A/N: Soooooo for those of you who read this chapter as an update on my Collection of Stuff fanfic: Shirls and I have decided to continue writing this! It was way too interesting to abandon! Hopefully you enjoy it was well!
For those of you who have just stumbled on this: Enjoy! Hopefully you find our take on the "modern high school AU" to be interesting and unique!
Chapter 1: Some Things Just Don't Leave You
"If there's one thing I hate more than anything else in this world, it's humidity," I say, lying down on the concrete driveway.
Gale laughs and shoots another free throw, which swishes straight through the basket like magic.
"I don't know how you stand it," I say, squeezing my eyes shut against the baking sunlight. I can practically feel the sunrays radiating off the cement around me. "How can you possibly exercise in this heat?"
"It's a little something called dedication, my friend," he replies, making yet another shot into the basketball hoop. "Basketball conditioning starts less than a month after school starts, and I don't plan on being an out of shape blob when that day rolls around."
Posy plops down on the driveway next to me, dragging her little bucket of chalk pieces behind her, and, without warning, pokes me in the stomach. "Is Catnip an out of shape blob, Gale?" she asks. "She's squishy."
Gale lets out a huge laugh and grins genuinely at my expense. "Katniss is an out of shape blob."
"Come on! I am not!" I insist, but as soon as I hear Posy's little giggle, I let it drop. Besides, it's mostly true. I don't play any sports, unless you count archery or show choir, but I've only shot a bow a couple of times after my father's death and show choir's basically my version of hell on earth, so I don't give either activity much credit in any category. "Okay, fine, maybe I am. Just a little bit."
Posy giggles again and starts tracing an outline around my sprawled body with her pink chalk. I lay there a second so that she can finish, and then I roll over sideways onto my stomach so that she can color in the outline.
I shade my eyes from the sun and watch as Gale makes yet another basket.
"How many have you made?" I ask.
"A lot," he replies. Swish.
"You don't even count them?" I ask. "What's the point of doing it if you don't get a quantifiable satisfaction?"
Gale rolls his eyes. "It's practice, Katniss. I just make as many as I can."
"I don't know why you bother. You're going to make varsity again this year with absolutely no trouble."
Gale shrugs. "It's not guaranteed."
"Gale, you've made every single basket since we came out here," I say roughly. "You're going to make it."
"Thanks for your vote of confidence, Catnip."
Swish.
Our conversation drops off to an end, and the only sound comes from the chalk scratching across the driveway and the basketball bouncing against the ground. I shut my eyes, just letting the sun bake against my back.
Finally, Posy breaks the silence. "Did Daddy like basketball?"
I cringe, but I don't open my eyes. Gale's basketball stops bouncing.
"Yeah, Pose," Gale says, trying not to let too much slip through in his voice. "Dad loved basketball. He taught me how to play when I was little."
Posy accepts this answer as truth because she doesn't know any better, and I hear the basketball swish through the basket, but it sounds half-hearted.
Some things just don't leave you. For Gale, it's basketball.
"So…any inside wisdom about sophomore year?"
Gale's sitting next to me on the couch. I'm not really sure how I ended up at Gale's house, but I guess I catch myself thinking that most days. It's like his house and his family have some kind of magnetic pull. Or maybe it's the ghetto-ish feel of my apartment complex that's pushing me away.
"Like can I go in all the bathrooms now without getting called a faggot?" I ask. I had something more intelligent I was going to ask, but it's taking most of my mind power to focus on the video game controls.
I don't even know what game we're playing. Some multiplayer first-person shooter. I'm some young, energetic volunteer, and Gale's my superior. We're in what looks like an abandoned paint factory, and we're mowing down people with our machine guns like our lives depend on it.
Posy's asleep with her head on my lap. The gunfire hasn't woken her up yet, which scares me.
"Did that ever happen to you?" Gale asks. He leans around a corner, and at least five guys hurdle a conveyor belt and run at us.
"On my first day, yeah," I say. I hold down a button on my controller and at least ten bullets in one guy's head. I don't know how many shots are needed to kill. Gale didn't really bother to explain the rules to me.
"Well, you should be fine now," Gale says. Bang. Last guy dead.
"How do people know I'm not a freshman?" I ask. We're sprinting across a field now.
"Maybe you look less pathetic now?" Gale laughs. "Although, you are in show choir now."
"For the last time, I didn't mean to join that class," I say. "I don't know what about my poor dancing and lack of makeup and enthusiasm made them decide I was Royalaire material, but there's no going back now. This is an 'honor.'"
Gale laughs, and I walk straight onto a landmine. My entire screen is filled with flying debris, and then it goes dark. Gale keeps going, forced to complete our mission alone.
I try to move, but Posy's still asleep on my lap. Not even a landmine will wake this child. Someday, this house is going to catch fire, and Posy's going to wake up to a pile of ashes around her because she slept through the fire alarms.
Gale's phone lights up on the coffee table, and as he's still running through the mined field, he's too distracted to answer. He and I have this deal that while he's driving it's my responsibly to check his texts to see if they're important, so I grab the phone out of habit.
"You got a text," I say, unlocking his phone (I still don't think he knows that I know his password).
I check the sender. Glimmer ;)
"Who's Glimmer?"
"What?" Gale asks, distracted. Bang. Another guy dead.
"Well, she says 'hey,' anyway," I say. "I think she's flirting with you. Should I flirt back?"
"Who are you flirting with?"
"Glimmer. I don't know who she is."
"You're flirting with a girl you don't know?" This distracts him enough to walk into a landmine, and he goes up just like I did. He swears. Posy remains asleep.
"I'm flirting for you. Contrary to popular belief, I'm not lesbian."
Gale snatches his phone out of my hand and texts something back. I can't read what he sent; he's too fast.
"Who's she?"
"No one."
Must be another one of Gale's fan girls. One of the many girls he will probably end up dating for a month and then breaking up with. That's just how it works with him. Pretty, blond cheerleader after pretty, blond cheerleader.
I really should be used to it by now.
I don't know what it irks me so much.
"Prim, Gale and I have pizza," I call from the door of our apartment.
Gale, who is just as comfortable in my home as I am in his, wanders into the kitchen, tosses his keys and iPhone onto the counter, and sets the large, one-topping pizza down on the table. I turn around and slide the deadbolt into place just in case.
See, we don't exactly live in the safest of places. It's not like our apartment building is located in the ghetto, but it's pretty close. We might not have shootings very often, but we do not lack break-ins and drug deals.
"When's your mom getting home," Gale asks as he sets three paper plates out on the table.
I grab my cellphone out of my back pocket and my screen lights up with a new text. Working late.
That's all it says. No love you, Katniss. No get a good night's sleep. She doesn't even give an estimated time.
"She's working a double shift tonight," I say, stuffing my phone back into my pocket along with my anger. "She won't be home until late."
Gale nods but doesn't say anything.
Ever since my dad's death four years ago, my mom hasn't been a very loving mother. In fact, she's taken on an almost nonexistent role in my life. Basically, the only thing she's good for is bringing home a pay check and occasionally remembering to pay the bills. Besides that, I can't count on her for much.
She's never really home when I'm home that much anyway, and when she is home in the afternoon, she's sleeping or hiding in her room. I understand that nurses are guaranteed to have some pretty inconvenient schedules, but I think my mother takes an unnecessary amount of shifts during the evening and night hours just so that she doesn't have to deal with me and Prim. Life has just gotten too hard for her to handle, so she works.
Sometimes she goes on binges, too, and drinks enough that she passes out on the kitchen floor. It's almost gotten her fired at least three times, since the last thing a hospital needs is a drunk nurse. She doesn't do it on a regular basis, though. Just around the anniversary of my father's death or his birthday or Christmas or generally any other day that makes her depressed. Needless to say, she takes a lot of unpaid vacations to recover from her depression-induced weekday benders, which doesn't help our financial situation very much…
Prim appears in the kitchen doorway, and my angry thoughts of my mother are cut off. I do my best to smile at my little sister, but I don't think it comes off to well.
"Hey, Primmy," I say.
"Hi," she replies. She has a book tucked under her arm.
We almost drift into a terribly awkward silence as we sit down for pizza, but (thankfully) Gale is the only person that I know who can whip out words for any situation.
"Have you been reading all afternoon?" he asks Prim, nodding towards her book.
"Yeah," she replies, taking a bite of her pepperoni pizza. "There wasn't much else to do after I finished cleaning."
Leave it to my sister to clean the apartment during summer vacation.
For a second, we drop into silence, and the only thing I can hear is the ticking of our clock and the mushy sound of chewing.
Gale saves the conversation once again. "What book are you reading?"
"It's nothing," Prim says, looking down at her lap. "You wouldn't like it. You'd probably think it was boring."
"Tell me about it," Gale says, looking across the table earnestly at her.
And Prim immediately comes out of her shell, describing the book in a way that makes the boring plot seem completely wonderful, and Gale just sits there and listens, asking questions occasionally and nodding. And me—I eat four pieces of pizza and two breadsticks.
It's a wonder Prim doesn't love Gale more than me.
Gale and I stay up watching game shows until eleven pm because we're both wired from the six cans of Mountain Dew that we drank earlier in the afternoon. We're both half asleep after our fifth episode of The Price Is Right, but Gale is still slow to leave.
"Do you want me to wait until your mom gets home?" he asks.
"No, Gale, it's fine," I reply.
He nods and grabs his keys off the countertop. "Make sure you lock the door behind me."
"Geez, Gale, I will," I say, practically slamming the door in his face.
Your apartment gets broken into once, and suddenly you need supervision all the time. That's not how it works in this apartment complex.
As soon as Gale leaves, a massive party starts up in the apartment to our right. I can feel the bass through the walls, and I can barely make out the sounds of Ke$ha over the rumbling of voices. It won't be long before the smell of weed will force its way through the wall, and some party goer will try to break into out apartment through the fire escape to get more booze, and I'll have to call the cops just like every other weekend.
I'm wondering if there's a place that I can file a complaint about this when my phone lights up on the coffee table.
It's not my mom like I'd hoped. It's just Gale.
Crazy party next door. You're gonna be up for a while.
Like usual, I text back. Somebody cranks up the volume another level, and I'm surprised that Prim hasn't woken up yet.
I get up and bang on the wall a couple times where the bass seems particularly strong. "Turn down your stupid music!" I yell, but I don't think anyone hears or cares.
I have to do that a couple more times before the music goes down a couple decibel levels, and by that point, Haymitch, our drunk neighbor to the left, starts banging on my apartment walls telling me to be quiet.
Your mom home yet? Gale texts back.
Not yet. I send. Then, I add, Drive safe.
One of these days I'm convinced he's going to get hit by a drunk driver trying to get home after staying here too long.
I fall asleep on the couch, and I don't even wake up when my mom gets home from her shift at five am.
"Get me a couple reams of lined paper, and I am set," I announce.
My mom decided that we would spend her day off at the office supplies store getting school supplies. It's currently a week left until school, and everything's like seventy percent off (which we can afford).
Seeing as Prim's still a sixth grader, she actually needs school supplies. I've seen kids in high school get by with stealing pencils off the floor and not having a single other item with them. I'm fairly sure that I can make it through the year with lined paper, a couple notebooks, and a pack of number two pencils. I'll spend like five dollars on my supplies, and then Prim can have all the cat-themed, glittery folders she wants.
"Are you sure?" my mom asks. She's leaning on the cart, her hair barely in a ponytail, looking exhausted. I wonder if I look any better.
"Yep," I say.
She looks unconvinced. "Do you need a backpack?"
"My old one's still good." That is assuming we have safety pins at home for me to keep the pockets shut with.
"What about a calculator?" she asks.
She's got me there. I'm pretty sure it says specifically on the course description that I should have a certain kind of calculator.
Prim throws an armload of gel pens, pink notebooks, and markers into the cart. I pull out my phone and text Gale.
What kind of calculator would a sophomore in stupid people math class need?
I wonder why I'm texting him. He has a social life. He's probably doing something right now with his many other friends or at least watching his siblings.
But he actually texts back immediately.
A scientific calculator?
What's that look like? I text back. I'm standing in front of an entire display of calculators. They all look like tiny spaceships that I don't know how to control. Where are the dumb four-function ones?
What do you want me to do? Send you a picture of mine?
That would help.
I walk around to the other side of calculator display and run into someone.
"Oh hi, Katniss!"
"Peeta!" I say, surprised. He's looking entirely too tan and entirely too happy, like he's just had the grandest summer. I don't really want to talk to him, but he's got a calculator in his hand that looks right.
"Where'd you get that?" I ask.
"Over there," he says, gesturing deep into the store. "So did you have a good summer?"
"Yeah, it was great," I say flatly. "You?" I'm already starting to walk away.
"Great," he says, but he sounds deflated. I seem to have that effect on people.
Once I've gotten my calculator, we buy all of our supplies, and I leave the store completely unprepared for sophomore year.
I spend the rest of the day arguing with my mom about school orientation.
She says she's too tired to go. I say she should probably come. She, like usual, tells me to get a ride from Gale.
So I do.
It'll be just like every other year. Everyone else's parents will be signing forms and writing checks, and I just stand there and watch. No yearbook for me. No school newspaper subscription. No club or sports passes paid. Nothing.
The counselor at the schedule station looks a little bit concerned that I don't have a parent or guardian with me, but she still hands over my papers. There's a sheet with my locker number and combination, and then there's my schedule.
Period 1: Physics I (Mr. Shewry)
Period 2: English 10 Honors (Mrs. Ettinger)
Period 3: Spanish IV (Senora Shaffer)
Period 4: Geography (Mr. Raff)
Period 5: Algebra II (Mr. McGann)
Period 6: Lady's Show Choir (Mrs. Finkel)
Period 7: Study Hall (Rm 110)
I haven't heard many opinions on any of the teachers I've been assigned to (expect Mrs. Finkel who I had last year and want to murder violently), but I can only assume that this year will be as much of a struggle as last year.
I fold my schedule up and stuff it into the back pocket of my jeans, and then I wander over to picture line. All around, there are girls fixing hairdos, checking makeup, and adjusting clothing. And then there's me. I'm just wearing a black t-shirt that I found on my bedroom floor.
"Hey, Catnip," Gale says, popping up beside me like he appeared out of thin air. We separated back at the beginning of orientation since he had to go fill out graduation paper work.
"Hey, Gale," I reply, pretending he didn't scare me.
He snatches the folded-up schedule out of my back pocket before I can react and flattens it on top of his own. I try to take it back from him, but he just pulls the tall card and holds the papers out of my reach. His eyes scan down the list, and a smirk pops up on his face when he reaches the middle of the page.
"Show choir," he grins, the hint of a laugh at the back of his throat.
I feel my cheeks heat up, and I angrily snatch my schedule out of his hands, stuffing it back in my pocket. "You've made fun of me enough. I'm questioning that decision as much as you are."
He grins and chuckles at my expense. "You could've just taken art."
"I can't draw a straight line to save my life," I say, crossing my arms over my chest. That's definitely not a lie, but it's not the entire reason why I stay in choir…
I don't hate singing. I just don't like the class, and I detest the dancing. But I like music.
In fact, singing and music are the two things that still contain peace in my life. Sure, I'm referring to alternative rock as my music of choice, but if I shut my eyes during choir concerts and disappear fast enough, I can imagine my father singing lullabies off in the distant memories of the farthest reaches of my mind.
You see, some things don't leave you.
For Gale, it's basketball. For me, it's music.
Gale seems to sense the change in me because he steers the conversation in another direction. "We have physics and study hall together, by the way," he comments.
"Great," I say. "Now I have to deal with you more than I usually do." I don't really mean it, though. Friends aren't my area of expertise, so it's probably good for me to have someone to at least talk to in my classes. Besides, it's been two years since I had a class with Gale, and I hardly think we had any fun at all during Computer Applications.
Gale laughs. "You're secretly happy, somewhere deep inside your sarcastic little body."
I roll my eyes, but he's managed to get me smiling.
We're almost to the front of the line, and group of girls who just got their picture taken walk by. They have perfectly tan legs, and perfectly skinny waists, and perfectly curled hair, and perfectly done makeup—just your typical perfect teenage girls. These are the types of girls whom I hate, and I'm almost appalled at Gale for watching them too long as they come near us.
The blond one in the front sends Gale a seductive wink and wiggles her fingers at him. "Hey, Gale," she says, bleached-white smile flashing.
Gale winks back. "Glim."
Glim? That must be the Glimmer ;) who texts Gale all the time. I feel frustration boil up inside of me. This is the only time in which I think of Gale as anything less than intelligent—when girls are involved. In the grand scheme of my life, Gale is better than any other average teenage guy, but when girls are involved… Gale goes through them like playing cards, it seems.
Suddenly, Gale's hand finds my back, and he gives me a little shove forward. Apparently, we've reached the front of the line. The school photographer points wordlessly for me to walk over to the duct taped X on the carpet in front of the big white screen.
"Take a pretty picture this year," Gale calls after me. "We don't want a repeat of last time."
I glance down at my shitty t-shirt and loosely braided hair combo, and I decide to accept the inevitable. I never take good pictures because (as Gale likes to put it) I have a bitchy resting face. And, apparently, a bitchy smiling face, too.
There's no chance for a good picture.
The little machine spits out my ID card, and I almost don't want to look at it. Gale saunters up behind me. "Did you take a good one?"
"Nope, it's cringe worthy."
He snatches it out of my hand before I can hide it in my pocket. He tries valiantly not to laugh but fails miserably. "God, Catnip, these things just do not do you justice."
"Well, let's just see how yours looks," I say, grabbing it out of the machine.
Of course Gale looks like a god as usual. Sometimes, I can totally see why all those girls follow him around and talk about him constantly. I just roll my eyes and throw the ID card back at him, unable to come up with a suitable comeback. We leave the room as a group of extremely tan people crowd the ID machine.
We are almost immediately intercepted by an old man wearing short green basketball shorts standing by the athletic/sports pass table. I recognize him from Gale's basketball games last year.
"Hey, coach," Gale says.
"Hello, Hawthorne," he says. "Getting ready for tryouts?"
"Of course."
"Now, who's this young lady?" he says, winking at me.
"Katniss," Gale introduces me. "She's my friend."
Gale's coach immediately reaches out and shakes my hand. I can already tell he's just one of those people- the kind that always shakes hands, remembers your name from the second he meets you, and will continue to address you like you're a close friend. Normally, these kind of people repel me, but I can tell that I like this guy.
"Now, Katniss," he says, "do you play basketball?"
"Oh god, no," I say. "I can't. I'm not…athletic." I think about adding that I'm not academic either, but I don't think that helps my case much.
"Come on," he says. "No one's bad at basketball."
"I am," I say. "Ask Gale."
"She can make a decent free throw," Gale says.
"Yeah, I can make a free throw about fifty percent of the time, but can I dribble a basketball?" I say. "No. Can I run? No."
"Are you coachable?" he asks.
"Trust me," I say, "if you are trying to recruit me, you should just stop now. You don't want me on the girls' basketball team. I'll just screw everyone else over."
"What about managing then?" He suggests. I start to laugh because I think he's joking, but I realize that he's serious. "We need someone to manage the men's varsity team."
Gale laughs. "Yeah, Catnip," he teases. "You should do it."
"Oh jeez," I say. I don't really know what to say to that. I can't just say, No, that sounds terrible. Don't tell Gale, but I don't really like basketball.
"You could spend more time with your friend," he was, winking again.
Great. Now I'm embarrassed. I'm probably beet red.
The coach lets out a deep laugh. "I can see I've put the young lady on the spot. Just think about, Katniss, okay? We really do need a manager."
He runs off, and Gale just laughs at me.
"Don't worry about Coach," Gale says. "He's a cool guy. He means well."
"But do you really want me to manage your team?" I say sarcastically. "I hardly know how to play."
"You wouldn't need to know how to play," Gale says. "Besides, it wouldn't be that bad to see you more often. It is my senior year."
I wonder just how emotional this conversation is about to get, but someone down the hallway catches Gale's attention. He leaves me in the middle of the hallway, and I'm afraid I'm going to have yet another mini breakdown in which I think about what it'll be like when Gale's in college.
"Katniss!"
I turn around and find the only person other than Gale that I really consider a friend.
"Hi, Madge," I say. She's just come out of the photo room, and she practically looks like a model. She's tan from whatever tropical location she and her rich family went to on vacation, and her blond curls are perfect as usual. But I can't hate her. She's just a quiet as I am, and she's not stupid like all the other girls. She has a secret love of rock music and dark poetry and likes food too much to be a rail-thin model.
We compare schedules, and I find that I have English and show choir with her this year. She's in all advanced classes, so normally, we are never together, but this year I foolishly signed up for honors English. At least, now I know someone I can cheat off of if it comes to that.
Peeta walks towards us and waves enthusiastically at me. I'm not sure why he's so happy to see me. We haven't exactly talked since like fifth grade, excluding his calculator help yesterday.
Thankfully, Gale snags me before I feel obligated to talk to Peeta. I suddenly find myself surrounded by most of Gale's basketball friends and then this one annoying but undeniably attractive swimmer with reddish hair.
By the time we leave, I have been thoroughly teased and three people have insinuated that Gale and I are dating.
You know, the usual.
My mom works late again, and I don't feel like actually making something for dinner, so Prim and I raid the fridge for something edible to eat. Prim, ever the sensible one, settles on a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, but I go straight for the gallon-sized rocky road ice cream tub that I find in the freezer.
I'd say starting another year of high school is reason enough to binge eat sugary foods to compensate for my depression (and, with that mindset, I'll weigh significantly more than I do now by the end of sophomore year).
Anyway, Prim goes to bed pretty early since she wants to be well-rested for her first day of sixth grade, which leaves me alone to wallow in my gluttony. I end up finishing off the ice cream tub while watching reruns of last season of the Bachelorette and thinking intermittently about how much I hate high school and how much I'm going to miss Gale when he graduates. I get slightly more depressed as the hours increase, and by the time midnight rolls around, I'm not happy at all for my alarm to go off tomorrow morning.
I crawl into bed at 12:30 am and pull the covers up to my shoulders.
That's when I hear the plate shatter upstairs. And then the yelling. And the flipping of furniture.
This happens often enough that I know I won't be getting much sleep for at least an hour, so I unplug my phone from its charger and pull up the first text conversation on my list.
Gale, are you still up? I type quickly.
It only takes him a couple seconds to respond. Yeah. Is your mom home?
That question seems to come up at least once in every single conversation that Gale and I have. Sometimes I think he's overly worried for our safety, but I can't say I don't appreciate it.
I consider lying, but I just send Nope. She's out so late nowadays that I think she might be sleeping around with another guy. Or she's taken to drinking in bars instead of the comforts of her own home.
I'm not sure why I turned our conversation in such a darkly hilarious direction, and I don't think Gale really knows how to respond because he doesn't send anything back for a long time.
Finally, I decide to just put him out of his misery. Are you picking me up tomorrow?
Of course. I'll be there around 7:30, okay?
Awesome. I'll be waiting outside my apartment building with pepper spray and a backpack.
I can almost see Gale grinning through the phone. Are you ready for sophomore year?
Sure. I can't make any promises on good grades or conduct or anything… But yeah, I guess I'm ready.
There's a pause. My little Catnip's growing up. I'm so proud.
For some reason, even though I know Gale's joking around, that response reminds me of my father, and I fall asleep with memories of him hanging onto my dreams.
And, unfortunately, I don't plug my phone back in before I drift off.
So sophomore year's going to be off to a rough start.