The alarm on my clock pops on with fuzzy reception the local classic rock station. I groan, shifting to turn it off. I still linger in the warmth of my sheets, long enough for the clock's snooze button to have gone stale. The radio buzzes with yet another rain-filled forecast.
Just in time for my first day of high school.
Okay, so not my first day of high school, in general, but my first day at the school here, specifically. My first day jumping back in, seeing kids I haven't seen since first grade. How wonderful. I doubt any of them will remember me, anyway. I'm not certain, yet, if that's a good or bad thing.
I attempt self-distraction by glancing towards my window.
I'm not good at making friends, never mind keeping them.
Light casts flickering shadows, from both fluttering branches and my propped-opened bedroom window. My mother's parting gift of a homemade dreamcatcher flutters in a breeze, tapping against the glass panes with a vengeance.
"To keep you safe," she had said.
She had even gone as far as weaving a bird in the center. A mockingbird. She says they remind her of me. I can't understand why.
I guess it's the thought that counts.
Making dreamcatchers has become my mother's obsession, in recent years. Understandable, as we lived not too far from a reservation, back in Arizona. My little sister, Prim, had happily helped, bedazzling my going away present with glitter about an inch thick.
Lovely and lively as the beautiful Primroses she had been named for, I cannot deny that the move is probably coming at the optimal age for her. One of the few things my mother said, with which I actually agree. Prim will be entering the junior high school here, eleven just like every other sixth grader; they are all entering a new school, so it won't just be her who's nervous. She will not be the weird girl, or the girl left out- her personality has never led for her to be that girl. Still, I'm glad that the probability of her getting hurt has diminished. If the move makes Prim happy, that is everything to me. Nothing makes me happy more than seeing her blossom.
As for me? The move hasn't exactly gotten off to a great start, so far. My mother's brother, my Uncle Haymitch, has called me 'sweetheart' about as much as I can handle. The amount of bickering we have done, in just the past few days, makes us sound more like an old married couple than anything else.
My scowl, that becomes affixed anytime Haymitch tries to 'converse' with me, has only slid off with Prim there to mediate us. It generally keeps people off of my back, and it's sort of the only self-defence I've got.
I'm pretty short, and though I excelled in archery class back in our small town, I don't exactly walk about with a bow and arrow.
Part of me fleetingly wonders, if I could, how much better that would make me feel today. Added security. Added relief from curious students who want to berate the new girl. It would be pretty nice.
I don't deal well with change.
Obviously.
At least, I remind myself, I won't have the stigma of being the girl whose father died battling a wildfire, the way I had at my old school. The girl with the crazy mother. The girl who consistently turned down the the cafeteria ladies' offers of discounted lunch, for lack of money to pay even the discounted price. The girl who started trying to work at fourteen and could never afford to go out to the mall, never mind pay to be on sports teams. The girl who got clothing as the third owner in most cases.
I had lost count of the times Child Protective Service had been at our property in the past five years. It might not have been all that many, but the chaos which always followed after an 'inspection' of our home inevitably made the whole thing all the more traumatic. Most of it was bullshit, with people not knowing what they were talking about. But, when I had passed out on the side of the road a half-mile from home due to overheating and hunger, we're lucky my mother pulled herself together long enough to lie off her ass.
After that, I was the girl who everyone thought had an eating disorder.
Perhaps the move wasn't such a bad idea after all.
I shower, afterwards rubbing moisturizer across my olive skin. I comb the knots out of my thick, dark brown hair, before braiding it, still damp, to the side. I take a good look at myself in the vanity mirror in my room, reassessing what I am wearing. Hiking boots, loose-fitting trousers, and a plain t-shirt.
No, that's how I used to dress. I groan, looking at the boxes in which most of my other clothes still linger. I sigh, hesitating a moment, before opening them up. A simple, grey blouse, and some crisp, black jeans.
Secondhand doesn't always mean dirty, not if you clean them well, at least.
It's rather nice, knowing I'll look all right for the day.
Our closest neighbor, old Sae always let me pretend that I was being sneaky, lifting some of her friends' donations intended for Big Brothers and Big Sisters. She'd leave the whole pile out on her front patio, and if she noticed me rifling through them, she certainly never said anything.
I always did notice, though, that there were at least three or four items in exactly my or Prim's size.
Without help from Sae and her live-in 'friend' Cray, and the occasional donated check from my Uncle Haymitch (never mind, my own sheer dumb luck), I'm not certain that we would have made it.
Scratch that, I know we wouldn't have made it.
I tried to give some money to Sae and Cray, before we left. They wouldn't have it.
A twist lingers in my stomach, where me owing them sits, leaving me irked.
My mother had been busy staring at walls.
My father died, fighting a brush-fire. He was a volunteer firefighter, and the compensation our family received from the department had been limited, at best. We had almost nothing left, not after the donations from charity groups stopped within a few months. He had worked two jobs for years, but bills and insurance payments bled us dry.
And my mother just… disappeared. She was there, physically, but her mind? Nothing could call it back to the present.
Prim had been six years old. I was twelve. I had to become a mother, for both of us.
I became a mother to my mother, in a sense. I suppose we have made up, in a way, but I will never trust her abilities where dependency are concerned. I'm glad, in regards to that, that we won't be around her and Phil except on the holidays.
When mother did finally get herself together, it wasn't exactly at any kind of a lucrative career. She moved us to a 'dry' yirt, not too far from our former trailer. 'Dry' was ironic: there had been no indoor toilets, or even running water, no electricity; yet the water in the rainy seasons nearly killed all three of us. My mother tried to have us live off of selling herbal remedies to the rare passerby. It took all of my powers of persuasion (i.e.: my sheer force of will) to get her to move back into the trailer we had shared with my father.
At least the trailer was somewhat secure. And, the summer fairs in town had gotten her some profit.
If it weren't for Phil, my mother's new husband (and the reason for us having to find alternative accommodations), I'd still be scrambling, honestly. He seems far more stable, and seems to stabilize my mother enough, too; but by mother would still be living in a either a dry yirt or a dry trailer, with a garden hose for water, and limited electricity. She'd still be trying to live off selling birch bark and lavender cure-alls.
I'm convinced that damned yirt is the reason Prim developed bronchial asthma three years ago. The cloth ceiling was hardly weatherproofed. I'm lucky to still have my father's leather boots and jacket, as they nearly got soaked to death. By some trick of fortune, we still have my father's portrait, too. Most of the photographs and letters were ruined. My father's soft smile looks out from a cracked and dented frame, now next to my sister's bed, alongside a cactus plant upon which she has placed with googly eyes.
You don't typically think of monsoons hitting the Arizona desert, but let me tell you, they do. It's not pretty, when you're not in a proper house.
I shift, scratching at my sniffling nose. The change in environment is a bit of a shock, to say the least.
The leaves outside are fiery with autumn, though the overcast skies cast the natural brightness against a more morbid background. A few splats splotch against the sides of the house and I roll myself off the bed, shutting the window before an onslaught of rain can make it way clear in my room.
Forks, Washington: where you can feel about ready to throw yourself off the nearest cliff every day; but, at least, you can be depressed in safety. Thanks to my booze-loving uncle, Sheriff Abernathy.
He must be doing something right. We have one of the lowest crime rates in the state.
We can be bored to death, slowly, but safely.
And, hey, we've got a Walmart up the road, so we really shouldn't complain.
If you can handle the buckets of rain pouring hourly, the landscapes are beautiful, outside of town. For some reason, I did not for the life of me remember the long, winding roads being quite so treacherous. Nor, did I remember the roads having such picturesque outlooks. Even my typically grumpy hide has to admit, it can be lovely here.
It's funny, because my memories of this town are a lot rosier than my current view. That's just the benefit of having been a child, I suppose. You don't understand the severity of anyone else's emotions. If you're happy, everyone must be.
A memory pops into my head, of a little boy, not much older than my five-year-old self, with blonde curls and big, blue eyes-
I shake my head, before grabbing some loose powder Prim had bought me for my birthday last year.
Moving out of Forks in favor of the Southwest, back then, had been for the purpose of an adventure, not for lack of profitable occupations. It wasn't until I started school and got held back a year that I began to grumble about dealing with other children. It wasn't exactly 'cool' to be eight and in first grade. Just as it won't be so 'cool' when I am nineteen, only just graduating high school.
I loathe the day.
I'm sure I'll feel dumb being seventeen and being in a class of sixteens. Haymitch made a crack about it, yesterday. Yesterday, coincidentally, was my seventeenth birthday. Prim had tried to convince me to say something, I resisted and told her to keep quiet about it. Haymitch seems to have forgotten the meaning of the date, and I didn't exactly need him to make me more self-conscious about the whole thing. Who knows, perhaps the request to transfer credits and make me a junior, rather than sophomore, would be approved. I pick my schedule off of the sparse furniture, which Haymitch said he had been using infrequently for an office.
Nope, no such luck, I'll be an old lady in a sea of unknown classmates.
I wish I could say I don't care, but I do.
It'll be embarrassing, if my childhood friends recognize me, to say, 'Hi, remember me? Yeah, I'm a year behind all of you.' Not that i plan to say anything at all, unless they all know me. I'm hoping they won't, but I'm not stupid. I'm sure all of the kids will be the same. After all, Forks is a small town, and people rarely if ever leave. Me, Prim, and my parents, are the exception.
My mother had left, once, to go to school for nursing, but she became pregnant with me, the summer before her third semester and had to drop out. Even Haymitch has rarely gone farther than Seattle. Well, no, he had gotten down to visit us in Desert-R-Us, but, that was an extenuating circumstance. The only time Haymitch left the state had been for my father's funeral.
Forks is basically a gooey fly-trap. Or, Hotel California.
I really hope my former friends don't recognize me. What would we have to talk about? I have a feeling twenty questions about my history will hardly garner many promising friendships.
School has never been the easiest thing, where social interactions are concerned. Academia is one thing, but people. Let's just say, it's a good thing we didn't need to get by after dad's death based on my charm and charisma.
In fact, I was lucky my father had been a good pickpocket. He's the one who taught me the best way to sneak out loaves of bread and heads of lettuce from the supermarket. We were always short, or owing bills or different payments. My mother never liked to go when we were going to be lifting. It was just me and my father. I think it made my mother feel low, and Prim was too little, we couldn't trust that she wouldn't accidentally say something. So, it was always me and my father sneaking out what we couldn't afford.
I managed a jumbo pack of frozen chicken legs, once; although, I can't argue that there is a certain suspicion to those around being so oblivious to that one. I half-wonder, now as I think about it, if the employees didn't know I was stealing from them. I was a tiny twig of a thing. Surely, the meat packet stuck out underneath my coat, like a sore thumb? I guess I was a sad enough sight that they didn't even say anything.
It wasn't legal, but I've promised I'll make good on it, now that we're comfortable enough.
As I get dressed for the morning, I can't help smiling as I hear my little sister's muffled voice. I'm sure she is cheerfully engaging our uncle in conversation downstairs. She really can bring out the best in people, even an old drunkard who somehow has become the town of Forks' sheriff.
A drunk with a prickly exterior, who is somehow our legal guardian, for the foreseeable future.
He must not be all that tough, though. He's rough around the edges, but I caught him talking sweet to his pet bird in the downstairs living room. Out back, he has about six chickens, four goats, and an obnoxious pet cat who comes and goes as he pleases. The latter mongrel has taken to my sister like a fish to water. Buttercup, Prim named him. Haymitch had a few names for the ugly squashed-in-faced tom, but none of them were entirely… appropriate. I can't exactly blame him. Buttercup had greeted me, first thing, by wrapping his claws around my leg and biting into my knee.
I sniff the air, now, and my eyes widen.
Haymitch must have cooked breakfast this morning, or Prim had, because a distinctive scent is making my mouth water.
Bacon.
I can't help the near-moan that escapes my mouth. We haven't had bacon in ages. It's not that I haven't wanted to grab some- I'm a carnivore, to the core. But, when you're stealing to get by, you focus on the necessities. Priorities, like milk, bread, and meat, come first. Few luxuries are worth the risk.
Chicken was one thing- I, of all people, know after all these years how many different ways you can prepare, or reuse it. But, bacon? Sadly, that was a different case. God, I can hardly remember the taste. The last time we ate bacon, it probably had been with my father, at one of the (few) celebratory Denny's trips we made years ago.
The Everdeen-Abernathy clan has never exactly been comprised of millionaires.
When my father lost his job at the local lumber yard here, in Washington state, things got tight. Tighter, even, than before. The market had been bad. What jobs were around here that a man used to cutting trees could take on? Most places had been downsizing, not hiring. My mother threatened to leave him, for sunnier shores. Living here had been more than they could bear. They loved each other, but it wasn't enough.
I don't romanticize it, the way I had as a seven-year-old girl. Love wasn't enough.
I sometimes wonder, in my quiet solitude, if it wouldn't be better for them to not have met.
A marriage that started in a whirlwind of passion, slowly trickled down to a whimper. If it hadn't been for my father dying five years ago, I've often wondered if they wouldn't have simply let go of each other. Would they have divorced? Would they've just kept together for sake of us, for me and Prim; for sake of how they once had felt?
The only thing I know for sure, is I'm never getting married. Or, having kids, for that matter.
It's not worth the pain.
The majority of marriages end in divorce, after all. I did a slideshow on it, last year.
I'm not sure what would have become of my mother, in the case of getting a divorce. Would she have tuned out, the way she did when my father died? 'Whimsical' had always been my father's word for her, but the kids at school always had different names.
They had different names for me, too.
'Cat-piss Never-clean' was one of them.
People suck.
I'm beginning to come downstairs when my Uncle Haymitch's stupid cat-guest, Buttercup, rears his ugly head to hiss at me. I aim a kick at his head, but he's too quick, thumping down the stairs and out the back cat-flap.
If we get to starving again, at least Haymitch's got some good eats around here. That'd show that damn cat.
"Katniss!" Prim greets me with an excited hug as I enter the kitchen.
"Mornin', sweetheart," Haymitch raises a glass, nodding in my direction.
His dirty-blonde hair is wet, suggesting he deigned to shower this morning. I suppose that is something. His blue eyes are damp, swimming in what I estimate to be about ten pounds of liquid courage. I'm pretty sure the coffee I smell is mixed with whiskey, in his mug. God help us if any serious crimes ever happen here. The sheriff will probably be too trashed.
"Nice of you to grace us with your presence."
I roll my eyes, turning my focus back to Prim. She's dressed in a brand new outfit. Brand new, to her, that is. It's a fine fit, considering it's from the donation pile. I haven't told her that, of course. The ruffled, sky blue quarter-sleeve blouse with a Peter Pan collar, and soft, dark-blue leggings, look brand new. I had washed them till my hands were raw, to be sure it'd be worthy of her. If she has to wear clothing second-hand, I want to be damned sure it's nothing junky.
"You look lovely!" I kiss the top of her head, as she keeps her arms around me.
"But you look beautiful." Prim's lips purse. Her eyes shine as she looks up at me. "I wish I looked like you."
"Well, I wish I looked like you, Little Duck," I reply, keeping my smile pasted on. Before settling to eat, I brush some stray strands of her loose hair behind her ear, fixing her navy blue headband. I check the back of her shirt, smiling as I recall her first day of kindergarten. She had a similar outfit, with a pleated skirt in place of jeggings. Her shirt kept untucking with each step she made, and I finally pinned her little 'tail' inside the skirt. "We're leaving our tail untucked today, duck?"
Prim giggles, nodding.
She favors my mother and uncle's side of the family, the Abernathy's. Lighter skin, wheat-blonde hair, and sunflower blue eyes. I favor my father, by contrast far darker, olive-toned skin, with his grey eyes. I used to think my mother was the most beautiful woman in the world, but after everything… I'm not so sure. I'm grateful, at least, that Prim has that loving, compassionate glint to her. Primrose would give a stranger the coat off her back, if she saw they were chilled; cry, if I even considered killing a spider or ant inside the house, or out. Always trying to do the right thing. Always trying to save people.
She got the best of both our parents, really. She has my mother's depth of feeling, my father's kindness, and both of their wits. She is in advanced programs, in school. Luckily, the local middle school here doesn't charge us an exorbitant amount, for that. I guess my mother had the same potential, once, to be compassionate and giving; to try to save the world. Her empathy drove her inwards, though, even before my father died. She couldn't function, overwhelmed with caring, until she fell numb to it all. She had given up her profession as a nurse, when we moved south.
"Duck, huh?" Haymitch snorts.
I glare at him.
"Quack," Prim plays along. She scoops up some eggy toast, chewing while keeping an unmistakable grin on her lips.
Haymitch gives what passes for a smile, saluting her.
"Quack yourself," I joke, earning another giggle before I dig into my food.
We're quiet for most of breakfast. I'm finishing off my water when a thought hits me, and I turn to my sister.
I've always taken Prim to school.
Always. Come rain or shine.
"Don't forget, duck, I can't walk you, I've got a later start than you-"
"I've got her, sweetheart," Haymitch cuts me off. Leaning back to snatch a set of car keys off the counter, he dangles them, across at me. He raises a brow. "And for you."
I eye my uncle suspiciously. "What's that?"
"C'mon, honey, take my car."
"I've got dad's truck," I retort, trying to keep the anger stirring at bay.
"Katniss." my uncle rolls his eyes. "You drove hours in that piece of junk-"
"I got us here," my voice is raising, strained with frustration. "Didn't I?"
"Yeah, an' how many pit stops'd you have to make?" he asks, anger overtaking his amused look. "Look, the Nissan's brand new-"
I set my jaw, before crossing my arms across my chest.
"Goddamn stubborn sonofa-" Haymitch slams the keys on the table, before shaking his head.
Prim jumps, and even I find it difficult to avoid reacting. A tense few minutes pass, with Haymitch staring at me. I give as good as I get, standing my ground.
"C'mon, kid," he addresses Prim, only sparing my a hardened glare. With an uncertain look in my direction, Prim scrambles out of the room, to gather her things for class. Haymitch lingers by the back door, eyeing me. "We're taking my cruiser."
"Great for you." I snort. "Really taking on the hardened criminals around h-"
"Enough of your sass, sweetheart," Haymitch spits, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. He clears his throat. He looks about ready to say something, when Prim returns. The momentary pause in Haymitch's surly countenance passes. "All right, let's go."
I leave a half hour later, after making sure that the keys to Haymitch's Nissan stay precisely where he had set them.
