He must have been from out of town, Katniss thought as she lapped at her bottom lip. Licking the cut may have been inadvisable, but she could feel the blood dribbling toward her chin, and she didn't want any good Samaritans to stop her if they saw it. She just wanted to get home and tell Prim they would have to eat cheese for dinner again.
A deep loathing boiled in the pit of her chest, lit by that man who ruined their chance at a tasteful meal, the mightier of the two meager gifts Katniss could give to her sister this year.
"Mry'Chrissmas, kid," he had muttered as he scuttled around the corner. He may have been drunk, but he was swift. Gone before she could stand back up, before she knew what had happened, and before her mouth began to sting.
Someone around here wouldn't dare commit something that could put them in the gossip circles; everyone knew everyone in this part of town. He was probably visiting a relative for the holidays.
Strange, that. Most people in Katniss' city had family up north or east, places which were better suited for winter holidays, as they had white Christmases and New Years. In Foxcroft, for that was where Katniss lived, snowfall was brief and anything that stuck was battered into the mud by the persistent rain. Were that not the case now Katniss may have held a handful of snow to her searing lip, but what little snow was still scattered around this part of town was flecked with dirt and near solid as ice due to its rinse in the rain the previous afternoon.
Nevertheless, the whims of the weather did not dampen the town's spirit. Most houses, at the very least, boasted their holiday cheer with spools of lights that clung to the gutters or spiraled around trees like ivy, and some lawns were decked with bulbous balloon Santas and snowmen, which stood cheaply against the wet grass and dirty snowdrifts. Some, who did not dress up their houses, kept their blinds open in the evenings to allow their Christmas trees to sparkle gaily at passers by.
As Katniss rounded the corner, she came sidelong upon the most Kinkadian scene thus far. A wide wooden sign advertised:
Foxcroft Nazarene Church
Christmas Eve Service
6:30pm-8:00pm
Carols, Communion, Prayer
The ground here was cleared of sludge, and golden light poured through the beveled windows to paint the grass as proof. The front doors, upon which hung plump green wreaths, were propped open for churchgoers who ambled to their cars and bid their spirited farewells and goodnights and Merry Christmases. A gentle contentment hung suspended in the air.
Katniss followed the tall hedges on her right as she watched the scene across the street. The further she walked, the more of the Church's front came into her view. A tree shorter than the roof beside was draped with silver garland and bells that glinted off of tealight ornaments. Pots of poinsettias gild either side of the porch steps. And as if pulled in by the scene, the moon looked down upon the building from its sapphire sky.
I want this, she thought. She wanted it for her sister. She wanted it for her mom and...
They were not a religious family, but the quiet community she spied just through the threshold of the church seemed radiant, satisfied. There were no decorations at home this year, no tree beside the woodstove, no icicle lights above the windows and cupboards. It was not the first year they would do without the celebration, but Katniss wanted it to be the last, if only for Prim.
Like fragile glass, the abeyance was shattered when a troupe of teenagers spilled out the doors, bubbling and babbling. Katniss blinked and her attention detached from the church. She checked her lip. It was tacky with dried blood, but still open. She let her mouth hang to give the sore some space.
"Katniss? Katniss!"
She looked back to the church, pulling her jacket tighter around her. She couldn't find her caller at first, but soon movement caught her eye at the bottom of the steps where a blond boy stood with a hand over his eyes to shade them from the church's lights.
She didn't answer, but he must have decided she was herself because his hand dropped and he dipped down to heft a bag from the bottom step then jogged her way. Under his certainty, she waited.
It was as he reached the yellow lines that she recognized him as the baker's son, the one who ended up in her class every few years. They may have been in Kindergarten together. Definitely first grade. Third. Possibly fourth, but the school was understaffed last year, so it was hard to keep track of classmates with so many kids in each room.
She didn't remember his first name, but she thought his surname might have been Malarkey, which was unfortunate. She recalled hearing his dad laugh about it with Dr. Rogers the music teacher after their summer concert last school year. The longer she thought about it, the more of the memory pieced together, like the woman standing beside Mr. Malarkey as his laugh echoed off the gymnasium walls. She had a sour look on her face, like she didn't think it was so funny. Katniss wondered if she might have felt the same way were she stuck with that name.
"Katniss, what are you doing out here?" he asked as he neared. "Wait, what happened?" His brows pulled together, and his youth-rounded jaw went stiff like her dad's used to.
That thought nearly pulled the stopper on her tears. She sniffed the chilly evening air, letting out her breath in a shudder.
"Katniss..."
She swallowed hard and met his eyes. "I was mugged. Miss Tess paid me for killing her rats and I was going to the market to get dinner for Prim-" She choked up, reining in the tumble of words.
The boy timidly reached out to rub her shoulder. "It, uh, it'll be..." He looked back at the church and awkwardly dropped his arm. "Do you want to come inside with me? We have a first aid kit in the sanctuary."
"No, I just want to get home. It'll dry soon," she mumbled, reminding herself not to lick the wound.
"Now? But you're walking, and it's almost dark already. Don't you live out in the boonies?" he pressed but continued before she could answer. "We can probably give you a ride home if my mother doesn't argue, or Pastor James could. He helps the teenagers get home from the Wednesday night services, even my brothers, and they tease him all the time."
Katniss took a step back. "Thanks, but I don't want help." Because sometimes help doesn't know when it's no longer wanted.
The boy looked like he was floundering for anything to change her mind, but he came up empty, and the plastic bag hanging from the crook of his wrist was starting to bite. Before he could shift it to his other hand, he found himself holding it out to Katniss.
"What's that?" she asked.
"Bread and grape juice. It's what's left over from our communion tonight. My dad baked extra bread, and the juice isn't open because we only had to use one bottle during the service," he explained. He raised his arm higher as the offer became a firm decision in his mind. "You take it."
Katniss wavered. "Are you sure it's okay?"
He hesitated for a long moment, peeked up at the sky, and shuffled closer to Katniss. "Yeah. Here."
Though still timid about taking it, she unfolded her empty grocery bag and set the plastic one inside, careful not to let the juice flatten the bread.
"Peeta! C'mon, let's go!" one of the teenagers called from between the dim glare of a pair of headlights. He waved a come-hither wave in their direction. Katniss wondered if he could see her through the shadow of the hedge.
The boy, Peeta, turned half way to the church, still holding her gaze. "Be careful, Katniss."
"Thank you," she began to say, but Peeta was already running back across the road.
Laden with dinner and a new respect for the baker's son, Katniss set off once more. By the time the evening darkened to night and the stars joined the moon in their earth-gazing, Katniss crossed onto the country lane that would lead her home. The road cut a curved line through the forest at the border of the city, making way for the half-dozen families, such as the Everdeens, who lived out so far.
Katniss knew this land well. It was as much of a home to her as the house in which she slept - sometimes more so. When the air in the house curdled with melancholy, Katniss would retreat into the forest and be given the space to breathe in the balsam scent - to grieve, and to ignore, in turn, what pressed so heavily on their household.
This deep rooted familiarity is what Katniss trusted to pull her where she needed to go when she strayed from the lane into the thick of the forest. Moonlight filtered through the natural canopy overhead, but there were deep shadows that blurred everything further into obscurity the more Katniss was forced to walk into them. Brush and sticks and a sheet of slush crushed underfoot, adding to the gentle sound of the woods shifting and settling around her, as well as to the sharp tweedling of crickets.
Before long Katniss' tie to the land paid off and her boots knocked into a fallen tree. She knelt and felt around for the hollow of the trunk. First pulled from the log was a chipped kerosene lantern, followed shortly by her stash of matches. With practiced movements she struck a match and touched it to the wick under the lantern's globe. The flickering glow helped her hide the matchbox and slide the rest of her stored belongings out of their hiding hole: a smooth bow, a sheath of arrows, and a snug leather archery glove - her prized possessions.
She slipped on the glove, shouldered the quiver, fisted the bow and lantern, and then marched on. Perhaps it was because she knew she had no more detours, but Katniss' chin lifted parallel to the ground (it tugged at her lip, but the sting was so constant as to be ignored) and her legs pushed harder, renewed of their vigor; she felt like Prim was only a few steps away.
She hiked back to the road to follow its edge. Rust-colored pine needles became her constant companions up until she reached the short bridge, the mark of the last stretch.
Here the moonlight was free to rollick without the trees, land bare save for croft grass and the creek that flowed under the bridge. It illuminated Katniss' path far beyond the reach of her old yellow lantern.
The creek had Katniss' attention as she crossed the low bridge. The water had finally reached the tree line, she noticed. Melting snow ran into the water, raising it to a new level each day, especially now that the rain that was fast returning. "April showers bring May flowers," her father used to say. "But 'round here the rain just drowns 'em out."
Thoughts of her father drew her mind elsewhere; so far off she scarcely realized she was thinking at all. Faint memories ebbed in and away again like hot breath on a mirror.
She trekked mindlessly over the wooden bridge, eyes trailing over the dull bolt heads keeping it together. The creek rolled by below.
"Heads up!"
Katniss jolted with the impact on her back. Freezing water sprayed her nape, but her coat took the worst of it. That, and her quiver, which, she realized too late, slipped down her shoulder. On instinct she locked her arm to her side, but the arrows pulled harder. Before she could drop her bow to the planks and reach around, nearly half the stock of arrows was free falling. It was all she could do to right the quiver.
Arrows sliced through moon ray reflections on the water, the splashes resounding in the relatively silent forest.
Shocked, Katniss watched the black water that washed her arrows away.
A quiet curse to her right snapped her eyes away fast as quicksilver. They landed on a girl draped in a sort of gray cape-coat and a furry winter hat. Cupped in her hand was a dribbling slushball.
A fire flared up in Katniss' chest.
"What was that for?" Katniss snapped.
The girl's chin dipped, but not in deference. A hard glaze came over her eyes, and somehow her lips went taut and loose all at once. "I gave you a heads up," she said, tone radiating the barest hint of a warning.
"Not enough of one. You made me lose my arrows!"
"You admit that you lost them, then," said the girl.
"Me? You-"
"If I apologize," the girl cut in with a sharp edge to her voice, "will you calm down?"
"Probably not," Katniss grumbled, and then tried to rein herself in. Even if she did apologize, it would do no good with both of them so heated. She pulled the quiver back over her shoulder and ducked for the bow.
"Didn't really think so," she heard as she swooped down. When she came back up the girl said, "What a great way to meet the neighbors."
Betwixt the anger and panicked litany of myarrowsdadsarrowsgonehalfgone, Katniss did have the briefest wonder if that was who this girl was: the neighbor kid. The week before last, after a moving truck forced them to walk home on the side of the lane instead of the middle, Prim told Katniss she saw a man and little girl inside. Katniss had only seen the truck, but took her word for it.
"I've got to go," Katniss said, voice solid. Just a little more and she could unwind the biting thread of bitterness that bound her chest, just a little more and she could eat and sleep and spend Christmas Eve with her sister.
"Brrrr," the girl trilled sarcastically. "I'm Johanna, by the way."
"Great. I'm going."
Johanna seemed fine with this. Neither looked the other in the face as Katniss strode over the last of the bridge.
"Merry Christmas, Going," Johanna called without good will.
Again anger seared the back of Katniss' throat, but she held it in. Robbed of her money, robbed of her dinner, robbed of her arrows. Robbed again. Mry'Chrissmas, kid.
Katniss couldn't bring herself to care that she made a bad impression. Johanna didn't do a better job of it.
Around the next bend of the dirt road was the Everdeen house. It looked best in the warmer months, when the grass was greenest and could bathe in the sun. From the ground to the bottom of the window line, the outer walls were brick, and from there wood ran up to the roof. It used to give off an air of warmth, the brown paint on the house. These days it just made it look lonely.
Left of the house was a shed that doubled as a goat pen. Katniss trudged through the muck and grass to reach it, spotting no goat behind the wire fence.
Inside, Katniss laid her weapon materials out on the empty workbench. Then she extinguished the lantern and sat it beside a box of matches.
The heat lamp behind her saved her from the total darkness. Katniss turned to it, and the goat that lay beneath. Lady looked content, safe from the elements inside the shed. Katniss reached over to brush her fingers over Lady's nose, and left for the house.
Prim was out of her tangle of blankets before Katniss could toe off her dealer boots. She came around the sofa, laying her open book on the coffee table. Candles melted at one concentrated side of the table, closest to Prim's nest.
"That was quick," Prim said on her way over.
"Prim," Katniss began.
Her sister stopped her with a careful tap to her chin. Her brows jumped together then she tipped Katniss' face toward the candle light. "What happened?"
Katniss gently pulled out of her sister's hold to slip out of her coat. She glanced over the back to see if any dirt was in the snowball Johanna threw, but the quilted patches were nothing more than damp by now. No trace of grit.
"Sorry, but we can't do the lamb stew tonight," Katniss said, lifting the bag she had set down as soon as she got through the door.
"Why? Wait, Katniss, that doesn't answer my question."
Katniss led the way into the kitchen, flicking on the lights as she went along. Now that two people needed the light, they could use the electricity. That was their rule. Prim trailed after her, taking the bag and listening as Katniss explained how she lost and found their dinner, but nothing more. She didn't feel like bringing up her encounter with the neighbor's daughter.
"Peeta always seemed nice," Prim said offhandedly after Katniss finished her story. Katniss hummed in answer; she hadn't formed much of an opinion of him before now. "I was in a mixed-grade class with him last year."
Katniss didn't have anything to say but, "I'm sorry, Prim."
Her sister shot her a chastising glare. "Don't apologize for what someone else did to you. Go sit on the couch, I'll get the Vaseline for your lip."
Prim made a beeline for the bathroom cupboard and Katniss stuck the grape juice in the fridge. In the living room, she blew out the candles and bent to prod at the fire in the woodstove. Prim had started the fire tonight; it was one of her first times doing it on her own, but she did it well.
To heat the bread, Katniss left it, tinfoil wrapping and all, atop the dusty metal stove.
"That's not the couch," Prim said over her sister's shoulder.
Katniss huffed a pruned laugh. "Yeah, well I'm trying to make the best of this." And it was true. With Prim at her side and the door locked behind her, the stress was leveling out.
It flared back up along with her pain when Prim dabbed on the Vaseline. Each time her sister's hand pulled away Katniss' tongue darted out to lick the cut, and each time Prim scolded her.
"You have to keep it moistened," Prim said.
"That's what I'm doing."
Prim clasped the lid back on the ointment. "It doesn't help when you do that, Katniss. It just makes it worse."
Even light bickering was not worth its soft humor tonight, Katniss decided, and conceded, "You're the doctor."
Prim smiled. "More of this," she wiggled the jar, "before bedtime. Seriously, Katniss, you can't let your lip dry out."
"Yes, ma'am."
When Prim returned from the bathroom, Katniss was in the kitchen peeling one of the loaves out of its foil. "Get a plate and a cup," her sister instructed.
"Just one?" Prim asked.
Katniss shot an explicit look down the dark hallway past Prim.
"Oh. Yeah, sure."
All too soon, Katniss was trying to open the door at the end of the hall without spilling grape juice, bread, and cheese on the carpet. Prim slithered out of their bedroom across the hall, a neatly folded swath of baby blue cloth under her arm. "Here, let me get it," said she and she reached around Katniss to turn the knob.
"Dinner," Katniss said flatly as she shouldered the door open.
Sweeter than Katniss, Prim said to the woman in the room, "Hi, mommy."
Curtains drawn, the only light in the room spilled in from the hall. Their mother gave no sign of notice, lying on her bed as she was. The girls moved around the bed to cut into her sight line. She could no longer stare through the dresser, but through them.
Katniss made for the bedside lamp and Prim unfurled the swaddle of cloth. It was a dress, Katniss realized. Not only that - somehow she hadn't recognized it by the color alone - but it was her mother's favorite dress before one of the neighbor's dogs got a hold of it. Their dad gave it to her for her birthday one year.
"It's Christmas, mommy. I fixed this for you," Prim said timidly. Katniss craned her neck around to see the front of the dress. On the bottom corner was a spatter of cantaloupe-colored corduroy patches.
A sundry of emotions roiled through Katniss as she watched their mother lie in her neglect.
"Hey, Prim," Katniss said. "Could you go dish up our plates?"
Prim hesitated, but left, draping the dress over their mother's feet.
Katniss set the dishes on the bedside table then got to her knees. Eye level with the mother of two children, she said with rigidity, "It's almost the new year. We're running out of school supplies. And dad's death benefits aren't enough, even with Section-"
"What happened to your lip?"
Katniss froze. Her mom looked at her, brows twitching like they wanted to furrow but couldn't remember how.
"I got mugged," Katniss admitted, and bitterness flavored the words.
Nearly imperceptible, a shift occurred in her mom's eyes, but she did not speak, and she did not sit up, nor did she fully return to herself; her deep sadness still mutated her posture, still turned down the corners of her lips. Nevertheless, her hand fumbled over the blanket to bump fingers with Katniss' where they clung to the duvet.
Katniss watched this, surprised when a teardrop tickled her cheek. She brushed it away.
Her mom faded out again soon after that, but a persistent, sanguine thought kept Katniss from frustration. It told her that mom might be waking up. She dimmed the lamp and went to find Prim.
After they ate their fill, Prim steered Katniss to the sofa to share gifts. She shoved a brown bag at Katniss and sat beside her to watch.
Peas, beets, corn, onions, cucumbers, potatoes, carrots, peppers, pumpkins - packets and packets and packets of seeds were pulled from the parcel. Katniss spread them out on the coffee table.
"Prim," Katniss began, "how did you get these? Where did you get the money for all this?"
Pudgy, Prim's young cheeks were filled by her grin. "Mr. Clarke gave them to me."
"What? Does he know how much this costs?"
"Yeah, I guess. He said he gets them for free from his dad." Katniss' expression didn't clear much, so Prim reassured her. "Don't worry, Katniss. We bartered; I'm bringing him Lady's milk next Friday."
Katniss backed off. "Thanks, Prim."
"It'll be fun to keep a garden," her sister said.
"Your turn." Katniss pulled a large black bobby pin from under her braid. Prim took it and looked it over. "Miss Tess taught me a new hairstyle."
Prim's head jerked back up, smile wide. "Show me?"
For the next few minutes Katniss went through the lesson in her head while Prim pressed to find out what it would look like. It began with a braid around the front of Prim's crown, then she dipped the bobby pin in and out of the topmost twist of the braid, threading through loops of hair one at a time from the part in her hair down to her ear. Eventually Prim pieced together the design and her head swayed between dips of the pin as she sought out a reflective surface. Katniss blocked each attempt until the pin was forgotten on the table, and Prim's loose hair was pulled back in an over the shoulder braid.
Ecstatic chatter trailed after Prim as she skipped to the bathroom mirror and back, muffling when she threw her arms around Katniss. It was obvious she was trying to keep her hair out of the hug for fear of ruining the bows of hair Katniss pulled through the braid. "A bow braid, Katniss!" was all she could make out during the embrace.
Katniss fondly listened to Prim's jabber until it was obvious she was winding down for the night.
Katniss tugged her sister into their shared bedroom where they read their longtime favorite Christmas tale, The Foolish Fir-Tree, and Ring Out, Wild Bells when Prim still wasn't ready to sleep.
They took turns preparing for bed, Prim going first while Katniss tended to the fire and sponged down their dishes.
Dressed in pajama pants and her dad's ratty old t-shirt, Katniss rambled into their bedroom, turning off the lights behind her. Prim was sat on her bed by the window, turning the key on her music box.
She looked up when her sister walked into the room and set the box down. "Can I sleep in your bed tonight?" she asked over the first twanging notes of The Valley Song.
Katniss' attention was monopolized by the music, but she nodded and climbed into bed.
Prim flicked off the overhead light and settled down with her back to Katniss', whispering her goodnight. Distractedly, Katniss murmured her response.
As though she were at the bottom of an hour glass just tipped on its end, exhaustion pressed on Katniss like mounds of sand. It weighed on her body and played at her eyelids like fingers, but the music box was still going. She didn't know why, but she couldn't sleep until it stopped. She clenched her jaw to keep awake.
The Valley Song was once one of Katniss' favorites, but over the last year it became a chore to listen to.
Because each time Prim wound up the music box,
Katniss could not bring herself to move on
until the notes
drifted
to
a
halt.