Tasting (Chapter 1)

Peeta wiped distractedly at the light dusting of flour on the counter. Flour got everywhere, even on the front counter after a few hours. Even on the tables a little by the end of the day. It was just one of those things about bakeries, like how it was always hot in the summertime, even with the air on full blast. Bakers needed ovens—fire—even when it was hot enough outside to roast a person alive.

He slid his forearm across his forehead, but it only smeared the sweat that had formed there instead of wiping it away. He tossed his cleaning rag into the bucket of disinfectant in the sink and grabbed his soda from the shelf below the counter. On days like this, he always stopped at the corner liquor store for a large soda before coming in for his shift. He'd get the big cup, fill it to the brim with ice, and then top it off with orange soda. The habit would likely kill him someday, but it was hard to be bothered by the idea when it was the one thing that helped him survive the long, hot summers.

He took several long sips and turned to lean against the counter, looking up at the tired old menu on the wall and the faded, grainy 90's posters of cakes that had been blighting the bakery's wall for two decades now. The menu he thought he might be able to fix with some paint. But he wondered how much it would cost to get someone to take new photos and print up new posters for them. Mellark's had a solid enough reputation in the city, and new walk-ins were always happy with anything they ordered from the cases, but they never seemed to trust them with anything beyond. And it was the beyond parts that Peeta loved the most about his job.

He closed his eyes and let himself start to envision the kind of cake he'd be proud to advertise on a poster if he ever got the chance. He was picturing a delicate bouquet of perfectly lifelike flowers on top, maybe seeded with sugar pearls, when a voice snapped him away from his vision.

"I need a cake."

Peeta flinched and accidentally squeezed his cup. Ice and watery orange soda sloshed onto the floor, and a little onto his pants.

"Shit," Peeta said, setting the cup aside and grabbing a clean towel. He turned and looked up at the girl on the other side of the counter to apologize, and his heart nearly stopped. Shit. She was scowling, and it made him wonder just how long she'd been standing there. "I'm sorry," he said, mind dangerously near the precipice of blankness. "I didn't hear you come in. By 'shit,' I obviously meant 'Welcome,' and 'how may I help you?'" He dabbed at his pants and then mopped up the small puddle from the floor.

When he stood up again, her scowl hadn't budged.

It didn't matter. He was a connoisseur of her scowls. And besides—she was here.

Peeta Mellark been making a secret study of Katniss Everdeen ever since the first grade. That year he'd learned her favorite color (green), he'd learned that she was great at tag and capture the flag because she was small and fast and quiet, and he'd learned that her singing voice was like hot cocoa on a cold winter day. It was like the color blue if blue could give you a hug. He'd have traded her the cookie in his lunch every day for the rest of his life in exchange for one line of a song—if he'd ever been brave enough to actually talk to her.

And later, in junior high, he learned that her dad had died, but he learned it slow. He learned that she stopped getting lunch at the cafeteria and started bringing it from home instead. He learned that she only smiled anymore when she was walking her sister home at the end of the school day. He learned that she buried herself under layers of clothes because most of hers had holes in them and because her jacket wasn't warm enough for winter. That was when Delly had mentioned it.

"She doesn't ever eat her lunch," she said one day, like it was a secret she'd been worrying over.

"Who?" Peeta asked, washing down the last of his ham and cheese sandwich with some apple juice.

"That girl. The one with the braid, in the corner."

"You mean Katniss?" he asked. He'd blushed—it was the first time he'd ever said her name out loud.

Delly leaned forward. "She takes out her sandwich, tears it into smaller pieces, and then puts the pieces back into the bag. She pretends to chew and swallow, but none of it ever actually reaches her mouth."

Peeta turned to watch her. "Maybe she doesn't like the kind of sandwich her mom packs."

"I don't think there's even anything in it," Delly said quietly. "I think it's just bread."

Peeta studied her more closely after that, but he did his best to hide it. Delly was right. She brought two pieces of bread with her every day in place of a real lunch, and she never ate them. They always went back into her lunch bag, and her lunch bag went back into her backpack. She chewed strawberry gum for the rest of the day and drank water from her water bottle. She was losing weight, and her hair was getting thinner.

The knowledge of it threatened to shatter him. He'd asked Delly what she thought they could do.

"If you try to help, she'll run," Delly had said. "She doesn't want anyone to know anything's wrong. That's why she pretends."

He needed to find a way to help her without embarrassing her or letting on that he was concerned.

He failed.

He'd screwed up his courage and taken his sandwich—turkey on wheat with cranberry mustard—over to her.

"Hey, you don't want this sandwich, do you?" he'd asked.

She'd frozen, mid-fake-chew, and glanced up at him.

Under the influence of proximity and the appraisal of her cool, gray eyes, his voice had gone up a little higher than normal, and the lie he'd carefully prepared came out in a rush. "My dad accidentally packed me two sandwiches. I already asked a bunch of other people, but they said they didn't want it. So do you? Want it?"

She fake-swallowed.

Take it. Please take it. "It's turkey. It's really good, I swear. My dad made the bread fresh this morning at the bakery, and he makes the cranberry mustard sauce himself."

She glanced down and folded the top of her lunch bag back down. "No thanks," she said. "I accidentally got two sandwiches today, too."

Peeta's heart wrenched. The arm offering her the sandwich drooped. "Are you sure?"

"Yeah," she said, putting her lunch bag back in her backpack and zipping it up. "I'm full."

She ran. He'd let her down.

At the end of the following week, he'd been taking out the trash at the bakery after school when he'd seen her in the alleyway, trying to lift the dumpster lid. She was too short to really lift it high enough for her to see inside, let alone pull anything out of it. When she saw him, she startled and let the lid slam down.

The moment knit them together in a kind of horrible understanding.

He didn't know what to say or what to do, but she was past the point of lies.

"Please don't tell anyone," she said, her eyes reddening with tears. "I can't even reach it, so it doesn't matter. I'm not stealing. It's just trash." Tears fell down her cheeks.

Peeta set his trash bag down, and she eyed it. "What were you looking for?" he asked. "I can hold the dumpster lid open for you if you want."

She shook her head and took a step back. "I only—I just need—"

He tried his best to look non-threatening. He put his hands in his pockets and scuffed his sneaker against the asphalt.

"I was hoping for old bread," she said, her voice crumbling as if crushed by a great weight. "Or—or maybe the last few bites of someone's sandwich." She started to retreat, and his heart sank. "Please. Don't tell anyone."

He smiled gently. "I can do you one better. Come inside, and you can have your own sandwich."

She shook her head and began to back away again. "I don't have any money."

He frowned. "Well then how about I get myself a sandwich, and then I'll give it to you."

"Forget it—I need to get home," she said, turning down the alleyway.

"Wait!" he said, running to catch up with her. "I swear, it'll be okay, and you won't owe me anything, and I won't say anything to anyone about—about anything you might be worried about. My dad won't care—we eat half our meals from the bakery anyway. No one will care that I had two sandwiches today. I do that sometimes anyway." He blushed, realizing how insensitive he must sound. And he cringed to find himself trying to convince her that anything about her situation was normal or okay. There was nothing okay about starvation. "Look," he said, trying again. "I know you wouldn't be here if you didn't need help. I know you wouldn't have said anything if it weren't—" he swallowed a lump in his throat. "If you could have found any other option."

Katniss hid her face in her hands.

"It's okay, Katniss," he begged. "Just let me help. Okay?"

She nodded, tears silently streaking her face.

He led her to the back door and through the kitchen to the storage room. He shifted some boxes so she'd have a place to sit, and then he handed her some paper towels so she could wipe her face and blow her nose.

"I'll only be a minute, okay? Just in there, in the kitchen."

She nodded.

As quickly as he could, he put together a sandwich, adding extra turkey, extra cheese, and extra cranberry sauce for good measure. The rich, brown bread had nuts and seeds and little bits of dried fruit in it. Then he grabbed a carton of chocolate milk from the fridge. This was a gamble—she'd always gotten chocolate milk at school until she'd started bringing her own lunch. He hoped she still liked it.

She did. When he brought her the food, she downed the milk first, and it brought more tears to her eyes. She seemed almost afraid to start on the sandwich, so Peeta encouraged her to eat and told her he'd go get her more to drink.

"More milk?" he asked.

"Just water," she said, wiping her nose.

"You sure? We have juice and iced tea, too."

She shook her head. "Just water."

He decided he'd put a few slices of lemon in at least, maybe some mint or basil. He couldn't give Katniss Everdeen just plain water.

He was at the sink, washing some mint leaves, when his father returned from his afternoon deliveries.

"Peet, you did it again," he said, a tired note of warning in his voice.

"Did what?" he asked, dropping the leaves into the glass of water he'd prepared.

"The trash. The bag is sitting in the middle of the alleyway, not ten feet from the dumpster."

"I'm really sorry," Peeta said. "I'll take care of it in a couple of minutes, okay?"

"Or now?" his father prompted. "You get distracted taking the garbage out—how do I know you won't get distracted in a few minutes and forget?"

Peeta lowered his voice. "I'm helping a friend right now. I swear, it wasn't that I got distracted. This was just more important. You can dock my allowance this week if you want."

His father sighed and removed his Mellark's hat, running his fingers through his grey-blond curls. "Which friend?"

"It's a girl from school. Her name's Katniss."

His father scrubbed at the stubble on his chin. "Katniss, huh?"

"Yeah," Peeta said. "I need to take her this water."

His father looked at the glass and shook his head. "She need anything else?"

"Not right now. I made her a sandwich. That's okay, right?"

"Did you make one for her little sister, too?"

Peeta's heart sank. "I didn't think of it."

"I'll whip something up."

Peeta set the glass down on the counter and hugged his dad.

His father ran his hand over Peeta's curls and squeezed his shoulders before sending him off again to the storage room.

Katniss had eaten half of the sandwich by the time he got there, but she was in the process of wrapping up the other half. He handed her the glass of water.

"You can eat the whole thing," he said softly. "My dad's making another one for your little sister."

Katniss took several big gulps of the water. "I'm full," she said at last.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he asked.

She shot him a look. "Do I look like I want to talk about it?"

"You look like you could use a friend."

She took another gulp of water. "Look, you don't have to do this. I'm sorry I came here. I was just thinking about that sandwich from last week, and my feet kind of brought me here without me even thinking about it. It was stupid. I can figure this out on my own."

"You don't have to, though," Peeta protested. "Whatever it is."

She finished the glass of water and set the glass down on the shelf next to her. Then she shoved the remnants of her sandwich into her hoodie pocket.

"No one can know," she said again. "I need you to swear."

"I can't," he said. "Not unless you swear you'll come back here or let me know somehow if you need help again."

"I won't need help again," she said, standing.

He stood too. "You don't have to—"

She grabbed his arm. "I need you to swear, Peeta."

He searched her eyes, but he found his own resolve going steely. He couldn't do it—not if he knew she was in trouble and couldn't find a way to help her.

She let go of his arm, a scowl sliding onto her face where before there had been that terrible grief.

She pushed past him and into the kitchen and made a beeline for the back door.

"Katniss Everdeen?" his father had called out.

Her scowl deepened into a mixture of betrayal and fury as she glanced at Peeta.

He shook his head slightly, denying her unspoken accusation.

Peeta's dad made his way over to them with two large paper bags and set them on the counter. "I meant to bring these by a few months ago. I don't have a good excuse for not doing it sooner, but I still want you to have them. Your papa, he was a good man—the very best. He was a hero, but I know that doesn't make it any easier. I'm real sorry about what happened. I want you to know you can come to us anytime for anything, you hear? Even if it's just a quick pick-me-up in the form of a sugar cookie for that little doll of a sister of yours, no questions asked. The whole town owes your family for what your dad did, and it's time we started trying to repay that debt."

Peeta's cheeks went hot, and he had trouble lifting his eyes. How had he not known?

Katniss's face, however, had grown stony during this speech. Wordlessly, she stepped to the counter and peered down into one of the bags, and Peeta did the same. There were a few loaves of bread—cinnamon raisin, honey wheat, and sourdough—rosemary rolls, peanut butter cookies, three different sandwiches, and at the bottom of one bag, even an apple pie.

It was too much. Peeta knew it.

Katniss shook her head and touched the bulge in her hoodie pocket. "It's alright. I've got half a sandwich."

Peeta's father smiled, and it was like watching the last nail being hammered into a coffin. "Half a sandwich won't feed three women as strong as the Everdeen girls."

Katniss's eyes went wide in fear.

"Two bags like this could last you a week, but you're welcome to bring them back anytime for a refill. I won't have any reason to make a fuss as long as I know you're all getting enough."

Anger and humiliation made her cheeks flush. She grabbed one of the bags from the counter and ran out the back door.

Peeta grabbed the second bag and followed her. He caught up to her, but she didn't acknowledge him.

"I'm really sorry," he said.

"About what?" she spat. "About how pathetic I am?"

"No," he said. "I'm sorry my dad said that. And I'm really sorry about your dad. I didn't know."

She increased her pace. "Stop following me."

"I'm not," he said. "You forgot a bag."

"I didn't forget it. I don't need any more of your help, Judas."

Peeta stopped. "I didn't say anything. I swear."

She kept walking.

"I swear."

He jogged to catch up with her again. "Where are we even going? How far is your house?"

"Sixth street. The far end."

"Let's take the bus, then," he said, out of breath. His brothers teased him about being the chubby one of the family, but his dad assured him that he probably had a growth spurt coming on soon. All the same, it didn't make keeping up with her any easier. "I have money, and it'll only cost like a dollar-fifty."

Katniss stopped so suddenly that he almost collided with her. "I never asked for your help, I don't want your friendship, and I don't need your charity. You can take the bus wherever you want as long as it's away from me and my family."

She grabbed the bag out of his arms and balanced it against her other hip before she turned and stalked off down the street.

The venom in her words stung Peeta to the heart. He cursed himself for being such an insensitive idiot. "I'm sorry!" he called after her.

She didn't acknowledge that she'd heard, but he knew she must have. It mattered to him that she did. He watched her go until she disappeared around the corner.

She never came back to refill the bags. She never came back to the bakery at all, and it kept him up at night sometimes with worry. She avoided him at school, but he noticed in the weeks that followed that she'd actually eat at least half her lunch. He didn't know where it came from, but sometimes she brought cold pepperoni and olive pizza, and she would eat the whole slice. He was relieved that someone seemed to be taking care of her, but he was sorry that it couldn't have been him.

They'd managed through a kind of mutual, unspoken agreement to avoid each other in high school, though doing so meant he was often hyper aware of where she was and what she was doing and with whom. She took up company with a rougher crowd—with Leevy Johnson and Johanna Mason and Thom Bolinger, and with Gale Fucking Hawthorne. Peeta as a general rule tried not to hate anyone, but he really hated that guy. He hated seeing him put his arm around Katniss in the hallways or tugging on her braid or taking a swig out of her chocolate milk. Peeta tried not to obsess about it, but he still cared what happened to her. He still wanted to see her smile without sarcasm or venom or scorn. When he happened to accidentally catch her eye, she gave him a glance that told him he wasn't worth the effort it would take to flip him off. He always glanced away first, always blushed.

Delly told him multiple times that he was an idiot for caring so much. He agreed with her, but it didn't stop him from caring.

So when she showed up at the bakery again, finally after all this time—after junior high and high school and two years of college—Peeta still felt like an idiot. He still cared far more than he ought to about how she was and how her family was getting along, and, stupidly, what she thought of him. It seemed she didn't think much given the scowl on her face and the way her eyes fixated on the orange soda stain on his pants.

He quickly grabbed a half-apron from the peg on the wall and tied it around his waist.

She crossed her arms over her chest and looked up. "I said I need a cake," she repeated. She uncrossed her arms and shoved her hands in her pockets.

Peeta let out a breath and grabbed the order pad and a pen from beneath the counter. "Great," he said. "I can help you with that."

"Did you do those cakes in the pictures?" she asked, nodding to the walls.

"How old do you think I am?" he said with a smirk. "I'm pretty sure those were made during the Bush administration. The first one, I mean."

She crossed her arms again. "What I meant was if I order a cake from you, it's not going to look like those, right? I'm asking if you make good cakes."

He let out a single laugh. "Yeah, I make good cakes. I can make anything you want."

She raised a skeptical eyebrow.

He leaned across the counter and raised an eyebrow to match hers. "Try me."

"Fine. I want the most beautiful cake you can think of. Three tiers, white cake, lemon filling, flowers and shit all over it. I don't know how to describe it—it just has to be gorgeous. Can you do it?"

He thought about making a joke about not usually being in the habit of putting shit all over a cake, but he decided she might not think it was funny, and then she might leave, and then she'd probably never come back. He didn't want her to leave. So he nodded. "Yeah, I think I have some ideas. What kind of frosting were you thinking? Buttercream? Fondant?"

A hand unfolded itself to scratch at her neck. "I don't know. I don't really eat cake very much."

He paused from his notations and glanced up. "This is for a special occasion, then?"

"I don't buy three-tier cakes on a whim," she said.

"I meant to ask what the occasion is," he said with a smile.

Her hands went back to her pockets. He'd never seen her so nervous before. "It's for my sister. She's turning sixteen next month."

Peeta felt his face light up. "That's wonderful. Do you know what kind of frosting she likes?"

Katniss fiddled with the zipper on the jacket. "I have no idea. We haven't had a lot of room for luxuries in our lives over the years. I want this year to be really special, but I don't know what I'm doing."

Peeta tapped the pen against his chin. "I'd be happy to make up a few samples so she could come in and try them beforehand."

"Actually," she said, glancing out the front window, "it's a surprise. I'm throwing her a surprise party. She's always wanted one. So I think a tasting might ruin the fun a little." She offered him a nervous wisp of a smile, and Peeta wondered if he'd even be able to withstand the full-watt version if he was ever lucky enough to witness it.

Blankness was gathering his brain into its embrace. "That makes sense," he said stupidly.

"So I don't really care as long as it tastes good," she said. "I trust you to choose something good. You need anything else?" She tapped a finger on the countertop.

He'd been staring at her mouth, but this snapped him back to reality. "When's the party?"

Katniss blushed. "Right, that would be helpful. August 14th."

"Any writing you want on the cake? 'Happy Birthday, Prim' or something?"

Her eyes searched his for a moment. "No. It's gotta be sophisticated. Grown-up. She always loved the wedding cakes you guys used to put up in the window. That's why it needs to be three-tier. It's gotta be anti-generic. It has to be beautiful." Her eyes and her voice had grown fierce. She smoothed her fingers over the counter. "I want it to be everything she ever wanted but couldn't have when we were younger. I want her eyes to light up when she sees it, and I want her to remember the way it tastes for the rest of her life."

Peeta nodded and jotted down some keywords. He loved the idea of it, loved what it stood for, loved her passion, and his mind was already spinning fast with possibilities.

"So?" she asked when he finished.

"So?" he repeated.

"Do you think you can do it?"

He tucked the pen behind his ear. "I hope so. It's a lot to live up to, but I love a challenge. The only thing is that I don't know your sister very well, and since I can't ask her about her preferences, I'd like to run a couple of options by you before we settle on something final. Do you think you could come by a week from today? Same time?"

Katniss checked the clock on the wall, as if she had no idea what time it was. "Yeah, should be fine. Can you give me an estimate, though? How much it'll be?"

"That'll depend on some of the things we'll decide next week. I can give you a range of differently priced options, if you like."

She took a step back from the counter. "That won't be necessary. I'll pay whatever it costs. The cake needs to be perfect."

"Then we'll make it perfect," he said with a smile.

She gave him that nervous half-smile again, and he thought he'd be willing to spill orange soda on his crotch in front of her every day for the rest of his life if it kept her smiling at him like that.

"Is there anything else I can do for you today?" he asked.

"No," she said, retreating. "Thank you."

"You sure?" he asked. "A cookie for the road? Iced tea? It's hot out there."

"No, I'm fine," she said. "Thank you." Her hand was on the door.

"I'll see you next week, then," he called after her.

She didn't answer. He wondered if she'd really come back.