Chapter 1: Impossible
"Done," I agree as Greasy Sae deposits the bag of coins into my palm. Five whole gold pieces! Then again, she has always been my best customer. That is my last trade of the day, clearing my schedule for the next duty of my day. I exit the bustling Hob and begin heading up the Main Street into the Merchant sector of Town...
I live in the Seam, the poorest section of the poorest district in all of Panem, District 12. Where you can starve to death in safety. And a great many do. But never me. Ever since I was 11 years old, I have hunted to feed my family, after my father was killed in a mining accident. That was sixteen winters ago now. Sixteen. I never know whether to laugh or cry.
I approach via the loading dock, climbing the stone platform before tapping sharply on the back door. A wrinkled face and a warm smile greet me. "Right on time, Katniss," the Baker greets. "Come on in."
I smile back one of the easiest smiles that I allow myself around anyone. I have never been a sociable person. I suppose I have my guarded nature to thank for that, built up over a hardscrabble life in squalor, where it has always been seen as more foolish to trust than to remain cold and distant. It is a philosophy I have largely taken to heart. If there is one thing I learned from my father's death and how if emotionally led my mother to an early grave, it is that attachments are often not worth the pain of losing that loved one in the end. It is an outlook I have done especially well to remember in regards to romance. I have never dated, despite how desirable I am to many men. That's my sister Prim talking, not me. I will never marry. Marriage leads to babies, and babies grow into children, fresh for the Reaping...
My thoughts are interrupted as I sense the Baker ask me something. "Oh, I'm sorry, Mr. Mellark, I couldn't save any squirrels today." The squirrels I hunt for market are the Baker's guilty pleasure. As I hang up my hooded cloak, I proceed up the long hallway, entering the kitchen through the back.
I nearly bump into him. All six feet of his stocky build, topped with a head of blonde hair. And those eyes that are as blue as a summer sky, even in the dead of winter...
"Well, if it isn't the Wild Dame herself. Bought time you showed up; you're late," he pokes as he shuffles past me with a plate of cheese buns, meant for the oven.
I gawk at him in offended disbelief. "I am not late!" and I point to the clock on the wall, which now chimes to emphasize my point. "It's exactly noon!"
"Actually, it's 12:02," the young man dismisses with a wave of his hand. "Didn't I tell you that?"
I place my hands on my hips. "You must certainly did not!"
"Well, it is," he smirks. "Ask Dad if you don't believe me."
"Fuck you!"
"What a good idea. Go right ahead," and he gets right into my personal space.
I scowl, even as my cheeks burn traitorously. "Will you just get back to work?"
"Will you marry me?"
I nearly drop the tray of cupcakes I have just been lifting from the counter. "What?" I blink at him, momentarily speechless.
His eyes twinkle with mirth. "Just looking for something to shut you up."
I huff. "Thank God, because your proposal sucked. So, no. You're impossible, Rye Mellark."
I never set out to be friends with the middle Mellark son. If that exchange can even be classified under the term 'friendship.' Half the time, I think Rye is just waiting for the opportunity to kill me. But he has had enough death in his life. A decade ago, he lost both his older and younger brother in the worst Reaping for the Hunger Games you can imagine. The Third Quarter Quell, which allowed a special twist. Only males were allowed as tribute that year, and the first tribute Reaped automatically entered his brother in as the second tribute, if he had one. Rye's elder brother, Leven was Reaped, and then Peeta - the youngest son who was my age - was chosen. Afterwards, Mother insisted on entering the Justice Building to console the Baker, who had apparently been a childhood friend of hers before she left life as a Merchant to marry my Seam father.
As Prim and I had waited outside, I saw him. Head in his hands, but refusing to cry. I suppose he didn't have to - the life looked sucked out of him. His very last Reaping, now free of the Games forever, yet he still had to watch his brothers fight to the death.
Despite my reserved nature, I had approached and awkwardly offered my condolences, to which Rye had thanked me. He then introduced himself before I could do something rude like run away.
That is the only exchange in which I never heard Rye Mellark crack a joke or saw him make an ass of himself.
If I really stop and think about it, joking around has probably been his coping mechanism all these years. His mother didn't find one in time to save herself; convinced the family was ruined after both her sacrificed sons died in the Games, she allegedly stole a Peacekeeper's pistol and committed suicide with it. I only interacted with her a few times when I was younger, none of which were pleasant - she was a bitch of a woman whom supposedly beat her own sons thanks to an uncontrollable temper. Rye has never confirmed nor denied these stories, and I know better than to ask.
The first hour - lunchtime for most other businesses - is slow, but the pace picks up after 1 o'clock. Before I know it, the sun is low in the sky. 5 PM. Quitting time. I hate how early darkness falls in the winter time. And I can see snow flurries now too, through the window. I have to hurry if I am to meet Prim for dinner.
"Bye, Mr. Mellark!" I call over my shoulder as I reach for my traveling cloak. Rye wanders into the back after sweeping up front.
"You're not seriously going out in this, are you?" he stares.
I glower at him. "I am. I can walk back perfectly fine on my own. All you have to do is nod like you agree, and let me."
"The hell I will!" Rye growls. And before I can protest, he gets his coat, jams his hat firmly on his head, offers me his arm and proceeds to walk me home.
I am taken aback, but pleased too, I must admit. Who knew Rye Mellark, the boy who refuses to grow up, could be so... gentlemanly? Then again, it's probably a reflection of his Merchant upbringing. Even so, willingly walking a Seam woman home is quite bold for him, considering the lingering animosity between class lines that has gone back to the time of my parents, if not farther.
As the snow gusts around us, I scan the windows of the homes and shops. Candles are being lit in the windows, adding just a hint of heat for the evening meal. Families sitting down, thankful that they have survived another day.
"Do you always eat at your sister's?" Rye asks.
I shrug. "Not always. But often enough, and Rory doesn't mind. It's better than eating alone in Spinster's End." Spinster's End is on the outskirts of the Seam, where old maids and unmarried women and even some widows live. For many of its residents, living there is social suicide. But not me. It is where I will likely spend the rest of my days. I don't care if most of the people my age in District 12 are married, including Rye's and my friends...
Rye smirks at my nonchalance. "Maybe you should get off your high horse. Toast the bread with someone." Toasting bread is the traditional marriage ceremony in Twelve, conducted after signing legal papers in the Justice Building. No one in Twelve feels married without it. It may seem corny - my sister's wedding to Rory Hawthorne certainly was - but even I have to admit it's touching just the same.
I furrow my brow at Rye, recalling our exchange from earlier. "If this is another one of your lousy proposals..."
He chuckles, holding up his hands in mock surrender. "It's not. Just wondering why... you're 27 years old and you still haven't gotten hitched."
I frown. "And do I have to be? I'm never getting married, Rye. In my opinion, marriage only makes a person more vulnerable."
"It could also make someone stronger, if only you allowed it." His statement shocks me. One of the things that has always made Rye fascinating to me is that he always seemed like a kindred spirit, as far as marriage is concerned. At least, he has never Toasted the bread, and he's a year older than me.
I brush the comment. "And even if I ever did marry, I would want it to be for love."
"Not economic advantage?" Rye probes. Many marriages in District 12 are based on this principle. My parents' union, you might say, was an exception rather than the rule, and certainly not for that reason alone.
I stop in my tracks and spin to face him, my jaw slack in offense. "Of course not! Who do you think I am?!"
Rye laughs low and long. "Not that kind of girl, that's for sure. I didn't mean any offense."
I pause a moment, before I smirk. "I'm sure you didn't," I jab. We continue on.
"For me," Rye admits. "I just want to marry someone who I know is my equal. Not in class, necessarily, that doesn't matter. Just... equal in everything else."
I try to ignore how oddly touched I am by that admission, further hiding it by rolling my eyes and grinning. "You don't have an equal, Rye. You're in a class all by yourself!"
It was meant to be a tease rather than a compliment, but he still takes it as the latter. "Thank you, Katniss," and he sounds sincere.
We arrive at my sister's house. I can smell dinner cooking. "Thanks for walking me home," I murmur. "You were right not to let me go out on..."
"Doth my ears deceive me?" and Rye cocks a hand to his ear. "'You're right?' How do those words taste coming out of your mouth?"
"Like vinegar," I deadpan. I huff out a breath to get the white powder of snow off my lips. "OK, more like snow, but still..."
Rye laughs. "Good night, Katniss."
"Good night." And I watch him until he disappears into the flurries.
