A/N: Heya guys! Here's another story for you guys to read! There's Peetato if you squint :)

Okay, so this is based off a book series I got in my first year of High School called 'Ally's World'. It's an old series, I think. The first book written in 2001.

Disclaimer: I don't own the Hunger Games and any lines taken from Ally's world belongs to Karen McCombie.

Peeta's World

The Past, the Present, and the Loud, Loud Girl

Prologue

Dear Mum

I've decided to do something.

Don't panic; it's not like I'm about to pierce my lip, or enrol for the next Mars mission; or run away with the circus; and juggle clowns or something. (Although you'd probably think all that was cool). It's just that, you know how I've been keeping a box with all our photos and school reports and stuff for you to see? Well, no you don't-which is the problem-but trust me, that's what I'm doing.

Well, anyway, apart from those bits and pieces, I've decided that I'm going to start writing down some of the things that happen to all of us; the things that matter, anyway. It's not going to be like a diary or anything-I don't exactly have the patience for that. (Though I did buy one a couple of Januarys ago; it was half-price in the stationary shop up on the Broadway. I started out okay, prattling on about what I've done that day and what I was feeling and what we'd have for tea, but by January 10th I was just doodling flowers on the page. And the entry for January 15th just said, "BORED, BORED, BORED," so I kind of chucked it in after that).

So this time, I think I'll do it like an essay . . . Only it might be a bit on the long side. You know what I'm like. Remember that last report you saw when I was at first school? "Peeta is very bright and imaginative, but his mind does tend to wander . . ."

Hey guess what? Nothing's changed. It's like Grandma says, I'd get twice as much done if I stopped wittering for five minutes. Which is sort of true, I know. And which is what I'm doing now, I suppose . . .

Okay, so back to my plan.

I think I'll do it like I'm writing it for some stranger to read, 'cause-sorry, I don't meant to give you a hard time about this-it might make me sad if I just it all down for you. I suppose that's because I know it's not exactly likely that you're going to come walking through the door in the next two minutes or anything, and beg to read this . . .

But then, if-by some mind-blowing magic-you did, you'd have all our pictures and thinks to look at, and be able to read all my stories about what's going on with me and Wayne and Rye and Cherry. And, of course Dad.

Speaking of dad, I think I'll start with his fortieth birthday, 'cause that's when Delly turned up, and when-don't panic-we nearly lost Cherry.

Love you lots,

Peeta

(your Mellark Child No. 3)

Chapter One:

Welcome to my (weird) world

Get a map of the world, find Panem.

Look even closer, there are 12 districts. Find the twelveth one. We're divided into two regions. Find the Merchant region. That's where I live. Where I was born and raised. Look for the square (it's big and in the shape of the square, can't miss it). Once you've found that, look at the building to the far, far right. It's old, the bricks are sort of weathered, the sign quite dirty?

I'm Peeta Mellark and that's where I live with my dad (Damien), an airhead (Rye), a control freak (Wayne) and space cadet (Cherry).

Okay, so once you've got that, there's two windows on either side of the front door displaying cakes and baked goods, that's the bottom floor where the bakery itself is. Look past that and above those windows were there's a second two. These ones are slightly frosted so that you can't see through. Then there's another window at the very top, in the roof, my attic bedroom.

That's where I've woken up nearly every morning for all of the sixteen years I've been on this planet, and where I'm normally very happy to wake up.

Until, well, one particular morning.

It was weird-for some reason, my whole head was vibrating.

Although, in saying this, there are a lot of weird things in the world right? Like nose hair. Or sporks. Or ready salted crisps. I mean, they don't really have a purpose, do they?

Another weird thing is the odd names my parents decided to give my family. Honestly, Cherry got off the lightest. Her real name is Chantal but since this was a blatant breach of the bread or baked good related theme, my brothers and I baptised her Cherry. (Not really baptised, obviously. It was a pretend ceremony when she was a baby where Rye poured some sprite onto her forehead while Wayne chanted a random passage from the bible). I suppose it just goes to show that some people have no imagination and anyway, when you get to know the story behind each name, they usually think it's pretty cool after all.

Hold on, am I getting sidetracked again?

Sorry.

Anyhow, it was a Sunday morning when this whole head vibration began. At first I didn't panic, I told myself it must be a lorry humming or an engine throbbing. Or a low flying plane. Although, if it was a low flying plane, I suppose I should have worried because there was the obvious possibility that it could ram into the bakery and massacre us all.

Then I noticed another thing-one side of my face and neck were as hot as a . . . very hot thing. A vibrating head and a burning-hot face . . .

Okay, so then I started to panic. Compared to people like my airhead brother Rye and my slightly ditzy best mate Katniss, I know I come over like I'm confident and logical. (And trust me, I am confident and logical). But I am also a first class worrier.

Oh my god, what if I had meningitis?

Then all of a sudden, it just stopped. Okay, so maybe not meningitis. Maybe I was just losing my mind . . .

"Snurph."

My eyes flickered open and I was instantly filled with relief.

I turned my head on the pillow and came nose to nose with Colin.

"Oh don't mind me," I said sarcastically, resisting the urge to push the cat off my bed altogether.

Colin barely reacted as I tried to stood up and tried to sort my hair out. He continued to drone out this long, linger purr. Sometimes I wondered why the cats were so fascinated with sleeping in my room on my face.

"Well Peeta," I said to myself, "you're officially the first person to ever suffer from Vibrating Head Syndrome."

I looked backwards in the direction of Colin, who had now sprawled himself out so he was stretched right across my pillow. All three legs (I'll explain it later) had a spot of their own, lounging comfortably on the pillow. Then I realized something really weird.

Do cats heads vibrate when they purr?

Now that I knew I wasn't going to die (well, I know I'm going to die eventually but not today!) I should have been relieved. But I wasn't.

Because my fear had been replaced with the omnious sensation that I had forgotten something . . .

Uh-oh.

"What's up with your hair? You look like you've been dragged through a forest backwards," said Wayne at the breakfast table. I scowled, unable to control my loathing for his desire to nit pick at everything wrong with me.

"A cat slept on my head," I muttered.

Wayne nodded, carrying on buttering his toast. "Which one?"

"Colin!" Cherry piped up.

I looked at my sister wearily. "How did you even know that?" I asked tiredly. My nose twitched, still tickly from the car hair, and I resisted the urge to rub it. Cherry leaned forward and picked some ginger fur off his face.

"Evidence," she said truimphantly.

"Thank you Pet Detective," I mumbled, my eyes drooping shut tiredly. I should have went to bed earlier last night. It's a strange phenomenon really. I close my door every night before I go to bed and yet somehow Cherry's animals are able to worm their way in. And somehow they decide that they want to nest on my face. It was funny at first but now I'm beginning to get severely worried.

I understand when Cherry has nightmares, sometimes she leaves the door open when she takes root in my bed at night. But she doesn't have nightmares every night. Sometimes I wonder if she trains her cats and hamsters on how to open my bedroom door. Or maybe it's like that creepy Cravendale advert were the cats grow apposable thumbs . . .

"Rye up yet?" I asked, helping myself to some orange juice from the sticky carton in the middle of the table. It was warm, probably from sitting out so long, and tasted a bit off. I pulled a face and put it down again. I still hadn't remembered what I had forgotten but the feeling was still there . . .

"You're kidding, right?" Wayne replied. "Haven't you realized it's half-nine?"

I looked on the clock on the wall. Oh yeah . . .

"The King of Night won't be gracing us with his presence for a while yet," Wayne said through a full mouth of toast.

My two brothers were about as different as people can get while still managing to be related. Wayne was seventeen and sensible, and likes everything neat, tidy and organized. This is kind of a shame, since the Mellark household is the complete opposite of neat, tidy and organized. We live in a wonky household. Which kind of matches out family perfectly . . .

You should see his room. You'll think you've stepped into another dimension. Like the Twilight zone or something. It's all white and streamlined and you'd think he had ironed every object in there. Sometimes I think Wayne would prefer to get as far away from District 12 as he can, to maybe 1 or 2 where things are neater and less . . . messy.

Now take Rye's room. His walls are raspberry and covered in fairy lights. And before you ask, no, he's not gay. He's just very feminine. Nothing wrong with that, right? He could get away with wearing anything. He's my twin, but ever since I can remember, show him anything that twinkles and glistens, he's on it like a spider on a fly. He always looks for antique looks and charity outfits also. Constantly on the look out for a bargain.

So my two brothers have different tastes. They clash a lot and Wayne gets bugged by Rye. The main reason being that Rye does the one thing that never fail to annoy Wayne: call him by his first name. Call him by his real name: Wheat.

Boy, does Wayne hate that name. Once he even blew up at our dad, yelling at how it was so unfair and unjust that he got such a horrific name. I never thought it was that bad . . . But Wheat hates it so much that he changed it to Wayne. He changed it everywhere, on his books, in the school records, he's probably going to legally change it as well when he's old enough.

"So, where's dad?" I asked.

"Getting a newspaper," Wayne said. "Speaking of dad, I'm a bit worried."

I paused-was my forgotten thing something to do with dad? No, that didn't feel right. I carried on spreading peanut butter on my toast. "Worried? Why?" I asked.

"Well, we have a problem," he sighed.

Cherry mimed flying airplanes, making rocket ship noises. "Houston, we have a problem," she said in a fake amercian accent. She stayed up last night to watch a rocket programme with dad. I bet she will be going on about Houston for the rest of the week now.

I looked at her toast. A smiley face was drew into the margarine. Cherry liked food art. She was very good at it, too. Scrambled eggs is were her best work comes from. It's why she hates soup so much. There isn't much artistic license with soup.

"What kind of problem?" I asked.

I wasn't too worried. In Wayne's eyes, everything was a problem. Cherry bringing home a new wounded animal is a problem, my leaving homework until Sunday night is worthy of drama and Rye sitting daydreaming instead of doing the dishes when it's his turn is virtually an arrestable offence.

Wayne look at me in despair. Okay . . . I was supposed to know something . . . I tried to stare back at her, like I already knew but was just being mysterious about it, so that I didn't seem as blonde as a I felt. Wayne was already dressed, his hair neatly combed and his clothes nicely pressed. It kind of made me feel like a rag-a-muffin, still in my pyjamas. At least Cherry was still in her pyjamas as well . . . she was rocking the Wallace and Gromit number.

"Don't you know what date it is?" Wayne demanded. "It's dad's birthday in two weeks! What are we going to get him for his birthday?"

My eyes widened. "A present?" I guessed.

Cherry had went silent as well. She must have realized the 'dire' position we were in right now.

"Yes, I know a present," said Wayne, sounding on edge. I smiled weakly. "But what kind of present? It's up to us to make it special; after all, who else will?"

I knew what-or rather who-he was talking about. Mum. But I wasn't going to start an argument about that, it would just end in tears. "I suppose we could do something," I answered non-committally. If you want to get somewhere in life, always agree with Wayne. Even dad knows that.

"I've had an idea," Wayne continued.

I quirked an eyebrow. "Oh?" I was basically doing the talking for both myself and Cherry, who was obviously listening but wasn't bothering contributing. Whatever Wayne had thought of was probably going to happen anyway so there was no point in kicking up a fuss about it.

"I thought that we should . . ." he paused, as if trying to keep the suspense up. I raised my eyebrows, waiting for it. "Have a surprise party for him!"

Okay, I need to set him straight. Our sweet, shy dad would really respond to the whole, "Oh my goodness-all this for little old me?" centre of attention thing. I needed to remind him that after four years of looking after us on his own (with a little help from Grandma, of course), he hadn't exactly got a lot of time for keeping up friendships. Oh wait, that was the point. The surprise is going to be who Wayne was planning to invite to this surprise party!

But of course, I am speaking about my -He Who Must Be Obeyed-brother here.

"Yeah! That sounds like a great idea!" I lied through gritted teeth.

A/N: Review with your thoughts? :)