As Long as the Dandelions Grow
So I've had this idea for a little while now, but I decided I wouldn't write it until I'd come up with at least a rough idea of the plot for a whole story. I'm almost 100% certain that this will all be told from Peeta's POV. I'd love to have feedback on whether or not you think this is worth pursuing. I'm not abandoning my other story, I just couldn't seem to get anywhere on AGDHB while this one was distracting my imagination, lol.
The title is a little play on a song. If you can guess the song, I'll give you… well, something. I'll come up with some kind of prize haha. I'll give another hint at the beginning of the next chapter.
-Gail
Chapter 1
I've been told I have a remarkable memory. I guess it must be true, since I remember my first day of school in vivid detail; much more than any average five-year-old boy is capable of. But I think it has more to do with the impact she made on me.
My father is holding my hand as he walks me toward the dilapidated building that functions as the elementary school for the children of District 12. My older brothers had run ahead of us as soon as we left the bakery; racing each other without a second thought about their nervous baby brother lagging behind or the embarrassment that may have come from my presence in front of their friends. I don't mind though, they're classified as the "big'uns" which seems to just mean a slightly larger shoe size and being able to write your name without help. I am pretty much there though… P-E-T-A. Whatever, I'm five years old and named after a type of bread, and my parents didn't even have the decency to spell my name the same as its inspiration.
As we get to the schoolyard, my wide eyes try to take in all that's around me. There's a large maple tree in the grass near the door, and dandelions scattered throughout the lawn that are thankfully only covered in morning dew – later there will be bees perching on any number of the unsuspecting yellow weeds. I feel a little nervous as I think about how I'll have to watch my step if I try to play out here later.
My father then stops and bends down to be level with me. "See that little girl?" he says, nodding towards a black-haired girl a few yards ahead, her hair done in two braids that reached just below her shoulders in a red-plaid dress.
I nod to my father. "I wanted to marry her mother, but she ran off with a coal miner," he says wistfully, but still keeping a small smile on his lips.
"A coal miner?" I ask, "why did she want a coal miner if she could've had you?"
Still looking off to where the dark-haired girl is standing, he answers. "Because when he sings… even the birds stop to listen."
I find it hard to buy that. How could someone fall in love just from hearing someone sing? It sounds like the stuff of the fairytales that my brothers tell me are "stupid and girly." So I dismiss this bit of information and walk forward, now feeling more confident about my first day of school.
In kindergarten, we have the same teach and classroom for most subjects, with a few exceptions for special assemblies throughout the week. Our teacher is a young woman named Miss Blackwater, with the typical seam looks except for her dark brown eyes that give off a feeling of warmth and comfort, reminding me of the chocolate we sometimes use at the bakery to make cakes and cookies.
After providing us all with pencils, a folder, and other school staples, Miss Blackwater asks us all to stand and walk to the front of the classroom so that she can give us our assigned seats. She walks from desk to desk, reading our names from a list as she taps the desk and makes a point to look at us, put a face to the name. I'm given a desk in the far row by the windows, second from the front. The girl in front of me, her familiar blonde pigtails bouncing with excitement, is someone I know – Delly Cartwright. Her family runs the shoe shop. Sometimes we play together with my middle brother and a few other merchant kids in the street, drawing with chalk, chasing each other, stuff like that. Delly turns around to give me a bright smile, obviously wanting to start chatting away but restraining herself as per Miss Blackwater's instructions to be quiet.
Miss Blackwater makes her way through each row until we are all seated, and I look up from my daydreaming and staring out the window when she starts to write her name on the chalkboard while simultaneously pronouncing each letter for us to follow along. When I look around the classroom, my eyes land on the dark-haired girl again. I was already lost in my daydream when the teacher had spoken her name and showed her a seat, and I find myself determined to learn it at some point today.
We spend a good amount of time reciting the alphabet, practicing our first names, how to hold a pencil, etc. until Miss B. announces that it's time for music assembly and tells us to form a single file line at the door for her to lead us to the music room.
The music room turns out to be a small section of what they call the "multi-purpose room," where an older lady sits by a wooden upright piano and a small rolled-in chalkboard with scribbling on it that I don't understand. There's an old, worn-out blue carpet laying on the floor in front of her and as we walk in she instructs us to take a seat on it. At this point in the school day, my attention span is nearly run-out, and I have trouble paying attention as the teacher gives her introduction.
My attention is piqued, however, when the teacher asks if any of us know the Valley Song, and the dark-haired girl shoots her hand straight up in the air with total confidence and determination. The teacher tells her to come forward and pushes the wooden piano stool up in front of everyone. The girl steps up onto it and the teacher asks for her name.
"Katniss," she says, in a soft but solid voice. With what comes next, I know I will not forget her name.
Then she starts to sing, and I feel mesmerized as I stare in awe at the girl with the voice of an angel. How such a young child could have control over their vocal chords enough to be perfectly in-tune, is a mystery to even the teacher as she watches with the same level of curiosity as the rest of the class.
Down in the valley,
The valley so low
Hang you head over,
Hear the wind blow
Hear the wind blow, love,
Hear the wind blow
Hang you head over,
Hear the wind blow
Down in the valley,
Walking between
Telling our story,
Here's what it means…
Roses love sunshine,
Violets love dew
Angels in heaven,
Know I love you
Know I love you, dear,
Know I love you
Angels in heaven,
Know I love you
At this point, I remember what my father had said about the birds stopping to listen, and I look to the open window and focus my attention on the background noise just long enough to conclude that the birds indeed have fallen silent.
My first week of school passes by quickly enough, until it's Friday afternoon and we're all breathing an air of anticipation for the weekend. I fidget in my seat while Miss Blackwater is reading a story to us from a chair in the front of the room. My father had told me this morning that if I kept it a secret and came home today with no bad behavior to report, he would let me have a square of peanut butter fudge while Mother is out visiting Aunt Carolyn, so I can barely contain my excitement.
When she finishes the story, Miss B. announces that since we've been such a good class this week, we'll spend the rest of the afternoon doing a fun, partnered activity. She has us count down the rows from one to twelve, since there are 24 of us, and tells us to find a seat next to the person with the matching number.
I have no intention of giving up my precious window seat, so I hold up the number two with my fingers and wait for my partner to find me. As we all get settled, and I'm surprised – and a little delighted – to discover my partner is none other than Katniss Everdeen. She makes her way over and gives me a small smile before sitting down next to me. I gather up my courage and introduce myself with the best smile I can muster, and she introduces herself in turn, though I know very well who she is.
Miss B. gives us each four pieces of paper and some colored pencils, and then tells us we must write a little story with our partner. "Write" isn't really accurate, though; most of us can't read at all, so really we'll just be drawing pictures and then telling our story to the class on Monday.
The room becomes filled with the chatter and giggles of young children as we all get to work. I realize I'm fidgeting again as I look over at my partner, for once drawing a blank on what to create. Thankfully, she seems more at ease to be in my presence than I am hers.
"What's your favorite color?" she asks, as if that has anything to do with the task at hand.
I smile anyways. "Um… orange. Or maybe yellow." I can't decide, truthfully. I think it's orange but with a little yellow mixed in to soften it, kind of like a sunset.
She hands me both the orange and yellow pencils. "Mine is green," she says as she claims that pencil for herself.
"What do you want to draw?" I ask her.
She shrugs and thinks for a moment. "We can draw us, picking berries with our baby," she decides.
"Our baby?" I ask.
"Yeah, like I'll be the mom and you'll be the dad," she clarifies, and I find myself smiling at the idea of it – as well as the fact that this is her daydream.
I begin drawing myself standing in some grass, and look up at Katniss as I start to draw her.
"Oh, um, do you wanna draw something?" I suddenly ask. She has an easy smile resting on her face as she watches me, both elbows resting on the table as she swings her legs back and forth idly.
Instead of answering my question, she replies, "You draw good." It seems sincere and I smile before returning to drawing her standing next to the figure of me on the paper. I'm just starting to draw a little girl with dark hair and blue eyes when she interrupts me.
"You need to make some trees," she says, pointing to some blank spots on the paper. "That's where the berries are, by the trees," she explains.
I nod and do as she says, but she insists on drawing the leaves (or more accurately, green squiggles) herself with her cherished green pencil. We start on the next page and I draw us in the act of picking berries from the bushes under the trees while Katniss tells me about how her own father took her to pick the ripe strawberries last week before starting school. As we continue to work on the next page – an image of the baby girl with berries in her hands and red juice on her cheeks – she begins humming as if absentmindedly, and I find it harder to focus on the drawing as I take in the beauty of her voice muffled by her closed lips.
As we finish our story with a drawing of Katniss and I holding the little girl's hands between us, a basket of strawberries in our other hands, Katniss smiles and gives her approval of the artwork that, except for the leaves on the trees, is all my creation. The teacher soon announces that it's the end of the day and we each hand her our finished works before walking out of the classroom for the weekend. Katniss is humming again as she half-walks, half-skips down the hallway and out the door next to me before saying "Goodbye, Peeta!" in that singsong voice of hers.
I watch her for a moment as she starts to skip away, stopping to pick some dandelions and then continuing on to a pretty blonde woman who must be her mother, presenting her with the yellow bouquet. As they turn around I make my way to where my own father is waiting with a smile and a small bag that looks to be just the right size for a square of fudge.
I run up to him, either to claim my treat, but he holds it just out of my reach as he kneels down in front of me.
"So, son, you've made a new friend, I see," he says, and I know he saw my exchange with Katniss moments before.
Instead of feeling embarrassed though, I smile back at him and announce confidently, "I'm going to marry her."
My father laughs a little before ruffling my hair and standing up, holding out the treat for at last. It tastes even better than I imagined as I think of sharing such a delightful snack with the little baby girl from our picture-story.