I'm asking my dad for tomorrow off to paint the storefront. Intentionally, it's an extra chore for me. But I love to paint and I am good at it and I need to earn my reputation back for a crime I didn't commit.

As I'm twirling a wedding cake on a turntable, I frost different flowers while my parents deliberate. My father is putting loaves of bread out to rise for the night, while my mother has her hands in the register, counting the till of the day.

"Just finish up that cake and sweep the floor," She explains tiredly. Her glasses rest on the bridge of her nose between her creased eyebrows, and her teeth gritting from the arthritis in her hands. "Use the can of paint in the garage. Remember that we what we look like on the outside reflects what we are on the inside. No scribbles." She says, hinting back to when I was a toddler and would draw with crayons down the hallway walls.

No one really knows I paint beside my father. He winks at me knowingly, and I get back to frosting.

My hands find the old can of paint hidden in the back. The label is faded beyond recognition. So it's really no surprise when I pry off the lid and shake the can- the paint has separated to uselessness.

Irritated with my mother's stinginess, I wipe my brow of the unusual late September sweat. This summer is the hottest it's ever been in 50 years, as says my dad. It shows on the street and the beginning of autumn weather lingers in the same way. As I walk toward the paint store, the A/C unit is buzzing loudly next door at the candy shop. Hersh smiles through the window, his brown hair sticking to his forehead.

The man across the street who owns a vacuum repair shop glares at me from across the road.

I remember when I would walk down these streets and down at the lake, and all the people would just scowl. I made one mistake, and my reputation was shot. People still look at me with distrust, and living in a small town where I know all my neighbors, doesn't help. I had always been the golden boy, baking bread, sitting by the window frosting cookies with the kids in our neighborhood.

But still, the sun shines; pulling the mercury in the thermometer outside Addison's Sweets to 70° and it is only 10:30 in the morning.

Three shops down, Indigo, the owner of the paint store glowers at me. The bell rings that is atop the door. I'm a regular.

"What can I do for you?" She speaks authoritatively as she steps forward, arms crossed, eyeing my old can of paint. But it's so much more. I know that even though it was years ago, I'm still mentally apologizing once again for what my friends, previous friends, did to her car.

"I'm sorry, again. I was the driver; I didn't throw any of the eggs." She flares her nostrils and signals for me to continue. "I need a can of exterior white paint." I state. The woman, an outspoken 50-something-year-old woman, looks perplexed.

"White?" She doesn't believe it. "No orange or blue? You must be painting," she pauses, "The bakery storefront. Peeta, did you know that that paint started cracking before my husband's feet?"

I force a chuckle with her. She seems to forgive easy, but I am still walking on thin ice.

She is right. It seems that white walls would fit in too well on Main Street, too ordinary. The streets are almost depressing to walk down, and we are in the up kept part of town. It seems with summer leaving and the changes of autumn approaching, everyone is trying to gear themselves for the winter grey. I think the street could use some color. "Indy, I think you're right. What about we brighten things up. Give me a can of blue and green and orange and red…" She smiles widely and gets to work mixing the colors.

My hands get those weird indents from holding the handles of the cans, but eventually and after a few trips of carrying all the cans, and gathering my supplies, I have what I need. I look for inspiration for what to paint. Living in Upstate New York, trees are everywhere. They cover many of the canvases hidden in my room in hundreds of different shades of green. She is painted on some too. That's when I get an idea.

Starting from the bottom of the wall, I sit on the concrete, my khaki shorts riding up, revealing my bare legs to the burning cement. I ignore it, and loose myself into the paint, pulling and dabbing the brush in different directions to spread the scene.

The high sunset I paint shines over the pines and reflects onto the lake to the right-hand corner. Overlapping red with white, purple with pink, flowers start to bloom, and bees begin to buzz.

The hours pass quickly as the sun rises in the sky. A sheen of sweat covers my skin. Hersh grabs me a Gatorade from their fridge to keep me hydrated. But in the late afternoon, I stand to stretch my back, twisting and lifting my arms. But I do this weird hip twist and that's when I see it. A small crowd watching from afar as I paint this new world. Their palms connect as the small group claps at my half-finished work. I grin with pride. Amongst the people, Katniss isn't and I don't know why I was expecting her. I hope she will see it after it's done. It will look better when it is complete anyway.

Still, these people may not be her, but they like what I am doing, and I don't let her absence bring me down.

The end product arrives two days later. The storefront is a nice neutral yellow color, brighter and more vibrant the color before. But the real treat is on the side of the building, facing the street. The mural brings pride rushes over me as I look at what I completed. The many days I had spent at the bakery frosting and decorating and painting paid off. It's so vibrant that the surrounding walls almost reflect the scene, illuminating the colors onto the other buildings.

My father loves it, but my mother finds something missing- the name of the Bakery. At the top, invading the sunset, I curve letters with black paint, Mellark Bakery. She tells me it's great, it looks better than the cracking exterior from before.

Autumn slides in, turning the leaves into many different shades of warm colors and spilling them on the road. The atmosphere is bringing in more customers searching for warm pastries. Mom says it is the season, but Dad and I know many of them are curious of the store's exterior.

Smoke billows from chimneys, leaving a thick bitter haze blanketing the buildings. Our cinnamon rolls are selling out before nine in the morning, as they always do around this time.

The homeless people are working hard to find somewhere to keep warm. Each winter they circulate the town for somewhere to migrate to. The group, our town and themselves have named 'the family', is made up of ten to fifteen people. So it is not a horrible burden when they start to sit at the side of the bakery. My Mom tries to shoo them away saying they are loitering and that they leave a bad impression for the bakery. It could be true, but these people need somewhere to go, and it would leave a worse impression of our family kicking them off a public street.

My father and I work late into the nights preparing warm hearty breads for the unfortunates, this sometimes their only meal.

We think people attract here because of the ovens and how their heat slightly warm the air behind the wall they are against. It's true. I remember missing my curfew on a spring night and my parents had locked me out as my punishment. I laid against that wall where it was warmer. Still it was the coldest and worst night sleep of my life.

As I sit one woman with the widest smile and the most missing teeth sits with me, savoring her warm bread trying to unstick it from the roof of her mouth. She reminds me of my grandmother, so I hold her wrinkly grimy hand and listen to her slurred stories.

"Son, did you paint this?" She motions next to her.

I nod meekly as I watch her breath turn into steam. "Yes ma'am I did." I squeeze her hand. "Do you like it?"

"Why certainly!" She exclaims. A look of contentment covering her face. "Do you want to know why we decided to come here this winter?"

"It's warmer from the ovens?"

"It's warmer but not in the way you think. We sit here because, we can look up, and it brings us hope. What you and your father are doing is amazing. And I enjoy the bread. It warms me up!" She laughs. She's beaming, probably excited that there is someone to listen to her. "It is so kind what your family is doing for us. It's amazing, extraordinary. I can speak for all of us, we truly appreciate it." With that statement, it feels like my grandmother is giving me her approval once again.

This goes on for weeks, people making me feel good about myself, building my self-esteem from the low I was in after vandalizing Indigo's car.


It's the middle of October, the smell of pumpkin pies ribboning the air. I'm sitting on the pavement with an older man named Cliff, who has been a part of the family since the beginning. He is convincing me of a government conspiracy when two familiar bodies show up with backpacks and a leather jacket serving as a blanket.

She is sitting on the far end of the street. Her petite sister snuggles against her.

It's happening again. I'm sweating in the cold, my body debating against the temperature. I get dizzy and my head feels congested. It's such a beautiful mess happening in my mind seeing her. With that same beautiful mysterious face that I have seen so many times before. This is the first time I have seen her since graduation- almost 5 months ago. She always was poor, especially after her father died in a car wreck, but they were never homeless.

"The moon landing was staged… people didn't need to know… aliens." I am only catching a few words, because my attention is on her. The man stops talking to look where I was looking. He pats my leg to get my attention. "You were nice to us." He pauses and smirks with a mouthful of yellowed teeth when he sees Katniss in the distance. "Help her."

That's what I do. My hands are trembling as I put their batch of goods in the oven, almost smoldering my fingers on the racks. Hersh would be so disappointed if he found out I was this close to talking to her and didn't jump on the opportunity. I have avoided and sidestepped her for many years.

I run up the stairs to my bedroom above the bakery and search for the cleanest sweatshirt to bring down. I grab my grey wrestling one from high school that's baggy on me and says my last name in dark bold letters on the back. I rummage through my sock drawer and grab two pairs of white ones, and the comforter off my bed.

Pacing around the vacant bakery floor, I stare at the ever-growing pile of goodies sitting on the large table in the middle of the kitchen. I'm mentally preparing a conversation as I am warming the milk for their hot chocolate, when the oven dings. I would have never thought that today, I would talk to Katniss Everdeen, and I doubt she is thinking the same for me too.

Unlike the loaves I gave her before, they turn out perfect. Nothing blackened from the oven, and nothing to deserve a slap from my mother. They are 'display item worthy'.

I check my reflection in one of the baking sheets as my brother Rye walks down the stairs, his hair disheveled.

"Baby brother, it's late," he yawns as he runs a hand through his hair. "Were you looking at your reflection? Got a date? Realized you got your good looks from me?" Throwing his head back in mock laughter, he struts around the bottom step putting a show on for me, and making a complete foul of his self.

If I tell him what I was about to do, he would do anything in his power to sabotage my chance with Katniss.

He thinks she's cute too. I can't blame him.

I tell him I was making bread. If I start an argument, it's going to make the time between now and talking to her, longer.

"Thought I had something in my teeth, don't get too excited."

He scoffs and makes his way up the stairs to get back to his room.

I grab everything. I hold the bell at the top of the door. I don't want to wake my parents whose bedroom is right above the front entrance.

In about 12 strides, I will be face to face with the girl and her sister who has captured my heart for all these years.

Don't freak out. You are only talking to the girl you have liked since kindergarten.

She is sitting under the streetlight, the white cascading her face. Here it goes. I step into the perimeter of the light reflecting on the sidewalk, and breathe deep.

When her eyes meet mine, my heart feels like it's ready to break my rib cage to escape the pressure.

This is it.

I announce timidly, "I'm here to perform your welcoming ritual." Her face stays blank, and her eyes shift to the stuff in my hands. "Can you grab the mug out of my left hand?" My voice is shaking and she squints her eyes because she knows what I am doing, but grabs it anyways. "Be careful it's hot."

"Prim, Peeta brought you something to drink." It sounds like an angel has spoken when she says my name. Her voice is like a cello, its tone deep enough to be noticed but doesn't hide within the song. My ribs are breaking. I'm talking to her, and she knows my name.

"Is that hot chocolate?" Prim asks while raising her arms to stretch. She moves her hand to grasp the mug, but Katniss shoos it away.

"Prim, don't be impolite." Her voice is thick, magnificent at the least.

"It's fine and yes that mug is all hot chocolate and all yours." I say, looking toward Prim. Prim takes it questionably.

"Thank you so much. I knew this was the right place to come Katniss." Prim replied.

"We can't accept this," Katniss counters and snatches the cup out of Prim's hand. I don't understand. They need it.

"Why?" I ask, desperately trying to understand. But it hits me as Prim says the words signally the conversation we had in the spring.

"Not again." Prim glares and I know. The bread, all those years ago.

"Okay, then." I say. "Well I am leaving you the decision, Prim, and these two loaves of bread." I pause, just wanting to run away. "Just, just. Keep it all. I'm just going to grab your mug, and I'll be back out." With that, I drop the bread in Prim's lap and leave Katniss with a puzzled blank expression.

My steps are backwards as I walk to the bakery to grab Katniss' cup. Katniss mumbles loud enough for me to hear, as I am halfway to the bakery. "We don't need your pity."

I defend myself as I go. "I'm not showing you pity, just kindness." Footsteps follow me down the road, into the bakery and behind the counter. Prim puts both hands on the counter and shifts her weight forward.

"What?" I snap a little too defensively. She is so skinny, as if she hasn't seen three full meals since the beginning of the summer.

"I was going to say thank you, but I won't if I have to argue with you." She says. The thing about Prim is that she has such an innocent exterior. With soft facial features and blonde hair and blue eyes. And on the inside, she is loyal to her sister, and will do anything to make her better. She is her own kind of beautiful that is completely different from Katniss.

Her brown hair is still down in a braid and her eyes show the pain of a thousand men, but Primrose Everdeen is carefree, relying on her sister for everything. Now the roles reverse and I'm depending on Prim. She was always the one who would lure Katniss to look at the cakes on display in the windows, or dragging her inside to get free cookies we would give out to the younger ones. She has been my wingman since she was in elementary school. Now she is 14 and looks as starved as Katniss did at that age.

"What would we argue about?" I ask.

"I don't know, you just sounded angry." She replies.

"I don't want to fight, I'm just frustrated. It's like there is no way to ever make her happy."

"Makes two of us. But really, we need help. But don't make it obvious to her." She wraps her arm around my side, her fingers and arm radiating the frigid air from sitting out in the cold. The tip of her nose is a deep red and I can hardly stand the idea that she has to go back out there. "Peeta! I can take the cup for you."

I hand her the warm cup to have something to occupy her hands. We make our way back and I tell them goodnight.

As I walk past the alien guy, he gives me thumbs up. I can't help but feel horrible leaving two teenage girls on the sidewalk on a very windy night, while I sleep comfortably in my room. I couldn't help but notice how knotted Katniss' hair looked from the wind as she sat on the north facing side where my mural is. That's where the family has sat for a few weeks now.

See, the great thing about the bakery located on a corner is that we have two outward facing walls for publicity and for the first time, the homeless to lean against. But on the opposing wall, there is an alley between the candy shop and our bakery. It is hardly wide enough to fit a small car through, but big enough for Hersh and me to let our imagination run on this tiny street. The wind isn't as harsh, and actually, that's where my bedroom window is. So I can keep an eye on them, and make sure they are safe.

I hustle back with my hands in my pockets, then pull them out and start picking up their stuff.

"What do you think you are doing?" Katniss snaps, as she tugs on her bright orange backpack that is surprisingly heavy. I hand it back to her, because in my hurry I didn't realize that it is rude to just grab their stuff.

"Sorry." I say bashfully. Usually, I am not intimidated by a woman as I am with her. I am 18 years old, and I still don't feel that I have the right to talk to her. How do I explain their desperation without sounding like I am one that is desperate to help the girls out?

Take Prim's advice.

"In the alley on the other wall, the wind isn't as rough and it's not so crowded." Prim, is stacking her belongings and holding her hand out for me to help her up.

"Wait Prim." She says.

"What?" Prim quips. "My ears are starting to sting." She turns to me. "Thanks Peeta for so graciously offering your alleyway to us." She utters somewhat sarcastically.

"Fine." She scoffs. Defeated, Katniss picks up her few belongings and puts her back straight. She is not going to show that she is embarrassed of how little she has. That's what I like about her. Never cowers, never ashamed.

We go around the front entrance, avoiding as many people as we can. Then, I sit them against a wall with a window a few feet to their left. I tell them a final goodbye for the night and if they need food, or shelter, or a bathroom, or a person to talk to, they can find me. I'm not far away.

Now that I have my foot on the bottom step of the 'Pursue Katniss Staircase,' I am not going back down now.


A/N: A couple of years ago, I went on a vacation to Bolton Landing, New York. It's right off of Lake George in the northern part of the state. Beautiful small town, touristy in the summer. That happens to be the setting. If you're interested, Google Map the city and explore, I will introduce many locations through actual street names and general layout of the town.