Disclaimer: Everything belongs to Suzanne Collins. I'm just playing in her sandbox.
Notes at end.
She still wasn't eating.
Peeta frowned down at his lunch. He knew how lucky he was. His family almost always had enough to eat. That day he had a morsel of chicken, a wedge of cheese, a roll, and a small square of spice cake.
The roll was barely two days old and the cake not even that. Clearly his dad had packed his lunch. His mom ran the business side of the bakery and did not approve of the family eating anything that might still sell.
In any case, he had plenty to share. He snuck another look across the lunchroom. She was sipping from a flask that he hoped was soup but was probably water.
He would have happily offered her all his food if he thought there was the slightest chance she'd accept it. But over the past few weeks Madge Undersee, the girl she sat with, had tried to share, to no avail. Madge was the only child of the mayor and, like him, never went hungry.
With effort, Peeta pulled his thoughts and his eyes back to his own table. He ate his lunch, talking and laughing with his friends until the bell rang. But he tucked the cake back into his pocket.
After school, he loitered in the corridor as long as he could. He was supposed to go straight home to help his mother because both his older brothers did sports. He had the timing down to a science.
Precisely four minutes after the final bell, he waved goodbye to his buddies and stepped into the flow of kids headed for the front entrance. He reached the doors at the same time as she did.
He closed his hand around the cake in his pocket and took a deep breath. He was going to do it. Today he was going to talk to her.
Of course, he'd been telling himself the same thing for years and had never actually done it. He wasn't a shy boy by any stretch, but she intimidated just about everyone. Plus, just thinking about her made his palms sweat and his heart pound in his throat.
But today was different. Today he had a plan. Even though he knew she wouldn't take anything from him, he thought she might not be able to refuse if he offered the cake to her little sister.
The evidence of months of barely getting by was even more striking in her sister. That was probably because the little girl's coloring was typical of town people rather than Seam people. Town kids generally didn't starve. Not like Seam kids.
The idea that he could so easily identify which children weren't going to get enough to eat made Peeta feel sick and angry and helpless all at once. And for the first time, he wondered if maybe his father felt that way too. If maybe that was why the baker never came out ahead when he traded, to his wife's endless exasperation.
The sudden insight almost stopped Peeta in his tracks. But he was a man on a mission. He had extra, others had none. He might not be able to do much, but damn it, he could do something.
Her sister seemed to realize that he was coming over to talk to them and gave him a cheerful, curious smile. He smiled back and was about to say something when he found himself pinned by a hostile gray stare.
His mind went completely blank. She glared at him as she drew her sister away.
"But Katniss, that boy was going to talk to us," the little girl piped, looking back at him. "Who is he?"
For a wild moment he thought she might turn around or even stop. But she didn't. "He's just some town kid, Prim. He's got nothing to say to us."
He stood and watched them until they were out of sight. Then he walked home, unable to make himself hurry even though he knew he was late and his mother would be angry. On the way he ate the spice cake. It tasted like ashes.
That spring was unusually cold and wet. It made the bakery feel even warmer and cozier by comparison.
Even though he was the youngest, Peeta had more responsibilities in the bakery than either of his brothers. He didn't mind. He was the only one who had inherited their father's talent and passion. For him, the work wasn't just a series of chores to be gotten out of the way before getting to do fun stuff. It was fun.
The happiest times in Peeta's life were when he got to work alone with his father in the bakeshop. Mr. Mellark was not a talkative man, but he asked questions about school and sometimes told stories of his own childhood in the district. And they discussed baking, of course. At almost twelve, Peeta had mastered all the techniques his father could teach him.
There were still things he couldn't do by himself, but those were a matter of strength rather than skill. He was broad-framed like all the men in the family, but he was skinny and gawky and awkward with comically oversized hands and feet. His father assured him that they all went through that stage and it wouldn't be long before he hit a growth spurt and filled out and to ignore his brothers when they called him "runt."
For the most part, Peeta didn't let it bother him. He had much more interesting things to think about.
It was another miserable, rainy afternoon. Peeta was alone in the bakeshop, doing his homework at the big worktable while the last batch of hearth bread baked. Well, he was supposed to be doing his homework. Instead he was focused intently on a bit of scrap paper, on which he was drawing flowers.
With his father's blessing, he had been experimenting with thinning out royal icing, adding a little bit of color, and using it like paint to decorate cookies. The problem was, it set really fast and couldn't be corrected. He had to have every stroke of the image by heart before he started, so as not to waste supplies.
"Peeta!" his mother called sharply from the front. "Are you keeping an eye on that bread?"
"Yes, Mama," he called back.
"Don't let it burn!"
"No, Mama." He kept his voice respectful even as he rolled his eyes. He tried very hard not to give her any trouble, especially since she was still upset about him coming home late the week before.
"Are you sassing me, young man?" Mrs. Mellark's ability to sense mischief was legendary. All the kids in town were terrified of her.
"No, Mama," he responded. Just for good measure he glanced over his shoulder at the brick oven, though he could tell by smell that the bread wasn't done yet.
The bell over the front door chimed and Peeta sagged in relief. Customers would keep his mother busy. He'd just gone back to his drawing when there was a muffled clatter outside the back door. It sounded like an animal nosing around the garbage cans.
For a moment, he considered going to investigate. But it was still raining and the cans were clean. He could put things back in order later when it wasn't so wet.
Unfortunately, he'd underestimated his mother's instinct for troublemakers. Or her hearing. Mrs. Mellark stomped through the bakeshop, glaring at him as she passed. He scrambled off his stool and followed her to the back door.
It wasn't an animal. It was her.
Peeta's whole body went numb with shock. He couldn't feel the stinging rain or hear his mother hollering. He could only stare at her. Her soaked clothes and hair emphasized how painfully thin she was. Her gray eyes were huge in her drawn, pale face. They reflected misery and hopelessness but no fear, even in the face of his mother's anger.
She backed away slowly. His mother grabbed him by the elbow and steered him back inside, shoving him towards the oven and snapping at him to mind his business. He barely noticed. He was drowning in guilt. She had been right there. He could've helped her. But no, he was too lazy and complacent to step out into the rain for a minute to see what the commotion was. If he had, he could have invited her inside where it was warm and dry. Maybe even gotten her to eat something. Make her tea, anything. But he'd blown it.
His nose told him the bread was done. Still lost in his own miserable thoughts, he picked up the long wooden baker's peel and began taking the bread out of the oven.
He had the last two loaves when he was arrested by a sudden thought. Maybe she hadn't gone far. Maybe it wasn't too late to help her.
At that moment, his mother crossed the room again. This time she carried a short whip.
Peeta stared after her in horror. He'd forgotten she had that. She wasn't supposed to. Civilian weapons were illegal. She'd threatened her middle son with it once when he'd been escorted home by Peacekeepers but had never actually used it.
Everything after that happened too fast for thought. With a sharp cry, Peeta stumbled and dropped to one knee. The bread we has carrying slid neatly off the peel and onto the coals at the bottom of the oven, where it immediately began to blacken and smoke.
Mrs. Mellark wheeled on her son with a shriek. "Look what you've done! Clumsy, useless creature!" Automatically she swung her hand to deliver a smack. In her rage she'd completely forgotten the girl outside. She'd also forgotten she held the whip.
Peeta took the lash across his face, high on his cheekbone. His head snapped back and he sat down hard.
His mother dropped the whip and pressed both hands over her mouth. Then she recovered herself, yelled at him to get the bread out of the fire, and pushed him out the back door. Burned bread was only fit for the pigs.
For a moment he stood there, taking deep breaths of the cool, wet air. It felt good on his stinging cheek.
At first glance the backyard seemed to be empty. But as he sloshed through the puddles toward the pigpen he caught a flash of movement out of the corner of his eye.
She was still there, huddled on the far side of the scrawny old apple tree. He was careful not to look directly at her as he tore off the worst of the burned bits and fed them to the pigs.
He glanced back at the door, quickly tossed both loaves in her direction, then went back inside. He didn't acknowledge her in any way.
His father was in the bakeshop, getting their supplies ready for the morning. Peeta moved to help but Mr. Mellark stopped him. He looked at his son with a lot more sadness than surprise. "Better go put a cold rag on that. I'll call you for supper."
"Yes, Papa," Peeta murmured, scooping up his school materials before climbing the stairs to the family's quarters above the bakery.
There was a small window above the kitchen sink. Peeta peered out as he held a towel under the tap. He couldn't see the apple tree from this vantage point but he could see where the bread would have landed. It was gone.
His eye had swelled shut and that side of his face felt like it was on fire even under the cold compress. Any movement made it worse. Nevertheless, as he dozed off on his narrow cot in the room he shared with his brothers, he was still smiling.
This scene has been in my head ever since I realized that Katniss's description of her healing whip injury in Catching Fire exactly mirrors Peeta's recovery in her flashback in Hunger Games. I've been sitting on it for so long because it feels like it should be part of something larger, but I can't quite figure out what.