Peeta has the idea of handing in what we've written about my ability to work through the project pregnancy – our "rebuttal" as he likes to call it – on Tuesday morning. We've never done that before and we don't know if the teachers will appreciate it, but Peeta argues that they might want, or need, to make some changes to the rest of our assignments for this scenario. It's both a little exciting and a little nerve-racking to think about handing it in. I think we did a good job finding facts and writing it up, even if we did have to stay over for thirty minutes and Peeta ended up late for wrestling practice. The textbook we got contained mostly stupidity, as Peeta had said, but there was also instructive and valuable information in there. Despite myself I found it interesting seeing the photographs of unborn babies still in the womb, charts of foetal growth and detailed descriptions of what goes on inside the woman's body.
Not sure what to do with the books once we're finished – there is no way I'm going back to that creepy room after hours just to return a couple of books that are considered junk anyway – I end up taking one copy home with me. Peeta puts the other one in his locker and I pretend I will do the same but actually I'm a bit curious and I want to look through it more once I get home. The book is not entirely about reproduction but about half of it centres around that subject and I find it both interesting and frightening at the same time. I'm surprised that I'm intrigued by it at all, having always had an aversion of sorts towards having babies and always being deeply unsettled and scared when a birthing woman is brought to my mother for help.
I make sure I hide the book carefully so that neither Prim nor Mother will find it. If my mother does she will no doubt take it as a sign that I might be considering making babies with Gale, which will undoubtedly lead to a long talk of the kind that makes me wish for a hole in the earth to open up so that I can jump down into it. And if Prim were to find it… Good grief. She would probably see it as proof that I'm sleeping with Gale, or at least planning to shortly, and just like Mother she might believe I'm starting to change my mind on the subject of motherhood. She would tease me relentlessly, making little remarks for weeks, if not months to come. I definitely don't want that. I keep the book in the bottom of my backpack and only take it out after I've gone to bed. Prim is nervous about a test tomorrow so she's sleeping in our mother's bed tonight, which means I'm undisturbed as I shift to lie closer to the oil lamp for better illumination.
I browse through the pages, studying the pictures much more than the text. The book is in surprisingly good shape aside from its cover, which has half the front missing. There are a few pages torn out in the book but the pages that remain are in decent shape, the text and the pictures clearly visible. There are a few grease stains here and there but I ignore them. Briefly I look at the pictures I saw while working with Peeta earlier, those of the unborn babies, and I wonder how they went about taking these photos. I pause when I come to the chapter about childbirth, perversely curious despite the whole process being nothing but horror and torture and disgust. Honestly I can't for the life of me figure out why it's such a gritty, messy, deadly affair to expel a child from its mother's womb, especially since newborn babies need breastmilk to survive. I fail to comprehend how the pain and danger is beneficial.
Steeling myself, and feeling an odd mixture of frightened curiosity and abject horror at what I might find when I turn the page, I proceed to that chapter. Almost immediately I gasp and recoil, just barely resisting the impulse to slam the book shut and toss it on the floor. Instead I close my eyes and, for good measure, turn my face away. But it's too late. The photographs I saw are already burned on my retinas and after about five minutes of inner debate and turmoil I decide to open my eyes again and take another look, if only to fill in the gaps. What I think I might have seen could actually be worse than what the pictures are really showing. I swallow to try and get rid of the lump in my throat and carefully place my hand over the bottom two pictures. If I'm going to look at these I have to do it one at a time, or I will be sick or actually will slam the book shut. As I proceed I feel a gnawing sensation in the pit of my stomach, some instinct telling me to run away from this. I tell myself it can't be so bad that I can't look upon it. If I can kill and skin an animal then surely I can view these pictures. The beginning of life can't be more frightening than death.
The three pictures depict the birth of a child in far more detail than I ever wished to see. I'm used to seeing blood and pain, but what I see in the photos is beyond that. As I stare with a mixture of horror and fascination I try to wrap my mind around how the human race has even survived for tens of thousands of years. What I'm seeing not only looks painful but it's got to be hazardous. Why would any woman do that more than once in her life? Those women who seem to have a new baby every other year, how do they stand it?
The last picture is the worst one, unsurprisingly. It depicts a baby halfway out of its mother's body and no matter how many times I'm told that this exact moment is the beauty of childbirth and that the pain is about to be all over I can't accept how unnatural it all looks. I feel so incredibly strongly that I never, ever, ever want to go through this myself. I want to distance myself from anything even related to it. Just the thought of suffering through all of that and then spending the rest of my life watching that child teeter on the brink of starvation, knowing she or he will work down into the mines that took my father, and then possibly hearing an escort call out the child's name at the Reaping makes me sick. The details of pregnancy and birth are horrifying enough in their own right and so is the thought of starvation, the mines and the Hunger Games. I might be strong and brave enough to cope with one if there wasn't the other but in District 12 you get no amnesty. Birth will remain painful and starvation and the Hunger Games will keep looming.
I have had enough of this now and I close the book with enough force that I almost tear another page from it. Quickly I get down on the floor to find my backpack and shove it in there as far down as possible. I might read the actual text in that chapter at some point but not tonight. Those pictures were more than enough for one evening and I regret having looked at them in the first place as I crawl into bed and snuff out the light to go to sleep. If I ever change my mind and agree to getting married I will still not do anything to risk becoming pregnant. Which, I suppose, negates the reason people marry in the first place. What man would agree to be my spouse and never get to have sex? Guys seem so incredibly fond of the activity. And why shouldn't they be? There's no pain in it for them.
With a heavy sigh I turn to my side and close my eyes, trying to go to sleep despite the disturbing images I cannot unsee. I sleep distraughtly, waking in the morning without remembering what I dreamt but remembering the uneasy feeling the dreams gave me. During my sleep I've twisted and turned in my bed, the sheets tangled around my legs, and despite the cold temperature in the room I'm soaked in sweat.
"Good morning, Katniss." Peeta's voice is soft and low when he greets me, almost like he feels it's too early to talk in a normal tone. Maybe it's just the general mood affecting him. Even though we're surrounded by people all conversations seem a bit subdued, and aside from the occasional slamming of a locker door and the sound of shoes against the hard floor it's almost what I could call quiet. This, of course, won't last past the first class. People are just tired this early in the morning.
"Hey Peeta," I say, closing my locker and clicking the lock into place.
"Sleep okay?" he asks, pressing his books to his chest as he falls in next to me while we walk to our first class.
"Why wouldn't I have slept okay?" I ask defensively.
"I wasn't… accusing you of not having slept well," he says, looking a little taken aback. "I was trying to be polite. Make conversation."
"Oh." Of course. Great, now I feel like an idiot. I blame it on being tired, since I did not, in fact, sleep well.
"You've never made conversation before eight in the morning before?" he asks, a light teasing tone in his voice.
I snort and roll my eyes. I think about all the early mornings I've spent out in the woods with Gale, waiting for the sun to come up and talking about everything and nothing. I'm just about to make a smarting remark about how I'm probably up and talking every morning long before Peeta's gotten out of his warm and comfortable bed before I remember that he lives at a bakery. He might actually be one of the few kids at school who is used to mornings as early as mine.
"I've never understood the point of asking questions like that," I say instead. Together we zig-zag through the crowd in the narrow hallway, our first class being a bit away from our lockers. Every couple of seconds Peeta nods or waves to someone calling out a greeting to him. Nobody is greeting me, save for Peeta a minute or so ago. "People never seem to care about the actual answer," I go on. "You're supposed to say you've slept great, even if you slept terribly. If you say you slept terribly people look uncomfortable and they don't want to hear about it, which is why it's inane to ask the question in the first place."
"Why did you sleep terribly?"
I'm a bit surprised and I stop for a moment, someone bumping into me from behind and cursing at me for having halted in the middle of the hallway like that. I start walking again, studying Peeta with a puzzled scowl. His eyes don't leave mine and he actually does look interested in hearing the answer to his question.
"I didn't sleep terribly," I claim. It's not for him to know that I did. I scowl at him, daring him to challenge it or to try and claim I don't look well-rested. But he shrugs and breaks eye-contact, meeting instead someone else's eyes and giving that person a wave.
"Morning Belle!" he says. "Hey Stork. Are we still on for playing ball this afternoon?" His attention comes back to me and he smiles crookedly. "It's a form of politeness, Katniss," he explains. "Of showing a person that you take an interest in how they are doing and how their day is going."
"By asking a question you clearly don't give a crap what the answer is?"
"What makes you think I don't care what your answer is?"
I fidget, feeling put on the spot, and turn my scowl to the books he's pressing to his chest. Two large textbooks sandwiching a folder. Specifically, our work from yesterday.
"Are you sure it's a good idea to hand this in already?" I grumble. "Mr. Stoker might not appreciate it."
"He will. Or at the very least he won't have a problem with it. You worry too much."
"Maybe you worry too little," I say, sounding contentious and well aware of it. I'm not sure why. I'm especially not sure why I'm directing it at him.
"You know, you're starting to sound like my mother," says Peeta in a none too pleased tone of voice, and I can only barely keep from letting it show how offended I am by that. I shut up quickly and suck my bottom lip into my mouth.
An awkward silence falls between us as we turn a corner and navigate the last stretch of corridor before we reach the classroom. The area is full of people, our classmates waiting for the door to open so we can go inside. Normally the classrooms are open when we arrive in the morning but our first class of the day is physics and they keep the things we use in experiments under lock and key in their cabinets and lock the door to the classroom too, just to be safe. People seem to have woken up more by now and all around us people are laughing and talking, the volume having risen more than just a bit. My eyes search for Madge but I can't find her in the crowd. She might not be here yet. Class does not start for another few minutes.
Peeta leans back against the wall and lets out a tired sigh, his eyes going to the door of the classroom. I wonder if he dislikes physics as much as he dislikes chemistry. Then his eyes go back to me and he's frowning as he studies me, his head slightly tilted.
"So how is your finger?" he asks.
"What?" I go and stand beside him by the wall, not sure I heard him right.
"You know, that dramatic incident yesterday when you acquired a horrific injury and I was able to stem the blood flow and basically saved your life." He looks deep into my eyes as he talks and sounds perfectly serious. I can barely keep from chuckling.
"Well I showed it to my mother when I got home and she said that despite your quack handling of the wound she has every hope that it will heal and we won't end up having to amputate."
He exhales with relief.
"I think after that I should be able to put, like, 'medicine man' or something on my CV," he says, still in a dead serious tone of voice. He gets a dreamlike expression on his face. "I never knew I had so many talents. It almost makes me want to cry a little, you know?"
I'm about to break and start laughing for real, and I think I see on his face that he's about to crack up too. Then he looks at his wristwatch and frowns.
"Mr. Stoker is running late. Hopefully we can still catch him for a minute before class starts."
"It will be fine," I insist, taking a step away from the wall and glancing down the hallway to try and spot our teacher. It's not entirely uncommon for Mr. Stoker to be five or ten minutes late for the first class of the morning. But if one of us students should be late there would be punishment waiting. I struggle to think of something to say to keep the small talk going but at that moment Mr. Stoker finally comes walking around the corner and Peeta springs to action, pressing his books to his chest with one hand and grabbing my hand with the other before he begins nudging his way through the group of people congregated outside the door.
"Alright, alright, people!" says Mr. Stoker in a weary, impatient voice. As if we were the ones who had kept him waiting. "Make way, let me through. I know you're all as eager as I am to delve into the world of physics."
"Mr. Stoker!" cries Peeta, somehow managing to squeeze his way through to come up right next to the teacher, with me just barely able to follow behind him. Physics, along with chemistry and tech, tends to begin with a race to get through the doors to get the best seat. End up on the left side of the classroom and you're close to the cabinets, which means you run the risk of having to set up beakers, crucibles, burners and the like for experiments. End up in the front row and you run the risk of being singled out to help with the run-through of an experiment or get partnered with the teacher. Sit in the back and to the right and you're pretty much left to yourself.
"Good morning, Peeta," says Mr. Stoker, reaching inside his pant pocket for the classroom key. "You seem eager and alert this morning. We're repeating the laws of thermodynamics this week; perhaps you would like to join me at the board and-"
"Actually, can Katniss and I have a word with you before class?" interjects Peeta. I'm surprised that he would interrupt a teacher but I'm guessing he's none too eager to be up by the board functioning as secretary. Mr. Stoker likes to believe that we learn better if one of us does the writing but I seriously question the validity of his hypothesis.
"You and Katniss?" He turns his face and eyes us sceptically, turning the key in the lock. "What in the world would the pair of you have to 'have a word' about at this hour? Did you both accidentally set fire to your homework?"
"No," says Peeta, giving me a confused look. "No, sir, it's… it's not about physics." Mr. Stoker opens the door and immediately people start moving to get in, pushing me forward to get ahead. I scowl and respond by elbowing the people who push me. "It's about the project. The big project."
The teacher stops in the doorway, keeping us all from entering the room. People further back begin to complain loudly, not able to see that it's the teacher who is keeping the rest of us from going inside and finding a good spot.
"You two want to talk to me about the project now?" questions Mr. Stoker, peering at us from above his glasses.
"This couldn't have waited, Mellark?" someone complains from behind me.
Peeta looks at me again, seemingly for support, but I have no idea what to say. So I stay quiet. He turns his attention back to the teacher.
"We don't really feel it can wait."
"Go find your seats, Peeta," sighs Mr. Stoker. "We can discuss this after class. It can wait until you've freshened up your knowledge on thermodynamics, can't it?"
He turns and walks inside the classroom, muttering something under his breath about how it's too early in the morning for overachievers. Peeta gives me another puzzled look but walks inside the classroom and heads towards the back. I follow behind him, scowling at the many kids who are practically racing to get to the best seats. One of them steps on my shoelace which unties it, nearly tripping me in the process. I stop and put my backpack down at a table in the middle of the classroom, closer to the right side wall. I bend down to tie my shoelace, thinking rather unpleasant thoughts to myself. Peeta looks disgruntled as he sets his books down next to mine and slumps on a chair.
"Is it too much to ask for the teacher to be on time, so we can have these conversations without making class start late?" he complains under his breath.
"Old Stoker seems about ready to throw in the towel and put an end to his teaching days," I reply, glancing at the tired looking man by the board, yawning as he unscrews the lid of his coffee thermos. "You know, maybe in a year or two he'll actually retire and you can have his teaching job."
"And teach physics?" He looks about as weary as the teacher as he pulls out a chair and sits down. "You'll be not even a little surprised to learn that, as with chemistry, physics is not my strongest subject."
"You would manage."
"I can barely pass it, how do you imagine me being able to teach it?" He makes a face and hides a yawn behind the back of his hand. "Heck, I'm not sure I even understand any of it."
"You talk as if you're barely getting by," I remark. "You shouldn't go around doing a fake modesty act. You're one of the top students in our class. It's really unbecoming."
"I'm flattered that you see me as Super Student," he says dryly, clearly not flattered in the least. "I haven't claimed to be struggling with every class. I'm just much better at humanities, is what I'm saying." He chortles mirthlessly. "And if you don't believe me about my aptitude for physics and chemistry, just ask my brother. Ryean thinks I'm a complete idiot every week when he helps me with my homework."
I'm surprised to hear that his brother helps him with his homework – and on a weekly basis too. Especially since we are seniors now and Ryean has already graduated. I wonder how come he sits down with his younger brother every week to do this. Ryean Mellark has never struck me as the nurturing type.
"Katniss do you intend to stand there all morning, or will you take a seat already so we can get started?"
Mr. Stoker's voice startles me and I look around and find that everyone else is sitting down, and most eyes are on me. I feel myself flush with embarrassment and I search the room to find Madge but Peeta harks and I look over at him instead. With his eyes he signals that I should sit down beside him but I always partner with Madge.
"Katniss?"
The teacher's impatient voice seals the deal and with a scowl and with cheeks still flushing I pull out the chair and sit down with an angry huff, wishing I could disappear. With my elbows resting on the table I lean my brow against my index fingers, hiding as best as I can, feeling embarrassed and in a really foul mood. Peering around the room I see Madge a few rows ahead of me, glancing at me over her shoulder. Somebody else has taken the seat beside her. Of course this all makes sense to me now. I put my bag on the table where Peeta was taking a seat so everyone just assumed I intended to sit there. This left me with no other partner available but him.
"Fantastic…" I mutter.
"Now, if everyone is done finding their seats, actually sitting down in them, and if Monica and Delly can wrap up their rather loud conversation about their braids – fascinating though I'm sure it is – perhaps we can get started." Mr. Stoker sounds even more cantankerous than usual this morning. He's generally quite agreeable but never before nine o'clock in the morning. He takes a large sip from his coffee mug and then sighs, sitting down on the edge of his desk. "Congratulations to you all, we will be taking things quite easy this morning. As I've already said, and as those five or six of you who were actually paying attention thus already know, we'll be repeating the laws of thermodynamics. No real laboratory work today, just some math problems and some such for you to work on in your pairs."
He keeps on talking and I sit back in my chair, not bothering to keep the sullen scowl off my face. I feel out of sorts and to be perfectly honest with myself I feel nervous working with Peeta in physics class. Project hour is one thing, I've gotten used to that and it's a whole other kind of work. Doing physics assignments together just seems like it could get awkward. I don't know how to work together with Peeta for things like that. With Madge I know exactly how to go about it and how we work together but it's uncharted territory with the boy I'm currently sitting next to. Why couldn't I have been more perceptive and made sure to take my seat with Madge? Was it necessary to carry on that conversation with Peeta?
"Yeah, I'd complain too, if I were you." I wasn't expecting to hear Peeta's voice right now and I look up at him. His hands are clasped on top of his open textbook and his eyes are on the teacher but there's no mistaking his soft voice was directed at me.
"What?"
"I just told you I'm bad at physics and now you're stuck doing today's work with me. Not your most strategic move, I must say." He gives me a quick glance and I can tell he's confused. "How come you didn't go sit with Madge?"
I don't know how to respond to that. It would seem obvious to me how come I ended up sitting here. Does he think I chose this seat? If he did, what does that imply? He doesn't make any further comments and I don't say anything else either, deciding to give my full attention to Mr. Stoker and the poor kid he's dragged up to write on the blackboard. From the corner of my eye I see Peeta taking notes throughout the lecture part of the class. This should all be just repetition, as Mr. Stoker said. We covered all of this a few years ago and much of it has been repeated at one point or another. Is Peeta really that terrible at physics or does he just like to give the impression of actively participating?
When the time comes for the math problems to be done I cast a longing look in Madge's direction, but then when Mr. Stoker walks by and hands us the problem sheet I only have to glance at it to realize I'm being ridiculous. After all, what we're being asked to do is just math. With a physics spin, sure, but math is always math at the end of the day, and if it's one thing I've done enough of for the project it's math. And Peeta's no worse at it than I am so I don't see why this should present much of a problem for us. I place the sheet on the table between us and push it closer to him so he can get a good look.
"I'll tell you one thing, it's a good thing I was born in town," sighs Peeta, rummaging through his pencil case. "My livelihood will probably never depend on my capabilities with physics or chemistry." He finds his pencil sharpener and gets to work sharpening both his own and my pencil, though I didn't ask him to. "Then again, people have been mining for thousands of years and I bet back in the days of Julius Caesar they didn't need the zeroth law of thermodynamics to get the job done."
"I bet they weren't mining coal this far below the surface, either," I reply dryly.
"Fair enough." He blows on the desk to get rid of the waste from his sharpening. "So are you as good with this stuff as you are with chemistry?"
"I'm quite sure I'm better than you, at least," I tease.
We manage to get the work done without much trouble, mainly because whenever we disagree on something Peeta instantly defers to me, having apparently no faith whatsoever in his own knowledge on the subject. We're finishing up the last problem when the bell rings and Peeta is up on his feet so fast that I startle, his hand snatching up the project folder before I've even caught up with what he's doing. His hand lands on my shoulder as he passes me by.
"Come on, let's hurry up and talk to him before he heads off to his next class!"
"But we're not done with this problem, yet!" I protest. "We have to hand it in before we can leave!"
"Okay, well, you finish it up, then, and I'll talk to Mr. Stoker!" He's already halfway to the front of the classroom, talking to me over his shoulder. I scowl but secretly don't mind all that much. I feel like a bit of a fool handing this in ahead of schedule with the hopes of getting some changes to our scenario. I think I prefer finishing up the math.
"Splendid…" I mutter to myself as I focus on the equation we had almost solved, knowing I need to get it done as soon as possible or we will both be late for our next class. It's hard to concentrate in the inevitable ruckus that follows the end of a class. I wish our classmates could keep their voices down for once, or better yet, shut up. I'm not the only one still working on the problem sheet so I know I'm not alone in wishing for a bit of consideration but after all these years I know better than to expect it.
Despite the distractions around me I finish the problem, staple all the sheets we've used together, and sign both our names at the top one. Glancing over at Peeta I worry my bottom lip between my teeth. I gather all my things and put them in my backpack but that only takes half a minute or so and Peeta is still talking to the teacher when I'm done. I see him turning a page in the folder and pointing to something, apparently stating our case, something I could never imagine being brave enough to do. Since I really don't want to go up there and join in the discussing, especially since I have a feeling I would just end up standing there anyway, so I begin to slowly gather up Peeta's things as well. I put everything back in his pencil case, one by one, and I collect his two textbooks and his notebook and put them in a neat pile. To my relief, the next time I look over there they seem to be done talking. Peeta nods at Mr. Stoker, smiles and then comes walking back to our table. He's still got the folder in his hands, which confuses me a little since he was smiling as he walked away.
"How did it go?" I ask, making no excuses as to why I didn't come up there and help him out.
"As well as we might have expected," answers Peeta. "He seemed a bit surprised, but once I made our case he agreed to take a look at the stuff we wrote, and if he and the other teachers think we've made a strong enough argument they'll make some changes to the scenario for us."
"You're kidding."
"I rarely kid before breakfast."
"I had breakfast almost two hours ago."
"Well I didn't," he shrugs. "Hey, look at this! You didn't need to get my things ready for me. That was nice of you."
"Peeta. You still have your folder."
"What?" The look he gives me while putting his pencil case into his backpack suggests my words made no sense to him at all. He picks up his books and with one hand presses them to his chest. Why he doesn't simply put them into the backpack as well I'll never know.
"You said you handed Mr. Stoker what we wrote. But you still have your folder with you."
"Well I didn't give him all we've written for this leg," he says, as if I'm an idiot. "I take it you completed the last equation? Thanks a bunch, Katniss, great work. Listen, I've got to run. Need to get to my locker to put these books back and get the ones I need for next class, plus I have to use the bathroom. Great working with you today, though!" He grins at me. "Not quite used to the pleasure of your partnership on a random Tuesday. I wouldn't mind teaming up again some other time, though I suspect you'll stay far away from me in physics class from now on, now that you know my vast limitations. Bye for now, see you next class!"
I don't have a chance at getting a word in so I just stand there and listen and observe. He manages to snatch up our work for the day and drops it off on the teacher's desk on his way out. I shake my head and put my backpack on, leaving the classroom in much less of a hurry than he was in. Since I have everything I need in my backpack for all classes before lunch I head straight for the next classroom. This time I'm going to find Madge and sit down with her before my scatter minded brain lands me with someone else in our class.
Come Sunday the temperature has risen a little, to the relief of more or less everyone in the district. It's still cold, but -17 degrees is a lot more endurable than -22, especially since it's windless when I leave the house before dawn and trudge my way through the deep snow. I run into Gale where his street intersects the one leading to the Meadow and although neither of us says anything, not wanting to wake up our neighbours on the one morning of the week when they get to sleep in, we share a smile at the pleasant change in temperature.
As soon as we're ducking under the fence and stepping out into the forbidden territory Gale breaks the silence between us, his voice full of happiness and excitement.
"The hunting conditions are perfect on a morning like this, sweet Catnip!" he says, reaching his arms out as if to embrace the surroundings. "It's getting warmer already, and when was the last time you saw the woods look so beautiful in winter? Almost worth giving up my one day of the week where I can sleep until noon – or at least until some sensible time like seven or eight." He grins and slowly spins around in a full circle as he walks. "It's going to be a great year. I can feel it."
"It's only the second week of January," I remind him with a giggle. It's hard not to get caught up in his joviality.
"Which means we have fifty more weeks to go of this bound-to-be-great year."
He waits for me to catch up with him and when I do he wraps his arms around me, giving me a long kiss on the lips after which he rocks us back and forth for a bit. Standing this close I can see that the circles under his eyes are darker than usual. He looks tired, and no doubt he is, for he hasn't had the energy to take walks with me even once this week. I know the midwinter months are particularly dreary down in the mines and with the long hours he works he only gets to see the sun on Sundays. Sometimes during midwinter they hand out vitamin D supplements to some of the miners whose work performance is getting too affected by lack of energy. Ever since Gale graduated and begun his work there I've been especially concerned for him at this time of year but this time around it's not just him I'm worried about. I'm terribly frightened that a year from now it might be me toiling away down there, confined in a claustrophobic, dark and stinking environment and working so hard that I'm too spent to even go for a walk in the afternoon or enjoy doing things with Prim. It's nightmarish and I desperately pray that I will be able to find work elsewhere.
"I hope you're right," I say, suddenly finding I have to force keeping on the smile that came all on its own just moments ago. "I hope it will be a good year."
"Oh I promise you that it will be." He chuckles softly and rubs his nose against mine. "And on top of everything else, it will be the first year we spend all 52 weeks as boyfriend and girlfriend."
"Yeah," I say as he releases me and begins to trudge towards the treeline. "I suppose so…"
We take up our seats in our favourite glade, shivering once we begin sitting still, soon pressing close to one another for warmth. My quiver sits at my feet, stuck down into the snow to keep it standing, and my bow rests against my side. I feel so much better after I've retrieved it from its hiding spot, a comforting familiarity that makes me feel at least a little bit safe despite everything. I look up at Gale and stop myself from asking how his week has been when he yawns big without even covering it up with his hand. I ought to feel guilty that I get to spend my days at school, only nine hours a day, and be relatively warm and enjoy sunlight and the security of not facing possible death every day. Instead of mining coal, breathing in that horrible dust that can slowly and torturously kill a person over ten or fifteen years, I get to educate myself and have frequent breaks and sometimes even have a bit of fun. What stops me from feeling that guilt is knowing that it's all going to be over soon for me as well. What will happen after graduation and once the Hunger Games are over is anyone's guess. Could I be so lucky as to land a job somewhere safe, somewhere in town? The thought crosses my mind that I could perhaps tell potential employers of my determination never to have children and thus never be away on maternity leave. Reality quickly catches up with me before I can get carried away with the idea. I can't tell anyone where I stand on this issue. It could be extremely dangerous if the wrong person found out.
While I've been busy with my thoughts Gale has lifted his thermos from his game bag and now he offers me a mug of steaming hot liquid. I take it gratefully and while I carefully blow on it and wait for it to get cool enough to drink without risking burning my tongue I wonder what Gale thinks of the issue that's gotten me so riled up this week.
"Gale when you did the project, did you have to adjust your budget when you were saddled with babies, because the woman wouldn't be able to work and be pregnant at the same time?" I ask, warming my hands around my mug of silver tea.
"Yeah, probably," he shrugs.
"You don't remember?"
"We only spent two weeks on it, remember?" He smiles at me, in a good mood despite obviously being very tired this morning.
"Two weeks…" My eyebrows raise as I think about it. "Wow, they must have really slimmed it down for you. Or expanded on it like crazy for us." I take a sip of my tea, careful not to burn my tongue.
"Well, to be fair it was two weeks of doing little else but the project. But those essays and stuff you seem to be doing all the time, we didn't have those. Just the one, about how we'd want to raise our children. Other than that…" He shrugs. "How come you're asking?"
"Oh I'm just irritated."
Gale laughs and gives me a nudge with his shoulder.
"The project seems to be having that effect on you more often than not."
"See, it's just that I find it a bit degrading. I'm fictionally pregnant and therefore I can't work anymore after a certain point. What do they mean that I do instead, exactly? Loll about the house all day chasing dust bunnies?"
"I remember how exhausted my mother was in the last couple of months when she was expecting Posy," says Gale. He blows on his mug of tea to cool it some, as I did. "But I don't know, maybe that was just her, and just that pregnancy." He gives me a crooked smile. "I understand it feels frustrating for you. This whole part of the scenario kind of thrust upon you." He takes a sip from his mug, smacking his lips a little. "It must feel particularly pointless since you aren't going to have children for real."
I study him with interest, a smile spreading across my face. The issue of marriage seems to be hanging in the air every so often with us no matter how clear I've made my position but when it comes to motherhood he seems to fully accept my viewpoint and my decision. Acting on a sudden impulse I put the mug down beside me in the snow, then I turn to Gale and cradle his neck with one hand as I lean in and kiss him. I wonder if this is perhaps the first time I've instigated a kiss purely because I want to, and not to make him happy. Either way Gale responds immediately to my kiss, returning it with warmth but with no rush, and it feels easily like my favourite kiss so far.
When it's over I shift closer to him on the log, almost making my bow fall in the process, and rest my cheek on his shoulder, feeling warm and content and reassured. Gale, who has gotten rid of his mug somewhere along the line, wraps his arm around me and holds me close. Something about this moment feels like old times, even though we never sat this way back then, and we of course never kissed. But it's the first time in a while that I feel like we're the way we ought to be again, Katniss and Gale, with no expectations hanging over us. This is exactly how I like things to be, and if being a couple can be incorporated into that this way then maybe this is the right path for us.
"I wouldn't take the project too seriously if I were you, Katniss," says Gale after a minute. "I agree that you not being able to work while pregnant feels exaggerated but it's hardly as if they're gunning for realism anyway."
"What makes you say that?"
"Has there been anything at all so far addressing you, born and raised in the Seam, married to a baker's son? Seam and merchant class ought to have brought about a whole slew of issues and so far you haven't mentioned any."
"Such as?" I sit up straight and cross my arms, scowling at him and ready to launch into a defence of my parents' marriage. "My mother and father were the happiest couple I have ever known, they weren't weighed down my any issues, and-"
He silences me with a kiss, deepening my scowl in the process.
"I'm not talking about issues in the relationship itself," he says. He leans down and picks up his mug again, taking a long sip. I sit quietly, waiting for him to explain and ready to pounce if I hear anything that I feel is criticism of my family. "I'm talking about how the world and our society works, Katniss. Your mother's family, do you even know them?" He knows the answer so he doesn't wait to hear me say it. "People don't look kindly on those who marry out of their social standing."
"Which is absurd!" I say, my feathers much ruffled. "Why should something like that matter, to anyone? You can be friends with, and trade with, people from a different part of town, you can go off and spend 'quality time' at the slag heap together, but you can't marry? You can't love someone from the other side of town?"
"That's how it is, Catnip." He looks weary but serious and determined. "I don't know, maybe the merchants are afraid that if they start to marry Seam folks they will lose their cushiony life with a steady sizeable income, freedom of the mines and almost always fewer slips in the reaping balls. And maybe the Seam folks are too proud to want to mingle with those who look upon us as lesser people."
"They don't do that," I protest. "That's all in your head, Gale."
"But we are lesser people!" he cries, upset all of a sudden. He rises to his feet without noticing that his mug falls over his game bag and spills the silver tea. "We're scarcely better than slaves."
"Neither are they," I retort. This makes his eyes boggle as he spins around and stares at me.
"Are you serious?"
"They may not work in the mines and they may eat slightly better than we do but Gale, they don't exactly live like the people in the Capitol." He scoffs with disbelief at my words and begins to pace. My eyes follow him. It's not often that I contradict him when he goes off on one of his tangents but this one I couldn't simply let lie. It's not aimed at those who oppress us but at those who are in the same situation we are. "Have you ever given a thought to the kind of pressure they live under? If they don't sell enough bread, or shoes, or furniture they won't be able to put food on the table. They don't have a steady income – for them it's all dependent on others. And when we graduate we at least know that we have a job waiting for us. It may be the last job I would ever want to have but it's employment and it will keep food on the table and hopefully keep Prim from going behind my back to sign up for tesserae!" I'm not unaware that my voice has risen and I wish Gale would look at me as he paces, but he just shakes his head from time to time and begins to get that thundercloud look about him. I can't be sure he's really listening to the things I have to say but I have to say them anyway. I think of Peeta and Madge, two such sweet and loyal people, and how Peeta in particular has such an uncertain future ahead of him. Gale does not see, and he isn't being fair. "What do you think happens to younger children in a merchant family when they graduate? Huh, Gale? Let me tell you what happens to them. If they're really, really lucky their parents and oldest sibling needs them to help run things at their business. But more often than not they don't have that opportunity, and for those people there is no guaranteed income. They have to hope for someone with another business who needs help, and such jobs are rarely long-term. Or they have to start their very own business, which is near impossible to do, or we wouldn't have just one or two new shops every five years. Their last option is to hope for a job at the school or at the Justice Building and those jobs are not exactly commonplace."
"Actually they can sign up to work in the mines, and have an income starting the next day," argues Gale, looking at me finally. He doesn't sound quite so angry as I had feared but he sounds disdainful, and to me that's worse. "I don't see that happening, ever, so things can't be that bad for them. Let me ask you this, Katniss – do you find it realistic that in this advanced school project of yours a Seam person and a townie marry and they live in town? Apply for – and get – town jobs? You and that blond sissy would be stranded in the Seam in reality, and both of you would work down I the mines."
I have no answer to his last point, in fact I know he's right even though I haven't given it any thought until now, but I object strongly to his characterization of Peeta.
"That blond sissy?" I echo, giving him a look that shows exactly how I feel about that. "Where do you get off on calling him something like that? You don't even know him."
"I know he's spent his entire life in a cushiony house in town, with constant food on the table and thus no need to take out tesserae."
"Honestly, Gale…" I scoff, standing up and grabbing my bow and my quiver. I put them over my shoulder and reach for my game bag. "I would have expected a little more insight from you. I honestly don't know why you seem to think they live the same way Capitol people do, and it seems to be escalating lately."
Realizing that I'm about to leave he suddenly softens, his shoulders slumping and his expression changing into one of weariness and sadness. I don't want to care but I can't help to, and I remain standing there instead of walking off.
"I'm sorry, Catnip," he says pleadingly. "I shouldn't have said that, and I'm sorry. It's not him per se, it's the whole system that angers me. And even though I shouldn't care one iota about your stupid project I have to tell you it bugs me that the thing about a Seam woman marrying a town guy is completely glossed over."
"The point of the project is not to deal with social stigma over who we love, or choose to be with," I say, more calmly than I feel. I put my things down again and sit down with a sigh. "It's about handling finances and relationships and parenthood… I simply don't think they care about how we get paired up, class-wise."
"Perhaps if they did care about it, and actually discussed it with the entire class, it wouldn't be such a stigma," he says, stunning me to silence. He's usually not this idealistic. I can't stop from smiling, glancing up at him with much more warmth.
"Why Gale Hawthorne," I say. "You mean to say you actually think it would be a good thing for us to mingle more with the townies?"
He doesn't seem to find anything amusing, or unordinary, about what he just said. He walks over and bends down to pick up his mug, cleaning it with a fistful of fresh now before putting it in his bag. He doesn't seem to notice that the bag is wet, and beginning to freeze.
"I think Seam people should stick with Seam people and merchant people with other townies… But for those who do fall in love with someone from the opposite group I see no benefit of making them social pariahs among those better off in life, and dumping them in the Seam." He scoffs slightly, refusing to avoid my look. "Life's bad enough as it is for far too many people." Finally he gazes at me. "Though I'm glad you're not a townie."
I can't stop laughter from bubbling up. I give him a light nudge on the arm with my fist and then nod in the direction of one of our tracks in the woods.
"Does this mean you're supportive of my newfound friendship with my fake merchant husband?"
"No," he says curtly.
"Oh come on," I smile, rolling my eyes at his stubbornness. "What is it, Gale? Afraid you might actually like him if you get to know him?" He sighs wearily and I decide not to tease him any further. I suppose it's not what a supportive girlfriend would do following a tiring week in the mines. But as I reach out and take his hand, giving it a squeeze, I can't help but make one final comment on the subject before dropping it entirely. "You know… he is a really nice guy. And life's not easy on him and his family either."
"Am I supposed to feel sorry for him?"
"All I'm asking is that you don't judge."
He sighs heavily, pulls me close and kisses my brow. He then mutters for me to come along and begins walking down the path, cursing under his breath as he takes a bad step and ends up sinking halfway down to his knee in the snow. I follow him in silence, glad that the argument is over for this time, barely remembering how happy I was just a short while ago when he reaffirmed to me that he knows and fully respects my position on having a family. It seems these days the good times are far too often followed by the bad.