So, "part two" of Peeta visiting Katniss' home to work on the project. And… yeah, that's about as exciting as it gets ;)
Peeta opens up the envelope and takes out the scenario inside. He offers it to me but I shake my head and tell him to read it first. His eyes move over the text but he doesn't get far before he seems to pause.
"What?" I ask nervously.
"I don't think our teachers like us very much."
I scowl.
"Peeta what does that mean?" He doesn't answer at first and I grow impatient and slightly irritated. "Are they making us starve? Sending us both to work in the mines? Do they saddle us with twins? What?"
"Fire," he finally says. He finishes reading the page and puts it down on the table, pushing it towards me. "Apparently our home catches on fire."
"What?" Scowling even more I grab the sheet of paper and lift it up to examine it more closely. It does indeed say that shortly after our first anniversary a fire starts in our home and demolishes it. I glance up at Peeta. "You do know how to properly put out a fire in the hearth, don't you?" The annoyed look he shoots back at me is answer enough. "I had to ask."
"I don't think it bodes well for us that your first reaction is to assume I caused it," he mutters. "Especially since the fire is fictional and was concocted by our teachers."
"I know, but still."
"You ever expect your real home's safety to depend on my ability to put out a fire at night?" he asks dryly.
I ignore the question and read the rest of the text. Apparently we survive unscathed and the government assigns us a new home but we have now lost all our belongings. Every last one, apparently. I guess we can only hope we weren't especially attached to whatever fictional things we owned, though the thought does cross my mind that I hope I was wearing my father's hunting jacket and that I didn't take his plant book with me when I moved out of my childhood home.
"So now what?" I ask with a sigh. "What do they expect us to do?"
"Find a way to buy all new furniture." Peeta groans and runs a hand through his curly hair. "Remember in our first scenario how we managed to save some extra money by the end of the year? Not much but at least something?"
I nod, my irritation lingering. Of course I remember. We just handed it in last week. It's one of the points we worked hard on, being able to put aside a few extra coins to use in cases of emergency. I was a bit surprised to find that Peeta wasn't adverse to the idea when I brought it up and didn't voice any protests even after he knew we would have to cut back on any form of luxury or excess to be able to do it. Then again, it's not like he had to do any actual saving, the whole thing being fictional and all.
"You think they're punishing us for being clever enough to save about the amount of money needed to buy a chair?" I ask grumpily, wondering to myself if our teachers really are that petty. It is part of the project that they model each new scenario after what we handed in for the previous one but something like that just seems petty.
"Don't know. But did you notice they don't mention if that money is gone? Lucky for us it turns out I stash it in my pocket any time I leave the house so it was on me when the fire broke out."
"You stash it?" I question. "If anyone here would think to stash the money it's definitely going to be me."
"Your proof of that being how I was the one who just thought up the idea?"
It's a valid point but I'm not letting him win this one. I suppose I ought to trust Peeta, especially in this case when it's an entirely fictional situation we're talking about and we're, in this scenario, a married couple. Annoyingly enough the word "couple" makes me feel uncomfortable and I blush. Peeta notices but before his amused chuckle can make me really angry he comes with a remark that makes me blush even harder.
"You mean to stash our secret coin collection in your bra, is that it?" He turns his eyes to the notepad in front of him as if to politely give me time for my cheeks to return to their natural colour. "Not a bad hiding place, I admit."
"That's not what I meant," I bite out and now it's his time to blush.
"Oh gosh, I'm sorry." He looks like he wishes he were a mute all of a sudden. "I don't know what made me say that."
No doubt he's worried he's made me uncomfortable again by the mention of my bra. As if I can't handle a boy knowing I wear a bra. I don't know why but it gives me a strange feeling to know Peeta has thought about the fact that I do wear one.
"Let's just move on," I say. "We can't very well write that I hide our money in my unmentionables, can we?"
"Don't have to write anything at all about it," he shrugs. "Just that we had the money on us when the fire happened."
There it is again. That word us. Implying Peeta and I as a team, a unit. A couple. I've never really been an us. Well, maybe in the past when I had an intact family. Maybe even after that with Prim. But never with someone outside my family and certainly never with a boy. Not even with Gale, though from the sound of things he would like for us to be. Peeta's mere mention of the word conjures up so much more than he could possibly be aware of. My mind fills with the implications of the word. That wherever we had gone to when our home caught on fire, whatever we were doing, we were doing it together. When we returned to find our home ablaze – our home – we did so together. And whatever is to happen now, however this situation is to be resolved, we will do it together.
"Where will we sleep?" I hear myself asking. "Do you think they find us a new place on the very same day?"
"Probably not."
"And when we get our new place we don't have a bed."
"Starting all over again from scratch," sighs Peeta. "Bet you anything they won't let us simply re-use our furnishing plan from the first part of the project even though in real life we'd probably go by it the exact same way the second time around."
"You wouldn't happen to have suddenly remembered a whole score of relatives who would love to give us their old furniture, would you?" I say, half-heartedly cracking a joke. I really don't want to have to do part of the previous assignment all over again.
"Unfortunately not. How about you calculate…" His eyes skim over the instructions over things we need to address. "How about you calculate the value of the things we lost? And I how much we need to earn to re-furnish? Or we could do it the other way around?"
"Whatever," I say. "Doesn't matter. I can do the loss bit." With a bitter snort I open my notepad and grab the enclosed index of the things we own, everything we put down last week as things we intended on procuring for our home. "Not sure what the use of this is though, except to rub it in our faces."
"Something about how things lose their value once you begin actually using them," answers Peeta, even though my comment was rhetorical. "This whole thing sucks. Last time we had the chance of saving up beforehand so we could furnish the place almost entirely from the start. Now we're going to have to live with just the basics and add stuff piece by piece over several months."
"Maybe we should just go live in a cave and save our money for stuff that won't burn down," I sulk.
"You know of any caves that are available?" he asks, a disarming hint of amusement in his voice. "Not that we don't need to write something about where we'll stay while we wait for a new home to be assigned to us. Although I suppose we could write that we'd ask one of my brothers for a couch to crash on while waiting. Or we can stay with my parents. If my brothers are both married and out of the house – presumably Scotti won't live at the bakery until he takes over the business – there'll be enough room for us."
I can't help my reaction. I pull back a little and frown deeply, my nose wrinkling at the thought of it. Living under the same roof as Mrs. Mellark, that vile woman who barely seems to like her own children and therefore no doubt despises the ground a Seam girl like me walks on? Frankly I think I'd rather live in the charred remains of our original home. Peeta of course sees my aversion to the idea and a look of confusion and even hurt flashes across his face.
"What?" he asks. "What's wrong with that idea? It's pure fiction, anyway."
"Yeah but…" I struggle for an explanation, not wanting to tell him to his face that I think his mother is horrid. I wouldn't mind so much being around his father, and I imagine that their home smells wonderful from all the baking going on downstairs, but I still couldn't picture being under the same roof with that woman. Somehow I find myself blurting out a response that diverts attention from what I'm really objecting to. "They'd make your brother move out until he gets to inherit the business?"
Surprise takes over from the previous expression on his face.
"That bothers you?"
Now that I think about it, it actually does a little bit. If nothing else it seems terribly impractical.
"If I were your brother and his wife I would be pretty annoyed if I had to build a home in a different place even though presumably he'd still be working at the bakery, only to then move once your parents decide not to run it anymore."
"Is that really it?" he asks carefully, clearly not wholly buying it but also not completely convinced I'm lying either. I bite my bottom lip and avert my eyes.
"Well, I… I don't know, I guess the suggestion that we move in there threw me. Even if it is just make believe. I don't even know your parents and all of a sudden I'm pretend-living with them."
"You're already pretend-living with me," he says, the hint of a smile on his face.
"That's different," I mumble. "I know you. A little." I sigh with frustration and glare at the piece of paper announcing that we no longer have a fictional home and I wonder how many others have gotten similar scenarios. Do our teachers enjoy picturing us arguing over whose family we should be living with? Do they expect things like this to be common occurrences in our lives? I can't remember a single family whose home has burned down. "I hate this whole pointless exercise," I say. "A huge waste of time."
"I don't know," says Peeta pensively which makes me scowl. "Truthfully I'm starting to see the merits behind this project."
"How are there any merits?" I question, barely holding back a scoff.
"It's made me think about things I might not have thought about otherwise," he says, using the eraser on the back of his pencil to remove whatever figure he just calculated. "Or at least wouldn't have thought of in good enough time."
"I really don't follow," I say, shrugging a shoulder and turning my eyes to my own math problem.
"For instance I won't have a job once my oldest brother gets married." He pauses and I look up at him again, finding myself a little bit troubled by the wrinkle on his brow. "I didn't really think about it before, not in terms of what it would require for me to actually get another job. Or where I would live. You can't get your own house unless you get married. What happens when my brother takes over the bakery and moves back there?" He shrugs and turns his eyes back to his notepad. "Stuff like that, I guess."
"Well then… what do you think you'll do?" I should probably ask a better question or offer up encouragements – or not stick my nose in his business at all – but I don't know what I'm expected to say and I'm afraid whatever I do say will come out sounding stupid.
"Not a clue," he sighs, drumming the back end of his pencil against his front teeth. "I've considered teaching at the school but… those jobs are not easy to get."
I pause and for a moment picture it in my head. Peeta teaching. Peeta up there by the teacher's desk, guiding students through the curriculum. I can see him patiently explaining the very basics of each subject to the youngest and I can imagine the older students liking him a lot, probably excited to have a teacher closer to their own age. Which of course makes it dawn on me that we have no teachers under the age of forty. Most are pushing fifty. Teachers are one of the few groups of people who tend to live fairly long lives by District 12 standards, having a job that's not physically demanding or outright dangerous and making fairly good wages. Once someone gets a teaching position they pretty much hold on to it for life.
"How do you even become a teacher?" I ask, curious to know if this is something he's given real thought to and looked into or if he's just dreaming.
"Well for starters a current faculty member needs to resign or die." He makes a face. "Once that happens I suppose you just apply. Not sure what they base their hiring on. Grades perhaps. Recommendations. That sort of thing."
"You shouldn't have much trouble landing a job like that, then," I say. "You've got good grades, right?"
"They're okay but I'm not a top student."
"Well you'll have no trouble getting recommendations. Most our teachers seem to think the world of you."
"I don't know about that… but thanks for saying so." He shrugs. "Anyway, it's a pipe dream of sorts. Nothing I'm considering seriously. I would really like it but the odds of landing that kind of job…"
"I think you'd be good at it," I offer, earning me a small smile. "I say keep an eye out for an opening. You never know, right?"
"Right," he says in that tone you use when you just agree for the sake of conversation. Obviously he doesn't believe he'll get that kind of job for real and I find it a bit saddening. There's a moment's pause and then he harks and looks back at his notepad. "Right, so… What would you prefer we get first, besides a bed? Kitchen table? Or a couch?"
Both of us return full focus to the actual work at hand, him calculating how long it would take us to earn enough furniture for a new home and me basically spelling out our newfound increase in poverty. It's humiliating, there's no way around it, having to lay it out on paper for our teachers how much we've lost in the fire they invented. They even want us to include things beside the furniture and appliances we listed last week, things like clothes and personal knickknacks. I find it cruel and a bit perverse. No doubt they want us to face the reality of what a house fire actually means but why make it a part of the project in the first place?
We work for maybe half an hour with little talking between us, just a few exchanges here and there when we feel we need the other's input. For the most part the only sound in the room is the ticking of the clock and our pencils scraping against paper, and the occasional movement of one of us adjusting in our chair.
The sudden noise of something slamming into the window behind me startles me a little and makes me frown and Peeta lets out a short chortle which he then manages to rein in. My scowl deepens as I initially suspect he's amused by my jolting but when the sound comes again and he stifles another laugh I notice he's not looking at me but at the window. I turn my head in time to see a moth landing on the window and Buttercup's paws coming flailing up to catch it, another thud produced by his paw trying to slam the insect against the glass surface. The cat's legs disappear from view and the moth moves a decimetre to the left before the ugly orange paws come flailing again. I grin widely. This does not speak well of Buttercup's hunting skills nor does it paint him in a dignified light. Plus it's kind of funny in and of itself, seeing his paws flapping like that while the rest of him is mostly out of view.
Peeta can't hold his amusement in anymore and gives in to laughter. It's a sound I haven't heard often in this kitchen, not even from Prim, and there's no denying it warms my heart a bit hearing it come so spontaneously and genuinely. Buttercup's legs disappear from view and this time stay out of sight for several seconds more than they have before, then he comes shooting up in a higher leap that doesn't give him any further success at catching the moth but which does make him look utterly stupid and ridiculous. The sight, and Peeta's infectious laughter, gets the better of me and I start to laugh as well. I turn my head back to Peeta for a brief second and we share a look, his eyes glinting at me in a way that makes me feel strange in a good way, and then another one of Buttercup's thuds makes me turn my head back to the window. He's not giving up easily, I'll have to give the old cat that.
"This is who we're entrusting to keep our home mouse free?" laughs Peeta. "Maybe it's just as well it burned down. We were never getting rid of those mice by the looks of it."
His comment makes me laugh even harder. I don't really know how it happened but suddenly I'm finding myself laughing so much that tears are beginning to fall down my cheeks. I haven't laughed like this in years, in fact I don't even remember when it last happened, and the sound of my laughter mixing with that of Peeta's is strangely nice. I've always been a serious person, in fact Gale says I never even smile except for in the woods, but I'm enjoying this moment of levity a whole lot.
My mother appears in the doorway, Prim at her heels, both of them staring at us with incredulity. In fact you'd think they'd never seen anybody laugh before by the looks on their faces. By now the moth has disappeared and Buttercup has given up his assault but the memory of it, and Peeta's comment, still has be gasping for air as I try to rein myself in. Peeta's laughter is slowly fading as well but when I turn my face back around again, wiping tears from my cheeks with the back of my hand, I see he's got a wide smile on his face and a very pleasant look in his eyes. It startles me to realize I like seeing that smile and that look on him. I like having laughed with him.
"What is happening?" asks my mother, bewildered at the scene.
"I'm sorry, Mrs. Everdeen," says Peeta, valiantly pulling himself together. "Didn't mean to disturb your peace. The cat was making us laugh. He was… Well, I suppose you had to be here and see it."
"Buttercup made Katniss laugh?" questions Prim, highly sceptical.
"He wasn't having a proud moment," I say.
My mother gives me a knowing look, one eyebrow raised, and then leaves silently. Prim follows her and I hear her mutter under her breath how she can't wait until she gets to do this project and get laughs like that.
"I don't know what got into me," I say once they have left the room, wiping away the last of the tears.
"You sound like you're apologizing," says Peeta with his wide smile still in place. "Don't. You have a very nice laugh."
"Just don't tell anyone that or my reputation will be ruined."
He gives me a playful wink.
"Your secret's safe with me. If you can't trust your spouse with your darkest secrets then who can you trust?" I stare down at my notebook, not sure how to respond to a comment like that. I know he's joking but it's just strange. Especially when we're sitting in my kitchen and not on the neutral ground of the assembly room. "You know, something just occurred to me," he says, his tone having shifted, and when I look up at him he's turned his eyes back to the scenario sheet and is drumming the back of his pencil against his teeth. "There might be more behind this fire episode than just to set us back to square one."
"Like what?"
"Well…" He pauses and opens his backpack, rummaging through it for a minute before fishing out a textbook.
"You brought schoolbooks?" I question. "You know I have the exact same course literature as you do?"
"This is an oldie, from sixth grade."
This bemuses me. I don't know what I find stranger – that he still has schoolbooks from sixth grade or that he thought he would have any sort of use for it, let alone enough use to bring it with him.
"I really don't get what you're going for," I tell him. "Why do you even have that book still? You're supposed to sell them to younger students once there's no one left in the family who can use them."
"My mother didn't allow us to sell any school books. She thinks it's better to hold on to them and pass them on to our own children one day."
"That's a great plan," I say, resisting the urge to roll my eyes. "You don't think they will have updated the literature a tad at that point?"
"Doubtful," he says dryly. "Anyway, how well do you remember the class we had about all the wonders of the Justice Building and how the red tape supposedly works?"
"Not all that well," I admit in a mutter, my fingers playing with the end of my braid. Like most of the things we learned in school that year it got lost somewhere in the haze of losing my father and nearly starving to death.
Peeta opens the book, which is so old and worn it nearly comes apart at the seams, and leafs through it until he finds the chapter he's looking for. He pushes the book over to me so I can see for myself.
"I don't think this project is all about math and teamwork. I think they want us to problem solve."
With a furrowed brow I study the pages in front of me. It talks about all the generous ways in which the government wants to help us poor sluggards who can't always provide for ourselves like human beings with pride and dignity. Mostly it talks about tesserae and what happens to orphaned children. I look up at Peeta with a questioning face.
"You're going to have to clue me in here."
"It mentions certain situations in which you can apply for what they call financial aid. I amounts to roughly a couple of days' worth of salary but I think it would benefit us to go down to the Justice Building and ask about it. If we can acquire it for our home having burned down I think our teachers would be impressed."
"Peeta…" I say, shaking my head. "That's all well and good in theory but it doesn't sound very reasonable. Why would the Justice Building hand out money to us? Everyone in the Seam is starving and they could care less." There's a real edge to my voice but Peeta seems unaffected, leaning over and turning the page to point at an information box.
"Because at the end of the day they need a certain amount of people to be working to keep our society functioning and because if we had to live on the streets it might actually end up costing them even more. This is a long shot, I fully admit to that, but I think it's worth looking into."
I consider it for a moment, trying not to feel odd at how his hand is only an inch away from mine for a few seconds before he sits back again. He's right, finding out about small sums of money we could get from the government would probably help us get a great grade, but what exactly would it entail to find it out? He spoke of going down to the Justice Building. Does he mean us two going together? When? On our spare time? I have no desire to ever set foot in that building, having only been there when my father died, but if I let Peeta go alone that would mean not pulling my weight. Then again going there with him would be a very surreal experience.
"You don't think it's worth pursuing?"
He says it as if he is beginning to doubt it himself and not as if I'm questioning his admittedly clever idea. I bite the inside of my cheek as I contemplate what to answer him. I don't want to tell him why I hesitate to go there and I also don't want to let him do such a large part of the work on his own. It is a good idea though and it doesn't seem fair to let him think otherwise.
"It's a really great idea, Peeta," I finally say. "For the purpose of the project at least. I just… would never do it in real life."
"Why is that?" he asks kindly.
"I don't want to live off the so-called charity of the government," I say. "I prefer providing for myself."
"But you take out tesserae."
"That's different," I scowl. "That's not charity. That's one more slip in the Reaping Ball that has my name on it."
He visibly cringes and rubs the back of his neck with his left hand.
"God, Katniss, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to sound-"
"Look, I'll ask Madge if she thinks there's any merit to the idea. If anyone ought to know it's her."
That suggestion really makes no sense with the excuse I gave as to why I didn't want to look into it but Peeta either doesn't notice or is kind enough to let it slip. Or maybe he feels he just put his foot in his mouth and will agree to almost anything I say to make it up to me. Either way he nods and makes a note in his pad.
"Good. Get back to me on this when we sit down tomorrow?"
"Sure."
He nods and goes back to his calculations. I stare at my own notepad and try to concentrate on writing up the small essay on where we would be staying and how we would cope with the loss of our home, which I started on when I was done writing up our fictional losses. Peeta generously agreed to let me decide where I think we should sleep and more or less only wants a quick read-through of the text before we hand it in tomorrow so it should be easy. It doesn't come very easily though. I have a hard time imagining the situation and an even harder time to figure out how to write more than five sentences about it. All we really need to decide upon is where we would stay and how we would make the money to furnish a new place. The answer to the first question is that we'd be staying here, with my mother and sister, and the answer to the second question is that we would do exactly what we did in the first scenario when we had to find money to buy everything we needed as newlyweds.
While I try to figure out a way to flesh it out the thought suddenly pops into my head that I could write that we stay with the Hawthorne family. That would at least require me to justify the decision and to discuss some of the practical difficulties with temporarily moving in with another family. Particularly one in which the oldest son has expressed a romantic interest in me, although I couldn't put that in the essay. The thought makes me squirm a little in my seat and I steal a glance at Peeta who is mouthing numbers as he calculates in his head. If it were real life and Peeta was my husband and we had to move in with Gale, how would that go? No doubt it would be unbearably awkward and tense. I have a very hard time even imaging these two boys being in the same room together, much less how they would be around one another if Peeta was my husband and Gale didn't like it.
I turn my eyes back to the notepad. I can't think of crazy things like that. Peeta is not someone I have a romantic interest in so Gale will never need to be jealous concerning him. Not that I have a romantic interest in Gale either. Or at least I think I don't. The whole thing is far too complicated for me to want to try and think about it. So instead I write down a lightweight analysis of why it would be preferable for us to crash here rather than with Peeta's parents or one of his brothers, should our home go up in flames.
Too bad things in real life can't be as simple as that.
Forty minutes later Peeta has packed up his things and we're standing at the door saying goodbye. This is almost as strange as when he first arrived. I'm not sure how you do these things. With Gale it's always come so natural but when it's Peeta it's different. I don't know if the reason is that he is a townie and I am Seam or if it's that we're classmates, not friends. Whatever the case may be it puts me out of my comfort zone and I'm not even sure what I'm expected to say or how to behave. Except for Gale I haven't had any friends come over to visit, not since early childhood when I would play with other children living nearby.
"Thank you for letting me come over," says Peeta, adjusting the backpack over his shoulder. "I'm glad we were able to get all the work done for tomorrow."
"Sure," I nod. I was the one who made us skip the work at school in the first place so I don't know why he's thanking me for the opportunity to catch up on it but it seems meaningless to argue the point. I lean awkwardly against the wall, my fingertips fidgeting with the end of my braid, and find myself wishing he would go already and not draw this confusing situation out. "Good work today. On that financial aid thing."
"Good work yourself," he says with a small smile. "Oh, and be sure to thank Buttercup for the entertainment."
I can't help but smile at the memory and Peeta chuckles softly. Our eyes meet and for a brief second it doesn't feel awkward anymore. Then Prim and my mother come up to us, as if some sort of farewell committee, which makes me feel awkward all over again.
"Mrs. Everdeen, thank you for having me over," says the ever polite Peeta. "Nice to meet you, Prim. I should be going." His eyes go to me again. "I'll see you tomorrow at school."
"Tomorrow," I mumble with a nod.
"It was so nice meeting you, Peeta," says Mother, as if they truly bonded during the seventy-five minutes he's been here. "And thank you again for the cookies. You really didn't have to do that."
"I was happy to," he insists. Of course he was. The Peeta Mellarks of the world are just that kind and considerate. He then looks at me again. "Thank you for today. See you at school. Bye."
With that he opens the door and steps out into the cold afternoon. A light snowfall has begun and a gust of wind blows a round of snowflakes into the house. I shiver slightly from the chilly temperature and once the door closes I turn around to head to the kitchen and gather up my notepad and pencils, intending to then take a seat by the fireplace. I startle slightly at seeing my mother and sister both still standing there, looking at me with expressions I can't exactly define but which irritates me nonetheless.
"He thanked you for the day?" says Prim, clearly intrigued. "My, my."
"What of it?" I say, careful not to sound affected in any way. "It's a verbal tick of his. He says it every day."
"To everyone or just to you?"
I roll my eyes but before I can reply my mother nods towards the kitchen and draws our attention to something more pleasant.
"Why don't we hurry and make some dinner and then we can sit together in front of the fireplace and enjoy those cookies? Katniss be sure to thank him again tomorrow for giving them to us."
"Yeah, if Peeta thanks you for the day you ought to thank him for the cookies," teases Prim, winking at me. But as we follow our mother to the kitchen she takes me by the arm and leans in to whisper in my ear. "To be serious, though, I think he's nice. I'm glad you've made a friend who seems so kind."
"We're not exactly friends," I protest mildly, keeping my voice down so that our mother won't overhear.
"I think you could be. I worry about you sometimes, big sis. You should have more friends to spend time with. You deserve that."
She gives my arm a soft squeeze and then lets it go, hurrying up to Mother to help her prepare dinner. I'm momentarily too taken aback to be of much use, sinking down on my chair at the table, eyes on my sister. She worries about me? It's never really crossed my mind that Prim might do that. While some part of my heart feels warmer at the thought, for the most part I'm rather disturbed by it. She shouldn't have to worry about me. I don't want her to have to do that. She's my little sister. I'm the one who ought to worry about her and look after her. I don't ever want to be the cause of my sister's concern.
I force myself to snap out of it, not wanting her to also worry about me just sitting here uselessly, and I begin to gather my school supplies. Balancing a notepad on top of a textbook and gripping pencils and an eraser with two fingers I carry my things back to my bedroom. From the kitchen I can hear my mother and sister talking as they prepare our meal and I hear both of them sounding excited at the thought of the cookies we get to enjoy afterward. After setting the books and everything else down on the small desk I sit down on the bed, mulling over the events of the day. How on edge I felt all day until Peeta showed up. The discussions we had. Buttercup's antics and how strange and pleasant it felt to laugh like that together with somebody. Prim's remark about the possibility of Peeta and I becoming friends.
I almost smile as I think to myself that being friends with Peeta might not be so bad, if it means getting to laugh like I did today.
I arrive early to school the following morning, barely suppressing a yawn as I open my locker and grab the books I'll need for my first two classes. Coal mining history and math. Whoever made our schedules this year seems to think Mondays are supposed to start off the week as drearily as possible.
As per usual I don't speak to anyone as I move through the growing crowd of students towards my homeroom. Unlike most of my classmates I don't keep an eye out for anyone either. The only person I spend time with at school is Madge and we don't wait around for each other in the morning like our classmates do with their friends. Sometimes their behaviour boggles my mind. It's as if they cannot wait another minute to see their friends again and hear all about whatever mundane things have happened to them in the hours that have passed since they last saw each other the day before. I don't understand friendships like that. When Gale and I meet up in the woods we don't start off by delivering a laundry list of the things we've done since our last meeting. How can the doings of another person be that interesting every single morning?
I can't help but notice that this morning there is one other person besides Madge and myself who isn't partaking in this strange school ritual. Peeta comes walking alone to class, the smile he usually sports absent this morning, and he walks straight inside the classroom and takes a seat in the back without speaking to anyone or even nodding hello. It only takes a glance to guess the reason why. He's sporting a brand new black eye. It's been a few months since the last time but I don't think I'll ever get used to seeing his features tarnished in this way. While he's not smiling he doesn't look especially gloomy either, his face in a rather neutral state, but something about the way he's walking and sitting signals that he doesn't want anyone to come too close.
I wonder what insignificant slight it was that caused his witch of a mother to do this to him this time.
The financial aid thing is a bit of a stretch, I'm not sure I believe Panem's government would have something like that, for any reason. But I felt it worked within the confines of the story and the chapter so I decided to use it anyway. Maybe they just like the appearance of benevolence? ;)
