Disclaimer: The Hunger Games Trilogy is property of Suzanne Collins. This is a parody fanwork by fans for fans. No money was made off of the creation of this fanwork.
Shooting Stars and Comets
by RoseFyre & FanficAllergy
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Summary: Peeta Mellark hates his life. He hates his parents. His brothers. His friends. He especially hates the students at Juilliard for being able to pursue their dreams. Of course, fate might have something to say about that last one. Prompts in Panem, Round 8, Day 3 - Modern Locations: NYC
Warnings: Teenage Angst?
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"You are damaged and broken and unhinged. But so are shooting stars and comets."
― Nikita Gill
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"Thank you, come again." The words sound insincere, even to me. That's because they are. I don't want them to come again. I don't want anyone to come again. I just want this day to be over with so I can curl up under my covers and think about just how much I hate my life.
I didn't used to be like this.
Four months ago, everything was fine. I'd been accepted to San Francisco State University, and my life was swell. I was going to get out of this place, away from my parents and their outdated expectations.
And then Rick had to fuck everything up.
I glance at the clock, wondering if we'll get any of the new students from the nearby colleges. It'd be nice to have a distraction. It'd keep me from dwelling on how shitty my life is. But no such luck.
Sundays are always slow and we close at one, which is why my parents have it as their scheduled day off so they can go to church and spend a little time together. They've done that for as long as they've owned the shop.
My parents are old fashioned. Strict. A left over from their upbringing in the Netherlands. All three of us boys were supposed to live up to their expectations of success. Which meant pursuing careers in the family business or law or medicine. Nothing frivolous, like acting or singing or painting.
Which is ironic, considering a lot of our clients are students at Juilliard or LaGuardia High School of the Arts. I always wanted to attend that high school, but my parents sent me to the local public school instead. It wasn't financially prudent, they told me. Better to focus on what's important, which isn't a hobby I should have long since outgrown in their eyes.
I don't think I'll ever outgrow painting. In fact, the only good thing about working here is that I get to decorate the cakes and cookies.
Time drags on, with me ringing up the occasional customer or two. We're almost out of everything bagels and I can't bring myself to care about making more. I stifle a yawn. You would think after getting up at four am most days, I'd be used to baker's hours by now. But I'm not. I don't think I'll ever be used to them.
Delly comes out from the kitchen with a tray of broken or slightly burnt sugar cookies. "What do you want me to do with these?"
It's a valid question. A lot of the leftover product is sent home with Delly or Thom as part of their pay, while the day-old stuff is packaged and marked down and set out in a special rack for sale the next day. It's pretty popular with the college kids in the area. Whatever doesn't sell from that is picked up at the end of the day by a worker from a nearby homeless shelter. But we only do that with the sellable stuff, and broken or burnt cookies aren't good enough even for the day-old rack.
I snag one of the cookies that's broken neatly in half and set it off to one side before saying, "Whatever you don't want, Delly, just box it up for Johanna."
The girl nods and scurries back into the kitchen, humming a little tune as she walks.
I wish I could be as carefree as my friend. She starts her senior year next week, so right now she's trying to get in as many hours as she can before school starts. She's dreading taking SATs this fall and Regents in the spring. She plans on going to school to be a kindergarten teacher.
Delly has her whole life ahead of her. And right now, in this very moment, I hate her and every other student with a passion.
Picking up the broken cookie, I quickly ice the letters SFSU on the pieces before staring down at them morosely. My father always makes special iced sugar cookies for the incoming students at the nearby high schools and universities to buy. They're especially popular among the RAs at Juilliard welcoming their new residents to the school. But for me, this broken cookie represents my dreams. Destroyed.
Angrily, I shove the cookie into my mouth, chewing it violently.
It tastes like ashes.
I can't bring myself to swallow it. I spit out the partially-chewed cookie into the trash. It's not like I'm going to fulfill my dream anyway.
The bell over the front door chimes and I look up to see my brother Rick standing there. He knows my parents take Sundays off, so the only reason he could be here is to talk to me.
"What do you want?" I growl. I'm angry he's come now, right when I'm so close to tears.
He holds out his hands. "Hey, is that any way to treat a customer?"
"I don't see any customers. All I see is a selfish asshole."
Rick winces. "Guess I deserve that, Peet."
"Damn right you do."
"Look, I'm sorry." He runs his fingers through his hundred dollar haircut in frustration. "It's not like I knew Mom and Dad would refuse to let to you go to college just because I got married."
"You should have!" I slam my hand on the counter, glaring at him. "You know how conservative they are! They listen to Rush Limbaugh unironically! Why couldn't you just wait a few months?" I ask him incredulously. "I'll be eighteen in October. If you'd waited until then, I could've gotten a loan and a job and figured it out. And I wouldn't be stuck here!"
"Look, I'm sorry, Peet, it's just… Jacob and I have been waiting so long. We didn't want to take the chance that the law'd change and we couldn't get married."
"That's bullshit, Rick. More and more states all over the country are allowing gay marriage. Fuck, Utah allows gay marriage! If Mormon country is okay with two dudes getting hitched, do you really think the home of Soho and Broadway is gonna give two shits?"
"Damn it, Peeta, I'm sorry!" He sounds as frustrated as I feel. "I didn't think Mom and Dad would pull something like this!"
"Well, they did. And now it's up to me, 'the good son,'" I say with a sneer, "to carry on the Mellark Family Business. Which, frankly, I don't want!"
"Have you told Mom and Dad that?"
"Of course I did. I told them when this first came out. It doesn't matter. Until I'm eighteen, I don't get a vote. Literally." I'm so angry. So bitter. It's like everything I've ever dreamed about is going to stay a dream. I'd been so close, and Rick just had to go and screw me over.
"What do you want me to do, Peet?" my brother asks me. "Even if I were interested in running the business, which I'm not," he adds quickly, "Mom and Dad would never let their gay son inherit. And Will? Good luck getting in touch with him. He didn't even bother showing up to my wedding, he was too busy shooting some movie."
I nod my head, acknowledging the point. Ever since Will got his break in Hollywood, he's been increasingly difficult to keep in touch with. He's not quite on the C list, but he's no longer on the D list either. Is there a C minus list? Because that's what Will's on.
"This isn't about Will," I tell him, my voice hard. "Will wasn't expected to take over the business. You were."
"I don't know what you want me to do, Peeta."
I cross my arms. "Leave."
"What?"
"You heard me. I said leave."
"What happened to you?" Rick asks, his voice wistful. "Where did my kindhearted baby brother go?"
I stare my brother in the face, trying to hold back tears. "He died the day everyone else decided that their dreams were worth more than his."
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After Rick leaves, I grab Delly and ask her to cover the front of the store for a bit. I need to get out of here for a few minutes and get my composure back.
Delly quickly agrees.
August in New York is hot, sweltering, and the streets smell of garbage put out for pickup on Monday.
I hate this city.
At the same time, I love it.
I can't think of anywhere else that has quite so much character and artistic history in the US. And, despite my anger at my parents, I'm still a New Yorker through and through.
Sitting down on one of the park benches across the street, I pull out a pack of cigarettes, tapping the box idly against my thigh. It's a nasty habit. I don't really like it, but it's the one form of rebellion I can get away with. Smoking's never been allowed in my house; it goes against my parents' frugal nature.
I pull out one of the cigarettes and light it, drawing in the harsh smoke with my lungs. I haven't been smoking long, only since July. I'm still getting used to the taste.
My first pack was a gift from Johanna. I didn't know what made her toss her half-smoked pack of cigarettes at me one Friday. But I was grateful that she did.
When l asked her about it later, she said, "You needed something, kid. And you looked like you were about to do something extremely stupid like run away from home or end up like me." She motioned to the track marks on her arms. "A junkie on the streets of the city at eighteen, turning tricks for your next score."
I like Johanna. She doesn't try to bullshit me, never has.
She's younger than Rick but older than me; other than that I'm not quite sure what her exact age is. Hell, I'm not even sure if Johanna's her real name. The girl's notoriously tight-lipped about who she was before she ended up homeless on the streets of New York. The only thing I've ever managed to pry out of her regarding her personal life was, "There's no one left who I love."
I admit I was too scared to ask what she meant.
Somewhere along the line, she crossed Mason Blight's path. The guy's a former dot com millionaire. At some point, he decided rather than spending his fortune on fast cars and even faster women like many did he'd try to help out the people in his home town. So he ended up founding a homeless shelter a few blocks from Lincoln Center.
Johanna's one of his success stories. She's been sober for as long as I've known her, trading in the needles for a pack of cigarettes. "I've got an addictive personality, they say I'll always have some vice. Smoking'll kill ya, but not as quickly as smack."
I like Johanna.
The nicotine rush from my cigarette finally hits. Between it and the sounds of the city, I start to feel calm enough to face the rest of the day.
Delly wrinkles her nose when I get back, but I just shrug. It's not like she'll say anything. She knows my reasons, even though she doesn't approve.
I head back to the employee bathroom and wash up, paying extra attention to my hands and neck. I can't get rid of all of the smell, but I should be able to make it home and into the laundry before my parents catch on. I don't need them taking away my one release.
A little after noon, a large group descends on the shop. Out of habit, I count people and take note of their faces. While we've never had a hold up, it could happen. And the camera behind me is just for show. My parents are too cheap to invest in a real surveillance system.
Six kids ranging in age from maybe a couple years older than me all the way down to what looks like kindergarten tumble into the shop. Five of them are definitely related, with the same coal-black hair, olive skin, and gray eyes, with a blond-haired blue-eyed teenage girl standing out like a sore thumb. Must be the male teenager's girlfriend or something like that.
"Please tell me you have coffee," the oldest boy says.
"And not any of that Starbucks crap," the oldest girl, who's about my age, adds. "Real unburnt coffee."
"Um, I can make a fresh pot?" I say. "How many will you be having?"
Four of them raise their hands.
The little girl tugs at the eldest girl's hand. "Can I have hot chocolate?"
"It's really hot out there, Posy," she says, smiling gently at the little girl. "You sure you want something hot?"
"It can be a hot cold chocolate!"
"Uh, do you think you can make an iced hot chocolate?" the girl my age asks.
"I can try. Is chocolate milk okay?"
"That'd be just fine." She smiles at me.
My heart does a little flip flop.
That's new.
"Chocolate milk I can do." I glance over at the line of beverage machines. "Hot chocolate… maybe once the machine's fixed." We haven't bothered, since it's summer, but the little girl's reminded me that I need to hound my parents to get that fixed.
The youngest boy looks around and says, "A soda for me. Coffee's gross."
I smile at the kid. "I agree with you. Never been a coffee fan. I prefer tea or soda."
"Really?" The oldest girl looks at me, her head tilted slightly. "I like coffee, I just don't get a chance to drink it very often."
"That's right, Katniss!" the blond girl says, snapping her fingers. "You've got auditions tomorrow! No caffeine for you."
The girl, Katniss, groans. "I know, I know. But please, it's just one cup."
"Well, it's not my problem if you flub your audition." The blonde crosses her arms over her chest and looks at Katniss pointedly.
She sighs. "Do you have decaf?"
I can't help it. I chuckle at the face. "Yeah, I do. I'll make you a fresh pot."
"Thanks." There's that smile again.
My heart reacts just as weirdly as it did before.
All the talk of auditions and her apparent age make me suspect she's attending Juilliard...
A fact confirmed a moment later when the youngest boy points out, "Hey, they've got Juilliard cookies! Can I have one, Gale? Please?"
"Yeah, please Gale! I want a cookie too!" Posy chimes in.
The oldest boy sighs. "How much for the cookies?"
"They're a dollar a cookie," I tell him quickly.
He nods his head, pulling out his wallet. The rest of them finish off their orders, the girl, Katniss, snagging a loaf of whole wheat raisin nut bread from the day old shelf.
I ring them all up and the oldest, Gale, pays. "Do you mind if we eat here?" he asks, handing me a few bills.
"That's what the tables are for," I tell him, handing him his change. It's not much, but he drops it in the tip jar.
"Do you have wi-fi?" the middle boy asks.
"Seriously, Rory?" the blonde says, rolling her eyes. "You can't go five minutes without playing that stupid game on your phone."
"But I'm supposed to be raiding with my friends today!"
"I'm sorry, kid. We don't have wi-fi." My parents haven't wanted to spend the money to install it. I kind of wish we did, at least then I could play around on the internet when I get bored.
"Sh-" The oldest two stop him mid-exclamation with a glare. "Aw shucks," he finishes.
"Have you heard from Dad yet, Prim?" Katniss asks, looking over at the blond girl.
The blonde shakes her head. "I'm guessing they're still trying to find a place to park."
So, not girlfriend. Adopted sibling, then.
"Good luck," I'm unable to stop myself from muttering under my breath. Finding a parking space in Manhattan on a Sunday is akin to winning the lottery. The odds are not in your favor.
The six siblings pull two tables together and sit down to enjoy their snacks. I unabashedly eavesdrop. What else am I going to do? It's not like there's a whole rush of customers to take care of and there's still over an hour to go before I can start closing up.
For a bit, they chat about family things: the drive up from Philly, the traffic on the New Jersey Turnpike, Katniss's RA's incredible hotness, Gale's internship next spring. Honestly, it's a bit boring, and I feel my mind starting to wander again when Posy asks, "When are you coming home, Katniss?"
"Not until Thanksgiving, Little Flower."
"But that's forever!" The little girl makes a face.
"We've talked about this," Katniss says in a sympathetic tone. "I've got to go to college."
"But Gale's in college and he's home every weekend!"
"Gale goes to school in Philadelphia. New York's a bit further away, and I'm gonna have things I have to do on the weekends. Shows, practice, auditions."
The little girl pouts. "So who's gonna sing me to sleep every night?"
The older four share a glance.
"I suppose I could," Prim offers.
"No," Posy says, crossing her arms over her chest and glaring. "You can't sing."
"What about Dad?" the youngest boy asks. "He can sing."
"He has to work late. And my bedtime's eight."
Gale chuckles. "She's got you there, Vick."
Vick sticks his tongue out at his brother.
"I got an idea!" Rory pipes up, pulling out his phone.
"Oh God, not another game!" Prim exclaims.
"No, no, no. This is a good one! Hold on, give me a sec…" He fiddles with his smartphone. "There… got it!" He drums his fingers against the table. "Okay, come on, come on… this would be so much faster if they had wi-fi."
"What would be so much faster?" Prim asks, craning her head to try to look at Rory's phone. "What are you even doing?"
He tilts the phone so she can't see the screen. "If you'll hold your horses, Miss Prissy Britches, I'll show you."
The two glare at each other for a moment before Rory turns his attention back to his phone.
After about a minute, he says, "Finally." He holds the phone out to Katniss. "Okay, Katniss. Sing into this, and it'll record you, and that way when Posy needs to hear you sing, she can just play it back."
"Or you could make a CD," Prim tells him, sounding a bit like a mini-Hermione. "That way you won't have to give up your precious iPhone when our baby sister wants to go to sleep."
"I'm not a baby! I'm five!"
"That's right, Posy, you're not a baby anymore," Gale says, reaching out to ruffle her hair. "What do you think, Katniss?" he asks, turning to the oldest girl. "You up for it?"
"Um, what should I sing?" she asks Posy.
"The Valley Song!" the little girl comes back quickly.
"Okay." She nods her head, nibbling at her lower lip a little. "Um, go ahead Rory, start it up."
I don't know what I was expecting. Obviously, she's got to be good at something artistic to get accepted into Juilliard. But the voice that comes out of her mouth is like nothing I've ever heard. It's beautiful. Like what I'd think angels would sound like if I believed in them. I swear that, for a moment, the traffic outside on West End Avenue seems to stop.
I stare at her in rapt fascination, completely unable to focus on anything else other than that wonderful voice. When I woke up this morning, I didn't think today would be the day I'd meet the love of my life.
It's funny how things work out.
And I don't even know her last name.
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AN:
Written: 9/24/15
Revised: 10/4/15
Betaread by: amelinazenitram
This was written for Prompts in Panem.
RoseFyre did actually go scope out the area to get information for this fic. Unfortunately, because of the nature of Juilliard, we're going to have to take some liberties, but most of this is based on reality.
Yes, Peeta's a bit grumpy, but he's just had his dreams dashed. Think of how he was at the very beginning of Catching Fire, sullen and quick to make passive aggressive commentary. We love the boy, but he's still a teenager and nobody's perfect, not even Peeta Mellark.
Currently this story can stand on its own. We may or may not choose to continue it at some point in the future if people are interested.
We hope you enjoyed! Thanks for reading!
Please leave a review letting us know what you think!