It's a beautiful day. Not just because the sun in shining, the children are laughing, and the flowers are blooming. But I all I can see, all I can FEEL is this newfound power, and potential coursing through my blood. I know if I tried to explain it to my mother her face would break out in a concerned grimace and she would give me some speech about being careful. And being careful is the last thing I want to think about right now. I'd rather relish this feeling while it lasts. Which is the reason I decide to sneak down the stairs I just got banished up, and past them in the main room. As I get closer to them the whispering gets louder. I sneak one look as I walk past them. I can see my father, running his hands up and down my mothers arms trying to get her to calm down. It gives me a pang of guilt to know that I caused this, but I know eventually my father will get my mother to calm down, and by the time I walk back in they will be cuddling on the couch in silence.
So instead I dart out the door towards the Bakery. As soon as I open the back door, and look around I feel at peace. The sunshine reflects off of the wood, off of the windows, and off of the glass casing holding the bread and the whole place seems to shine. I take in a deep breathe and smile to myself. Before I gather my ingredients, I pull my long wavy blonde hair into a ribbon. Soon my mind becomes gone, and my fingers do what they know from memory . My father always described baking as something that makes you forget the world around you, but I see it differently. Every ingredient I pour in the bowl before me is another trouble, another worry, another doubt, and as I start kneading it- I start kneading out the problems in my head. In a couple of months I will be off to the Capitol. And I know it is driving my parents insane.
My parents. That's probably one of the first questions they are going to ask. It's funny. You'd think I'd know growing up that something was different about my parents. But I didn't. When I was little and people would come up and thank my parents, talk about them in the streets, or stare star stuck- I was lost in Portlynn land. To me this is how all people treated each other. I thought all parents had nightmares, and all parents had "panic attacks." It wasn't until I was seven that we had our first incident. My mother walked me to my first day of class, and when we got to the school it was surrounded by people dressed in weird clothing. They held all types of weird inventions I had never seen before, and when they saw us they took a collective gasp. It was silent, and then all the weird looking people started to talk at once. My mother picked me up in her arms and rushed past them. When we got in the school, she marched up to the head teacher and demanded to talk to him. I heard them arguing for a while, and the next day there was no one outside my school building. But I knew something was wrong. The longer I looked and watched the other people around me, the more I saw that their parents were different than mine. No one looked at them the way people looked at us. I also started to realize for the first time that my family was well off. Most people had small houses. My friend Cade, lived in a small house, much smaller than mine, that had six people sleeping in two rooms. They often wore the same clothes, and they ate the same thing every night. It made me feel guilty about having my own room, enough clothes to change every day, and the wonderful meals my father made every night. So I looked to my parents to find out why we were different.
One day I was sure I had figured out the secret. My dad took me and my brother Eric on Saturday's to help him deliver bread and soup to some people in the neighborhood that were sick or poor. I watched these people, with tears in their eyes hug, or thank my father. One in particular was Mrs. Drean. She always would try to hand him money, and he would instead hand her the soup with a smile. She would tell him "You are too good Peeta." Too good? Too good at what? A light bulb went off. I decided that must be it. My father was a famous baker! That's why people from all different places come into his shop. That's why people came up to him to shake his hand. That's why people told my mother she had changed their life- because she was married to the famous baker. I started accompanying my father to all of his Saturday visits because I wanted to see people worship my father. Mrs. Drean was always my favorite. She had a dress the first couple of visits that she was making for her deceased daughter. I used to watch her hands move at a fast past, the needle weaving in and out transfixed. One day she made my father a deal that she would teach me to sew, in exchange for the food he brought her. Soon Eric would go on the trips with my father alone, and I would stay at Mrs. Dreans house learning how to sew. My dad had a package sent of materials I had never seen before, and I would bring it to her house as she showed me how to put them together. We would make clothes for people in the neighborhood. While she was sewing she would talk about the war that took her daughter. She told me about all the children, men, and women that she knew that died. She would paint the way the district was before the rebellion. One day I asked "Did my parents do anything in the war?" and she gave me a curious look. She stumbled for a bit until she told me that if they did, she was sure one day they would tell me.
One day when I was twelve my teacher asked me to take a note home to my mother. Certain the teacher had caught me had giving my lunch to someone else (which was forbidden), or talking with my friends during class, I dreaded having to hand it to her. By the time I reached my house my feet felt like lead, and I was certain my heart was about to jump out of my chest. When my mother saw me she smiled, until she saw my eyes which were over flowing with tears. I handed her the note, and she read it. What she read must have taken her by surprise because she looked like a fish out of water. She tried to stop and restart her sentence a couple of times, until she remembered that I was about to start wailing. She wrapped her arms around me and whispered that it wasn't about me. No it wasn't. It was something that was her fault she said. That night my parents whispered until the early hours of the morning. Eric kept asking me what I had done wrong but I didn't have an answer for him. Later the next night my mother came into my room and started telling me about the hunger games. She didn't tell me all of it, just bits and pieces, but soon it became ritual. Every night she would come in my room, braid my hair and tell me about the hunger games, the revolution, and a girl named Primrose. In school, a day after the letter arrived, we started discussing the revolution in class. People looked at me odd when the part about my mother being the mockingjay came up. I felt just as odd on the inside. Yet every night, like clockwork, my mother would come in and tell me a different part of the story in detail. Soon I could repeat all the stories by heart if I wanted to. The stories about my father, Rue- the girl whose name was my middle name, Eric- the uncle who died that my brother was named after, and much more. My mother would tell me about her sister, and how I looked like her, with my blonde long hair I wore in a braid at the time. Sometimes my father would come in and listen, but most of the time he let this be mother and daughter time. When I was sixteen he wrapped his arms around me. I'll never forget what he said. "Portlynn you are an amazing daughter, Talking to you really helps her." And it helped me. Suddenly the world around me made more sense. Why my father would have "panic attacks" where we all would have to leave the room as my mother calmed him down. Why my uncle Haymitch was the drunk my parents couldn't stop taking care of no matter how much he offended them. It made sense why my mother had a hard time trusting people, and would randomly burst into tears while gardening. It made sense why we children never left our city, no matter how many times people named Annie, Johanna, and Effie begged us to. And why my parents every year, on the anniversary of the last day of the rebellion, would leave for the capital and our Grandma would come into town to watch us. It turns out the day I was mobbed outside the school my parents made a deal with the press. They would do an annual interview if they could get a written promise that no one could ever interview, release pictures/drawings, or even mention our names in any tabloid. The world knew Eric and I existed, but they had no idea what our names were, or what we looked like. So every year, my parents would do an interview. When I was sixteen, Eric and I were allowed to watch their interview for the first time. A majority of it Dad was making jokes with the man- Ceasar Flickermann, and my mom was silent. She had such a forlorn look on her face. Every time she was asked a question she would freeze. Then ever so slightly, I would see my father squeeze my mothers hand. No one else in the world knew to look for it, but Eric and I knew. We knew the way my father could comfort my mother with a kiss on the temple, or a squeeze of the hand. They needed each other, they always did. And by the time my parents arrived home my mom would be glowing, and they would be back to kissing in the kitchen when they thought we weren't looking.
Three months before they were supposed to leave for the annual trip, a week before my eighteenth birthday, they got a call. My mom answered it and I heard her tensely responding to whomever was on the other line. I heard snippets of "interview, deal, no, Portlynn and Eric, safe" and when she hung up the phone in a huff I felt like I knew what it was about.
"So they want to interview the whole family?" I asked while plopping a raspberry in my mouth.
My mother looked up at me like she was surprised I was home, and then sighed. "Yes, but they know the deal."
"You can let me handle it?" I saw my mother, trying to comprehend what I meant until her face started to morph into outrage.
"No way. I did this so your brother and you would be safe. Your father and I can handle a petty interview, this is none of your concern."
"But we are safe. And I could visit the capital, have an adventure, and you wouldn't have to endure the petty interview to begin with." My mother wouldn't hear another word of it. But I couldn't let it go. All night I had been dreaming in fits of the capital, trains, seeing the world. And I became resolute. This morning I had woken up with a plan ready in my head. My parents were unaware, when they woke up to the smell of fresh made waffles, that I was going to get my way. But they definitely were when I started making my pitch.
"I am eighteen, and I am resolved to go. I want, no I need, to see where it all happened, see the things we read about in books. I don't have to get your permission, or even give you warning before I leave. But if you comply with me, everyone wins. This way you get out of an interview, can make sure that I am safe, and protected, and know when and where I am going." My mother is mid bite when I finish and she throws her fork down, and my father is swallowing his orange juice. I see him give my mother a nervous look, and I see her eyes starting to fill with angry tears. Just before she can say anything my father walks over and envelopes her into a big hug. He gives me an angry look, that indicates that I am supposed to leave. Somehow he got her over to the couch, and this is where they are now. I know when I get home, covered in flour and holding my mothers favorite cheesy rolls, my father is going to tell me that I win, and all the rules associated with my victory. He probably hired some body guard, and I am to remain incognito until I reveal who I am to the entire capital, my parents will want to know where I am at all times, and I have to call every night. My mother, my best friend, will look at me with a look of betrayal, but as I take the rolls out of the oven, and smell them all I can smell is freedom. All I can think is that in three months I will be able to leave my district. I will finally know what it feels like to be alive.