A/N: Sorry if Katniss gets a little Veronica Mars-y. I'm sort of modeling a lot of the story around the series. It's a really awesome show if you've never seen it. Thank you to those who put the story on alert. Reviews are very much appreciated though, so if you're enjoying, please let me know!

Peeta Mellark and I are not friends. In fact, we have never spoken. No times that I can recall, at least. But when Peeta Mellark approaches me at the register on my first day of work, he acts as if we are.

"You're Katniss Everdeen," he says innocently enough. His eyes are the most beautiful shade of blue I've ever seen, even more lovely than Prim's. I nod slowly. "I'm Peeta Mel –."

"I know who you are," I say and drop my gaze to the register. I don't know why I'm being rude. I'm sure he's only trying to be kind. I barely know this boy and something about him leaves me on edge. Perhaps I'm bitter because he has so much and I have so little.

Peeta's family didn't make their fortune the same way as most of Panem. He wasn't born into luxury like majority of the Caps our age were.

Before he was elected Town Supervisor, Coriolanus Snow founded a company that specialized in the development of medical equipment and prescription drugs. They built several innovative tools that plastic surgeons used to erase scars and imperfections. Circenex didn't put its name on the map until the late 80's though, when my grandfather Leir Odair, a chemist developed a drug called Morphling, a semi-synthetic opioid that was cheap to produce and more concentrated than anything on the market. After the drug's release and approval by the FDA, Circenex's stock went through the roof. The company employed nearly three quarters of Panem. Overnight those citizens became millionaires.

There were no Mellark's on the pay roll though. They were a baking family. Through the 90's there was still some semblance of a middle class in Panem. Peeta's father was a third generation baker, I still recall as a child when they would hand out free cookies on Christmas Eve. It was the only time we could afford such a treat. Mr. Mellark sold his family recipe to some major corporation, who released them as a line of frozen desserts. Mellarkable Pies. You probably have one in your freezer. They have their own show on the Food Network now. People come from all over the country to buy his pastries. He even baked the cake for the last presidential inauguration. Needless to say, there are no free cookies on Christmas Eve anymore. Peeta may not be the richest kid in Panem, but he may as well be.

I could have been the richest kid in Panem too if my mother hadn't thrown away her billion dollar inheritance for love. I never met my grandfather. I'm sure he knew I existed. When he passed a few weeks after my father's untimely end, all of Panem mourned him. They decorated Circenex's steps with flowers and lit thousands of candles to celebrate him. We were not invited to any of these ceremonies, least of all to the reading of the will.

Maybe that's why I'm short with Peeta, because he lives a life that could have been mine, but I know that's not the case. I'm cold towards Peeta Mellark because he holds a debt over my head that no number of hours at a grocery store could repay. I hate owing someone and until I can think of a way to even our score, I will resent this boy.

He tries to shake off my surly attitude and his smile broadens in the process. "How do you like it? The job that is?" I'm not sure how to answer. This isn't really a job, I'm not getting paid and it's not like I'm here voluntarily. "I'm saving up for a car," he says to fill the silence. I nearly scoff. The Mellarks have no less than ten cars in their driveway. He must read my incredulous expression because he bows his head with a chuckle. "Well I have to pay for the insurance at least." Peeta's one of those few Cap employees at Arena that pretends he needs a job, when really it's more like an after school activity for him.

I feel my blood boil. "I'm saving up to keep my sister out of foster care," I say harshly.

"I'm sorry," he says. "That was a stupid thing for me to say." He runs a hand through his blond curls and takes a deep breath. "Let me try this again. You're friends with Madge?"

I'm losing patience with this boy and his pleasantries. In my experience, there is no such thing as casual conversation. Everything comes with a price, but I owe him, so I humor his prompts. "Sure," I answer dully. I balance my chin in my hand and pluck a few keys on the register with the other.

"Me too," he nods a few times. "She's cool, huh?"

I punch a few more buttons and the drawer of the register pops open with a series of chiming bells. "Do you like her or something?" I snap. "Because I'm really no good at that romance stuff. You're better off just talking to her yourself."

I'm never getting married. Love is nothing but a burden to everyone it haunts. I've seen my mother become a broken shell of a woman, seen Gale's mother, Hazelle throw her pride away, I've even felt the pangs in my heart myself when I remember my father's smile or see the sparks of life fade from Prim's eyes. I have enough worries in my life to deal with that inconvenience.

I see the kids at school, wrapping themselves around one another declaring that their love is like no other, that their survival depends on this undying flame, that their passion will burn longer than any star in the sky. Two weeks later they're wrapped in a different set of arms announcing the same thing. It seems foolish to me.

"No," he says, but his eyes dart away quickly and his cheeks burn a shade of crimson.

I've grown tired of trying to decode his motives. Slamming the drawer to the cash register shut, I lift my chin to acknowledge him. "Then why are you talking to me?"

"Just trying to make conversation, I guess." He tucks his hands into his pockets and scuffs his boot against the clean tiled floor. I've offended him apparently, which isn't a surprise since I've been awfully rude. I feel guilty for a moment. Peeta is kind, I know this to be true, but I can't bring myself to trust him.

"I'm kind of busy," I say, even though there isn't a customer in sight.

"Right," he nods politely. "I've got bread bins to fill anyway." With that he turns on his heels and walks off towards the bakery department.

Outside, it has begun to rain. I can feel it now. The chilling winter air. The drops of water that strike your skin like ice. I'll never forget that day.

I had just been released from the juvenile detention facility. Gale and I were not speaking at the time. I wasn't angry with him, but there was something keeping me from seeking his company. I understood why he was reluctant to see me again. It's for the same reason I can barely look Peeta Mellark in the eye. Some debts are too great to pay.

My mother had lapsed in her mental stability in my absence. The paperwork for the federal and state aide we had been receiving hadn't been renewed and the cupboards were bare. Gale had been leaving a basket of food on our porch every week using the left over funds from our illegal business venture that hadn't been seized by the Sheriff's office. His father returned to town a few weeks before my release however, cleaning out the Hawthorne's in his usual way. Gale struggled to keep his word, but there was nothing he could do.

It would take several days to process our paperwork and based on how listless Prim had grown in her weeks of starvation, I feared she wouldn't make it through the weekend. I couldn't sit home any longer to await our inevitable fate. Desperately, I took to town in search of any scrap of hope.

I could fill my coat with goods, I considered as I passed by the market. My father's hunting jacket was large on me, my frail frame barely filling the heavy material. I could fit an entire shopping cart in it with room to spare. But then I thought of Prim and her gaunt cheeks. I couldn't spend another six months away from her, leaving her to fend for herself. I could no longer steal. I was being watched.

It was raining that day, when I dragged my self to the county offices, pleading with any clerk who would listen to rush my paperwork. "There are shelters you know," they told me plainly, barely looking away from their computer monitor to acknowledge me. There were shelters, but the closest was 40 miles away. I could barely carry myself the eight miles to the county office and I'd heard enough stories of hitch hiking along the interstates through Panem to ever lift my thumb for a ride. I'd be as good as dead.

The walk home had been unbearable. My knees trembled with every step and eventually my feet began to give out as well. I stumbled against the sidewalk and caught myself on the edge of a trashcan. It had been freshly emptied and it toppled beneath my weight. It was then I was struck with an idea. If garbage collection was on that day, then Arena would be dumping all of their expired and rotten food.

This was before Mr. Undersee owned the market. Back then, Peeta's mother ran the place, before his father became America's favorite baker. Some grocery stores donate expired goods to second hand stores, where your SNAP dollars can be stretched further if you don't mind the lettuce being a little brown or the cans being dented. Mrs. Mellark had a reputation however, and did not want it to be tarnished by providing a store with diminished goods. She was liable for the quality after all. More importantly she despised the charity. She could make all the money back with tax deductions and still refuse to participate because those who were not worthy would benefit.

Mrs. Mellark used to dump all the prepared food daily. Soups, sandwiches, salads, that sort of fair. Once a week expired dairy and produce. And on that one day a month when all the stars aligned, canned and dry goods would be dumped as well. People in the Seam marked this day on their calendar. It was like a grand harvest of slightly rancid yet edible foods. It wasn't much. Divided between all of us it made up a meal maybe two, but on weeks when days could go by without even a crumb, these scraps could revive your resolve.

Then one day she noticed all the gray eyes circling her dumpster like vultures. She even shooed us away with a broom. From that day forward, trash day was the only day unpurchased food left Arena's doors mere minutes before the trucks were scheduled to arrive. If I ran, I thought maybe I could beat the truck and so with strength I hadn't been able to access before, my feet began to move. One after the other, quicker and quicker with each stride.

He was carrying a pair of garbage bags to the loading dock when I arrived, the rain coming down in heavy sheets that stung like needles against my skin. I didn't know his name at the time, but I recognized him from being in my class at school. His eyes flickered in my direction and I dropped to the ground hoping I hadn't been caught. The ground was slick with mud mixed with spoiled food. I wretched at the rancid smell knowing that if I could wait for just a few moments longer, it would be well worth my while.

"Is that the last of it?" I heard his mother say. There was a long stretch of silence and I feared that I had been spotted. "Is that the last of it?" She repeated.

"Yeah," I finally heard Peeta say. "I think so."

I waited carefully. Listened for the creak of the heavy door to snap shut. Then I was on my feet, trying to find the best path to climb up the slick wall of the dumpster. I missed the ledge on my first attempt, but I could hear the sound of the backup alarm on the garbage truck as it aligned with the loading dock. I launched off with my wobbly knees one more time and gripped tightly on the dumpster's edge, the rubber of my boots sliding against the metal wall with choked shrieks.

Suddenly light flooded from the back door of the grocery store and in a panic, I released my grip, crashing against the muddy ground with a thud. I choked on my breath as it was stolen from my lungs upon impact.

"A whole rack!" I heard Mrs. Mellark exclaim through the open doorway. "How does someone knock over a whole rack?" And then I heard it. A harsh crack too deep to be a whip. Peeta's cry was the kind that makes your heart stop for a moment. "We can't sell this! It's crushed! Ruined!" There was another crack and I jumped as if it had struck me. "I can't even look at you. You worthless creature!"

The door slammed shut again. Through the sheets of rain I could hear his muffled sobs. I wanted to escape. To run away from his misery. But then the sack of garbage hit the ground, sending mud around in a splash that landed on my boots. I hesitated to move. He didn't necessarily throw this to me, the pain of whatever his mother had whipped him with may have made him too weak to reach the dumpster. Carefully I peered around the edge of the metal wall to see him clutching his side in pain. He gasped for air, but gained his composure when our eyes met. He nodded quickly towards the sack by my feet, then turned back to the door and disappeared.

I scurried towards it, felt heat radiating off its surface before my fingers clutched the thick plastic surface. It was filled with fresh bread, still warm from the oven. Rolls, a few cookies, some pastries, whole loaves, a few bagels. It had to have been half the stock for the next day's bread bin. He'd be working through the night to restock the loss. I almost left it behind, too guilty to accept this gift, but in the next moment I was running home with the sac grasped greedily in my shaking hands.

We ate a whole loaf that night. In the morning we feasted on muffins. "Garlic," my mother had said as we sliced into a hand full of rolls the following evening. She went to the shelf and pulled out a binder that I hadn't seen since before my father was born. Flipping through the pages she stopped on a page with a dried sprig of wild garlic pressed against the sheet. "Your father used to pick this at the edge of the meadow. It tastes just like garlic. Would taste wonderful with these rolls."

I ran my fingers over my father's neat writing and turned a few more pages. I'd seen some of these plants before but never thought anything of it. I scooped up the book, grabbed a basket from the kitchen, and took to the meadow where I filled it with lush plants that I could match to each page. That week I dug out my father's bow and arrows from the trunk in our living room. I didn't have the money to buy a hunting license and I hadn't checked for what was in season. I doubted I could hit an animal if I tried. I'd only gone out with my father a few times when I was young and that was for target practice into the base of large oak trees. But on the third day of following a squirrel through the woods, I hit my mark.

Through this time, Gale and I grew back together. He had stumbled upon a similar epiphany during an obstacle course in gym, when half the class got caught in the same binding of netting. He'd been studying snares in his free time and on one afternoon when I was targeting a rabbit, a twig snapped and the rabbit sprung from the ground until it was hanging helplessly in the air. I had approached the trap to study the intricacy of the design, my finger tracing along the thin wire to follow its path when I was met with a pair of worn leather boots. The owner cleared his throat, and I nearly jumped out of my skin when my gaze met a familiar pair of gray eyes. "You better not go ruining my catch with your arrow," he grinned. I felt my own lips curl into a broad smile. From that day on, Gale and I became a team again.

My life began again because Peeta was the only one willing to invest in me. How do you repay someone for that?

I look over to the bakery department and find Peeta watching me from across the store. Perhaps he's remembering that day in the rain too. I hold his gaze longer than I usually would until he is the one who is compelled to look away. I'm no good with words. I never know where to start. I'll never be able to express my gratitude to this boy with the bread, and so it will hang between us, like a whisper that no one can hear.

Haymitch slams a bag of pork rinds onto the register belt and chuckles, shaking me from my thoughts. "Look at you sweetheart, working an honest job for once." He blots his finger under his eyes as if he were crying. "Brings a tear to my eye," he says.

I glare at him for a moment before sliding the bag across the scanner. "Will that be all?" I ask.

"I'm on a liquid diet," he says. Haymitch leans his elbow on the counter and watches me with an amused smirk.

"I bet," I reply. Undersee will need a liquor license before he can get more than a little pocket change from this patron. I eye the bag suspiciously. "Did you have a craving for a sports season, or are you just looking for an excuse to see me?"

Haymitch presses his lips together and leans closer to lower his voice. "I have news, about your parole." His face has grown somber and I think our little round of banter has come to an end. "The verdict's in," he says. "Apparently you're not very likable."

"And this is news how?" I question. I was never in the running for any Miss Congeniality awards.

"These people are your champions," Haymitch rips the bag of chips open, right at the register, and pops a few rinds in his mouth with a crunch, crumbs sputtering from his mouth as he continues to speak. "They're the ones putting their necks and reputations on the line so that you can find new ways to disappoint them. They want to see a rags to riches story. Some kind of rehabilitation that will inspire Lifetime to trip over themselves to gain the rights. And what do these heroines have in common?"

I imagine a conference room filled with a bunch of suits reviewing court cases as if they were screenplays. Passing over the stories they don't find entertaining enough. It's sickening.

"They're portrayed by an assortment of washed up starlets who can't land a pilot on ABC Family?" I ask dryly.

"They're girls you can root for," he says, and crunches another rind between his teeth.

I scowl at him. "And I'm not?" I try to feign innocence, but I know it's not my strong suit.

"It's my job to like you and I find it a challenge," says Haymitch. "They're apprehensive that serving the remainder of your term on the outside was a good idea."

"And they're just itching to put me back in stripes," I conclude.

"It took some convincing, but we've struck a deal. They don't feel like they know the real Katniss Everdeen, so they'll be watching you." He tips his finger past my shoulder and when I follow his gesture, I see a small camera positioned in my direction. "They'll be collecting the store's security footage for their review to decide if you've truly been reformed."

My eyes remain trained on the flashing red light. I've always been aware of the cameras, but suddenly they seem invading. That these strangers will be watching my every move. Judging me. Choosing my fate. "So I act as the model employee," I say carefully, "and I'm in the clear?"

"There's more," he says ominously.

"More?" I ask.

"It isn't good," he says, as if my poorly concealed anxiety hadn't already indicated the obvious. "Snow's after you." I nearly choke with laughter. Most powerful man in the town of Panem has decided to take on some poor little convict? "It's a campaign year and Snow's got some plans for the community. He wants to incorporate Panem. Turn it into a city."

"What does that have to do with me?" I ask.

"More than you think," says Haymitch. "Incorporating means more specific regulations, additional taxes, private services, Panem's own police department, expensive street lights and pretty little sidewalks." I'm still not following and Haymitch seems to recognize that. "Snow's driving out the lower class."

"He can't do that!" I say. "Isn't that something that's voted upon? Who would pass it?"

Haymitch laughs in my face. "You're not the only citizen in Panem, sweetheart. Municipalities exist for a reason. They have perks too."

"Paying more taxes so Panem's name appears on the side of a garbage truck? Sounds like perks for the rich to me." I narrow my eyes. "Why is Snow pigeon holing me over this? I'm a seventeen year old girl, not a politician."

"It's no secret that you're one of the ring leaders of that little black market around town," he says.

I blink a few times. The Hob is considered a black market? Like we're trading illegal weapons and stolen organs underground? More like trading yarn and fresh berries. Sure some of the goods are stolen or acquired through poaching, but it's certainly one of the less impressive crime rings I've ever been made aware of.

"But more importantly, there are quite a few people in town who are inspired by you. Class tensions are rising. When one half of town hates the other, it's hard to get anything done."

"Inspired? By me? How?" I question. "Five minutes ago you were telling me how unlikable I am. Now I'm too likable?"

"I never said they liked you," Haymitch says quickly. "They admire you. You may not carry the Odair name, but people know it's there, you don't realize the effect that has."

The idea is ridiculous to me. That I could inspire anyone in this town. Rarely do I cross someone in town who doesn't turn their nose at me. It's laughable, the idea that they'd ever follow me. "These people have watched me starve for years, I doubt my heritage carries much weight."

"Do you honestly think Undersee needed your help to pay for that window?" He asks pointing at the boarded wall. "That's what insurance is for." I consider this for a moment and again the image of Peeta and his gift of bread invades my thoughts. "Like it or not, you're a threat to Snow's campaign. Anti-incorporation activists are going to be tripping over themselves to make you their poster child."

"Good," I say stubbornly. "If Snow wants to drive us from our homes, we won't leave without a fight."

"Need I remind you that Sheriff Crane influences your release as well. There's a laundry list of crimes they can charge you with like that," and he snaps his fingers. "You're their puppet, sweetheart."

My eyes lift back to the camera that lurks over my shoulder and I force a false grin. If my family's survival depends on a show, then a show Panem will get.