When I woke up yesterday, the world seemed disjointed and the memories of what happened a few hours ago came racing back to me. Gale's confession. Since then, I have been successfully avoiding him, never entering the woods, leaving work early so he doesn't walk me home. Luckily I awakened before I could miss work at Savvy Shop. Today, Monday, I face a challenge all its own: working for Addie again.
As before, I stand on her broken stepping stone, wondering if I have to ring the door bell. Fortunately for me, I see Addie hobbling to the window to see who it is. With a turn, she opens the knob and smiles at my presence. I really must be the only company she gets. "Ah, Katniss. How are you, dearie?" she asks. I am thrown off by her warm questioning to my well being. Thank goodness she remembered who I am this time.
"I am good, thank you" I reply. The smell of perhaps another invention or poison of hers comes wafting through the kitchen.
"You came just in time. I made brownies especially for you," Addie says. Another thing for me to eat?
"Oh, you didn't have to make them for me. I work for you," I reply.
"Yes, I know. But one must never work on an empty stomach." I've suddenly gather a clearer picture of who Addie is: a hospitable person who relies on the tried and true to please her workers. I sit, looking at the placemat kittens, perfect and furry. Addie offers me a drink, but, to her disappointment, I refuse.
The brownie offers me no sympathy, no solace on what I will have to achieve. I simply couldn't say no to Addie, who so kindly made these just for me. Biting one, I suddenly taste salt, biting and forcing me to drink anything. Unluckily she presents the horrible orange tea. Wanting to get this awful taste out of my mouth, I instead replace it with the bitter flavor of the tea. Quickly, I eat in a series of rounds: bite, drink, wait, bite, drink, wait, until all of my drink and "dessert" is gone.
"I simply can't decline a brownie," Addie says in defense of her empty plate, where a load of brownies just abided. How could she eat all of them? Perhaps she lost her taste buds.
"What would you like me to work on now?" I ask, looking around at the other mounds of hours of work I have yet to accomplish.
"I know I should ask this later, when you are almost done cleaning everything-" When will that ever be, I think.
"But my porcelain dolls really need to be spruced up." She says. Those things. They stare creepily, eyes dead but still alive. I wouldn't touch them with a ten foot pole but this is my work, after all. Addie gives me a handful of products to "spruce them up". Cleaners so old they were probably made before I was born, little brushes used for who knows what, glue to piece together any cracks.
Holding a particular one dressed in fortune teller clothes, I glue a few shards of her feet back together. I inwardly shudder, speculating as to what curse this doll will give me one day. Maybe she'll give me one for simply touching her. It's not my preference either, darling I think.
An hour later while cleaning another doll that looks like a painter a faded memory of Pictionary comes into my head and I suddenly think of Peeta and-Peeta! I promised him that today I would work on the airplane with him today. Even though my hours aren't up, I promised Peeta.
"Addie?" My voice breaks the silence and I'm suddenly fearful of what she might say. Addie won't care, will she?
"Yes?" she asks.
I bow my head in shame of what I have to say. "I promised a-" I pause, wondering what Peeta is in relation to me. Is he a friend?
"A classmate I would help him with a project. I'm sorry but I have to leave early," I say.
"A boy, eh? Is he your boyfriend? That's the reason you can't miss it?" Addie asks. Despite myself, my cheeks grow red at the thought of Peeta being my boyfriend.
"No. We simply go to the same school."
"Alright. Don't worry; I'll give you the same amount of money-"
"But" I protest. "No. You've worked hard," she says firmly. She hands me money and it's all I can to do walk out of her house with at least some of my dignity left.
I walk briskly, running at times, till the gray houses of the poor turn into the colorful houses of the rich. I suddenly freak out, remembering that I left the paper with Peeta's address in my U.S. History book, but then I remember our meeting. How I could never forget that house.
Apprehension overtakes me when I reach his doorstep and I wonder what I will say. Will his witch of a mother be there?
Gathering up all of my bravery, I ring the doorbell. I wait for one ring, two. When the third ring comes, I see a stocky figure come to the door. Peeta. I sigh in relief that his mother didn't answer. He opens the door in surprise. "Katniss. Come in," he says, gesturing to his house. My eyes widen as I see it. The floor is a dark brown, the ceiling tall, and there is a spiral staircase. I haven't seen one of them in person, only in those fancy home and garden magazines my mother sometimes gets for free. Walking in slowly, I see how spot-free everything is. How often is this big house cleaned? I think of mine, how it only gets cleaned if one is tripping over clothes or other appliances.
A fleeting image comes into my head and I ask hurriedly, "Is your mother here?"
"No. Everyone is at the bakery now. This is my off shift," he replies. Of course Peeta would make sure no one else was here when I came over. I can vividly imagine Peeta's mother's reaction is she saw me here.
"Sorry I'm late. Work and all. How much work do you need me to finish on the airplane?"
"I'm not sure if you got the email, but we're supposed to be the first to go. I didn't think you were going to show, so I finished it," he says. My stomach drops. The project is finished and I can't work on the airplane. I thought possibly I could repay Peeta in this small way, by pulling my share. But I haven't and I can never repay him.
"Sorry," I say in a small voice.
"Don't worry about it. You've done more than enough for it, anyway." I know he's lying. Peeta was the leader, the one giving instructions, doing the most work.
"Want to see it?" I nod, and we head up the spiral staircase. My eyes are constantly going up and up, trying to glimpse the top of the never ending flight of steps.
"My parents for some reason liked this idea, having millions of steps. A stairway to heaven. For them, it's just an excuse for us to get exhausted before bed so we're not waking everyone up at night."
At last we reach his bedroom. I'm frightened at what lies beyond that door. I feel like I'm somehow entering his personal space, a space that shouldn't be touched by anyone except him and his close friends. Which I'm certainly not one of. Instead I see surprisingly blank walls, a plain bed sheet. If this room had a name it would be named "plain".
"Here it is," he says a bit bashfully, as if ashamed of his work. I take one glance and then back up.
"Whoa," I say. My mouth has gone dry, looking at an almost exact replica of what airplanes looked like in that time period.
"You did that?" I ask in disbelief.
"Yeah. It took a while. I spent forever looking up pictures and making the sticks stable to hold up the top. They just wouldn't stay on." Guilt fills me at the thought of Peeta working on this for hours and me not helping at all.
"I'm so sorry I couldn't help," I say.
"Katniss, I don't blame you. You have your family to support and I?" He looks around at his wealth in disgust.
"I don't have anyone. I probably have much more time than you. I completely understand." My eyebrows knit together, trying to understand this mysterious person.
"But I can never repay you. I thought putting my fair share could help repay you. Instead I show up late and do nothing," I say bitterly.
"Repay me for what?" he asks. Then knowingness comes into his face and I know he remembers that day as well as I do.
"The bread? Katniss," he laughs.
"You don't need to repay me for that. Weren't you just my partner in this project?"
"You don't understand how much that bread, that offering meant to me. It gave me hope." I wonder why I'm sharing this all of a sudden, but by some means it feels right.
"Well if you are so keen on repaying me, even though you don't need to, I do need some help with something."
"With the project?" I ask.
"No," he says. Thinking back to my mother and Prim, I know that I need to go home soon. I'm supposed to be working on the project that is now finished. However, another more pressing problem comes into focus: repaying Peeta. And now I can finally do it, once and for all. By helping him with whatever it is he needs help with.
"Then what?"
"My brother's birthday is today. I'm making him a cake and I need help decorating it. I have it at home since he would know right away if it was at the bakery. Could you help me?"
My previous thoughts of repaying him sink away at this suggestion. Decorate a cake? That's like asking me for help drawing something. I simply stink at it. But the look on Peeta's face is so hopeful and the prospect of partially repaying him allures me to the extent that I say yes.
The effect is immediate, the only way I could describe his expression was pure joy. He bounds down the steps, and I follow him. "I can only do this when my parents aren't home," he explains.
When we reach the main level, Peeta tells me he needs to get something. "Stay here. No, wait. Come with me," he says.
Curiously, I tiptoe behind him, making sure not to make noise in the still house. After making various turns, I see an unmarked white door. The second he opens the door wide my breath is taken away.
All around me lays artwork, on the walls, on the ground. Each different, some of dogs, others of nature. As I turn to the left every painting gets increasingly better and more skilled.
"I told you, I have more time than you probably do. I hang out here during my off shift."
"How long did it take you to do all of this?" I wonder.
"I've been painting for a long time. Hard to say, really." He seems to come out of his trance and grabs a piece of paper with sketches on it. When we reach his spotless kitchen, he grabs instruments of all shapes and sizes and sets them upon the table. Nameless things that only Peeta could know of.
"Why is all of this stuff here? Shouldn't it all be at the bakery?"
"Oh, well I slowly took the things I needed. They wouldn't notice unless a bunch of stuff went missing at once," he says with a hint of shame in his voice.
"Where's the cake, then?" I ask. Peeta laughs, most likely remembering the odd place he hid it.
"There's the oldest refrigerator in the basement. Leme go get it. You honestly don't want to go down there. I still get creeped out by that place," he says. I sit on one of the stools, swirling round on it until Peeta comes back, bearing a snowy white three tier cake.
"Don't tell me you baked that in the basement," I say.
He smiles and responds, "Nah. You'd be surprised how much my parents miss if you're clean." I am suddenly struck by how lackadaisical his parents are. Maybe it was that Peeta was the last child, but it definitely seems that he never got much attention.
Smoothing out the sketch paper, he tells me his plan. "See we're gonna put icing here, little circles here..." My head is spinning, trying to work out Peeta's plans. "You get it?" he finally asks.
"Yes? I don't really understand, Peeta. Just tell me what to do."
"Just start cutting circles." He hands me what looks like play dough, except harder and a knife. I stare at it, expecting it to give me instructions on how to work it. Unfortunately it does nothing.
Eventually I give up and instead watch Peeta. Usually his face bears an easygoing look. However when he concentrates, it is completely the opposite. His brows knit in concentration; his tongue juts out slightly, and his eyes are blue steel. He suddenly looks up at my progress and I glance away, as if I was staring at him. Which perhaps I actually was.
"How're those circles working out for you?" he asks. I look at my "circles" and see a jagged and fat ball. So much for trying to help.
"I stink at this," I say hopelessly.
"Not at all. It took me years to be able to cover cake with fondant," he replies reassuringly.
"What's fondant?"
"Never mind," he answers. He takes the stuff and molds it as if it was smooth and fluid. Which is anything but the consistency I worked with.
"Here," he says, patting it down upon the table. "It should be easier to work with now."
I stand carving circles, and I'll admit it is a lot easier. After making fifteen large ones Peeta hands me a different color of the hard play dough.
"It looks great. We're gonna make eighteens out of the blue fondant. I have a few number cutters."
I try rolling out the fondant by myself but I give up, frustrated. "I can't do this," I say.
Sitting back defeated, I sulk at my failure. What was I thinking, trying to repay Peeta in this way? I can in no way, shape, or form help him.
He stands behind me and, with my hands guiding the roller, we smooth out the so-called fondant. At first I am squeamish at the thought of his arms being so close to me, but I soon relax and fall into the rhythm of the thump, thump as the roller clears out the fondant.
"Here's the one and the eight," he says, giving me what looks like cookie cutters.
Pushing down hard and precise, I make perfect eighteens. Finally, something I'm good at.
Peeta sticks the circles and eighteens together. We then proceed to add them on the cake. He also puts the smaller ones he made on also. Looking at the sketch he frowns.
"I want to put something special on the top, but I don't know what. Any ideas?" He looks at me for an answer.
"Why are you asking me? I'm the one who's supposed to help you."
"I've got it. A giant cupcake."
"A cupcake?" I ask incredulously. Why would an eighteen year old boy would want a giant cupcake on his cake? Just get a cupcake for goodness sake!
"That's his favorite dessert. He used to sneak them all the time. He would like it."
"Okay," I say skeptically.
"I hope we have something I can use in here," he says, peering around in his refrigerator.
"Aha. We could use this." He holds up a huge piece of cake.
"Why do you just have cake lying around in your fridge?" I ask.
"If we have too much we just bring it home. My mother hates throwing things away." His life, so different from mine, where food comes to him everyday, sometimes more than needed, whereas in mine food comes just enough and when absolutely needed.
Peeta gets to work on carving the cake. When he's done it actually looks like a cupcake.
"Wanna frost?" He grabs a smooth knife and a tub of icing as if they're his weapons.
"Is this a competition?"
"Yes. Whoever does their side the quickest and nicest wins."
"I'm not making any promises," I say mischievously.
"Alright. There's one rule."
"What?"
"The cupcake can't be eaten," he says seriously.
"What? I'm not going to eat it!" I exclaim.
"You never know. I once had one with my brothers and…let me just say the kitchen was a mess."
On the count of three we begin, Peeta expertly applying icing, me spraying the brown icing everywhere. Furious and wild my knife goes.
"Done!" I scream with glee. Then I look at Peeta, who finished a second later than me. He looks at my side and his eyebrows go up.
"Katniss…what did you do?" My smile immediately vanishes. I look more closely at my side and then compare it to Peeta's. Mine has chunks of cake fallen off and icing on the table. Peeta's side is perfectly smooth.
Clearing my throat I say, "Well you challenged me to it." He groans and starts trying to cover the pieces of icing my fierce knife slashed off. I closely examine my hands and shirt and see that icing has covered them too.
"Go clean up, Katniss. I need to fix this." Why was Peeta always the one fixing things for me? Why couldn't I, for once, give back?
When I return, freshly scrubbed off, I see that the cup cake is beautiful once more. Peeta sprinkled it and skewers a long stick into it and then puts it on the cake. He stands back and smiles. Even I can't look away from the project we've put hours into. On top rests a beautiful cupcake and between the tiers lies icing. Even my eighteens and circles look nice.
"What do you think? Worth the trouble?" Peeta asks me.
"Definitely," I respond. I may not be the most gifted cake decorator, but I know a good one when I see it. Next come the arduous task of cleaning. Sponges, soap, you name it, we used it. Soon the kitchen is as spotless as it was before. Peeta goes back down to the basement to hide the cake.
Looking around I see how dark it is. Prim and my mother. They're most likely worried out of their minds about me, I said I would be back hours ago.
I see Peeta climbing up the stairs and I say nervously, "I need to go now. My mother and Prim-"
"Don't worry," he interrupts. "I can drive you home."
"But Peeta! You aren't old enough to have a license. Plus two minors in a car? We could get in major trouble for that."
"Police don't come around here at night. They are too busy with the town right next to ours."
"I can just walk home," I say.
"You can't see a thing out there. I wouldn't feel right letting you go out there by yourself. People like to come out at night."
"I can very well protect myself," I reply stiffly.
"Katniss, will you just let me drive you home?"
"No," I say coldly.
"Alright, then you'll spend the night here."
"No!" I protest louder.
"Then I'll just have to take you home," he responds. It infuriates me, but a small part of me knows Peeta's right. I can't see a thing, let alone know where I was going, if I were to walk home.
"Fine," I mumble. "But if we were to get caught-"
"We won't," he says. It's the second time he reassured me today.
I get into the car, finger shaking, praying that Peeta won't crash or that we won't get caught.
"Are you sure we know how to do this?"
"My father's taught me before."
"Before we go, whose car is this?"
"My father's," he responds. I inwardly curse and hope that nothing bad happens.
The car roars to life, and I hold on to the handle for dear life.
"You can do this, right?" My voice comes out as a squeak.
"Yes." Peeta backs out alright and starts heading towards the poorer part of town.
"Where do you live?" I give him my address, trying to direct him where to go.
Suddenly the flashing red and blue lights come into focus. We're dead.
Oh, I just love cliffhangers. :) Did you enjoy?