A boy is coming. Fantastic. Maybe he can just screw around with me like the last one did. I hated him. I hate this. Maybe I'll hate this boy.
Smoke curls from my lips, and as I breathe outwards slowly from my nose, I peer beyond the veil of smoke to inspect my tiny stub of a cigarette. Its warm red color has faded to ashy black, and I at last discard it and smash it with the toe of my boot. It leaves a halo of ashes and a smudge of white and black papery residue.
My fingernails are painted with chipped purple nail polish, which I notice as I drag them back up towards my face to brush away my hair. The blue ends are beginning to turn a sour greenish color, I notice, and I glance down at my nails momentarily. Hmm.
I shift on the cement of the low wall of the park across from my house and peer over at our familiar windows and deep brown two-story. It's dark from being soaked with light summer rain, the green curtains drawn. I know I'd be in plain sight if those curtains were pulled aside, but I wave off the thought.
I stand, finally, and make my way back towards the house. My boots squeak on lightly dewed grass, their shiny black leather glinting with wetness. Just as I'm beginning to cross the street, the door to my house swings open, startling me.
"Katniss!" It's my mother, her lips pursed in the distance. "Come inside! We have something to read from the new boy." She leaves the door open for me, but I stumble a little. Does she know that I smoke here? Of course, I'm in plain sight, but they rarely ever open the curtains this early and in this type of weather.
My boots scrape on the wooden steps and the welcome mat, which is faded with age. My arms are sore from the push-ups I do in my room in my fury to stay fit, though my archery arms are already fit and taut. I close the door behind me, and it slams rather loudly; an imperfection of our house. I wince, but then draw away from the doorway to meet my mother and Primrose, who are already seated at the dining room table.
"Hi, Katniss," Primrose grins, her partially grown-in front teeth making her s sound like a th. I smile at her lovingly, but weakly, something stirring in my stomach. It's not that I don't like Primrose. If anything, I absolutely dote on her. I'm a little nervous for this new foster kid, and for whatever this family meeting is. They always make me uncomfortable.
"Hi, sweetie." My mom's voice is warm and familiar, and almost immediately puts me at ease, though it always has this edge to it; distant. I pull out a chair and have a seat, scooting closer to the table with jagged little jumps. My mother's kind, vacant eyes find mine. "We're just talking about the new foster child. We've already gone over how we're going to treat him—"
"With respect, kindness, and make him like our own brother!" Primrose spouts triumphantly, her blue eyes sparkling. I love her eyes. My mother chuckles softly.
"Yes, exactly. And we're going to be like his family. We've already read that he's moved around a lot in the past couple of years, and the childcare folk say that he can be a handful." I wince inwardly. Uh-oh. Please don't be like the last one, please don't be like the last one. "But, I've read over some of the folders from them, and it looks like he's a good kid with good morals. He's only fought when he's been threatened, it seems, and it's mostly the families that have been giving him trouble. We're going to make sure that this house is different from those, understood?" Her last sentence is firm, commanding, and there's a murmur of consent from all of us. Mine comes out a little lagged. I'm still unsure about this boy.
"He'll be here soon," my mom pipes up again, her cheekbones twitching at her smile. "I've found his folders for you both, so I'll just let you guys read these quickly." My mom is kind of disorganized, unlike my friend's neat, cleanliness-obsessed mothers. She holds out two thin orange packets, and I take one as Primrose strains to grab one over the table. "Go ahead and get cleaned up." We're dismissed. I stand to walk up the narrow staircase to my room behind the kitchen, almost running into the wall on the sharp turn back almost in the direction I came a floor above. I'm too immersed in the orange packet, which I'm trying to open. My blunt purple fingernails scrabble at the metal butterfly wings folded to close it.
I turn into my room and sit on my bed, the angular white walls in the edge of my vision quite bright from a little sunlight, though my soft white curtains are still drawn. My bed is comforting, its white comforter billowing up around me as I kick off my boots. They fall to the ground with a thud, clumps of wet grass decorating the white carpeting.
I almost cut myself when I pull out the few pieces of paper in the folder. I count, and there's only three. The first page has a picture of the boy and his name again, which I keep forgetting. Peeta Mellark. I kept calling him Peter. His sky blue eyes are determined in his photo, like he cares about what this photo's going to do and where it's going to go. He's not quite grinning, but the end of his lip is quirked up into a sort of half-smile. It's not an asshole grin, but warm, like he's just awkward. That comes as a relief, because the last boy had a cocky smile I always wanted to just punch off of his face. Eventually, I did.
I finger the thin pieces of paper and fall back on my bed, the release of air from the soft white pillows and comforter throwing the orange shell of a packet off of the covers. I sigh and start to read the boy's papers for us.
Q: What is your favorite book?
A: To Kill a Mockingbird. His answers are all short, I notice, and then I realize what I've read. It's rare to find a boy like him who loves the classics. I keep that in mind.
Q: What do you like to do in your free time?
A: Look at the clouds. If it's nighttime, then the stars. I almost do a double take on this one to read it again. Peeta, who are you? I wonder absentmindedly, my eyes trailing back to his picture. What kind of boy liked to look at the clouds in his free time? Most of the boys I know would be with their girlfriends, or with other boys.
Q: What do you love about new cities you go to?
A: I don't love new cities, usually. I've ended up hating the last couple. My families have been screw-ups. I flinch as I think of Primrose, who may be reading the same packet. Did she have a different one?
Q: What are your hopes for the future?
A: I hope this family will be different. Different? I remember my mother's words about how his other families had treated him horribly. But why? I needed to stay a little cautious about this boy— he seemed a little strange, but at the same time, I'm curious.
I sit up quickly, remembering that the boy would be here soon. I stare at my reflection in the sliding mirror doors. My long, dark hair trails past my chest and almost to my elbows. It's not quite wavy, but not quite pin-straight— its old layers make it look just a little messy. I stare at my reflection.
I'm tan— not from sun, though it helps, but from my mom's genes. Native American and something else. My father was the fair-skinned one. I'm skinny— you can tell from my clothing and how it hangs off my frame— but I'm fit for my thin build. Archery and running. My black skinny jeans are ripped at the knees from when I fell last week in the woods. My Rolling Stones concert t-shirt seems to casual for the moment, my blue hair too stale-looking. I sigh, feeling self-conscious. Maybe…
I rip open the sliding doors to my closet and reach for the bottommost drawer. Packets of dye slide around as they're jostled, and I grab the one that appeals to me the most. I shake it, grab the bottle for application and make my way to the bathroom.
Ten minutes later, I'm done. Steam has fogged up the bathroom mirror, and my hair is wrapped in a towel. I dry myself off quickly and step out into my room. I open some of my other drawers to grab a nice white blouse and a pair of black skinny jeans. I leave my shoes off because of the tracks they would leave inside. I untwist the towel around my head and lay my damp hair around my shoulders. The purple ends looks lovely with their lavender shade and darker undertones. They contrast well with my white shirt and dark pants.
My jewelry is hung around a large, white metal mesh A on top of the dresser in my closet. I grab a silver pendant that hangs down over my chest— a present from my boyfriend, Gale. His silvery-hazel eyes sweep over me now, and I feel my insides quivering. I quickly pull it over my head and stare at my reflection in the mirror. My dark brown eyes flicker over my top, my legs, my bare feet.
Just as I'm pulling away from the mirrors, my fingers pulling at the ends of my hair, the doorbell rings. Footsteps approach my room. I pull back from my closet just as my mom sticks her head in the door. She pauses for a moment, her dark eyes fluttering over the tips of my hair. She doesn't say anything about it, but she smiles.
"They're here." She's all gray streaks and dark hair swirling as she turns from the door, the warmth of her smile following her.
Please review and tell me what you think!
I'm at the-star-trekker (d0t) tumblr (d0t) com