I survived an hour alone with Peeta Mellark. And, in spite of everything, I actually… didn't hate it.
Given that I thought he might try to bring up that night—the incident with the bread—I was admittedly tense for the first fifteen minutes or so. But when it became clear that it wasn't his endgame, I forced myself to relax.
I paint with a broad brush, so to speak, so it's tempting for me to slap him with a label and move on without a second thought. Conceited merchant kid or smug know-it-all. I don't know, I guess I always thought that his exterior was just part of his nice guy act. The bread thing excluded, I always assumed that Peeta Mellark was fake. An image. An inherently contradictory line of text in a pretentious novella.
He proved me wrong.
Well, I shouldn't say that. Because that would mean that I've decided to trust him, and I only have enough room in my heart for Prim. But, trust issues aside, he's okay.
He walks me back to my building, even though it's like four in the afternoon and broad daylight. When I ask him where he lives on campus, he shrugs the question off. Then, after I push a little harder, he relents. "Elmhurst."
"Isn't that on the opposite side of campus?" I ask, looking up at him incredulously. The corner of his mouth tugs up, but he doesn't answer my question. "That's, what, about a fifteen minute walk from here?"
"Hey, I could use the exercise," he says with a smirk. "I was in better shape back in high school. Now I'm practically out of breath just walking up a flight of stairs."
"Oh, yeah, that's right. You used to wrestle."
He glances down at me, and it's impossible to miss the amusement in his eyes. "And you said you barely know me," he says with a laugh. "Sounds like you were paying attention to me in high school after all, huh?"
"Just an observation," I tell him coolly, but my cheeks are burning. He's still grinning at me, teasingly, but it's enough to make me flustered. I don't fluster easily.
We stop in front of Carlisle's main entrance. "This was… unexpected," I say hesitantly, rocking back and forth on the balls of my feet. "But – good." God. I want to smack myself in the forehead. I pride myself on being levelheaded, but suddenly I'm unable to string together a coherent thought. Is it because he's grinning at me for noticing him? Or is it all just in my head?
"Yeah, it was." Peeta smiles, and I can't tell if it's because he's secretly laughing at me for speaking fluently in Idiot or if he's just being genuine—he's got one of those smiles that makes it hard to tell. "We should do it again sometime."
"Do what again?"
He chews his bottom lip. "I don't know. All of it. Minus the whole getting-kicked-out-of-class thing." Is it me, or does he actually look… nervous?
I'm a little surprised. Thought it was kind of a pity thing, really, and even though I hate thinking that people consider me a charity case, I sort of threw him this one. Maybe in an effort to get him off my back, or to appease my own gnawing guilt, but either way, I sort of thought this was a one-time deal. "Um," I start, aware that I'm swiftly losing my ability to carry on an intelligent conversation. "Okay."
"Okay," Peeta says, and he sounds encouraged by my uncomfortable affirmation. "It's a plan, then."
I nod dumbly at him, that familiar feeling of blind terror washing over me at the prospect of spending more time with him. An hour was fine. Class time is unavoidable. Maybe the occasional walk back from class. But somehow he still wants more. From me. And it's not adding up.
He's about to walk away when he pauses in mid-step. "That Lit exam, next Friday," he says. "Have you started studying yet?"
"No." Anxiety creeps back in. "You?"
Peeta shakes his head. "I was just thinking. It's a lot of material to cover. And, since we don't exactly have lecture notes to work from, or even a professor to ask for clarification…" He allows himself a wry smile. "Think it would be a good idea to study together?"
I stare at him for a moment in paralyzed silence, weighing my options. I could refuse him, spare myself the anxiety of finding things to talk to him about and finding ways to circumvent the obvious tense subject between us. But if I do that, I know I could never study all alone. I'd never finish, and then I'd land myself back in a precarious situation with Haymitch, maybe even the dean. Risk my scholarship, my aid money, my carefully charted course from here into my future career. A lot is riding on this offer.
"Sure. Might speed up the process," I say, and he looks relieved. "When do you want to start?"
"Tomorrow too soon?" he asks. I must have some sort of conflicted look on my face, because he recants immediately. "I mean, if you have time. I know it's a Saturday."
"It's fine," I say, even though there are things I'd rather be doing than studying for a test I know that I'm being set up to fail. "Where?"
"I know where you live," he says smoothly, and turns away. I watch him walk all the way down the sidewalk and disappear past the edge of the building.
…
"Okay, what type of imagery tends to accompany early elegiac poems?"
I bite down on my bottom lip in concentration. "Um…" I start to reach for my notebook at the opposite edge of the table, but Peeta's hand covers it before I can grab it.
"No cheating," he says, shaking his head in mock disappointment. "Or else there will be consequences."
I roll my eyes at him. "Such as…?"
"Such as… a one-hundred point penalty."
"I wasn't aware that we were playing a game," I tell him pointedly.
He grins. "We are now." Then he glances back down at his notes. "You never answered the question."
"Um. Imagery of abandonment and loneliness?" I guess. Peeta raises his head to look at me, and nods to encourage me further. "Like ships lost at sea in the middle of the winter, or abandoned buildings."
"Exactly," he says, grinning. "See? You didn't even need your notes."
"How many points was that answer worth?" I ask him, leaning forward across the table on my elbows. When he shrugs, I press harder, fully committing to the joke. "You threatened me with a penalty. So, I think that I at least deserve some sort of reward for my hard work."
Peeta leans back in his chair, surveying me with a hint of a smile playing across his lips. "Okay. How about this?" He closes his binder and pushes it aside. "We take a break from studying for, say, ten minutes. Which you completely earned on your own. I, on the other hand, have contributed nothing to this effort."
"Oh, you're so self-deprecating."
"One of my many fine attributes," Peeta deadpans with a wry smile. Then he sits forward in his seat and rests his chin in his hand. "What about you?"
My stomach does a somersault. "What?" He's staring at me now. Waiting for me to answer his question, but it's so ambiguous that I can't be certain what he wants to know. "I mean, what about me?"
"What about your finer attributes?" I narrow my eyes at him, unsure how to respond, but he just laughs. "I know, that was a hell of a non-sequitur. It's just that… I feel like I'm always talking about myself when I'm around you."
"Really?" I respond, shifting my focus to the group of girls in my peripheral vision, who are apparently studying at the next table, but not-so-subtly staring at me and Peeta. My cheeks are burning, but I don't know if it's because of them, or because I'm flustered by this particular conversation topic. "Doesn't feel like it."
He smiles. It's probably just my perception, but it seems a little thin. "I'd have to say the opposite about you," he says instead. "You never talk about yourself."
"We don't talk much."
"I get the sense that, even if we did, you still wouldn't talk about yourself," Peeta says with a knowing look.
That look prickles at the back of my mind. I'm not sure whether to be flattered by his accurate appraisal of my character or to be offended. He doesn't know me. And maybe I shouldn't want him to, but for some reason or another, I shrug. "Try me, then."
He blinks in surprise, like he wasn't expecting me to bend so easily. Then he grins, rubbing his palms together. "Okay, okay. Let me think of something good."
I force a small smile in return, but I can't help but feel sinking dread. I'm a deeply private person—Peeta got that much right—and it kind of gets my palms sweating just imagining what kind of questions he might fire at me. I'm not sure how much I want him to know about me.
Suffice it to say that people with unclear motives make me nervous. Especially people like Peeta.
"Got it," he says, and eagerly leans forward. I cross my arms over my chest, trying in vain to ignore the way my pulse starts to pound, and watch his face turn grave. "Katniss. Which theory did you pick for that paper?"
I roll my eyes at him as he starts to laugh, the tension lifting in time with my inaudible sigh of relief. "That's your question?" I ask skeptically, and he shrugs. "And here I thought that you had something good on me."
"Well, everyone knows that you have to build up to the good stuff," he says with a teasing smile. "Everyone, Katniss."
I raise an eyebrow. "Are you sure you're picking up a double major in business and not pre-law?"
"You're evading the question," he says, shaking his head. "Again. Wow. You make a hostile witness."
"Fine. I picked feminism," I tell him.
"You're kidding."
"No, I…" He's smirking, so I trail off mid-sentence, cheeks reddening. "Okay, you know what? Let's just get back to studying."
Peeta sighs, and when I dare to lift my eyes to his, I can tell that he feels guilty. "Katniss, I wasn't trying to—"
"Can we please just get back to studying?"
He's quiet for a moment. "Okay." Then he shrugs. "I wasn't trying to offend you. Just so you know." He slides his notebook back over to the middle of the table, starts flipping through the pages idly. "So, where did we leave off?"
I shouldn't want to say anything. I should want to crack open my books and pass the rest of this study session in near total silence, aside from the occasional question or answer. But my motivation to study is temporarily pushed off to the side. I'm distracted by the loss of the easy conversation that flowed between us just moments ago, and for some reason, I want to restore it.
"It's just a paper," I tell him. He glances up at me, eyebrow raised. "Critical analysis. It's not like… well, if I picked Marxism, that wouldn't mean that I was a Marxist, would it?"
Peeta lifts a shoulder. "No, I guess not. But that's not what I was getting at." He clears his throat, flips to a new page in his notebook and pretends to be engrossed by the lines of text there. But I won't let him get away with that answer so easily.
"What were you getting at?" I ask him, attempting to sound merely curious and not hostile, as I suspect I might.
"Katniss…" he starts, keeping his eyes trained on his notes.
"Peeta," I return, his name sounding foreign in my mouth. The first time I've ever spoken it aloud. "Come on." When he hesitates, I add, "It's my turn to ask a question, anyway."
He looks up at me. Takes a breath, seems to be gathering courage to make a simple explanation. "What I meant was… that it seems fitting. For you. Not that I think that means you're a feminist. Which is fine, if you are." He smiles at me, shakily, and I have to try my hardest not to crack a smile. It's kind of refreshing, seeing him like this. Nervous.
"It's just that you're… independent. I think that's the word I'm looking for. Something I've always noticed about you," he babbles. I give him a thin-lipped smile in return, but my stomach has started to twist and knot. Something he's always noticed?
"Does my feminism intimidate you?" I challenge him, trying to come off like I'm joking, but rather sounding defensive. So I throw in a small smile for good measure.
Peeta laughs, almost sounding relieved that I've taken this so well. "Oh, God, yes." He grins at me, a hint of shyness infusing his features that I've never seen before. "You, Katniss Everdeen, are insanely intimidating."
I'm tempted to interpret that as a slight, but I can't help myself. A blush works its way across my cheeks and I drop my eyes, undeniably uncomfortable with the way he's looking at me. "Good to know," I tell him, smiling down at my notes in spite of myself.
So, I intimidate him. Judging from the way those girls at the next table cast derisive looks in my direction, I suppose that I intimidate them, too.
It's then that I dimly realize that Peeta is objectively attractive. Wide smile, wavy blond hair, blue eyes that seem to see into you. Built, with just enough muscle to convey physical strength but not aggression.
Strangely, I never noticed it before, and the realization makes my stomach twist into knots. But I intimidate him, make girls far more worthy of his attention jealous, and somehow, that sets me at ease.
It's a confidence that propels me through the rest of the study session. Carries me through the next one on Sunday, and when Peeta shyly suggest that we meet again later in the week to review, the thrill of having the upper hand in our odd little dynamic compels me to agree.
He walks me back to my dorm on Thursday night, and I let him because it is pretty late. "Think we're prepared?" he asks, breaking the silence between us. I can't help but notice his word choice: we. As if we're a unit, conquering this exam as one.
"Only because I kept you focused," I say, ignoring the tickle of anxiety in my chest.
"Yeah, well," he says, nudging me with his elbow as we walk. "I get distracted easily."
We pause by the front door, and there's that familiar tension between us again. I expect him to say goodnight, or wish me luck on the test tomorrow morning, or do something, but he's oddly reserved. He looks down at me, the corners of his mouth curved into a timid smile, and opens his mouth like he's about to speak, when it's my turn to get distracted.
"Sorry," I say, sliding my buzzing phone out of my pocket and flipping it open without so much as a glance at the screen. Peeta nods, bites back whatever it was he was probably going to say, and I hold the phone up to my ear. And instantly regret it.
"Catnip," the voice on the line says in a desperate breath. "I need to talk to you."
