A/N: Hope this brightens your Monday! :)
Disclaimer: I don't own the Hunger Games.
Chapter Seven
The dance competition before the Homecoming Concert is at the end of the week but it clashes with some of the autumn exams. If I hadn't had my accident, I'd probably have a routine planned with Glimmer and Clove. Clove has decided not to bother, even though this is something we've been planning for for years. She said there's not point without me. I suppose I should be happy about that but I feel bad that Clove can't do it. It's my fault because of my leg and I wish there was someone else she could have made a routine with. Glimmer, of course, is planning something with Cashmere because it seems they have become BFFs now or whatever.
Now that I come to think about it, I can't see myself blowing off the autumn exams for the dance competition. Since everyone else is busy with their plans for the concert, I've been using some of the free time revising maths. It's weird, I've never voluntarily studied before but there really is nothing else to do. When my mother came home from work Thursday night and saw me sitting at the kitchen table, surrounded in books, she did a double take. Prim had to back me up when I said I'd been doing it for two hours.
"Yeah mum," she'd said, "she's been a real nerd today."
"I thought that Concert was this weekend," Mother says, walking around the table and flipping on the kettle. "Aren't you supposed to be, I don't know, planning what you're going to wear or something?"
"I don't think I'm going to go," I reply, drawing a mini-stick figure in the corner of my page. "I'm not fond of the idea of being jostled in a mosh pit, especially since my leg isn't any better. Besides, my first math repeat is on Monday. I need to get this stuff into my head."
My mother and Prim share a look. Their eyebrows are raised in almost disbelief but they also look sort of impressed as well. They disappear to their rooms once mother has made herself some tea, deciding that they shouldn't disturb the balance. As if they did the wrong thing at the wrong time I'd change completely and ditch studying for . . . I don't know . . . media or something. I look back down at my exercise book. There's a trigonometry question I can't understand. It's different from what I've been doing with Peeta but it's on a past paper so there's a chance it will be on my repeat on Monday.
I tap the table with my fingertips thoughtfully and glance at my phone. Does Peeta have a Facebook, I wonder? I grab my phone and open up the Facebook app. I have fifteen notifications, most of them messages from Marvel. He knows I deleted his contact off my phone so know he's taken to Facebook instead. I click on his profile link and press 'block' before going to the search bar.
I type in Peeta's name and wait for something to come up. His name is pretty unique so he's pretty much the only one to show up. I think it's him anyway. There's no picture. I click on the friends list, which consists mostly of the people from Loser's End. I consider just leaving it alone but the fear of this question actually showing up on my exam is niggling at the back of my head. "Eh, what's the harm?" I mutter before sending a friend request. It'd be much easier if I could just send him a direct message but I suppose this is the only way since his family's bakery is on the other end of town in the Merchant sector.
When I get a notification saying that the request was accepted, I immediately go to the message button and type, "Peeta, it's Katniss. There's this really complicated question I don't understand. It's trig, I know that much, I don't know what I'm supposed to do . . ."
There's quite a wait before he responds to me. I suppose it's because he isn't really a social media sort of guy and he wouldn't be on facebook that often. I try this bitch of a question five times over while I'm waiting but never get a sensible answer. By the time Peeta answers, I'm close to tearing my hair out.
"What does it ask?" he's asked me.
"It gives the numbers for two of this triangle's sides-including the hypotenuse!-and wants me to calculate the last side," I explain.
"Katniss, that's Pythagoras' Theorem, not Trig," Peeta tells me. "We haven't done that yet."
"But the exam is on Monday! What if I can't learn it in time?" I stare at the question irritably before declaring, "Are you going into school tomorrow?"
"For that silly competition? No, it's a waste of time," Peeta says. "Why?"
"Neither am I. Come over to mine around ten and you can start this Pythagoras stuff." I'm shocked that I'm even suggesting this but the more study sessions I've had with Peeta, the more determined I've become to pass my repeats and the final exam. "Do you know where I live?"
"The Seam Sector, right?"
"Yeah. My house is the very last. Very close to the forest. Number 74," I tell him.
"Are you sure?"
"Uh, yeah!"
"Okay. I'll see you then."
~IAJOT~
Seeing Peeta out of school, in a more casual setting, is extremely jarring He dresses like a normal person his age but for some reason his appearance makes me do a double take.
I could swear that I just stand there and stare at him for five whole minutes when I answer the door for him. I didn't recognize him. Honestly, I didn't. We're experiencing a heat wave but he's wearing a thick cardigan that doesn't match the weather at all. The sun does this thing where it has an almost reflective effect on his hair. The rays make the blond look like blinding gold and before my eyes completely adjust it looks like he has a halo around his head.
He's actually . . . kind of hot. In his own shy school boy nerd sort of way.
As he sets up at my kitchen table, I can't take my eyes off him. The wounds from Cash's party are beginning to heal and the only sign of Marvel's rage is a black-blue bruise along the bridge of his nose. What's changed? Why is he having a siren effect on me now? What does the exchange of a white shirt, tie and slacks for jeans, sneakers and a black My Chemical Romance shirt do?
"You see it's actually quite easy," Peeta explains. I've snapped out of my weird trance (thank god) and watch the end of Peeta's pencil as he writes out some sums.
12x12 – 4x4= ?
I type out the sum into my calculator. "160," I say. Peeta writes that in and continues to say that all I have to do is square root 160, which gets me 12. 6491106407 which I round to 12.64.
"Then, if it's the hypotenuse you have to find, all you do is add instead of subtract," Peeta explains.
"Oh, I see," I say. Damn, some of this is so easy! Why couldn't I get it before? "Can you give me some tester questions, just to be sure?"
Peeta smiles. I'm struck by how rarely I actually see him do that. I conclude that he should do it more often. While he draws up some questions I stand up and ask, "Tea?"
"Sure, if you're making it," he answers.
I flip the kettle on and glance over my shoulder at him, almost as if double checking he's really there. "You can take your jacket off if you want," I tell him. "This house absorbs heat so well it's ridiculous."
"It's fine," Peeta answers. I wonder how he copes, since I'm sweltered and yet I'm wearing shorts and a tank top. "How's your leg?"
"Eh," I reply. I grab two mugs from the cupboard above the sink. No matter what the weather is, tea is always appropriate. "Although there is the odd ache. Kind of like a cramp or a growing pain, you know?"
"Yeah, I get what you mean," says Peeta. He pushes his glasses up, even though they're seated on his nose perfectly already. "That's probably your leg healing. How long did the doctor say it would take to heal?"
"Six months," I sigh. "It was a bitch of a break."
Peeta whistles in appreciation. When he hears me pouring the water he stands up to give me a hand. "That would be a compound fracture, right? Bone piercing through the skin?"
I scoff. "Is there anything you don't know?" I ask.
Peeta laughs. "Many things," he answers. "I still to this day don't understand football and poker."
"Poker?" I laugh. "Why in the world would you want to play poker?"
"I don't know, just to say that I can," Peeta says. He lifts his mug to his lips and smiles over the lip of it. His glasses steam up from the heat coming from it and I can't help chuckling.
"Here." I take the glasses off his face and wipe them clean with the hem of my top. I have to lean heavily on my crutches as I push forward to put them back on his face. His big blue eyes focus on me, aided by the glass windows placed just below them. I almost can't believe I had been disgusted by how inhumanly blue his iris' are that first day we studied together. I put up a front, even in my own mind. I find myself doing it a lot.
It's easy to lie, even to yourself . . .
I grin. "Poker's fun if you're looking for a gamble," I say. "Or, you know, a quick way to get to third base if you play the strip version." I brush the back of my hand across the word "ALONE" on his "I AM NOT AFRAID TO WALK THIS WORLD ALONE" t-shirt. I was supposed to be teasing him but I instantly freeze in shock at what I feel.
Peeta drops his mug and stumbles backwards. The mug smashes on the tiles beneath our feet. We stare at each other, completely stunned.
When I swiped my hand along his stomach, I felt bumps. Very prominent bumps. Not like small acne bumps that every teenager gets and that I myself solve with vigorous scrubbing every morning and evening. These are huge, ridged motherfucking bumps. They're long-ish too and from what the simple swipe told me they wind along his torso to his side.
I felt . . . his ribs.
It makes so much sense. The way he's thin and sort of lithe. "Oh God, I'm sorry," Peeta says. He runs his fingers through his hair and I notice that his hands are trembling. Oh my God, was his hand always that thin? I snatch his hand and look at it closer. It's so frail . . .
"Peeta, what the . . ." I say. "You're . . . you're . . ."
Peeta yanks his hand away and winces in pain. How hadn't I seen that? How hadn't I noticed before? It's like feeling his ribs has yanked a veil away from my eyes. His clothes are baggy . . . His hands are shaky . . .
"We should get back to work but . . ." Peeta looks away and rubs his hand over his eyes. "B-but I should clean up the shards . . . I didn't mean to break it. I-I'll find a brush or-or something."
"Peeta," I say, surprising myself by how authorative my voice is, "What have you been eating?"
"Wha-what sort of question is that?" Peeta asks. He laughs nervously and I know instantly that what I'm thinking is true.
"Are you . . ." I'm unsure about saying it out loud. "Peeta, are you . . . are you anorexic?"
The word makes Peeta's eyes widen. "I, um, how about you do those questions and show me on Monday? I've . . . I've got to go . . ."
"Peeta," I say, trying to reason with him. "It's . . . it's okay . . ." I grab his shirt when he turns to leave to stop him. The material bunches up and I notice something black on his hip.
"Katniss, please let me go," Peeta begs.
I can't stop myself now. I push his shirt up a little. His hipbone sticks out like a knife. There's something written on him in sharpie.
HANDLEBARS.
I recognize Peeta's own handwriting. "Peeta . . . what the . . . I don't . . ."
"I'm going to go," Peeta mutters. He slaps my hand away and leaves. I watch him go, completely dumbfounded. I want to say something; stop him from going; try to sit down and discuss things in a calm manner. I'm frozen to the spot, my voice caught in my throat, and I'm helpless to do anything as he goes.
Realization drops on me like a crippling weight. Fatboy Mellark. People have been calling him that since Elementary. Then all of a sudden he lost all that weight that one summer. Did it ever sink in for him? Did he ever realize that enough was enough? Oh my God, he's anorexic. Now that I think harder about it, ever since he lost weight, I have never seen him eat. I've seen him sit at a table with a tray of food but he's never actually eaten anything.
"Might want to ease off the fries, I'm beginning to see the flab again."
I sit down at the table and stare at my fridge. Oh my God, it's my fault. I never thought that the Loser's End kids took anything I said seriously, Peeta especially.
I have to talk to him about this. I have to understand.
~IAJOT~
For once, Peeta is late to our study session on Monday. The Concert was apparently a boring bust with old bands and singers no-one recognized but the teachers. I'm not entirely sure how my repeat went. I did what I could because there really wasn't anything else I could do . . . I have a horrible feeling that I failed. I sort of have a sixth sense about that sort of thing. And I'm never wrong.
When Peeta does show up, I can almost feel how on guard he is. I can't stop thinking about how his ribs felt under my fingertips. The way his hipbone jutted out so prominently. That word. Handlebars. He sits down across from me and doesn't say anything for ages. We stare at each other, neither of us making a move to take out our books.
"Katniss," he finally says, "about what happened"-
"Are you going to be honest?" I ask.
"What do you mean honest?" Peeta frowns.
"It would be unwise to lie," I press, "because I know what I saw. What I felt when I touched you. Peeta, starving yourself isn't the answer. It's unhealthy, it's . . . it's . . ."
"I'm not anorexic!" Peeta snaps. He clenches his jaw and closes his eyes. "I'm not anorexic," he repeats, much quieter. "I just . . . I'm just never hungry."
"Bullshit, Mellark," I snap. I immediately feel bad for being so brash and try to soften my tone. "You're not fat, Peeta . . . You were just fine."
"Were?" Peeta looks panicked. The idea of still not being good enough through my use of past tense clearly worrying him.
"You're . . . you're too thin," I say carefully. "When you came back to School after that summer, you were fine. You had muscle, there was no . . . bones visible. You've maybe gone too far . . . maybe you just couldn't find the right balance." I slip my hand into my pocket and slide a pack of crackers across the table. "Eat one of these and I'll leave it be."
"I'm not hungry."
"You don't have to be. Just one little piece. Just to prove your point." I open the packet and snap off a corner of the top cracker. Peeta stares at it in my hand, like I'm offering him a radioactive reptile. He takes the cracker piece off me and pushes it past his lips. It looks so forced I resist the urge to wince. I raise my eyebrows as he just holds it there. No chewing. No swallowing.
Minutes later, Peeta literally turns green. He turns away from me and coughs into his hands. "There, I've swallowed it," he says to me, even opening his mouth to prove it.
"Hands?" I ask.
"What about them?"
"Open them."
Peeta looks at his hands and chews on the inside of his cheek. He parts his hands and the cracker piece falls onto the table. I stare at it in disbelief. "I don't have to do anything you tell me to. Why are you so pushy anyway? It's none of your business what I eat."
"I'm not heartless," I say. I hesitantly reach out and touch his thin hand. "I know I've been a bitch to you . . . to your friends too. I'm probably the last person you want to go to for help. But please, trust me, if you don't get help from someone you're going to do yourself serious damage." Peeta sets his jaw and doesn't answer me. I look at my fingers wrapped around his wrist. "What are handlebars?"
Peeta is also looking at my hand holding onto his. "Handlebars," he repeats.
"You wrote it on your hip," I explain. I suddenly wonder if I'm going to seem like I'm prying. I can't just ignore it though. Being anorexic can lead to death, can't it? I don't want to see Peeta dead. I don't want to see anyone dead. Definitely not Peeta . . .
"I don't have to tell you anything," Peeta repeats.
"Would you like me to tell Ms. Trinket? You could tell her," I say. I don't want to sound like I'm blackmailing him but if I don't understand what's happening then I'll have to say something to someone. Clove and I even told Glimmer that if she didn't stop throwing up her food we'd have to tell someone. I don't think she's stopped but there's no evidence anymore that she still is.
Peeta scowls at me. "Handlebars is what I have. It's what you call fat hips," he reluctantly tells me.
"And you wrote it on yourself to say . . . ?"
"It's called motivation," Peeta scowls. "I don't expect you to understand. You've always been . . . been . . ."
I cock my head and frown. "I've always been what?"
Peeta's eyes soften and he rubs his temples tiredly. "Perfect," he mutters.
Oh. I . . . I don't know how to respond to that. "I'm not perfect," I find myself saying.
"Don't start with that bullshit, Katniss," Peeta scoffs. "We all know that you know you're perfect. All of you cheerleader types are the same. I know you've never as much looked at yourself in the mirror and saw something you didn't like."
I think about it. I've always been happy with my appearance. However, I've never also looked at myself and thought that I was perfect. I'm above average, thankfully. I'm not perfect though. There are things I would fix, just like anyone else. I'm far from perfect. No-one's perfect. Peeta can't honestly think that I'm perfect. In fact, I should be the opposite of perfect in his eyes. I should be the big bad bastard who's bullied him for . . . for . . . well, I don't know how long.
"If you're trying to be perfect then you're going to be waiting a long time," I hiss at him. I don't like being called perfect and the fact that Peeta is so set in his belief that I am irks me. "No-one's perfect and just because you're thin doesn't mean you are. Starving yourself isn't going to achieve anything other than sticking one foot in the grave. Is that what you want?" It's a good thing the library is empty, or someone would have sent for a teacher by now.
"It's better than the life I'm living now!" Peeta explodes.
"And what do you mean by that?"
"As in life isn't as picture perfect as you think it is, Katniss. You got a glimpse of it when you broke your leg. You've been having glimpses of it ever since then. But you'll never fully see it because you got lucky. I would rather die," Peeta says, so fast his words run together. I can barely keep up with his rant and I can barely keep up with his what he's trying to tell me.
"Why don't you just kill yourself then?" I don't mean it sincerely. I don't want Peeta to kill himself. I don't want anyone to kill himself. I wouldn't want anyone to kill themselves. The question, however, still stands.
"Because I am a coward, Katniss," Peeta snaps. "You will never meet a bigger coward than me."
I feel sick. This whole conversation is making me sick. I don't know what to do. I don't know what to say or what I could say that could make this situation any better. I want to help, a feeling I've never experienced before. If I went to a teacher, Peeta would most likely be pulled out of school and taken to hospital to be kept in a ward and force fed every day. It's weird but I don't want him to go anywhere. He would never forgive me, either.
"You aren't a coward," I say. "You're just . . . just going through a difficult time."
"Difficult time? You mean difficult times you and your friends have been throwing gasoline on and setting fire ever since elementary school?" Peeta fires at me.
I clench my jaw and push away the guilt that threatens to cripple me. "I would never have done it if I'd known"-
"You shouldn't do it, period," Peeta interrupts.
I stare at my hands and close my eyes. "I know," I say, so quietly that I don't know if Peeta hears me. I do, too. Over the past few weeks, I've been seeing what I have done to people at the bottom of the food chain in a new light. Food chain. God, what the fuck is up with the jungle analogies anyway? It's a school, not the animal kingdom. I rub my hand over my face. "I can't say sorry, can I? It wouldn't do anything, would it?"
Peeta's eyes are unreadable. It's almost like he can't believe that I even asked such a thing. "Sorry isn't a quick fix-it," he says slowly. "But it's a start."
I remove my hand from my eyes and find something similar to relief flush through me. "I'm sorry," I say. I used to think the word was poisonous, like if I said it my mouth would burn or my spit would turn to tar. Especially if I said it to someone from Loser's End. "I didn't think you took anything I said seriously."
Peeta shrugs. "You'd be surprised, Katniss," he murmurs. "You have no idea the effect you can have."
"I'm sorry," I repeat. I think of his ribs again. Of how I felt them under my fingers. It scares me. I threw fuel onto the boy in front of me's determination to starve himself to the point where is body is a couple of dress sizes above being a skeleton. "You have to stop this though. Keep doing this and you're going to . . . you're going to . . ."
"Die?" Peeta raises his eyebrows. "Small miracles, Katniss. Small miracles."
"Don't take like that," I say, shaking my head.
"Would it really be that bad? Nobody needs me."
My fingers tighten subconsciously around his wrist. "I do. I need you," I tell him.
He scoffs. "Yeah, for cheap math advice."
"You're more than that," I insist. "You . . . have your friends! Johanna, Annie, Finch! What about your family, they"-Peeta scoffs and I pause. " . . . They surely need you."
"Katniss, don't," Peeta tells me. "It's nice and all that you're suddenly so concerned but it's exactly that. Sudden. I know what you're going to do to me Katniss. You're going to tell your friends. You're going to tell your friends about poor old Fatboy Mellark who's starving himself because he can't handle looking in the mirror every morning and seeing somebody who is going to get nowhere in life because all anyone else sees is a geeky fat boy!"
I wince. "I won't, I promise. I may not be the nicest of people but I always keep my promises. Just . . . let me help."
"How can you help me?" Peeta scoffs.
I reach out and felt my heart skip a beat at how my hands are about two sizes away from being bigger than his. I cup both of my hands over one of his and say, "I can try and help you be happy." Because it's clear that he isn't. I didn't see it until now. Masked by beautiful azure eyes is a greater sadness I have never seen or felt before.
Maybe if he is happy, he won't starve himself anymore.
Maybe if he is happy, he won't want to die anymore.
I can't let him die.
I won't.
A/N: Things aren't smooth sailing just yet and they won't be for a long while. As I've mentioned before, I want this story to be realistic and I'm sure you all know that you can't snap your fingers and instantly fix something like anorexia.
Please review with your thoughts! Did you see that coming? :)
