Disclaimer: I don't own the Hunger Games or Ally's world.
Chapter Two
Sensible Answers Only, Please
My friends houses are all magnolia-painted neat. They have matching towls and plate sets-and chairs for that matter. But it's quite reassuring to know that there's always another building that's as crumbly round the edges but beautiful as my own.
I ended up thinking just that as I sat on a bench in the park surrounding the Justice Building while also gazing at the huge Rose window of the building itself. I came to the park with the dogs after my conversatin with Wheat about dad's birthday present. Walking always cleared my head, and right now, I needed to come with an alternative plan to Wayne's-and quick.
And yet so far all I'd done is daydream.
So, it was late morning on Sunday, and I was staring at the stained glass of the Rose window when this frantic barking started up.
Rolf (our big, hairy dog) barks at anything-the postman, the gate-post, traffic cones, blades of grass, you name it-but the fact that Winslet (our small, hairy dog) was barking too meant only one thing: Katniss and Lady were on their way.
I was glad-I wanted to corner Katniss, since she was a girl, and ask her if she had any thoughts on possible presents for dad. Alright, I know Katniss is the same age as me and is twenty four years younger than my dad but surely she could come up with something, right? Girls were better at that sort of thing, weren't they?
I was determined to go home with at least one alternative suggestion to Wheat's rotten surprise-party idea.
"Hi!" I waved at her as she stomped over the grass.
"Hi, Peeta," she replied. She sat down beside me on the bench.
Katniss is my mate. We've known each other since we were . . . um . . . that high. I don't see her too often over the week since she goes to an all girls' school, so we always try to meet up in the park on a Sunday morning to catch up.
"So how's things going?" asked Katniss, keeping one eye on the mayhem that was unfolding in front of us.
It's an understatement to say that our dogs don't get along. They were tearing around in a blurry bundle, Katniss' dog Lady trying to sniff Rolf and Winslet's behinds while they animately protest. "I'm okay," I shrugged. "What about you?"
"Great," Katniss replied unconvincingly. "Oh wait, that's right, I failed two exams and everyone is giving me a hard time because I let in three goals at five-a-side yesterday. And there's also a pretty boy who has just moved into my street who doesn't know I exist."
The mention of school made my mind cast back to the thing I had forgotten. Was it something to do with school? What was it? I waited to see if it would come back to me but nothing happened. I could practically hear the dust swirling around in my brain. Okay, no, back onto Katniss.
"But that boy is about twenty, isn't he?" I pointed out. I knew I was about to burst her bubble. "He's not exactly going to trip over himself to talk to you, is he now?"
Katniss had been a bit unpredictable recently. I remember the old days were we used to have these conversations about the meaning of life while playing on the playstation and everything, but nowadays, she's always working the conversation around boys. Ever since I came out she seemed to think that I wouldn't mind. And I don't mind. But, you know, a bit of variety would be nice.
I myself have only ever been with one boy. His name was Keith Brownlow and that only lasted a few dates. My love life is kind of a mess. I know more year eights who've snogged more people than me. And just for the record: I dumped him. And that's because he thought it would be a brilliant idea to kiss me just after drinking a can of Coke.
Just for the record, a little hint for future notice, a guy belching into his boyfriend's mouth is not too gorgeous.
"Just kick me some more, I think you missed a spot," Katniss muttered.
"Don't tempt me," I answered, aiming a trainer at her head. "Anyway, I need to talk to you about something. It's my dad's forteith in two weeks. What do you reckon we should get him?"
"A zimmer frame?" Katniss suggested. "Grey-hair dye? Ouch!"
I didn't kick her that hard, she was over-reacting. Girls are such drama queens. "I'm serious," I insisted.
"I don't know what you should get him," Katniss said. "Shouldn't you know? He is your dad after all!"
"Do you think I'd be asking you if I did?" I asked. Of course this was my fault. I should have known that Katniss wouldn't know what to get.
"What about your brothers? Shouldn't they know?" asked Katniss. "Surely Wayne has some ideas?" Katniss was very intimidated by Wayne which no one could blame her for, since Wayne could intimidate the President of Panem if he was in the right mood. A.K.A the wrong mood. But then, she's kind of funny about Rye and Cherry too. The way Rye dresses freaks her out and basically her nickname for Cherry (Spook Kid) says enough.
"Wheat's idea is sucky," I said, sounding like a stroppy child. "C'mon, Katniss, you've got to have some sort of idea?"
Katniss shrugged. "This morning I was thinking about how cool it would be to own a life sized cut-out of Lara Croft."
"Oh yes, and my dad would certainly love that," I said sarcastically.
"Well, if he doesn't want it you could give it to me," Katniss suggested. "Lady! Oi! Lady! Oh my god, she's off. I'd better go grab her." She stood up and bolted down the hill to where the poodle was trying to sniff the backside of two puzzled Dalmatians. Poor Dalmatians. Didn't know what hit them.
As I watched Katniss try to wrangle her dog, I realized why she let three goals in and couldn't get a boyfriend. Just watching her run, all awkward, long skinny legs and loping arms, you could just tell that she was a complete stranger to the art of coordination.
"Lady! Come here! Lady! Heel! Heel, now!" I could hear her roaring at her oblvious dog from the top of the hill.
Lady. To this day I still can't believe that Katniss' mother came up with that name for their dog with the knowledge that her daughter was going to have to use it every time the animal went a-wall. What was the woman thinking of? I mean, shouting Rolf and Winslet gets the odd look from the odd person but these are people who called their dogs dullsville stuff like Spot or Rover. Rolf was named after a presenter from an animal show called Animal Hospital and Winslet was named after the one and only Kate Winslet. The latter name came around when Rye got a huge crush on Kate after watching Titanic. Kate didn't sound right so Cherry suggested Winslet.
Katniss came back up the hill with her crazy poodle writhing in her arms, and breathlessly sat back down beside him on the bench. "You know," she panted, "you should try and get your dad something original for his birthday. Something he'd never expect . . ."
"Yeah? Like what?"
I was intrigued. It seemed Katniss wasn't going to be as useless in this field as I had first thought. "Huh?" she blinked. "Oh, sorry, that's as far as I got."
"Katniss, your dog is smarter than you," I joked.
As if to prove how smart she was, Lady lunged forward to try and lick me. I jumped back, just out of licking range. There was no way that dog was getting within half a metre of my face. Who knew where that nose had been . . .
On the way home I racked my brain for an amazing present idea. And yet nothing still came to mind. My eyes were glued to the pavement, like the gravel might help my concentration. When I was a few doors down from my house, I heard Rye. He got these mules in a sale, and you could recognize the flippety-flap anywhere.
"Rye!" I called. The strangeness of my brother's mind had always fascinated. If someone could come up with something original and unusual, it was him. "Where are you going?"
"Shops!" Rye replied, shielding the sun from his eyes with his hand. "We're out of loo roll."
Typical Rye. Who else would go out to buy toilet roll in red velvet mules?
"Okay, see you in a bit." I'll catch her later. I can pick her and Cherry's brain later. Just cuz' our sister was little doesn't mean she couldn't come up with a smart idea.
Because I was thinking so much about dad, I nearly jumped out of my skin when I came face to face with him at the front door.
"Hey, son. Been walking the mutts, then?"
My dad is very casual and laid back. I have a theory that even if he wasn't my dad and I was just meeting him, I'd still like him. My best friend Madge is proof of this. She never leaves our house. She does this thing where every time she's round, she leaves something new behind. Like a CD or a toothbrush. We have an inside joke that she's trying to move herself in without us noticing.
"Hi Peeta!" Madge said, coming from the kitchen with a cup of coffee in her hand.
See what I mean?
"Listen, Peeta Bread-" Urgh my dad always called me that-"I'm going along to the workshop for a while. Some spare parts came in and I want to sort them out before I open up tomorrow."
You see, even though we own a bakery, my dad spends more time in the workshop down the road than he does working the family business. I don't blame him, bakery work sucks, and since the lease to the bakery is in our mother's name, I don't blame dad for running for the hills. And, even better, it gets him out of the house so we can have a family-minus dad-meeting about his birthday present.
But hold up-the Peeta Bread thing. You may think you know why dad calls me that but trust me, it's much more complicated than that. Basically, while dad did have a say in our names, they're mum's fault. Which I guess I'm sort of glad about?
It basically happened like this . . .
Wayne *cough* Wheat *cough*, Mellark Child No. 1, was named what he was because he was conceived on the day Mum and Dad got married. So, mum, being the eccentric woman that she was, decided that since dad proposed to her by spelling out 'WILL YOU MARRY ME?' in stems of wheat, that they should to call their first son Wheat Mellark. It was kind of ironic, since he was the baker's son and he was called Wheat. I supposed it's supposed to be funny? Or just concidential?
Then there's Rye. Mellark Child No. 2 (TECHNICALLY). Rye and I are twins, as previously mentioned, but he was born ten minutes before me. Mum and dad had went through a rough patch when Wayne was only a baby. Dad had been staying at a friend's house since mum owned the bakery and the rooms above. One night, Mum baked a Rye loaf and brought to round to the house were dad was staying, and offered it to him as a peace offering. That night Rye and I were conceived.
I was next. Mellark Child No. 3. After Rye was born, my parents literally had no idea what to call me. They didn't want a plain name, since they'd already went with Wheat and Rye for the other two children. Calling me Bob or Dylan really didn't seem to fit. I was literally called John Doe for days while my mother was recovering from birthing twins. Let's keep in mind that that is what they call unidentified dead people. So if you want to get techincal, my first name was John Doe. But about two days after Rye and I were born, inspiration struck.
When my parents were first going out, the bakery didn't exist. Our grandma hadn't bought it yet. But when she did, the first bread my mum ever baked was Pita, because it was apparently easy. So that's how I got my name. And, just to spice things up, they changed the spelling. You know, just to be different.
Finally Mellark Child No. 4. Chantal. Sadly this is the most uninteresting story. Basically Chantal was my mother's favourite name for a girl when she finally got a baby girl, that's what she called her. The interesting part is more into the whole pretend baptism that myself, Wheat and Rye held for her to change her name into Cherry Mellark. Cherry's better anyway . . .
Madge adores the name behind our names. She says they're romantic. I don't really see the romanticism in a Wheat message, a make-up loaf, a first baking experience and a favourite name. Eh, maybe I'm missing something. Maybe this is just because her mother got her name from the big book of names for girls.
Anyway, back on point, I think . . .
"I was taking a DVD back to the shop for my parents," Madge explained. "Fancy watching it before I drop it off?"
"Yeah, okay," I shrugged, trying to find a space on the overcrowded coat rack fr my jacket. "What is it?"
"Something with Nicole Kidman in it . . ." Madge glanced back in the direction of the kitchen where she must have left the disc.
"Cool," I nodded. I frowned as I noticed something wrong with Madge's eyes. Sure, she has this big blue Disney movie eyes anyway but today they were rolling around so she looked deranged. Dad was milling about between us, trying to find his keys and the set for the workshop, so I suppose she was trying to let me know something without alerting him.
Madge seemed to be getting frustrated at my lack of psychic ability and dumped her coffee cup down on the hall table and stomped up the stairs. "Going to the loo," she said needlessly, stepping over one of the cats who wasn't Colin and throwing me a bizarre boggle eyed look.
"Okay," I shrugged, passing dad as he pulled on his coat and said goodbye. Then it hit me. "Wait Madge!" I bellowed after her as I entered the kitchen. "There's no toiler pap-"
It was then that I saw what Madge was signalling with her eyes.
There, sitting at the kitchen and gently brushing another cat who wasn't Colin off the Sunday paper in front of him, was Cato.
Cato.
My mouth hung open where I stood with my forgotten finished sentence. I probably looked strange, standing in the kitchen doorway just wanting to catch flies. Oh god, I wish I could rewind my life ten seconds so I wouldn't look like such a dork.
"Hi, Peeta . . ." he said, glancing at me from the paper he was-cat allowing-trying to flick through. It was less than a glance-a glancette, if you will-but the smallest of eye contact with Cato tended to have a very traumatic affect one me: I stop speaking english. I speak gibberish.
"Huh-uh, hi," I mumbled, stepping awkwardly into the kitchen.
I was walking with these funny bobbing little moves, like an insecure chicken.
"Uh . . . where-where's Wayne, then?"
"Wayne?" he repeated gently, like he wasn't talking to someone not all there. "I'm waiting for him. He's on his phone, I think."
Cato looked back down at the paper and I exhaled. It gave me a second to gaze at him, take in the gorgeousness of him, uninteruppted. His hair was short, messy and blond. Those spookily pale, green eyes; a heart bursting smile; a cute little leather strappy around his wrist; those skinny yet muscular tanned arms . . . Hey tell me when you've got an hour, so I can let you in on the full list.
"So," I squeaked, cursing myself on the inside, "What are you two . . . guys up to-to-to-today?" Oh god Mellark, pull yourself together! I had this transatlantic twang to my voice, and trust me, I don't make it a habit to sound like an extra out of an American teen show too often.
He gazed up at me, and I knew my face must be pracitcally glowing pink. My cheeks were sahara hot, you could fry some bacon on them. Except since I was standing it would keep slipping off . . . obviously . . .
Thinking about frying bacon at a time like this may seem like a crazy thing to do but trust me, it distracts me from doing something extremely idiotic or dorky in Cato's presence.
"We're just going to the square," he spoke in this slow drawl of his, which is just delicious. Except I don't know what he was talking about, since my ear were buzzing like I was underwater. I just nodded knowledgeably. They were probably going to some clothes shops or something . . .
"Right. Well . . . uh . . . don't do anything I wouldn't!" Oh my god, now I sound like a seedy, deeply corny bloke off a building site. I was considering faking a collapse to end my agony when a blood curdling scream erupted from upstairs.
Cato looked shocked.
"What was that?" I exclaimed, turning and hurrying out into the hall. I know I was wanting a diversion but maybe this was a bit too horrific. I mean, for all I know, something catatrosphic could have happened.
"Madge?" I called, leaping up the stairs two at a time. I found her in Cherry's room, rigid with fear. I thought her eyes were mad earlier, it was nothing on the I've-just-seen-an-alien! boggling they were doing now.
"What the hell-" barked Wheat, appearing at my side, along with Cato, who had followed me. But it wasn't her stare or gritted teeth that was the freakiest thing. It was that, for some bizarre reasons, Madge had all these twigs in her hair.
Uh-oh . . .
They were moving.
A/N: R&R?