Tsk. This was a bloody tragedy.

You'd think young adults would have the common sense to show up to school on picture day sober. But, no. She'd spent the last two days going through dozens… dozens of proofs from this year's layout, just to brighten vacuous, red-tinged eyes. And this was after Jo had done the grunge work of eliminating the tragically unsalvageable ones—the ones where the bastard was so blitzed they couldn't be bothered with opening their eyes at the flash—probably hadn't even noticed it'd gone off. If she had a dollar for every 'portrait not available' slot she'd had to post in that book…

An exasperated breath escaped her and she brought both heels of her palms to jab in her eyes. Lord knew she didn't need this. Had her college apps not needed the extra padding, she'd never have taken the extracurricular.

Final revisions on the next issue of The Feed, which had to be out on Friday, still waited on her to-do pile and she was stuck doing this inanity. The deadline wouldn't grate quite so acutely had Jo not made some stupid comment about changing her editorial on the cheerleading squad's exercise regimen to an exposé on the various eating disorders the hierarchy on the team encouraged. She was almost certain it'd been a horribly timed, sick excuse of a joke, but she still needed to get to that article before it went to press. Under normal circumstances, she'd be the first to champion her overly passionate friend's crusades against all things tyrannical within their school, but there was simply nothing left in her to deal with the backlash from Johanna's brazen irreverence.

She would let the scathing editorial slip in the last edition before graduation—when dealing with enraged student athletes, faculty coaches or helicopter parents was no longer a threat.

Not now.

She was decidedly not cut out for human interaction.

"Miss Everdeen, just the person I wanted to see! So glad you're still here."

She languished her nails down the length of her face to purse her lips at the approaching imposing man. Of course, she was still here. He was keeping her prisoner. The grocery list of crap he'd lugged on her since appointing her editor of both the paper and this joke of a yearbook could be considered child slavery—if she weren't technically an adult and getting both a gleaming recommendation and access to his personal connections in her chosen future career field in exchange.

She briefly tried to pull up a recollection of what sunlight had felt like on her skin. It tingled if memory served. Hmmm.

"You remember how you'd said you owed me for that internship at Cinna's that any kid your age would indenture themselves for twelve years to get? Remember I brushed you off, telling you that you'd make it up to me later?"

Oh, dear lord on high, no. She hadn't known that the tendon behind her left eye could jerk that violently. A vicious migraine was a'comin'.

"Well, your predecessor as editor and one of my all-time favorite students asked for a favor and I find myself in a position to aide."

Her head tipped at attention. Her predecessor. Ryland Mellark. Student council vice-president. Class clown. Jock. Prom king. Most likely to succeed (if he could avoid getting smashed and driving off an overhang before twenty). Barely a B average student, but had the entire school abuzz when he'd managed an athletic scholarship.

She wasn't social, stayed as far away from school related activities as possible, but Rye had made her radar from the moment she set foot in that school as a freshman. It was impossible for him not to. He was extroverted, boisterous—a born showman. Yes, she could see how that boy would be Mr. Heavensbee's favorite. They were cut from the same cloth. Attention whores.

"The wrestling team made it to the state championships again," the robust man continued conversationally, placing his oversized briefcase on his desk before her and starting to riffle through the contents.

His casual mention of this universally known tidbit brought to the forefront that other reason Rye'd always been on her pseudo-aware peripheral. Association. Though, every conscious effort on her part had been made since the age of twelve to convince herself otherwise. To convince herself that everyone in her sixth grade class had been forced to make her a condolence card when she'd gotten back from her four week leave after her father's accident. It had been only her imagination that the card the blonde boy who sat two chairs behind her had made seemed so much more elaborate than everyone else's. The bag of snickerdoodles that accompanied it had to be perfunctory. His father did own a bakery chain. He'd likely made him give them to her.

All the same, she found it odd that Mr. Heavensby would bring up Rye in correlation to the wrestling team's recent accomplishments. He'd graduated. Their current success had nothing to do with him.

"You likely know Peeta's captaining the team now—you handling the club and sports photos for the book and all. The brothers have been entrusting the team to each other for the last four years. They're solid stock. And I hear Peeta's a good boy. I personally don't know him especially well outside the media coverage I oversee of the sporting events, the Junior Honors Society and the debate team. Never took any classes with me. He's not quite as comfortable in the spotlight as his older brothers were. Quite the shame. I remember Flax, his oldest brother? That kid's demeanor demanded every eye in the room focus on him and his voice alone could smelt titanium. I so wanted him to go into broadcasting. But, alas, the law is his passion." He gazed out the window beside the desk wistfully and released a sigh as he handed her a flash drive without shifting to look at her. "This is for your eyes only."

With a frown, she took the drive from his hand and quickly had the contents loading on his computer. Her eyebrows shot to her hairline when she clicked on the folder labeled 'Odair' and row after row of photos of a boy she knew only in passing and from a rather colorful reputation streamed across the screen. The teenager featured sported next to nothing in almost every shot. She cut confounded eyes up to the media arts professor, who now reclined casually against his desk, arms crossed, a keen smile etching his features.

"How do you like the work?"

Her gaze shifted back to the screen and she took a second to shake her head softly, eyes widening in an attempt to leech the initial edge of shock at the context in order to study the technique, the use of light, the minute variations in lens work from frame set to frame set.

It was good. Really good. Far beyond anything she was capable of achieving—leaps beyond anything that hack they'd hired for the yearbook had managed.

She became somewhat entranced as she passed from photo to photo, studying the intricacies of the effort put forth. The artist had obviously taken pains to cherry-pick these. They were exquisite. She didn't notice when the man moved to survey the screen from over her shoulder.

"He was born to seduce the camera."

She started at his voice, a deep flush racing up her neck, eyes darting toward her hands. Yes, the athletic boy was a paradigm… the tanned skin, the piercing seafoam eyes, that polished bronze hair. And she'd be lying if she'd said she hadn't been admiring his physique as she'd perused the frames. But, she'd been more vested in the technique of capturing such beauty, not the beauty itself. Something about that boy seemed… too idealistic. Too perfect. It was as if he was too beautiful. She found herself oddly put off by the notion.

"Fulvia came to develop quite the little crush on these two. If I were less secure in my manhood, I'd be jealous."

Her head craned back to shoot him a surprised look. "Your wife did these? She'd told me she only wanted to focus on landscapes… "

He grinned beguilingly with an upturn to his brow. "I have my ways, Miss Everdeen. And, this did involve some landscape photography to a degree. Rye knew an enrapturing little hideaway by the lakeshore for the scenery shots. Apparently a favorite date spot of his. I assure you, a revisit to the venue with Mrs. Cardew is part of the bargain for the photographs. I volunteered my home studio for the rest."

She returned to surveying the slides, asking dumbly, "What am I supposed to be looking for here, exactly?"

"You're choosing the shots for a pin-up calendar."

Her head snapped up from the screen, stiffening ramrod in her chair. "What?"

"Why do you think I chose you as editor, Miss Everdeen? You had no experience. You have nothing but disdain for working with others. You barely uttered three words in my media arts class last year. You have no on-screen personality to speak of. Why would I choose you out of dozens of plausible candidates when Rye left?"

When she shrugged and wrinkled her nose in response, he answered his own question. "You have an innate talent for finding the nature, the unblemished essence, of context in media—be it in print or on film. You flesh things out, find hidden truths within lies. It's a talent that takes many a lifetime to achieve and you're a prodigy. I wasn't going to give up the opportunity to work with you just because that gift of yours is swathed in your standoffish personality. I've been working with artists, media personnel and teenagers the entirety of my life. I can certainly handle a pissy young girl."

Lines creasing her demeanor severely, she spit with unmitigated spite, "Is it even legal for the school to get involved in this? Pretty sure the parents will be pissed when they find out teachers are peddling a calendar with boys in bathing suits to students."

"The school has no involvement in this, whatsoever," he countered, leveling an equally icy glare. "Flax is writing up a hold harmless agreement for both District Twelve High and the faculty affected as we speak, with the aid of his professors at Ann Arbor and his uncle. District Attorney Abernathy opened an LLC for his youngest nephew to publish the calendar under. He has advised us that we are to make it clear that this is the sole enterprise of these two students and the entirety of my involvement is that of teacher consultant. There is no reason their final project for Coach Dalton's Economics class can't be a calendar. They are both adults and can raise funds for their squad as they see fit. The school will not distribute the calendar, nor will the school profit from its sales. The kids on the wrestling squad will take care of that on their own time. Mr. Mellark the senior is paying for the printing costs. Everything else is volunteer work and time—off school premises."

"I'm not volunteering."

She set defiant eyes on him, arms adamantly crossed over her chest, before using one hand to gesture expansively at the room they inhabited. "And, in case you hadn't noticed, we're still on school premises."

The corner of one of his pale blue eyes twitched slightly a split second before a sly grin found its way on his face. "True, Miss Everdeen," he relented with a sigh, pulling the drive out of his computer, which in turn caused hereyes to narrow suspiciously at the screen saver that replaced the photos. "But, for you, participation means credit for the final product. How do you believe an admissions board would perceive an applicant who has already edited a successful publication coming in?"

Her jaw slackened, her eyes rounding and enlarging exponentially. The bastard was extorting her.

She had half a mind to walk right out of that room and down to the Principal's office, tell him exactly… What? That the media arts teacher had offered her the opportunity of her dreams in exchange for helping him? For helping out a couple of students? Helping out some kids on some stupid team? Oh, and had she mentioned the half dozen other favors she still owed the man for? No. That didn't sound right. She couldn't possibly be that trifling. Could she?

She took a moment to assess exactly why she was growing increasingly pissed before jabbing an open palm at him.

"What do you need me to do?" she snarled.

He did nothing to suppress his triumphant smile as he handed the drive back to her, leaning over her shoulder to explain, "Haymitch really doesn't want us doing anything in this building. And time's a commodity. I need everything done by week's end. The boys are at practice right now, but they should be out in half an hour. I need you to graze the photos and pick six for each—one of both together in the wrestling uniforms for the cover. Edit out the school name and coat of arms from the gear. Remember, we are not selling these calendars, they are. Then, work up the layout for the calendar. The boys are coming in to interview with you."

This caused her to look up at him again, brows pinched.

"It's a teen calendar, Katniss," he elaborated with a huff. "We need to work in some facts about the boys into each month… like a dialogue box inset in a corner or something. Come up with questions to ask them. You know, the kind of asinine questions bubblegum magazines ask celebrities that make tweens gush."

Her lips stretched into a tight line.

"I don't read that crap."

A clipped laugh escaped the large man. "Yes, I didn't figure you for the sort that would."

He dug into his briefcase again and pulled out three magazines. Katniss cringed at the titles: TeenSwoon, Trendz, CapQ. She leafed open one of the publications with the very tips of her thumb and index fingers as if the contact would taint her irrevocably. She sneered upon reading: 'What flavor lip gloss is his fave for you?' and looked up at the educator stricken.

One would think he'd have the decency to attempt to hide that obscenely self-satisfied smirk.

He did not.

"We must all suffer for our art, Miss Everdeen."