Soli Deo gloria
DISCLAIMER: I do NOT own Hunger Games. This is a modern-day AU.
~ Katniss's POV ~
I stand out under the grey clouds, the white sky overhead, in front of my district's public high school. The knapsack on my back begins to make my shoulder ache, and I can do nothing to make my instructor get himself over in front of this high school faster. I took Haymitch Abernathy's Driver's Ed class, thirty hours of classroom time, full of talking from the cliques, the 'Careers', as they're called, cellphones ringing, and Haymitch. Haymitch coming in late, Haymitch barking, Haymitch answering questions sarcastically. Haymitch snoring, laid back in his chair, as the crowd of caged teenagers surged into commotion, and I sat in my seat in the back, quietly writing answers to the questions in the textbook, and detesting every person around me.
A car approaches, and I straighten, hoping it's Haymitch. My hopes are for naught when a stern-faced woman yells at a blond-haired boy stepping out of the car. He too holds a knapsack, and doesn't say a word back to his mother. She finishes her stern yelling and he closes the door mere seconds before she drives away, leaving a pale cloud of coal-laced dust behind her as she disappears.
The boy turns from the disappearing car and I recognize him, making my heart beat faster. Blond-haired Peeta Mellark, with bright blue eyes and muscular shoulders, hidden away in a dark sweater. He sat next to me in the pandemonium of class, being the only other student who paid attention on how to park alongside a curve and navigate a multi-lane highway.
Every occasional time I lifted my head from my notebook, I caught him staring at me. I didn't like it then, and I don't like it now.
I look away, past Peeta and the dismal, empty parking lot. Haymitch better show up. Of all the people to be paired with for driving. Peeta will have plenty of time to stare at me now; we're going to share twelve hours in a five-person car.
"Is Haymitch here yet?" Peeta asks.
"No," I say curtly. I keep concentrating on a stray piece of paper floating around the parking lot. If I ignore him, I stupidly think, he will stop staring at me and attempting a conversation. I don't want to get to know him and I'm sure if he knew even a little about me, he'd feel the same.
I'm not open or even nice with anyone, save my little sister, Prim. Even my blonde-haired, wispy mother is hesitant to approach me and my quick, curt words. Only small Prim wins my affections; except maybe Gale. At least around him I smile, loosen a little. But Gale is eighteen, finished Driver's Ed two years ago and high school two months ago. Now he works at a drilling company; the first trip after I get my permit, I'm going to surprise Gale at his workplace.
The classroom hours were testing on my patience and this driving portion will test my nerves and my ability to not murder Haymitch, but I'd rather sacrifice a few hours than wait two years to get my license to legally drive my little sister around. Prim walks around far too much for her weary legs, and my mother got tremors after my father's sudden work accident, and hasn't got her driver license anymore. The sense of dependence on a poor bike or the city bus's schedule rakes on my nerves. I was born to be dependent on no one, least of all a bus. So I paid the money and went to school and now wait in the humid North Carolina heat for my supervising adult to show up.
In my opinion, no one should've let Haymitch Abernathy supervise teenagers driving huge, hulking machines.
"He said five-thirty," Peeta says.
I don't answer. The stray paper flies away under the sudden wind created by Haymitch's cranky, dark-colored sedan.
He pulls up in front of the school and rolls down the window. Dirty, straggly, greasy hair, maybe his early-forties, riding with newcomers on the road. Haymitch has even less of a life than I do.
Haymitch exhales and says, his cigarette blowing smoke at us, "Ready, kids? First day of driving. Who's going first?"
Peeta looks at me and I don't look at him. "Me," I volunteer.
Haymitch scoffs and parks. He holds the door open for me, saying, "Ladies first, sweetheart." I flash a look at him as I take the seat.
Peeta's big frame takes up most of the backseat. His knapsack lumps against mine when I throw it back there. Haymitch takes the passenger seat and says, pointing at me, "First things first, sweetheart."
I stop moving, wait for him to point out the first thing.
Haymitch sighs and mutters to himself as he closes the passenger's door and buckles himself in. "Buckle yourself in. It's a pain to do, but statistics show people have a less chance of dying from a crash if they're buckled in." I do so and he says, "I have an idea. Let's stay alive; don't crash us."
"I wasn't planning to," I say.
"How many people die from crashes?" Peeta asks conversationally from the backseat.
"A lot. See, I'm not looking forward to me dying, or any of you two dying, because then I'd have to explain to your parents that you failed your class," Haymitch says dryly. "My job is simple: keep you two alive. Don't wreck the car, either. Insurance companies aren't my favorite people to call up."
I highly doubt he's anyone's favorite person to call up either.
Peeta presses his lips together and Haymitch, heaving a dramatic sigh, says, "You're buckled in, sweetheart—"
"Katniss," I say.
Haymitch smiles, amused, and says, "Pull your chair into position. I highly doubt you're as tall as me."
I pull the heavy, leather seat up. The interior of this old sedan smells like alcohol, smoke, corn chips, and dirty socks. "Do you ever clean the inside of this thing?" I mutter as I sit up straight.
"Nope. Can't be bothered," Haymitch says.
"I'm bothered," Peeta says, annoyed.
"Feel free to taking a vacuum to it, then. Be my guest, Mellark," Haymitch says.
As I adjust my mirrors, I see Peeta roll his eyes and look especially squished and pinched in the back. I smile.
"Now, you're going to drive forward. Might help if you put it in DRIVE," Haymitch says, waving a hand forward.
I pull into 'DRIVE' and Haymitch says, leaning forward, "Now, inch slowly forward, foot off the brake."
Somehow, I bring the car to the exit out of the school's parking lot. Following some sarcastic but helpful instructions from Haymitch, I drive into the students' parking lot. The car jerks forward and the weight rolls back, causing us to shake back and forth like a bobble-head.
"You better improve quick or my lunch is going to make an appearance," Haymitch says, his hand white from holding onto a car handle above his head.
My hands grip the steering wheel hard and I move faster and brake hard to rock him back and forth.
Haymitch says, sounding too patient, "Take a left." The next half hour is a painful punishment from Haymitch. I go in twists and turns and curves around the parking lot. My temper simmers close to the surface, but I work determinedly on keeping my turns tight and the car within the lines of the parking spaces.
Peeta gets bored and opens and closes his back window, allowing in hard window currents and annoying noises.
"Kid, I will tell Katniss to drive us off a cliff, and she will do it, because I have a feeling she agrees with me, if you don't stop," Haymitch growls.
I hate to agree. But I do.
Peeta obediently stops. "Are we allowed to turn on music, or will that cause us to fly off a cliff as well?" he says, leaning forward with a large hand planted against the back of Haymitch's seat.
Haymitch is occupied with searching through the glove department. "Knock yourself out, kid," he says.
Peeta and I exchange a long glance and he flips the radio on. Country music, soft guitar, longing, melancholy voice. I breathe in sharply and lean against the headrest, the tone and lilt of the voice awakening something in me. The notes, the voice, reminds me of his father, singing soft mountain airs to me as a little girls. Words of hope, life, and the past. His memory fades with everyday, and that hurts.
Haymitch swigs from a flask.
"Is that actually full of liquor?" Peeta asks incredulously.
Haymitch screws the lid on. "It's not like I'm driving," he says, hiding it back in the glove department.
"You're supposed to keep us alive, and you're drinking," I point out.
"I'm not driving. Do you kids have thick skulls or something?" Haymitch wonders, tapping his fingers on the car.
My chest tightens and I stiffen all over. "I feel so much more protected already, now that you've explained yourself," I say quickly.
Haymitch laughs.
Peeta sighs, sits back. "After all those films in class about not mixing drinking and driving . . ."
"I'm not driving. And I hate repeating myself," Haymitch says. He leans forward, braces against the car. "You know all those films are propaganda, used as a scare tactic?"
"I'm sure not," I say.
"Half the films I showed you were about alcohol and drunk driving," Haymitch points out. "They also believe you're stupid and won't listen to me."
I try to ignore every word that Haymitch says that's not about changing direction. I guide us out of the parking lot, stoic and quiet. I never touch alcohol; to become dependent on something that can transform you into a husk of a person is what I fear the most. To become someone controlled, being unable to move myself and do what I want to do. Haymitch was weak to fall for it; I can't say he's a walking advertisement for alcohol if he's what you're going to become.
I keep going in determined circles, pressing my lips into a fine line and ignoring every roll of Haymitch's eyes.
"Fine. I get it; I'm dizzy; go into the next neighborhood and take a right. Time for you to get onto the real road in the real world. Don't kill us, huh?" Haymitch says.
"She isn't going to kill us. She's far more responsible than you give her credit for," Peeta says from the back.
I ignore his compliment, wish he'd stay quiet, but I also wish to know why he said that.
"Ho, ho, ho, looks like someone's being a knight in shining armor, saving her sad credibility," Haymitch says, amused.
Peeta hesitates. I say immediately, "He's not my knight in shining armor. Or anyone, really."
"He seems to think of you as something, though," Haymitch says, laughing to himself as he sits back in his seat.
I wonder if I'll fail my class if I manage to get the airbag to blow up in Haymitch's face.
We enter a poor neighborhood, the kind I'm used to and from. The houses droop and the members of the households are rimmed with poverty. Haymitch appraises the neighborhood and locks all the doors immediately. In the rearview mirror, I see Peeta leaning towards the window, his mouth slightly agape, his expression a little surprised. He comes from the better part of this district, being the son of a baker who manages a successful coffee and bake shop. I bet he's been sheltered from viewing the riffraff his entire life.
Haymitch has no biting remark for this leg of our journey. He says, "Take a right," and guides me through the garbage cluttered streets to an intersection which takes me past the line dividing the rich from the poor. The road is smooth, the ride less bumpy, as we glide along the asphalt, past the Mellark bakery and the other white, beautiful shops along here. I bite my lip from asking Peeta a sarcastic question about the difference between the poverty-stricken land and the shops of the rich, and realize that it's not his fault. Can he help that his father is successful with baking and managing a business, and that my own family is destined to live in a neighborhood where Prim sells goat's milk and I hunt to make ends meet?
The conversation is gone, which I am grateful for. My words are frugal and more often than not, words that cut people. I don't make friends easily. At least when there's no conversation between Peeta and Haymitch, I'm not expected to jump in at any time.
Fields start to pull up on either side of the car. I've taken us past the poverty- and rich-filled neighborhoods, beyond any full settlement of people. Vast pastures lands, full of long grasses bending and swaying in the wind, replace the cold concrete and people. I open my window and feel relaxed for the first time. My hands hold a firm grip on the wheel, and my braid catches the fast wind. I can breathe.
"So how is your summer going?" Haymitch asks.
I think he's talking to Peeta until I see him waiting impatiently for me to answer.
I suck at small talk.
"Why are you asking? You don't care," I say, my hands moving rapidly to keep us steady around a curve. I feel Haymitch's foot press against the emergency break, impeding on my freedom and lowering my speed. "You could just tell me to slow down."
"I'm trying to make you comfortable, or something. Slow down, then," Haymitch says, answering both sentences. He leans against his seat, says around a toothpick in his mouth, "Let's hope you don't become dependent on me saving your butt around every bend when you get your permit."
"Believe me, I won't," I say harshly.
A chuckle comes from the backseat.
"Something funny, kid?" Haymitch says over his left shoulder.
"No," Peeta says.
"Oh, watch out, sweetheart. We've got a pathological liar in the back. Better not put your eye on him," Haymitch chuckles.
"Don't worry," I snap, "I won't." The last thing I am thinking about is falling for quiet, stranger Peeta Mellark. My eyes focus on the road ahead as I try to block out Haymitch.
But the lull in the conversation is picked up, and Haymitch carries it along. "Driving with a snake in the driver's seat and the pathological liar's turn to come. If I was a careful man, I wouldn't surround myself with danger."
"Yeah. But you're not," I say.
"I agree," Peeta says.
Haymitch chuckles and I burn, my hands closing harder around the sturdy steering wheel. Why is he insisting on riling me up? Because he is bored, no doubt, and enjoys toying with the emotions of other humans to get a laugh out of it. What a sad life to live.
Unfortunately his insinuations cause my mind to flash back to the classroom portion of Driver's Ed, of Peeta's half-glances and long stares, of him letting me pass him in the hall and opening the door for me when he could. I feel a disgusted flush over my cheeks as I regrettably relive every moment I've ever interacted with Peeta Mellark with new eyes. I burn in my seat and grow angrier at my instructor, who planted these seeds in my mind to get a reaction out of me.
Well, he won't get a reaction out of me.
I remain completely silent, concentrating hard on the road and ignoring completely the hard-rock-playing radio and my instructor and the boy in the backseat.
Finally my first forty-five minutes are up, and I breathe deeply as Haymitch motions for me to carefully take the car into an empty parking lot. I relax on the braking and pull the steering wheel hard around and manage a half-satisfactory parking job.
"Put it in PARK," Haymitch says, scowling.
It took him three minutes of yelling at me to get me to listen to his slurred words.
"Good thing I'm not judging you on that, 'cause you'd get a negative score," Haymitch scowls at my back as I hurry to the backseat, waiting impatiently for Peeta to leave so I can sit in silence and solitude.
"It's also a good thing that I didn't crash us into a ditch. I should get points back for that," I say as Peeta leaves through the other door. I settle around the dirty knapsacks, ready for a brief nap, if I can get one with the radio blaring and Haymitch speculating on everything.
Peeta chuckles at my joke.
I scowl. I don't want to make him laugh. I don't want to have anything more to do with him than what has already come to pass.
"Be careful not to kill your lady-love and your matchmaker, huh, kid?" are Haymitch's first words once Peeta is settled in and ready to drive.
"Feel free to crash us headfirst into the nearest telephone pole," I say, staring out the window.
"Don't feel free to do that," Haymitch says.
Peeta turns a faded pink, but doesn't say anything.
"Now, you're gonna have a hell of a job getting us out of the parking job Miss Available left us in," Haymitch says.
I roll my eyes.
"Hey, it's true," he says back to me. "Now, moving on to not getting us stuck headlong into a telephone pole," Haymitch continues, "you gotta put the car into REVERSE and then you are to carefully, and I mean carefully, ease off the brake. Creep out once you've checked your mirrors and over your shoulder for any civilians you're about to mow over, and then turn the steering wheel as much as you can the other way, while keeping easy on the brake. Got it?"
"I'm not stupid," Peeta says defensively.
"I never said that. I'm just making sure you don't listen to your girlfriend's stupid advice," Haymitch says.
"I'm not his girlfriend," I say quickly. This man and the implications that he assumes!
"You guys are not a lot of things, aren't you?" Haymitch says, amused.
Peeta's ears burn bright pink.
I wish I'd brought my MP3 player, to drown out the testosterone. A drunk man who is supposed to pass me on my driving test, and a blonde-haired boy with a school-boy crush on me. I pretend to not exist or know who either of these men are.
Our drive through the country is nice, anyway. I focus on the bright blueberry bushes, dripping with fruit. The cherry trees stand tall and the flowers spread over vast green fields. I enjoy seclusion around trees and bushes, but the flowers glow to me. Wild flowers grow from freedom, without existing just so someone can sniff them and arrange them in a bouquet. I wish to be out there right now, instead of cramping in this smelly sedan.
Haymitch breaks out another cigarette.
Peeta indiscreetly opens a window for him. The smoke trails out, leaving a trace path behind us, along with the fumes coughing out of the pipes and the dust of the road rising.
"Want me to turn this funky, country hit-single up louder?" Haymitch asks sardonically. Some Southern belle wails on about a bar, hookers, and a man with a bad heart.
"I feel like I want my ears to fall off," Peeta says after a moment. He takes a smooth turn once stopping for a stop sign. He follows all the rules without question.
"I feel like throwing up. Can you chuck the cigarette?" I ask.
"What? And commit a dangerous felony?" Haymitch says, mock-offended.
"I'd rather you litter than me die from your second-hand smoke," I say.
"The snake snaps her tongue," Haymitch mutters. He ditches the cigarette on the side of the road. It gets tossed in the dust and rocks. "In the meantime, why don't we have a lovely session of group therapy?"
"You want to talk about your feelings?" Peeta asks, incredulous. He chances a second to look at Haymitch with a mystified face before turning immediately, focused, on the road. His one slip-up can cost him three lives. I don't want to die today.
"Not mine in particular. I take the approach of drowning out my sorrows with a bottle of whiskey. Does wonders for the complexion," Haymitch says. He leans back in his seat, his arms spread over, his legs put up. "No. I was talking about you two kids."
"Shouldn't your foot be on the emergency brake?" Peeta asks calmly.
"I shouldn't have to use it. Drive right and we'll be just fine, kid," Haymitch says.
"How reassuring," I say. My tone speaks more than my words. I don't intend to discuss any parts of my life with these two people, who I am learning to detest more and more the more time I spend in their presence.
"How long has Miss Sunshine caught your eye, son?" Haymitch asks.
Well, at least he is to-the-point.
Peeta's hesitation and surprise makes our car swerve. He quickly straightens it back into the right lane.
"And I thought I was the one drinking," Haymitch says, amused by Peeta's stammering manner.
"I don't know. From the moment I saw her, I guess," Peeta says, keeping his eyes ahead.
"Peeta, you don't have to answer him. He's just trying to start an argument," I say.
"So?" Peeta asks. His eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror.
I look away. I don't care that his eyes are bright blue and gentle. I don't care at all. "Eyes on the road; I don't want to die," I scowl.
"Have first impressions changed once you've gotten past her looks? Seems like she's hiding a real love for life and people behind that scowl of hers," Haymitch says.
"Really? And you're hiding a waste of life and breath and self-pity behind yours," I say.
"Now the conversation is moving!" Haymitch sounds more pleased than anything.
I make a solemn vow to never speak more than a necessary word to Haymitch and Peeta. I curl up against the backseat, inhale the disgusting corn chip smell, and wish for my three hours in this car to be over. All over. I can hardly stand this.
I wait for the sweet solitude of unconsciousness, but it never arrives. Instead, I'm treated to Haymitch poking Peeta for tidbits on his crush on me for the next half-hour. At least Peeta is sufficiently uncomfortable during it. It somehow brights up my drudge, when I know that someone else is just as miserable as I am.
Eventually we turn out onto an old dusty parking lot and we switch. Peeta hesitates by the driver's door, almost like he is going to say something. But I know it will be something we'd both regret. I close the door in his face, regretting it only a little. He's not a bad guy. But I dislike those I barely know at all. They see a pretense I put up because I barely stand people, and Peeta likes that. He likes scowling, mean, standoff-ish, masked me. I can't say I like him for it.
My driving out of the parking lot is a lot smoother. Mostly because I tune out Haymitch and crank the staticky country music up high. His directions wouldn't be all too helpful, anyway. His drinking and cigarettes cancel out any advice he can give me. He's probably been in more drink-related accidents than he'd care to admit.
The seat is supportive and nice to lean against after that backseat. I feel more comfortable with my foot at the accelerator. My window allows in fresh air, pushing out the stale, Haymitch-scented air from my lungs. I didn't feel totally unsafe with Peeta at the wheel, but I prefer being in control of my own destiny, of my own life. This car has the power to kill all three of us, and I'd feel safer holding the gun instead of having Peeta or Haymitch hold it.
Peeta leans forward in the space between the two front seats. I'm forever grateful that this front seat doesn't fit three people. As if I'd want to be bumping elbows with Peeta and Haymitch. "What do you do when kids aren't getting their driver's licenses?" Peeta asks conversationally.
"I bartend, mostly," Haymitch says.
Figures. I scoff. The occupation fits him all too well. I picture him behind a scarred brown counter with a crystal jug of brandy and a long line of shot glasses.
"What do you do when you're not off trying to get us crashed into telephone poles?" Haymitch asks.
Peeta takes a second to find the right words. "I work at my parents' bakery," he says.
"Work the counter?"
"Nah. My mom usually deals with the customers."
"Ha. I've been to your bakery sometimes. I bet I'm one of your only repeat customers."
Peeta sighs. "Mom isn't exactly the people type."
I've seen his mother. A terror, a wizened woman with sharp features and an even sharper anger and sense of impatience. I'm part of the riffraff that only shops there once in a great while, when Prim wants a delightful little cake that I can't help but buy for her. Mrs. Mellark's persona certainly doesn't win their bakery any customers. Only the delicious, delicate, white baked goods and the little smile from Mr. Mellark keeps people trekking through the Mellarks' door.
"She's an unholy terror," Haymitch says.
My eyes catch Peeta's face as I glance at the rearview mirror. There's an undeniable scowl on it. "She's my mother," he says.
"And an unholy terror. Your mother is only one of her many decorated, scary titles," Haymitch says. He laughs coarsely to himself and I feel bad for Peeta. Mothers are not my forte, and I know my own and I don't get along at all. Mother is timid, scared, and lives under my hand, letting me take the reins, and always trying hard to not rile me up. I allow Peeta one exchange of information. One look deep into his blue eyes that tells him of, at least, if anything, a little sympathy. I don't pity him, mostly because I hate feeling pity myself. He probably doesn't want pity either.
"What do you do, sweetheart? Besides knocking all the boys off your scent?" Haymitch says.
"I don't get boys chasing after me," I say.
Peeta ducks his head with a chuckle. Haymitch rolls his eyes.
"He"—I point to Peeta—"doesn't count."
"Katniss, he is a boy," Haymitch points out, to my chagrin.
"I don't see him chasing after me," I say. In my defense, Peeta doesn't say a word to refute my argument. Yet no attempt is made on his part to cast Haymitch off of our lovers' trail. If he is enjoying this, I'd say he has a strange, sick, twisted sense of humor.
"You're constantly driving away from me. How can I catch you?" Peeta says.
Maybe he meant it as a joke, as it generates a laugh from Haymitch, but I feel like he is slapping a simple but hard-hitting fact in my face. My attempt to keep away from his attentions, from our classroom time to the moments in the hallways, must hit him hard. And though I try to not care that I am hurting him, I feel a surprising note of guilt fill my chest. I bite my lip and instead focus on the road ahead of me. I won't let Haymitch's stupid remarks about my love life or Peeta's honest, vulnerable words get to me. What point is there for them to worry me with petty details compared to that of me driving a car that can potentially kill us in less time it takes to blink?
"You both are infuriating. And immature," I say.
"And you're a joy to be around. The next few days should be fun," Haymitch says dryly.
I simple can't wait.
Day two, Haymitch is late. Again. I expected nothing less, and so I come prepared. A book about flowers and edible leaves in the forest, a present from my late father. I study it at home and then venture outside with it, keeping it in my father's old hunter's bag. Gale usually joins me in the area beyond our meager backyards to scout out the woods for any squirrels or deer or rabbits. We use a surprising amount of patience that conflicts with the rest of our personalities and snag different animals. Now I want to move on from our carnivorous food foraging style for an omnivorous one.
"Is it interesting?" A curious voice disturbs my concentration. I look up with startled face and quick eyes. Oh. It's just Peeta. Today he wears a horribly ugly hoodie and jeans. His dirty blond hair is rugged, almost as if it glistens with sweat and he tossed it about.
I try to not think about the appearance of his person. I turn away.
"What is it about?" Peeta wonders.
"It's an outdoors book," I say, faltering over finding words. Usually I snap out whatever finds itself in my mouth. I don't want to answer him, and yet I just did. The strangest of conundrums.
His attention on me seems sure to stay. His fingers flex against his knapsack, but he makes no move to walk away or watch for Haymitch's car. Instead he keeps his eyes flickering over me, never lingering on one spot, as if he can't look at me in the eyes.
To keep his attention off of me, I flip through the pages of descriptions of tastes and medicinal purposes and side effects to a large collage of beautiful outdoor photography. "Which is your favorite?" I say. I nod to the squares full of tender, bright green leaves, thick, purple flowers, bright yellow nectar, dark brown bark, and dirt-covered roots.
His fingers stroke along the pages until they settle on a bright orange, dark-spotted tiger lily. "I like this the best. It's my favorite color. The color of a sunset," he says.
We catch eyes for a minute, however I wish against it. His blue eyes speak of a gentleness foreign to the world. "What's your favorite?" he asks.
"Any of the dark green ones," I say.
"Your favorite color?" Peeta asks.
"How did you guess?" I says. This elicits a self-deprecating laugh from him. I'm surprised that he finds me funny. My dry sense of humor earns me more cold stares of horror rather than that of amusement.
"My mind is extremely sharp and perceptible," Peeta says cheerfully.
I feel a small smile on my face. I don't know why it emerges through the usual mask I keep up against those around me in the real world. But it's like I'm standing in the middle of the forest, ground leaves crackling under my feet, sticks and vines within my hands' reach, and I feel relaxed. That feeling is only mine when I hang out with Gale. So why am I feeling it right now?
I hesitate, wonder if I should ride on this feeling, maybe peruse the rest of the book with Peeta, or shut off the connection we've reached and snap the book shut. I'm in the doorway with a footstep in either direction.
However, Peeta spots the sedan pulling up and says in his gentle manner, "Do you want to drive first or should I?"
"I'll drive first," I say. "You can deflect all of Haymitch's stupid attempts at conversation."
"I am a people person," Peeta says, almost in a bantering way.
"Good. 'Cause I'm not," I say. The book is tucked into my dark knapsack and Peeta and I watch as Haymitch slowly drives his sedan bumpily along the deserted school parking lot until it grinds to a halt half inch from kissing the curb.
Haymitch gets out, slamming his door, and says with a giant fake grin, "Ah, my two favorite people. Are we ready for our next buddy-buddy experience?"
"Been looking forward to it all day," Peeta says. He drops back into the backseat and I draw the driver's seat forward. I'm not a short person, but Haymitch takes up a lot of leg room. I settle back and go back over what I must do before I pull away from the curb. Seat belt buckled and against my collarbone. Adjust rearview mirror and front mirrors. Start the car. Hold down the brake as I ease off the parking brake. No word from Haymitch, so I must be doing right. Into DRIVE. Check over my shoulder and my front mirror and then get onto the asphalt leading out of the school. No friendly conversation, which I am all up for. Left turn signal turned on, nobody in my path (which I always appreciate), and I bring us into the right-hand lane without a hitch. One of my best traits is my ability to pick up and learn a helpful skill. Haymitch's delightful insights yesterday are silenced today as I take what I learned and enforce it into my driving.
"Not bad, sweetheart," Haymitch says after a few minutes of quiet driving along the road.
"Excellent, Katniss," Peeta says.
Haymitch doesn't make some opening remark on his attempt down the road of me and Peeta eventually becoming a couple, which is a good thing.
Peeta leans in and for once leads the conversation. He knows that Haymitch won't be prodding and poking like yesterday, and, since he did say he is a people person, he likes human conversation well enough. I'd rather stick on the radio to some low, homey mountain airs, but I indulge Peeta this one time by not heaving the volume up to the highest level. "How are you today, Haymitch?" Peeta wonders.
"Tired," Haymitch mutters.
"What happened?" Peeta asks.
"Did a shift at the bar last night and enjoyed a few of life's commodities afterwards," Haymitch says. His fingers shake as they drag at his bag-lined, bloodshot eyes.
"Oh. You've got a hangover. I'm sorry. That stinks," Peeta says.
"You knew what you were getting into when you started," I say. "Really, Haymitch, did you expect anything other than a hangover?"
"Ever been drunk, sweetheart?" Haymitch growls.
"No," I say. I've never been attracted to alcohol, unlike some people. . .
"Pretend to have some sympathy, then," Haymitch mutters. "Got any water back there?" he calls over his shoulder to Peeta.
Peeta rummages around the sedan and pulls up a warm, half-drunk, crumpled plastic water bottle. "Here. Knock yourself out," Peeta says.
Haymitch sighs. "Don't think it has weight enough to knock me out." He sounds sorry about this.
"How was your day, Katniss?" Peeta says. The tone of bantering is back in his voice, silently communicating to me a plan. Yesterday Haymitch was ruthless against us, we silent two. Now, why not give him a taste of his own medicine? Repay the favor? After all, I hate being in someone's debt.
"I'm excellent today, Peeta."
"What did you do today, Katniss?" Peeta asks.
I decide to merge into the lane alongside me and look over my shoulder for anyone coming fast in the lane I want to enter. In the process, I see Peeta's merry blue eyes and a sly smile on his face.
I smile back. This time without hesitation.
"I assisted Prim in making cheese and mucking out her goat's gross pen. Kicked her stupid cat, got a few things from the pharmacy, picked a bunch of greens from our garden for lunch, and had a job interview."
"A job interview?" Peeta's interest is piqued. "What for?"
There's this very Southern, low-down country flea market. Doesn't have many employees. Sells a lot of stuff besides the meager foodstuff it gets wholesale. My friend Greasy Sae has a stand there selling a variety of hearty but cheap soups. I sell items to her that aren't available for dirt cheap at the flea market, the Hob. My father and I used to frequent there with our bartering items and coupons; it's a familiar place to me; I know it like the back of my hand. So I figure, why not get a job there? I already have a presence, a reputation there, as a hard-worker. I sometimes pay a little more than I want to to keep the owners of their small booths happy. So they're my friends.
"Working as a cashier," I say.
"Oh. Prospective," Peeta says. He frowns to himself. "Mother won't let me keep the counter up. I bake in the back, mostly."
"Maybe you'd get more repeat customers if they let you handle the front instead," I say.
Peeta chuckles to himself. "Needless to say, I don't mindlessly dislike anyone who uses a credit card at our bakery," he admits.
"I'd go back, maybe, if you were," I say. Not to see him, of course, but to be able to buy bread without feel stared down and cast-off, like I'm committing a crime instead of buying food.
"Mom wants me in the back, though. Dad sides with her, normally," Peeta says.
Yeah, probably to not get on her bad side. I've met Peeta's father a couple of times. He doesn't lack a backbone, so to speak, but his son resembles him in the way that they both appreciate peace. They don't deliberately stir up an argument. It must be hard for Peeta to stand up to his mom at all.
"She's your mother. What can she do to you?" I say.
Peeta hesitates, his tongue playing at his lips. Wait, stop! I look away from his face, focus on the road ahead. On the destructive curves, the rectangular white-and-black regulatory signs, for any construction or stop signs. I need to keep my attention off of Peeta in order to keep us alive.
"It's just best not to," he says.
Haymitch lets out an exaggerated snore. Peeta and I throw him a half-glance, surprised to find his fake sounding snore to be real. Peeta pokes his face and scowls, wiping his finger against his pants. "He drools in his sleep," Peeta scoffs.
I see Haymitch's hand drawn into a fist. "What is he holding?" I ask.
"I'll check it out," Peeta says. He leans closer before gasping harshly and withdrawing his hand. "It's a knife!" he says in a frantic, half-whisper.
I curse and swerve to the right. I pull us back before we can drive into a ditch and hiss like a snake. "He's holding a knife?!"
"Yeah. Not a pocket one, either. This one can be used for stabbing," Peeta says hastily.
"I need to find a parking space," I say. I'm half-tempted to drive over the thick yellow line and over the left lane to carry us into an empty septic field.
Peeta nods. We agree on one thing. We need to get out of the car that holds a knife-holding, hungover, subjective drunk.
"Up there, on our right," Peeta says. His arm lies against the top of my driver's seat, directing me. I round the curve and pull hurriedly into the parking lot of an abandoned country store. Crows rouse from the broken-down building's rafters as the wheels rumble and bounce against the grey pebbles. I bring the car to an abrupt stop, pull out the keys, and leap out of the car. Peeta's door jerks open and he gets out quickly. I bump into him as I walk backwards, as quickly as I can, away from our dangerous driving instructor. Peeta catches me quickly before I can run him back and end up knocking us both over. I catch my balance and he holds out my knapsack. "I grabbed this for you," he says, panting.
I nod a thanks and pull it on, the keys jingling in my hands. We both catch our breath after taking a leave of at least one-hundred yards from the car. "Where was he hiding that?" Peeta pants.
"The glove department?" I say.
"How come neither of us noticed?" Peeta wonders.
"Too busy talking," I say curtly, annoyed.
Peeta turns dark pink and worried. He looks at the sedan and his blue eyes widen. "Katniss!" he yells as he runs after it.
I stand still for a second, not comprehending why he is running towards the car we were running from. Then I register the car moving away from him as he yells, "YOU FORGOT TO PUT IT IN PARK!"
I did.
I pick up my feet and go after the dangerous sedan. It makes slow but steady progress, creeping towards the abandoned grocery store. It's still in DRIVE. No brake, parking or foot, is stopping it from crawling forward.
It's going to crash into the abandoned store. With Haymitch in it.
"Stop it, Peeta!" I yell after him. Stupid, stupid words. Of course that is what he is doing. Stupid me; hadn't I been one of the only students who actually took notes and learned from the classroom portion of Driver's Ed? How stupid am I? In my panic, I only added more danger to the situation.
I don't need unintentional murder on my hands.
Peeta, stop the car.
I sprint as hard as I can, maintaining a speed that allows me to reach the car. It slows from the loss of momentum, but that doesn't mean it won't hit the store.
Peeta goes around the front of the car and presses his hands against the hood, pushing hard. Perspiration springs on his face and he gasps from breathing hard. I come to his side and take the same approach as he does. However, the sedan is heavier than it would appear. I grunt and feel the pebbles sliding out from under my boots. The wall behind us fast approaches. What if we're not fast enough? What if we're sandwiched, crushed between the walls and the front of this damn vehicle?
Then it hits me. The simpleness of the solution. The stupidity solidified in my head.
I dart past Peeta and throw the driver's door open. I turn on the car at the same time my foot presses against the brake and my other hand pulls the shift into PARK. The car abruptly jumps forward, then falls back as the weight redistributes.
Haymitch snores peacefully.
I catch my breath as my stomach flips. My hand finds the handle of the door and I throw myself out to find the state of Peeta. I didn't hurt him, did I? "Peeta!" I say with worry.
He grunts, sending relief washing through me—he's still alive. "Did you get hurt?" I yell. I come around and my hands dart across his torso, to his shoulder, his chest; I feel his instinctive heartbeat and feel my own heart thud against my chest.
He winces and his body heaves beneath my hands. "Yeah. I'm alive. Unhurt. Though that was painful."
How could I have been so stupid? To not put on the brake! All because I wanted to get away from knocked-out Haymitch!
No words of relief or stupid humor escape my lips, or even find a home on my tongue. I instead do the best I am able to do—don't speak, act. My strong hands clutch at Peeta and drag him out from between the walls of the store and the front of the sedan.
What surprises me the most is that Peeta doesn't immediately pounce on me in anger. I was the one who stupidly forgot to put the stupid car in PARK, the one who instigated this stupid mess. Yet not one accusatory word escapes him. Instead he clutches at where my hands grab a hold on his sweater; "Are you okay?" he asks, worried and concerned.
I meet his eyes in surprise, feeling the warmth and tenderness in those words. Astonished. "I'm fine," I manage to say, scraping around for anything to say to him.
He nods and swallows and we stand beside the driver's side of the sedan, view the narrow space between the front of the car and the beaten wall of the store. "That was close," Peeta mutters.
"Haymitch didn't even wake up," I scoff.
Peeta lets out a half-hearted laugh.
Then we both realize the tightened, dead-locked holds we have on each other.
I let him go. Coldness cloaks my hands instead of the heat that exuded off him due to the dangerous situation.
"Thank you for saving the car," I say. "And, you know, Haymitch's life."
"It was no problem, Katniss," Peeta says quietly.
I hate the sincerity in his voice. It makes his feelings too transparent.
At that moments a choked, gurgling noise emerges from the front seat. Haymitch sits up and stares at Peeta and me, our shocked and sweaty faces bent to see through the driver's window. "What are you two staring at?" Haymitch demands.
Peeta and I exchange a look. Peeta is far better at explaining things, but it's all my fault. My fault.
Haymitch notices the store less than two feet from kissing the front bumper. He stands immediately in his seat, bonking his head against the low ceiling and cursing. "What the hell?" he scowls.
The first two days of the driving portion of Driver's Ed have their own revelations and surprises. The dark orange sun sets on the second day, thus splitting my time in half. Only two more days to go.
Third day, Peeta gets to go first. He's gotten better treatment than me. Mostly because he hasn't tried to crash Haymitch's car. Which he still grumbles about.
"Take a turn here; I trust you won't hit that convenience store," Haymitch mutters.
"You shouldn't have had that knife," I say. "What, you have a history of Driver's Ed students attacking you while coasting around the country?" I apologized for not setting the car in PARK, but I couldn't forgive Haymitch for his later muttered comments about me 'having no sense;' 'being stupid;' 'not thinking;' I can deal with honest words; I can deal with the consequences of my actions. But those words that left his mouth were deliberately mocking. I have a zero tolerance policy for those. Haymitch is already on my bad side, and me on his. So I don't swallow the accusatory remarks and comments I'd held back on the first day.
"I have a history of waking up from a drunken stupor to see some underage drinker exploring my pants pockets for my wallet. It's a years-old habit," Haymitch says defensively.
"Yeah. And we should report you," Peeta says.
"To the school. The DMV. The state police," I say.
"You kids endangered my life more than I did to either of you. Undisturbed, I wouldn't have touched ya. And you still planned for me to crash into that abandoned pile of rubble," Haymitch says.
"That was unplanned," I say. "You carried a knife into a car with two teenagers, whose lives you were responsible for. Seriously. You fit the type for criminals against kids; mid-age, a history of drinking. And you haven't shaved in two days."
"She's got a point, Haymitch," Peeta says.
Haymitch growls as he rakes his hands through his greasy, unkempt hair. "What say we make a deal, sweetheart?"
"What kind of deal?" I say, on edge, suspicious. I won't say anything to save Haymitch's butt; I'll be the first at the stand to point a finger at him; but the memory of the car nearly crashing into the building because I let it roll, the brakes not set on at all, nags at the back of my mind. Not for the first time in my life, I wish back to that moment, a few seconds before, in fact, to simply push an instrument or two into place. But I didn't. So Haymitch has a tiny amount of leverage.
"You don't tell them about the knife, I don't tell them that you pretty much insured a car crash?"
I won't tell them how the instructor they'd hired had fallen asleep, hungover, with a defensive weapon in his fist, with us two minors in the car, so he won't tell them that I forgot to put on the brake in my rush to get away from him before he took a stab at me? I roll my eyes. His phrasing speaks more than his actual words.
Still. I don't need something on my record when I'm not even a legal adult yet.
"Fine," I say, through gritted teeth.
"We understand each other so well, sweetheart," Haymitch says half-heartedly.
Oh, don't we?
The entirety of our three hours inside that car are largely uneventful. Haymitch makes a big effort to not like me at all; he doesn't include me in conversation, unless making sarcastic comments about my sunny personality counts as including me. Peeta, however, ties the tension in the pit of the car together to keep us from splitting into two. He offers less pointed conversation topics to Haymitch, such as sports, his job, and other masculine thoughts. I can't enter this conversation, even if I wanted to, and I think that is Peeta's objective. Making his conversation female-proof makes it so I don't have to feel pressure to join in at all. Somehow, I'm grateful, a heavy thanks. I don't like owing Peeta anything, whether it's one of these small gestures or saving Haymitch from a crashing death due to my carelessness.
Then sometimes, in silence, his eyes catch mine. And I hold them. I didn't before. But I know the Peeta hidden in them a little more. And that makes all the difference.
My driving goes well; I don't forget the brake; I don't think I will ever again. I go out too far with the stop signs; Haymitch says, "Don't get us hit in the side, sweetheart!" But then, Haymitch can find something harsh about an angel. So I don't get annoyed about it.
Streaks appear in the sky by the time we're done; the last of the sun disappearing from sight. Clouds fill the sky along with stars and darkness; it's too late for me to go hunting, unless I carry a lantern. That, in turn, would simply give me away, defeating the purpose.
Peeta gets out of the driver's seat and opens my door for me as I rummage through my knapsack. I get out quietly and say, "Thanks."
"No problem," he says comfortably.
I hook on my knapsack and nod to the gorgeous sunset. "Your favorite color," I say.
"Yeah," he says, gazing out against the sun-streaked sky, "about that."
"What?" I say.
He pulls this self-deprecatory smile on his face and says, his head cocked to the side, his shaggy blond hair ruffled, "I've changed my favorite color."
"To what?" I ask.
"To dark green," he says.
A moment passes. I enjoy the view into his blue eyes. They speak volumes about who Peeta really is; not this shy boy who can barely say a word to his crush. A tender, humorous, talkative, loving boy.
"Would you lovebirds stop throwing goo-goo eyes at each other and shut my doors?" Haymitch shouts as he shifts his heavy body over to the driver's seat.
I hear the honk of a horn and turn to see an old minivan coming up. Gale volunteered to drop me off and pick me up today. His brothers, Vick and Rory, argue in the backseat with his tiny sister Posy. Very crowded.
Peeta gives me a half-wave.
I throw myself into a sign of affection: I hug him. However briefly I do so, I know that since it comes from the masked, 'soulless' me, he'll get the significance.
Then I run to the passenger's seat, not entirely eager to hear the insinuating words that follow Haymitch's low, amazed whistle.
Day four: the last day. Peeta takes the first forty-five minutes after keeping a conversation going for five minutes with me on the sidewalk waiting for Haymitch. That must be a record. Usually I falter at small talk or snap out a sarcastic comment; normal conversation with people I barely know is hard. I remind myself that I somehow became friends with Gale, so I can do it again with Peeta. And Peeta has a warmer exterior than Gale does, lending himself to the conversation.
My driving skills aren't without reproach, but I earn no further derogatory observational remarks from Haymitch. He must be tired of delivering them. Instead he silently applies the foot brake whenever he needs to, which isn't that often.
Peeta and I switch and he opens the door for me and I make a decision as I pull the seat up, check my mirrors, buckle myself in, switch on the car, and get into DRIVE.
At the end of our session Peeta ends up getting the tail-end, letting me have my one-and-a-half-hours at once. Haymitch gives up on using the emergency brake and spends time muttering to himself and saying, "Stupid pencil tips," as he writes out our info on our driver's eligibility certificates. Peeta drives us through a neighborhood leading up to the high school, but I instead lean in the little squeezed area between the two front seats and place my hand on his shoulder. He maintains a calm face, despite the jolt his body gives. "Peeta, take this road," I command.
He does so, doesn't ask why. Haymitch barely notices.
"Take a right," I say calmly. If my plan works . . .
He weaves the car to my every whim, through the intersections and back alleys and 15 MPH neighborhoods until finally we cross into familiar territory, where every flower and tree and bush is familiar. Haymitch glances up, raises an eyebrow, and asks, "Why are we here?"
Neither Peeta or I volunteer an answer, though I know Peeta is thinking the same thing.
"Pull in here," I say, rubbing my hand against his shoulder as a signal
Peeta makes a magnificent turn into my driveway, his turning quick, his hand-over-hand excellent; he straightens and then parks, sliding the vehicle into PARK.
"Nice," Haymitch says, unusually unsarcastic.
Peeta, of all people, struggles to find a reasonable word to say, as I gather my knapsack and hold out my hand to Haymitch. "My certificate, Haymitch," I say impatiently.
Haymitch is finally back to first day. He's amused by my actions. He hands me the pink sheet of paper and a stubby pencil and says, "Sign, sweetheart, and we're free from each other."
"Thank goodness," I say. My name fills in the space and I hand the pencil back to Haymitch. "At least I didn't kill you accidentally," I say, unsure of what kind of goodbye we should be saying to each other.
"'Stay alive;' my best piece of advice," Haymitch says.
"It's vague," I say before throwing myself out of the stuffy, confining vehicle. I stick the pink certificate into my knapsack, tighten the straps, and approach Peeta, my feet crackling against the grey pebbles lining my driveway. He lowers the dirty window so I can see his confused face, his blue eyes.
I don't wait for him to guess. He doesn't know. So I'll tell him.
"Care to walk a girl up to her door, Peeta?" I ask. My face is devoid of a smile, but one somehow creeps on. That's only possible in the woods or with Prim. But I allow it.
Peeta's face lights up and he says, "Of course," as he opens his door.
We walk the few steps up to my battered wooden front porch. We each make sure that Haymitch is fully devoted to writing up Peeta's eligibility certificate before I say, "Remember what Haymitch said? That maybe I'm masking up a real love for things?"
"Yeah?" Peeta asks, his head tilted, his eyes attentive, his warm skin lightly touched with sweat.
"Though I hate to admit it, he's right a lot more times than I wish," I say.
Peeta's face brightens up with a wistful smile. He pulls out a pen and write something on the back of a scrap of paper from his pocket. Holding it out, I view it and raise my eyebrows. "What's this?"
"My number," he says.
I give him mine.
He leads me to the door and I allow him one more move.
A kiss on the cheek.
Peeta stumbles down the wooden steps down to the sedan. I open the creaky screen door and hear Haymitch yell, "About time! I called it!"
I slam the door shut, finally glad to be rid of Haymitch after four days of being shut in that car with him.
And . . . pleasantly surprised with the new stirrings with Peeta.
I wasn't expecting that. I thought I was learning when to ease on the brake at a stop sign or how to make a three-point turn.
But, I've learned much more than that.
*Breathes heavily* That WAS A LOT LONGER THAN I'D THOUGHT IT'D BE. But aren't they adorable? \O/
Thanks for reading, my lovely readers! Please review? :)) God bless you!