Cake in the window

Peeta Mellark, age 15

"I love you, Katniss". My voice is rough and awkward, and my eyes are too big and too bright above my flaming red cheeks. I frown at my distorted imagine smiling clumsily at me back from my father's shaving mirror. It's never going to work. Not if I approach her like… like a mumbling idiot. I feel my ears burning as shame engulfs me. She'd probably just laugh in my face. Or she'll bless me with one of her trademark scowls.

I sigh and turn my back at the unforgiving mirror. Maybe I should talk to her first, about something else. Anything else but my feelings for her.

I let myself fall on the side of my bed, cradling my head in my hands. What could I possibly talk to her about?

The shop? Why would she care about that- she never comes in anyway. Our customers are usually Peackeepers and rarely other merchants.

Her hunting? Yeah cause that's going to be easy- talking openly about something that could get her thrown in prison any day. Or worse.

The day I threw her the bread? I'm sure that will go straight to her heart, her being so proud and all.

Homework...?

I sigh into my hands as I hear my mother cursing for me to get down stairs. Well, at least I have all summer to think about what I'm going to tell her when we meet up for the school start in September.

I make my way downstairs bracing for my mother's harsh words. I don't mind working in the bakery. On the contrary, I love baking.

I love how I can mix flour, east and water- such simple, unremarkable ingredients and turn them into something most people can't live without.

I love the smell of the rising dough because it makes me think of family, gathered around the hearth on a cold, winter night, sharing stories of kindness and love in the flickering light of the fire..

I love kneading the dough. Pulling and twisting the soft, pliable mass, watching it yield under my touch, molding it into the shapes of my imagination.

What I don't like is working with my mother. She's so surly and cold and always finds something to bicker about. I know I have no right to think about her like that. She is my mother after all. She carried me in her belly for nine months, she fed me and dressed me and rocked me to sleep when I cried. But she also hit me and humiliated me and pushed me away just because she wasn't in a good mood that day. I know life isn't easy, even for us who live in town and do work that allows us to at least put food on the table. I know she probably lost her patience waiting, hoping that things would get better. I just wish sometime, just sometimes, she had a kind word to say.

"So you finally decided to show," she spits when she sees me and I risk a fleeting glance at the clock on the wall, which says I'm actually on time. She always starts work before anyone else. I don't understand why though, since every time I work with dad or any of my brothers, we manage to get everything done even if we start an hour later than her.

"I'm sorry, mom," I answer back, trying a shy smile in her direction. We're going to be here all day and it would make things easier if we started on the right foot.

"Sorry won't put food on the table," she retorts, her voice turning imperceptible softer, then turns her back at me and continues working on the batter. It's the mayor's birthday today and we have a cake order. It's not often that we get those, but when we do, we make more and put some in the window, for the very few people who actually have money to buy them. Maybe it's not going to be such a bad day after all, if I get to decorate my cakes.

See, I love baking, but I love painting even more, and this is the only way I can do it outside school. Yes, I do draw in the little spare time that I have, using pieces of coal and old scraps of paper—the best of my sketches proudly padding the walls of the tiny nook I now call my own. But black and white smudges can't compare to the amazing food coloring we receive on special order from the Capitol. I can only imagine what I could do if I worked in one of the bakeries in the Capitol…but of course these thoughts are pointless. If I'm lucky, I'm going to live my life here, in this sooty excuse for a district. Only if I'm lucky. I'm careless enough to snort at the irony of the statement and mom readily rewards me with a slap on the back of my head and deep voice reminder that if I have time to laugh I'm probably not doing the work I'm supposed to. So I sigh and get back to molding the dough.

By noon we're almost done with baking our loaves, the mayor's cake is done and quite decently wrapped in a brown cardboard box and I also got two other cakes ready to put on display. I straighten my back and can't help but look at them one more time before some random peacekeeper comes in and buys them away. And then, like that, my heart drops. A tiny girl, with long, blond braids is practically glued to the window. Her eyes are bright blue and the summer heat air put a tint of rose on her cheeks, turning them a lovely hue, just like the petals of the flower she is named after.

Her eyes are full of wonder, but I know she will not come in to the bakery. I remember the tiny cake I made out of the leftover sponge cake and scraping of filling. I was meaning to give it to mother, as I usually do when we work together in the shop. It seems to put her in a better mood, so I risk it, even if it is illegal.

And I just know that today I have to give it to Prim. I want to give it to her; maybe this way I can atone for two loaves of bread I threw at her sister on a rainy winter day. I wrap the funny shaped blob in a piece of cloth and I quietly turn towards the front door, not caring that this move will probably bring my mother's wrath down on my head.

I freeze on the spot. Katniss is at her sister's side in front of the window, and I feel all my aplomb drain out of me like rainwater in the gutter. She shows nothing of her sister pleasure at the sight of my cakes, her face hard as stone and I can't help but feel disappointed.

Prim doesn't ask for cake, like any other kid her age would have. She just seems content with admiring them from a distance. I watch Katniss put one arm around her little sister's shoulder and I see her expression soften as she leans in and whispers something in Prim's ear, making her giggle. Then she turns around and leaves. Prim gives another long look at the cakes then locks eyes with me, gives me a broad smile and an inconspicuous thumbs up, then turns away to follow her sister.

And here I still am, rooted on the spot, like the coward that I am, the tiny cake softening in my palm.