Disclaimer: Nope not my story, not my characters they all belong to Suzanne Collins


I look over my shoulder, checking to see if the coast is clear. Using the computer at our house isn't against the rules. My parents don't care if I log on to check email or school assignments, or even if I was just to look up random things on the servers and databases.

In this case, it's not a matter of what, so much as who.

The living room is empty this early in the morning. The dull grey light highlights the framed pictures of my younger brother, Brody, and I. The furniture is nice but always too formal for Brody and I to play in, so it never became a family hot zone. There are other rooms, less formal that are hold actual memories for me, not just the man-made copies.

The only reason anyone comes into this room is because my parents store the computer here. The desk with our one lone computer sits in a corner. As if, it has done something bad.

I sit at the chair and pull the keyboard toward me. The screen takes a minute to fully light up and I log on to my school account. Sarran's icon blinks dully, a sign that even off in District Two she's awake. Five years ago, a super computer far away in another district, paired Sarran and I together as penpals. For one year, we were required to write letters about our respective districts to each other. The government's way of helping us become "One Panem."

I bypass her icon and log onto my school's messaging system. I delete the invitations to the school's open house, the last thing I want is my parents poking around my school life. There are some things I just want between me and my teachers. The last new message isn't from the school or any of my friends who go there.

With another quick look over my shoulder, I open the message. The screen is mostly blank, just one line.

I'll be there.

K

I hit the reply button, but my fingers still on the keyboard. Just like they do every morning. What do I say? Fine, okay, see you then? I'm not supposed to even be friends with this boy. Though I can hardly call him a friend, we just occupy the same space from time to time.

I met Kiernan in the woods, or maybe the meadow. I can never be sure what space we actually occupied together first. Every time I think I've nailed down the first time he snuck into a drawing I've done, I find an older one. I suppose only the trees and the sky know the full details of the first time he showed up in my life.

I venture out of town to draw. Something about being away from the constructed world to create something that is just for me. As a child my parents took Brody and me there to play. Now Brody would rather play a pick up game in the Seam than come with me. It's fine with me, I love him, but him being fourteen-year-old boy, I'm ready to put him up for adoption.

The meadow became the place where I could leave the world, with all its tabloids and questioning glances behind, in order to find me. No one likes to venture outside of town; so out in the meadow I can pretend I'm the only Ivy. My name sort of became the go to baby name after I was born. Product of famous parents.

It was only when looking back through my sketches that I noticed a boy. I only noticed him one day because his hair stuck out in the sea of green. Kiernan's hair is streaked with pale blue highlights—the product of his parents experiments with genetic mutations. I'd drawn him writing under a tree, or spread out in the field. He's been a part of it for as long as I can remember. But we never talked or even noticed each other, at least at first.

Kiernan liked the meadow but I think for different reasons. Kiernan is Capital. He'd always be Capital it's a stink he just can't wash off. We don't go to the same school, but I know he wouldn't fit in at my school. My friends tend to take after their parents in their continued hatred of all things Capitol. Kiernan with his blue streaked hair and pale skin would stick out in my world.

The first time he talked to me was to ask for a pencil. Early in the fall, I ventured out with a bag of spice cookies and a fresh pad of paper. I sat on a rock and flipped open the pad pulling out a pencil.

"Hey."

I nearly jumped out of my skin at the voice. He held an old leather bound book in one hand and a broken pencil in the other. "Sorry, I noticed you were drawing, do you have a pencil sharpener?"

"Um," I fumbled in my bag for the sharpener. "Here." I held out of the object.

"Thanks," he said taking the sharpener. He jammed the stub of his pencil into the objet and started turning it around.

"What are you doing out here?" I asked, afraid that the infiltration of my spot could be ruined by this boy.

He shrugged, handing me the pencil sharpener back. "Writing."

I nodded. "What are you writing about?" My mind had already gone to the possibilities that he was keeping track of my every move. My parents had taken every precaution when it came to me and my brother's safety, but you could never be too sure. I still wondered if half the things about me that got leaked to the press came from my "friends" at school.

"What are you doing?" he asked, avoiding the question.

"Drawing." It was hardly a secret that I had taken after my father in artistic skills.

"What are you drawing," he parroted back to me. I laughed, turning my notebook around for him to see. It was a landscape I'd already drawn a hundred times. He nodded appreciatively at the landscape I'd been constructing on the page.

I shoved my bag off the fallen log. He didn't take the hint. I patted the spot but he seemed rooted to the ground. He pushed his dark blond hair out of his eyes. He looked over his shoulder at his spot set up under a tree.

"Cookie?" If all else fails feed them, food will bring anyone out of their shell. He sat down and pulled one of the snacks out of the bag.

That's how it started. A snack between artists, but it soon became a ritual. I'd stop off at Dad's shop after school and snag something that isn't fit for sale and take it to the meadow. We'd sit in the tall grass until we each tired of our art. When that happened, we'd talk about school, friends, family, always the here and now. Kiernan doesn't like to talk about the future, because he doesn't think he has one. Most Capitol kids don't.

With the winter growing close, he asked if he could send me messages, just so I'd know when I needed to bring enough for two. No point in wasting food, if Kiernan just isn't going to show up.

I stare at the message he's left me, still unable to type a response.

It isn't some romantic idea of "the boy with the bread" his parents are from the Capitol, he'll be reaped just like all of the other kids like him. We don't go to the same school, we don't even talk to each other—publically.

So I don't reply. I delete the email, clear my trash folder, and completely wipe my history using a few codes I learned from Sarran. Because I can't risk anyone seeing the fact that not only do I know this boy, but we communicate.

I log off the computer. I leave the living room and wander into the kitchen. My brother sits at the table eating toast and staring out the window. Dad's already gone to work. Being a baker means early mornings, at least if you want the bread to rise in time. Mom walks in through the back door.

"Morning," she says, flicking through some mail. After almost thirty years, the mail system can still be sketchy. It's getting better, but there are always things the government needs to fix before they get around to the mail system.

Brody nods through a mouthful of toast.

I grab my bag from the chair where I left it last night and start to go through its contents. Books, pencils, paints, discs with all of my coding for my school project all just where I left it.

Mom holds up a letter. "I think this is for you," she says. "Nice to see you and your penpal, Sara still talk to each other."

I drop into a chair next to Brody and grab some toast from the plate in the middle of the table.

"I was so happy when I got to stop writing to mine," Brody says. The program only required students to write for a year. Once the year was up, they could continue or part ways.

"Well Sara and I happen to hit it off," I reply. "Plus, I like hearing about District Two."

My conversations with Sarran got a whole lot more interesting when she asked if she could stop lying. Like me, her parents were involved in the war, and didn't want their daughter bombarded with questions or shock her poor penpal into mute silence because her father was pseudo-famous. We both had fake names and it was only after she accidently sent me a message that I saw her real name. She apologized, and I confessed my own name. We both had a good laugh about it and our conversations took on a whole new level of depth. Finally, I had someone who knew what it felt like to grow up in the middle of the spot light.

I finished my breakfast and reached for my bag. "Mom, I'll be out late tonight."

"Where?" she asked looking over the rest of the mail.

"Studying with Ursa and some friends," I lie.

Brody scrunches up his face. "I thought you had—" I smack him with my bag to shut him up.

"Ivy," my mother warns looking up from the heavy envelopes she's holding. They come every year, and every year they go in the trash. Having them show up is just a reminder that the Games are coming again. The Hunger Games of old, no longer exist. There are no more elaborate arenas built as killing machines, but that does not mean the Games do not continue. Now the government reaps child of those who lived in the Capitol. Old tributes are always asked if they would like to be mentors, because the Capitol kids who do win are never in any shape to help others like them.

"Sorry Brody, no I don't have anything, I'm studying tonight." I snatch Sarran's letter from the counter and head for the back door hoping Mom is still caught up in the packets to notice.

"Brody what is your sister really doing tonight?"

I freeze. Even the mentor packets won't push Mom's instincts to the side.

I give my brother a pleading look.

Mom looks between both of us, expecting an answer.

He stutters for words, but my mother's hardened stare breaks him. "She has a show at school tonight, for the open house, her design class..."

Mom dumps the packets in the trash and looks at me. "What time?"

I give her the time and mentally start reconstructing my project.

I do this all the way to school. Trying to figure out how I can turn the dress whose fabric reflects smoke and will change to flames when someone moves in it into something that won't bring up horrible memories for my parents.

Brody chases after me, as I walk out of the yard.

"Ivy, stop."

But I can't stop, because my mind is still trying to figure out this mess. I could turn off the fabric or possibly reprogram it. But the programming alone took me hours and I needed Sarran to sort out all of the kinetic codes that went into the garment. I'd never be able to wipe the dress and then reprogram it. Maybe I could pull the battery pack.

"IVY," Brody yells.

"What?" I whirl around.

"What was I supposed to do?" Brody stands in our yard his hands by his sides. He kicks at the ground.

"Keep your mouth shut," I snap.

He gives me a look that says: this is Mom we're talking about. Getting anything past our parents once they think they know something, is impossible. That's why there are some things I just don't tell them.

"Look," I soften. If I'd been in the same position, I'm sure I'd have caved too. However, I don't have the time to stand and discuss it with my brother. "Can we save the argument for a later date?"

A sly grin creeps across his face. The number of arguments we've postponed could last a few years if we ever felt like acting them out.

"You aren't going to tell her about me going to the pick up games are you?" he asks falling in step with me.

"No."

My brother and I learned early on in our lives that our parents just didn't need to know certain things about our lives. They tried to keep our lives as private as they could and in turn, we kept secrets that if known might not sit well with them. Better to beg for forgiveness, I guess.

Brody has no aspirations playing sports for a living, as if such a thing existed, but he wants to go into the military. Playing against the kids at our school hardly sets him up for any real combat. Kids in the Seam play hard, tough, and sometimes dirty. He has a few friends there, but mostly he's there to play.

I design clothes that bring up memories of the past. My penpal happens to be the daughter of my mother's former best friend. And to top it all off, I'm friends with a boy whose parents are from the Capitol.

Keeping secrets is just a part of life here is District 12.