The outcome?
No certificate, meaning there'd be no farewell to this nine-month course. That in itself would be a disaster, as she wasn't one with a knack for art, nor did she care for the discipline.
That was why it was so crucial she pass. Pass this class and then it would be goodbye to art and two years later…hello graduation.
So there she was, halfhearted but ready to tackle the necessity that was tenth grade art. Choosing to get it done now and out of the way would mean there'd be no worries about signing up for eleventh or twelfth grade art. The way she saw it, having to sign up for even one art class was far too many for her liking and if she could be in charge of it all, art wouldn't be mandatory. Instead, it would be labeled as optional. Those who weren't fans of the activity could steer clear of it like the plague and do as they pleased. To her disappointment, this wasn't the way things ran.
So rather than stand there secretly wishing she was somewhere else, she tried finding a seat amongst the group of willing, animated students.
She was on the brink of accepting the fact that every seat was filled and insisting that she was better off requesting that she attempt transferring to another class…when she shot a fleeting look again to her right. There, she was met with the sight of an empty chair and one seat over was a blond-haired guy who was twiddling his thumbs. Beside him sat a girl with wavy black hair and also at her table was a guy with the wildest, most kaleidoscopic afro she'd ever stumbled upon. The two were chit chatting, exchanging jokes and generally seemed to be enjoying themselves.
The boy with the blond hair, meanwhile, had stopped fiddling with his thumbs and was now tapping his right foot. It was being aware of her presence and detecting that she was surveying the unoccupied seat that caused him to gently bite his upper lip. It was all he could do to prevent his eyes from gawking, his cheeks from burning tomato red and his legs from knocking. How he succeeded in keeping his astonishment at seeing her at bay, he hadn't the faintest clue.
This didn't mean he wasn't susceptible to letting his mind plunge into a dumbfounded state.
He'd have no problem sinking into such a spellbound trance.
The trouble would be climbing his way back into reality.
The girl watched his behavior with the smallest hint of inquisitiveness, wondering if he similarly preferred to be in some other class. He plainly wasn't as talkative or dynamic as those around him. Where they were all busily chitchatting and marveling at their teacher's distinctive portrayals, he wasn't. The most he'd do is lift his head, glimpse transiently up at the notably scrupulous works on the walls and then wordlessly return his focus to his hands on the table.
That…and stare in wonderment at her as she stared back.
Maybe he hates art just as much as I do? she thought hopefully. With this many people, I can't be the only one. He sure doesn't seem as excited as everyone else. Guess I'm not the only one who's here when they don't want to be. Least I'm not the only one.
Peeta knew he couldn't go on eyeballing her for the fear that she'd regard him as some kind of can't-take-my-eyes-off-you creep. So as casually as he could, he dropped his fixated gaze, lowered his head and pretended to be focused on his hands, the table, his stuffed book bag on the floor, his double-knotted shoelaces, something, anything at all. It didn't matter what his eyes fell on so long as they weren't staring keenly and nervously at her.
His eyes might have been working hastily to keep distracted with tables, laces and fingers, but he could hear her approaching footsteps drawing steadily nearer. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see her clear as day heading towards him... and the empty seat next to him. With each step she took, she was growing one step closer to him and the closer she got, the more it was sounding as if she was treading on breakable glass and not on a polished, concrete floor. Of course that wasn't the case, but he was so utterly delighted and flabbergasted that he wasn't hearing things for what they truly were.
A surge of exhilaration could ignite this, as he was now recognizing.
The uninterrupted clicking of the clock's shifting hands was more like a booming, the ongoing conversations more like vague rumbling and his own beating heart an intense pounding that could have belonged to that of a giant. In addition to perceiving these kinds of sounds, he wasn't convinced he wasn't thinking all that properly either.
Amid all the inexplicable racket dancing in his ears, one thing was all too palpable.
Katniss Everdeen was just a few steps shy of claiming the seat next to him and all could make sense of was the one overriding thought emerging in his mind.
She's in my class?
Those four words were bouncing vigorously from one section of his consciousness to another.
She's…in…my…class.
She's in my class! Astounded, speechless and over the moon were all ideal descriptions that summed up where his restless emotions stood. I've never even really gotten to talk to her before but now she's here! In…my…class! Oh man…I hope she won't mind sitting next to me. Wait, did I forget deodorant? No, no worries there. You smell fine. But I won't if I start sweating! Okay, just relax Mellark. Don't make her feel awkward and while you're at it, try not to make yourself feel too awkward. Don't need both of us feeling awkward. Be calm and friendly. Friendly and calm.
He let his mind drift back to elementary school when the two had been in every class together all the way up to sixth grade. Time and again he'd noticed her – in class reviewing notes, roaming in the halls, out by the playground with the swings, twisting slide, monkey bars and jungle gym, chuckling with her little sister on their way home – and he'd continuously wanted so badly to walk up and introduce himself…but he hadn't. His nerves had controlled him and in the midst of his incessant struggling, it had occurred to him that he was a prisoner, shackled to his own tension. Each year resulted in an additional fruitless and discouraging endeavor of him striving to say 'hi' and all on account of his bundle of nerves. He'd been powerless to conquer his uncertainties and like a dog chained on a leash, there'd been no escaping them.
All those years I could have talked to her…but I didn't. Eleven years she was there, yet I didn't say a word to her. I could have, but I didn't. Eleven years!
Sitting there, he silently vowed not to repeat the same mistake twice.
This would be the year where he'd at last push aside his fears and insecurities and talk to her. It was different when they were young and growing up, so he tried not to be too hard on himself. Saying 'hi' to a girl at the age of five was one of the most challenging undertakings for a boy to fulfill. It was all the more tricky when swarms of butterflies fluttered uncontrollably into his stomach whenever he so much as locked eyes with her.
That had been his complicated past of planning, hesitating, abandonment and stubbornly re-planning…but he wasn't five anymore.
He was sixteen, older, more mature and hovering near the sidelines while hinging on to the hopes that they'd magically meet by chance would accomplish nothing. The odds of that transpiring were about the same as him blossoming into a professional artist in all of one day. He had to work at it and practice and like with Katniss, he wasn't going to be granted his heart's desire if he sat around wallowing in his recurring reflections. If he was determined on budding into a professional painter, then he'd need to pick up a brush and begin experimenting with colors. Likewise, if he hoped to sprout into a dexterous sketcher, then he'd need to grip a pencil and begin experimenting with tones.
There was no difference regarding the scenario with Katniss. If he longed for the two to enter a sprouting friendship, then he'd have to open his mouth and get talking.
It was as straightforward as that, yet it felt strangely difficult.
A more appropriate word would be intimidating.
But no matter how difficult or intimidating it was, no progress would be reached if he didn't dismount from square one. Too long he'd loitered on this platform and if history replayed itself, all he would achieve is frustration.
Frustration on the first day of this glorious class would have dampened the elated mood that had rocketed since he'd woken up at seven o' clock.
It was when she was finally lowering herself onto the vacant seat that a flooding of amazement gushed into him. While she was setting her green-colored bag under the table, he was doing all he could not to erupt right then and there.
For crying out loud, she's in your class, Mellark! he reiterated, and it was dawning on him how favorable of a position he'd wound up in. It's perfect. All these years you've sat around being quiet and shy when she's been in basically all of your classes, and now she's in your class again…sitting next to you! Now you've just got to start talking. It's not hard. You know how to do it. Just open your mouth, try not to babble and say hi. Right…that.
He was seconds away from attempting exactly that when Mr. Odair pulled out a pen and sheet of paper.
"Now before we get started, I'm going to do roll call to make sure you're all here. Just raise your hand or say here when I read off your name, and then we'll have some oodles of fun. Better yet, we'll stir up what I like to call some mischief."
By mischief, he must mean dumping all the ones who can't draw to save their life in the middle of the room, and then laughing at how klutzy we are, contemplated Katniss, tracing her fingers along the denim of her jeans. Bet I'll be the only one too. These people wouldn't be smiling if they weren't looking forward to this. So then I'm the only one not wanting to be here. Terrific…
Out of all the classes she'd gone to that day, not one teacher had described their course as being one of mischief. Therefore, it crossed her mind that there was a strong probability she'd be a floundering fish in the dreaded months to come. Comparable to a fish yanked brusquely out of its comfortable dwellings in the infinite seas, she too was on the brink of thrashing wildly. In no time at all, she'd be gasping for oxygen as the complexities of art descended on her, resulting in inevitable suffocation.
She only prayed she was overreacting, and that it wouldn't be so frustratingly intricate. Otherwise, she'd be drowning in the uncharted territory that was art.
"Eleanor Jade?" called Mr. Odair.
"Here."
Is she really here? mused Peeta, who was still considerably stunned at Katniss Everdeen having entered this classroom. Or am I going delirious?
"Layton Nevins?"
"Here."
I could be, he thought, weighing the odds. Or maybe it's like when you're in the desert and you see a mirage? You think it's there and want it to be, but it's not. Back and forth his eyes were flickering from the image of this gray-eyed girl to his bag under the table. Was he hallucinating and dreaming up this too-good-to-be-true circumstance? Was the bizarre phenomenon known as mirages now seizing hold of him and declaring him its next victim?
"Savanna Rowan?"
"Here."
But we're not even in the desert! Peeta inferred. How can there be a mirage when we're not in the desert? Don't those illusions only happen when you're hot, tired and drained of your energy? Then it shows you what you want to see?
"Arlo Fencer?"
"Here."
He looked at Katniss, and then promptly returned his gaze to Mr. Odair who was whizzing through the list of names. Name after name was checked off, but the guy could have been hollering and still they would have flown in one ear and out the other. Peeta was too engaged with distinguishing what was a released figment of his imagination, and what was solid reality.
"Ruby Kirst?"
"Here."
"Nigel Santon?"
"Here." The afro-haired guy raised his hand, and his name was checked off the list.
"Ellen Latwood?"
"Here." Nigel's girlfriend raised her hand and her name too was checked off the list.
"Millie Rose?"
"Here."
"Peeta Mellark?"
No, there's no way I'm imagining it, thought Peeta assertively. I can't be! It's not a mirage, illusion or some trick of the mind. And there's no way it's a dream. It's just the shock of her being here. That's all. It's all real and she's really, truly here in this room sitting next to me…isn't she?
"Is there a Peeta Mellark here?" asked Mr. Odair. He slanted his brows upward and peered expectantly around the room for a raised hand. When he identified none, he was about to mark him absent and proceed further down the list of names, when…
"Here!" a voice shouted a bit too loudly.
Mr. Odair lifted his head and saw the elevated arm of a blond-haired boy in the back row of the room. The guy's eyes were widened and the look on his face was one that pretty well screamed, "No, don't mark me absent! Please? I'm here! See? I'm here and present! See my hand?" He'd been so sidetracked by his own perpetual ponderings that it had slipped his mind there was roll-call being taken.
Amused, the teacher smiled, shook his head and scribbled a checkmark beside the student's name.
"Gotta speak up in my class, Peeta," said Mr. Odair unperturbedly. "Don't wanna be quiet as a mouse." The trace of a smile was still perceptible on his lips, and this was followed by a cordial laugh. As Peeta surveyed the guy's face more closely, it became clear that Finnick Odair was about as laid-back a teacher as a person could ask for. Where Ms. Coin or Mr. Boggs would have been irritated by just this – students miles away in some unseen location – Mr. Odair presented no such reaction.
"Sorry," said Peeta sheepishly. "I…I guess I got distracted."
"No need to apologize." Then, the guy pronounced perkily, "Happens to me all the time!"
Of the forty names recorded on his teacher's checklist, there was all but one name that hadn't yet been noted as present.
"And do we have a Katniss Everdeen here?"
"Here." The last name was checked off the attendance sheet.
"Fabulous!" Mr. Odair exclaimed while slipping the pen back into his pocket. "The whole crew's here and as that's now out of the way, I can happily divulge what your designated task for the hour is."
That was it.
Up till then, Peeta had been wrestling with conflicting notions as to what was reality, and what were fabricated stratagems. He'd grappled and chewed over whether Katniss actually had seated herself next to him, or if his mind was toying with him. Had he been undergoing mirages? Illusions? Hallucinations? Some unexplainable hoax of the everlastingly multifaceted mind?
No.
All of it – Katniss showing up out of the blue in the doorway to Mr. Odair's room, striding over to the unfilled seat beside him, notifying the teacher that she was present – was real.
Gone were any hesitations concerning her being in math, biology, history or English.
She was in art.
From September till June.
In Mr. Odair's class.
And if that alone wasn't mind-bogglingly staggering, she was sitting directly across from him.
She's in my class, Peeta cogitated. His eyes zeroed in on his feet on the floor and it was then that everything he'd doubted, wished for and wondered about while being in that class was coming into miraculous, translucent focus.
Katniss…Everdeen…is…in…my…class!