"Dad… Why does mother hate everyone from the Seam?"
Peeta's face had a fresh welt on it; his mother had hit him with her rolling pin an hour before his father arrived at home. Carefully spreading the herbal salve on his son's cheek, Mr. Mellark sighed.
"There is only one answer to that question, Peeta. It's her pride."
My name is Lynnetta Flaxbourne. I am fifteen years old. My home is District 12. My parents own the textile shop in town. And I love a boy who lives in the Seam.
Chapter 1
"If you don't plait your hair before school, you'll look as bad as those kids from the Seam. Do it yourself or get over here. I can't wait around on you all morning! Your father needs help unloading fabric from the train."
"Why does it matter what I look like at school? We're all covered in coal dust from the mines, anyway!"
A slap from her hand stings on my cheek. I should have stayed silent. Her voice raises as she pushes me down on the splintery kitchen stool in front of her.
"Lynnetta Rose! I've never heard you say something so ridiculous! You and I both know that we are completely different from them. There is no shame in being proud of who you are. Your father's parents worked hard to climb out from the Seam. You deserve to look better than those scavengers. Are you not grateful for your grandparent's hard work?"
My mother continues, yanking my blonde hair into a tight braid down my back as I quietly stare at the empty space between two oil lamps on the white-washed wall in front of me.
"I simply cannot believe that my own daughter could say such a thing. And after all your father and I have done to provide for you, you think being separated from the Seam doesn't matter? Overcoming struggles to survive, to make a better life, putting the odds in your favor when no one else has the will to even try it, Lynnetta... That's why it matters!"
Her hands stop fidgeting with my hair, and I feel her smoothing out a wrinkle in the collar of my cotton shirt.
"There. All done. Put your coat on, and get going. You mustn't be late again!"
As I gather my ancient leather schoolbag and head out the door into the chilly air, I know in my heart that what my mother says is true. Still, I hate the way she talks so primly about it. I hate that she is so grounded on her belief that we are completely different from the people in the Seam. I might have a little more food on my plate, but my clothes are still thin and drab, the roof over my head still leaky, and my body still small and weak.
I arrive at the boxy schoolhouse, sliding into my worn, wooden seat just before the teacher enters the room. He writes a list on the dusty blackboard, what we will learn today. I know what it will say before his squeaky chalk touches the wall: more about the coal mining process.
You would think that learning the same thing over and over would make you an expert. I should have every fact about District 12 memorized by now. Still, school is hard for me. Truthfully, I'm not particularly good at anything. I can't figure math in my head. I can't remember dates in history. I can't sing or play instruments. And, like everybody else, I have a hard time focusing on the long lectures on coal and Panem, day in and day out. My father told me I had to try my best to get good marks. He said it was very important to be smart, that it would show me the value in myself. Sometimes I wonder what that even means. If I'm no good at anything, what good is trying? He expects me to be perfect, and I do my best, but I am always afraid that he knows I have failed him.
The teacher's rapping on his desk for attention draws me away from my thoughts momentarily, but he can never hold my attention for long. The oily shine on his nose is amusing to watch, and the sunlight shines perfectly to reflect off it during arithmetic. Sometimes, I swear that I can see a nose-shaped glimmer on the wall across the room. After lunch, we listen to another droning lecture over the benefits of coal. It's so exciting that I can hardly keep my eyes open, my head bobbing up and down in fatigue. But as the lessons near their end, my mind is steadily occupied with... other matters.
As soon as I get outside, I scan the wintry yard, searching for him. My eyes finally spot his familiar figure, waiting for me by the edge of the rickety fence encompassing the school. My eyes trace the face I have become so accustomed to, his square jaw, olive skin, hair as black as night. I near him, and my body aligns itself next to the fence. We face opposite directions, him towards the schoolyard and I towards at the ashy street. His words drift their way over the fence to my ears.
"Lynn, fancy seeing you here," Markas whispers. Although I can't see it, I hear the smile in his voice as I look past his shoulder, watching young children being corralled by parents and older siblings.
"I'm shocked at your apparent arrogance," I grin, biting my lip.
The other students slowly file past us on their paths home, unnoticing. Skipping around the rickety fence posts, I allow my fingers to graze his arm, leaving a sparking sensation in my hand. Despite the longing to intertwine my fingers with his, I walk a few paces ahead of him, blending in with other kids, to keep suspicion down. My goodness, the Capitol only knows what would happen if my father found out I was meeting up with a boy from the Seam every day! We kept our eyes searching for both Peace Keepers and parents amongst the snow on our way to the Victor's Village. It's the perfect spot to hide, really. The only person who is ever around is Haymitch, the victor of last year's 50th Hunger Games, but he left this morning for his Victory Tour. Knowing that we have the deserted area to ourselves, Markas and I settle ourselves on the frozen ground, leaning against the wooden siding on the back of an empty house. A long period of watching the wind swirling around broken leaves ensues before Markas finally breaks the silence.
"It's weird to think that someone actually lives over here now..."
His forehead wrinkles in thought as his words continue quietly.
"You know, Haymitch winning was probably the worst thing that ever happened to District 12…" he mutters, carefully keeping his volume below the sound of the wind.
I know what Markas means. It's eerily empty in the Victor's Village. Haymitch is the 2nd victor to ever come from District 12, and the last victor died before we were born. This past Hunger Games was a Quarter Quell, spelling out disaster for each of the districts. Four tributes from each were pulled instead of two this year. It was bad enough that we lost three others in the games last year, but as soon as Haymitch won, Luisa and Alger Abernathy - his mother and brother, disappeared overnight, along with his girlfriend of two years, Genever Whishart. Everyone assumed they had gone to congratulate him after the win, but when Haymitch returned home after the games, they did not.
"Genever was my closest thing to a best friend," I comment. I don't really have any friends, but what I said was correct. Most of the merchant kids in my year were mourning the loss of Maysilee Donner, another tribute who had died in the Quell, but the two of us had never been close. Genever, on the other hand, had eaten with me at lunch every day, occasionally coming to my house to spend time with me, and vice versa. I thought about mentioning to Markas that Genever always disapproved of me liking him, she thought it was wrong to disobey my parents' obvious wishes, but thought better of it before opening my mouth. The two of us did not need any more attention on those against us, not when we were fighting so hard to be together.
When we're together, mostly Markas and I just sit in silence. Sometimes he kisses me, and I gladly kiss back. This outing was no exception. His lips and my lips move together, the chilly air encroaching in on our warmth. Everything feels right when I'm with him. Soon, it starts to get dark. Markas stands up and offers me his hand. Pulling me up, his arms draw me in for one final kiss. As his eager lips open and close against mine, the familiar rush running through my veins urges me to let myself fall under his spell a little while longer. After a few more seconds, he smiles and turns to lead me back to town. We sneak out of the Victor's Village; myself heading towards the town center, Markas traveling towards the Seam.
AN: I have always hated the idea that Mrs. Mellark is as evil as other FF's portray her, and this is my response. Any comments, questions, and feedback appreciated, especially constructive criticism. Please, please review! And thank you for reading! Enjoy!