This chapter took a long time to get in order. First it was too short, then I brought in something from a previously discarded chapter and worked it in, and suddenly it was too long and needed re-working. But finally I got it done, and it's really late (or early, depending on how you look at it) and I really ought to just post this thing and go to bed!
I've decided to remove several scenes from K&P's remaining school time to help the story progress. One such "deleted scene" is unfortunately Peeta's wrestling tournament. I kind of liked it myself, but it didn't add much to the progression of the story, and in the end I found it wasn't necessary. So this chapter takes place around three weeks after the previous one, after the tournament has been held. If you want to read what I had managed to write for the tournament, you can find it (and another small deleted scene) on AO3 under the name "Side Project" (my username there is Ronja).
Among the elements I've removed for now is a subplot concerning Prim, and Katniss having to come to grips with her little sister growing up. I'll probably just shift most of it for later in the story, but there was one part that couldn't be moved, so it takes place here. More on that in the end notes.
Hope you'll enjoy!
On the first Wednesday of May I arrive at school, for once feeling more than ready for it all to be done with and for an existence devoid of exams on top of exams, essays op of essays, home assignments on top of home assignments, to be over. I don't have the luxury of shrugging and settling for just scraping by, because doing so will guarantee me a life in the mines come June or July – November at best, once the prime hunting season has passed and most edible flora out in the woods has been harvested or fallen to the frost. We won't have any tesserae from now on and must learn to do without, and I must find ways to bring in money enough to make that possible. I must perform well if I am to stand the slightest chance of getting a job anywhere else than down in those dirty, disgusting mines. I must perform better than my merchant classmates if I am to get presumptive employers there to consider me over people born and raised among themselves. If it were only about myself and my mother I might have opted to take my chances at starving once I can no longer collect tesserae, hoping for the woods to help me scrape by. But there is Prim to think about, and for her I would take a job in the mines if necessity demanded it. But I won't conform to that fate without putting up the best struggle I possibly can, which means that for the next few intense weeks I will have to put everything I've got into schoolwork. I'm relieved to have Gale's full support on this. In fact he's even offered to help put food on our table for a few weeks so that I can put everything into school.
I find a seat next to Madge at the back of the classroom, nodding in greeting as I pull out my chair. The usual morning ruckus is noticeably absent these days, the strain of the months to come evident to each and every person in our class. For the merchant kids it's the strain of an increased workload and a last chance at getting good grades. For the Seam kids it's knowing that the haven that childhood and school has offered is about to be over. It's almost eerie to not be surrounded by the usual onslaught of conversation going on all around me, even though I've often longed for people to be quieter before and after classes. The solemn expressions on many faces, in particular Seam faces, makes it hard to appreciate the comparative stillness, and the atmosphere in general is one of uneasiness and stress.
While I open my textbook and start turning pages to get to the right chapter I notice Peeta walking through the door. He's sporting a black eye that wasn't there before. It's been less than a week since the big wrestling tournament and his face is now clean-shaven, making the discolouration seem more prominent. Deciding I don't want to look at it, and that he probably doesn't want any attention called to it either, I avert my eyes, focusing on the textbook pages we'll be covering today. It's not easy to just put it from my mind though, and there's a knot tightening in the pit of my stomach just from knowing that the welt is there. I don't know that I can ever get used to seeing his face marred that way. It was less than a week ago that he won his last big wrestling tournament, the event he put so much effort and time into preparing for, and he could not be allowed a full seven days before something new had to happen to remind him of how sinister and unpleasant life can be in an outline district, whether you are a member of the more well-off class or not. I wasn't able to congratulate him of his win on the day in question, since he disappeared into a crowd of his friends almost immediately after emerging from the locker rooms, and now I find myself wishing I had sought him out in the days after to let him know I am proud of him, that I cheered him on from my spot on the bleachers, and that I felt such triumph when he won every one of his matches. I have been meaning to, but he's been quite popular following his victory, almost always surrounded by people – many of them girls, I've noticed. I didn't want to be another silly girl coming up to swoon over the big sports hero, even though unlike most of those girls I will still care about him a few weeks from now, and they will have moved on to something else. Nonetheless I wish I had talked to him, congratulated him. Doing so now would only seem like a reaction to his black eye, an attempt to cheer him up, and I think he would hate that. There is a right time to do things, and if you wait, if you put it off for too long, then it will almost inevitably end up being too late.
So I keep my peace, fuming on the inside, wishing he could be spared from having to take a beating. He's had enough of that in his life, hasn't he? And what could he possibly have done to make his mother hurt him this time? Oughtn't she to be proud of her youngest son for taking home the victory in the wrestling tournament? She must know how hard he's worked to achieve it.
He keeps a low profile during the day, retreating somewhere during every recess, sometimes with one of his friends, sometimes by himself. I don't know where he goes. It's a little jarring to realize. After all those months of working closely together I thought I had gotten to know Peeta fairly well. Today I wonder if I know him more than just on the very surface.
Only once during the long school day do our eyes meet. It's during math class, when I've walked up to the teacher's desk to hand in a finished assignment and grab the next. All around me heads are turned downward, each person focusing on their own math problems, or at the very least having the decency not to disturb anyone else who might be struggling. I get my new sheet of math problems and turn, letting my eyes run over the neat rows of equations, wishing fervently to myself that I will have more use out of arithmetic than algebra once school is done. Meanwhile Peeta, seated just a few rows down, is clenching his jaw and irately erasing something, losing his grip on the eraser just as I've begun to walk back down toward my own seat in the back of the room. It goes flying on the floor, landing by the desk on the other side of the narrow aisle, and with a barely contained sigh he pushes his chair back and leans down to pick it up. Instinctively I kneel down to grab it at the same time as he reaches for it, and my hand stops just a few inches away from his as he grabs the long, pale-yellow, well-used eraser and encases it in his fist. Our eyes meet for a brief moment, the look that meets my own seeming filled with pent-up frustration. I can barely see his right eye, the swelling still keeping it almost entirely shut. I think I must recoil at the sight, or gasp inaudibly or something, because while he doesn't flinch or make a sound it seems like it hurts him when we look at each other.
Then he sits back up without making a sound, the eraser moving rapidly over his math sheet, his left hand brushing the little rubber flakes away. I straighten up and continue to my seat next to Madge, feeling a thick lump in my throat that won't go away, no matter how many times I swallow.
After school I head straight home, to find that my mother and sister are already working on our evening meal. We usually don't eat quite so early, but Mother figures the sooner we eat, the sooner I can devote my evening to my studies. I have some time before the meal and I spend it fixing my game bag, which has a small hole at the bottom. While sewing is not my favourite thing to do I can handle needle and thread well enough to do some basic mending, and I sit cross-legged on the couch as I get the chore done. Buttercup lies on the end of the couch, eyeing me with an expression of boredom, lazily opening only one of his ugly eyes to look at me. It unnerves me, and I accidentally prick my finger on the needle, muttering a curse word under my breath before sticking the finger in my mouth to suck it clean of the small droplets of blood that appear. It should be just a few minutes' work to mend the bag, but it ends up taking me long enough that there's no point opening my school books before we eat. I put Mother's sewing kit back in its place and try to pass the time as best I can while I wait.
My mind is wrapped up in schoolwork, hunting, a black eye on a fair boy's face, things that have my attention to such a degree that I'm barely aware of what I'm eating or how it tastes, and I barely partake in conversation at the table. I don't think I speak five words except to ask my mother to pass the salt, and to mutter something complimentary about the food. Mother and Prim begin to discuss the idea of getting a cake for my birthday, but I ignore them, figuring it's not a serious suggestion. Maybe next year when I turn nineteen. Eighteen feels like less of a milestone. Once we're finished eating I excuse myself from the table and move to my bedroom to study. No one objects to me not helping out with the dishes, if anything they encourage me focusing on my grades right now. They both know as well as I do what's at stake, even though we've never spoken a word about it out loud. We've never had to.
After about twenty minutes a soft knock on the door interrupts me, and I call out for Prim – that knock is unmistakeably hers – to enter without taking my eyes off the coal mining book I've got my nose buried in. Ironically in order to avoid working in the coalmines I must first pass a mastodont exam on the subject of coal – essentially everything we've been taught on the subject for the past ten years all jammed into one enormous final exam one week before graduation. For most of my Seam classmates their score on the exam can play a huge part in determining what precise job they get once they set foot inside that cold, damp, smelly place. They keep the results on file for years on end and bring them out every time they need a new foreman, or a position opens up of a more administrative nature, or – inversely – whenever they need someone to do especially unpleasant work in especially nasty and dreary parts of the mines. As for me, I'm hoping it will help keep me out of the mines altogether.
"Hey," says Prim as she walks inside, her voice as soft as her knock.
"Hey little duck. If you were ever wondering why you should put your back into studying about coal, this upcoming exam of mine is why."
"I'd take coal over history any day of the week." Something in her voice sounds off, just the slightest hint of a tremble, so I turn my eyes away from the textbook and eye my baby sister with a worried scowl. She's got a very faint smile on her lips that doesn't come anywhere near her eyes, and she moves gently across the small room to take a seat on our bed, pulling one foot up underneath her and grabbing her knee with both hands. "Are you making any progress?" she asks.
"Some, I guess…" I say warily, twisting my upper body to be able to look at her, my left arm resting on the top of the chair.
"It must be pretty weird, huh? School being over so soon? At least you've got Gale, who's already been down that road," she says, sounding overly encouraging. "A boyfriend who knows what it's like."
"Sure…" I narrow my eyes slightly as I study her more closely. "Are you okay, Prim? Is everything alright with you?"
"Yeah!" she immediately chirps, nodding empathically for added effect. "I'm good!"
"Well I… I should get back to my studies…" I say hesitantly.
"Right. Sure." She smiles widely for a second, only for the corners of her mouth to drop really fast. Her eyes turn to the side and she bites the right side of her bottom lip.
"Prim." I say her name in a calmly imploring manner. Whatever this is about, I need to know. She seemed okay during dinner, didn't she? I wasn't really paying attention, but if something was amiss I would have noticed. Wouldn't I? What could possibly have happened since then? "There must be something on your mind. You wouldn't come in here just to say hi just half an hour after dinner."
"Nothing, I was just bored, that's all." For over a minute she refuses to look at me, seeming to look everywhere else in the room instead. Even when she begins to speak again she doesn't look at me at first, and that hint of a tremble is back in her voice. "So, uhm… I mean, since we're already talking…" She pauses again, and I have to fight the urge to prompt her. Something tells me that if I do that, she'll clamp up or change the subject. So I wait, and after another minute I get rewarded for my patience. Sort of. "I was just wondering, do you… I mean, whatever happened with you and…" She tries to hide a nervous gulp. "With you and Peeta?"
"With me and Peeta?" I echo, my brow furrowing deeply as I try to understand what she means.
"Yeah, I mean you guys seemed to be becoming quite good friends and then your project ended, and I was just curious if you guys spend time together at all anymore or if you're back to being just classmates," she rattles off hurriedly in one breath.
"Uhm.." I need a moment to figure out how to answer her. I'm not sure I understand what she's really asking, but I have a strong idea, and if I'm right I'm not at all happy about it. "Well, I mean… Peeta and I are friendly, but there's not much reason for us to hang out anymore." I pause, waiting – hoping – for her to jump in and protest that we have every reason in the world to hang out. In fact I'm even hoping she'll hint at the possibility of feelings between Peeta and myself, despite me being Gale's girlfriend, because that would mean I'm wrong about my assumption. But she doesn't say anything, and I start to feel really uncomfortable. Is it possible that my little sister has got a crush on the baker's son? Please don't let that be the case. "Why?" I finally ask, since she isn't clarifying things for me.
"No reason, I just…" She shrugs half-heartedly and keeps her eyes turned downward. "I like him. He's nice. I was just wondering if you talk to him at school at all, or anything like that."
"Prim," I say, doing my best to keep my own voice from trembling, "do you… like Peeta? I mean, real feelings? Is that what this is about?"
Her eyes fly up to meet mine, wide and either upset or surprised or both, and her cheeks turn a sharp shade of red.
"What?"
"Do you have a thing for Peeta?" I ask with more clarity, hating each word as it falls out of my mouth but determined to know the truth. I don't even know why that thought feels so abhorrent to me. He is the kind of boy I hope she will fall in love with one day, but she is far too young to be involved with someone who will be graduating in a few weeks. If Peeta were to develop feelings for her I would be furious at him for going after a girl four years his junior, and if he didn't reciprocate then her heart would break sooner or later, and I want to shield her from that.
"What's it to you?" she suddenly asks me in a catty tone after just staring at me in silence for a while, and my heart sinks to the bottom of my feet. "You're with Gale."
"Prim!" I exclaim, unable to stay calm any longer. "He's far older than you are, not to mention he's merchant."
"Only you can see that as a hindrance to a relationship," she scoffs, moving back on the bed until she sits against the wall, giving me a defiant look. "We are the only kids in our school whose parents were from different parts of the district, yet you act as if it's an unsurmountable obstacle!"
"The only kids in our school," I emphasize. "That tells you nothing?"
"Only that people are cowards or idiots or both." She scowls at me and crosses her arms, and even though the two of us hardly look alike at all I recognize that particular face from a lifetime of seeing it stare back at me in the mirror. "And anyway, no, I'm not in love with Peeta."
"Are you anywhere at all on that spectrum?" I ask her sternly, determined to get to the bottom with the true nature of her feelings towards him. "Crush? Infatuation?"
"No, dumbass!" she sasses me. "But I do think you could do a hell of a lot worse than have him for a friend, and if you weren't with Gale I might even be in favour of you hooking up with him, provided that your stubbornness would ever allow you to."
I stare at her with bewilderment, my mouth opening and closing repeatedly, wondering who this irritated teenaged girl is and why I've never seen or heard my little sister this way ever before.
"Well…" I then begin, stuttering a bit before I can get a cohesive sentence out, "what is it, then? What's up with you today?"
"Nothing!" she huffs, all theatrics and drama, and bounces towards the edge of the bed before getting down on the floor, all the while rolling her eyes. "Just forget about it, okay?"
"Primrose, what?" I say sternly, the tone in my voice making her stop in her tracks when she's about halfway to the door. She crosses her arms again, back half turned to me, face turned completely away. I switch gears and speak to her in the same gentle, loving tone I've used to comfort her a hundred times and more in the past. "Prim, something must have happened. Why won't you talk to me?"
I hear her take a few heavy breaths. Her face turns towards me just a little, enough so that I can see her profile.
"Did you see Peeta at school today?" Her voice again sounds small and this time the tremble is clearly noticeable.
"Saw him," I confirm. If she's not interested in him, why does she keep mentioning his name? "Didn't speak to him."
There's a long pause.
"How was he? Did he seem… okay?"
"Pretty much."
"Pretty much… But not entirely?"
"No," I say, again with a confused frown. "Not entirely."
She finally turns her head enough so that we can look directly at one another. She seems quite upset, and I immediately forget the sarcasms she threw at me a moment ago and want to walk over to her and pull her close.
"His face?" she asks.
"Same as always, aside from another gift from that shrew of a mother of his," I scoff, angry at the memory. "Though I suppose that more or less constitutes as 'same as ever', too."
"His mother didn't do anything to him," Prim says, slowly walking back to the bed and sitting down. She looks so distraught that I can't stay on my chair any longer. I get up and sit down beside her, pulling her into my embrace. She rests her head against my shoulder, her voice still trembling. "Yesterday, at last recess, these… people in my class who have been giving me a hard time, they… they came up to me and started… well, saying things that weren't so nice."
"Wait, what?" This shocks me even more than the idea that she might truly have a thing for Peeta. I almost pull back enough to be able to look at her but I'm not sure she wants to meet my eyes right now. "Who's been giving you a hard time? Since when? What exactly have they been doing, or saying?"
"It doesn't matter, Katniss," she says tiredly.
"It matters a whole lot!" I passionately disagree, feeling my blood begin to boil at the very thought. "Screw the damn coal exam, screw whatever happens after school is over. This, Prim, matters."
"I don't want to make a big deal out of it, okay?" she pleads. "Look, I haven't told you about this because I knew you would want to rush to defend me. And I love you for that, so much. But I can't let you fight every battle for me anymore and come next semester you won't be able to anyway. I'd rather just ignore them and make it boring for them to be hard on me. Maybe then they'll stop on their own."
"Oh, Prim…" I whisper, pressing a kiss to her golden hair. My brave little sister. I don't know if these people are just saying things to her or if they're acting out against her in other ways, but somewhere deep inside I realize that there is truth to what she says. If I step in and defend her that might only serve to make things worse for her once I'm out of school. It probably is smartest to simply pretend like they don't affect her, but my heart breaks at the mere thought of it all. Thank goodness she at least has a group of friends, so that she's not entirely alone.
"Well, anyway…" She breathes in deeply and exhales in a huff. "Yesterday at last recess …this one guy said some things that were pretty hurtful and when I didn't show a reaction he… tried to humiliate me in front of everyone else who was around."
I swallow, a bitter taste in my mouth. I don't ask in what way he tried to humiliate her. It might be embarrassing for her to spell it out for me, whatever it was, and maybe the precise action doesn't matter. What matters is that he tried to do it in the first place. I wonder if it's a good thing that she won't tell me who these people are, since I might just go after them and hurt them if I knew.
"What happened?" I ask, feeling my mouth going dry.
"Nothing, in the end. Not to me, anyway." I finally pull back and feel relieved when she straightens her back a bit and looks at me. "They didn't get a chance to do anything before they were interrupted." She smiles faintly, even though she still looks rather sad. "By Peeta."
"Peeta?" I echo, having almost forgotten that the conversation started out centring around him.
"He was with some of his friends, passing through the hallway, and they saw what was going on. So he intervened."
The hint of a smile forms on my own face despite it all, a deep gratitude of my former project-partner beginning to glow inside me.
"I hope he gave them hell."
"Well, at first he just told them to knock it off. They started mouthing off to him and he seemed to get kind of angry but at that point he was still just telling them to grow up and stop harassing people." She worries her bottom lip between her teeth. "Anyway, one of the girls was, I think, trying to show off in front of the guy who started the whole thing, and she got a bit too… in-your-face with me, and… took my backpack. Peeta took it back and I swear he didn't do anything to her, but she started screaming that he was all violent and crazy, and… and one of the guys punched Peeta in the face."
"Are you serious?" I say, almost unable to believe it. How did all this happen, and I didn't hear one word about it?
"I feel really terrible," says Prim unhappily. "But Peeta, he barely reacted at all to being punched. His friends got all threatening towards those guys but he just sort of took me aside and told me to lay low and try to not draw attention to myself. Sure enough, the next thing I know a couple of teachers showed up and got real mad at those who were visibly making a scene. By then recess was over and we had to go back to class, and I don't know what happened after that."
"I didn't even notice his face yesterday afternoon…" I mutter to myself, mentally kicking myself for it. Then I remember that Peeta sat in the far back during the last two classes, his hand on his brow, covering his eye quite well. Why did he bother doing that? Everyone's seen him bruised before.
"I wanted to go and thank him today, but I didn't know what to say," says Prim, sounding miserable. "You think he's okay? He didn't say anything?"
"No, we didn't talk."
"You know, you should definitely go and buy a cake from him. Send some business their way, you know, like a small way of saying thank you."
"By making him bake a cake?" I say with incredulity. "It's stupid and irresponsible throwing money on something like that, Prim. Next year, when I turn nineteen. Okay?"
"I could go commission it!" she suggests. The proposal stuns me. Prim, who needs to spend half an hour summoning her courage before she buys eggs from the market. "Then I could get an opening to thank him in person."
"Unless Mrs. Mellark is the one taking the order," I point out.
"Right." Her face turns scarlet red. She looks so miserable over all this, and true to my sister's gentle heart she seems far more upset that someone got punched in the face for her than over people at school treating her cruelly. I wish I could cheer her up somehow, but no useful words come to me.
"Would you really like for us to have cake?" I ask after a minute. She smiles half-heartedly, but her nod is eager. "Alright, Prim. I'll stop by the bakery later this week and place an order."
"Yay!" she exclaims, clapping her hands with excitement. "Thank you, thank you!" I can't stop a smile, and when she gives me a hug I feel a little bit more at ease. My sister has never tasted real bakery cake before, and while it can't make up for her being harassed at school, at least it's something I can do to make her feel better and bring a rare sliver of luxury into her world.
And if Peeta is there when I go to place the order, I might get a chance to speak with him alone and thank him for helping my sister.
Prim asks me not to draw any attention to what happened while at school. I don't know if she feels awkward about it, or if she doesn't want to make it an even bigger deal, or if she might even be concerned that it might make her more of a target. Arriving at school on Thursday morning I have every intention of honouring her wishes, but I can't stop myself from immediately seeking Peeta out with my eyes. He's in a seat in a corner of the classroom, textbook open in front of him, waiting impatiently for class to start. People are still walking in, talking in hushed voices, finding their seats. I ought to find one for myself, but I stop when I notice him, unable to look away. I can't believe he got that bruise while standing up for my sister. I am torn between feeling unspeakably grateful to him and feeling like I am in terrible trouble because of it. Little by little he is burrowing his way deeper into my heart, I can't stop it and I can't afford that. I still don't feel sure if I any of the things I feel about him are genuine, or if I'm latching on to him like a means of escape from what could be a real, meaningful love affair with Gale. I want to have feelings for Gale, I'm just worried about the things that come along with it. If I am to care for anybody that way then it ought to be him, the person everyone seems to feel I belong with. It shouldn't be for the boy with the bread, a person far out of my league, unattainable and perhaps not even interested. Seemingly sensing my eyes on him he looks up at me. He seems uncomfortable, and he averts his eyes immediately. Why? Why would he be feeling any awkwardness about what happened? He did a very good thing, stood up for my sister, the one person I know for sure that I love.
I find a seat somewhere in the middle of the room and wait for our teacher to show up. Five minutes pass, then ten, then Mrs. Tungsten, who teaches home economics and all things Hunger Games, comes in to tell us that class has been cancelled this morning due to the teacher needing to stay home with three children struck with stomach flu. Half the people around me seem to groan over having to get up and get to school when they could have stayed home in bed for another hour, while the other half cheer over getting some free time. Mrs. Tungsten quiets everybody down by pointing out that any and all spare time ought to be spent preparing for the large number of tests coming up. Starting on Monday and continuing for two full weeks we will have one exam each morning and one in the afternoon. She suggests that we all study up on our Hunger Games knowledge and then leaves to teach her own class. I begin to gather my things, having no intention of studying that particular subject but pleased at an opportunity to continue studying for my coal exam. I didn't get much done last evening.
As people begin to leave the classroom to go study in the library or the assembly room – or to go to anything except for study – I linger behind. I know that Peeta will take some time getting his things ready, and I'm hoping to get a chance to speak with him. Just as I had hoped, our classmates clear out of the room within minutes, and only Peeta and I are left. It's a bit eerie being alone in here with him, and it feels almost as if we're trespassing, a thought that brings back the memory of when we broke into that room in the library. God, it feels like that was so long ago.
Slowly I walk over to him and stop a few feet away, adjusting my grip on my backpack, which is flung over my left shoulder.
"Hey," I say softly. "How's the eye?"
"Oh, you know…" he says evasively, jamming his pencil case in his bag. "It will be fine."
"Prim told me what happened. She really wants to thank you in person, but she's a bit… bashful. And ashamed, I think. Worried that you got hurt because of her."
"Really, it's fine," he says, a hint of stress in his voice. He stands up as if to leave. "We don't have to talk about it."
"I just wanted to say thank you." Resisting the urge to reach out my hand and caress his bruised skin I settle for smiling softly. "I can't thank you enough."
He looks deeply uncomfortable, shifting his weight between his feet, looking around in a way that suggests he's willing to look everywhere but right at me. I put one hand on his upper arm in a gentle gesture and his eyes shift and turn down to his feet, his weight still shifting back and forth.
"Look, I, uh…" he begins. "I mean, I… I… I'm glad Prim is okay."
"Yeah," I nod. "Thanks to you."
"I didn't do it for her," he admits in a quick exhale. "I mean, I like Prim, she's a good kid. But I didn't do it for her."
"You'd do it for anyone. It's like I said to you the last day of the project. You're a great person."
Finally, he stops shifting his weight and looks up at me, his eyes bearing into mine.
"I did it for you."
"What? For… for me?"
"I don't know your sister all that well," he says, making a face. His hand comes up and scratches his neck. "But I know you. We're friends, right?" He shrugs. "So, I did it for you."
"Should I believe that?" I ask. My tone is friendly and warm but a look of having been insulted comes over his face. "You did something similar for me several years ago, and you didn't know me then."
He takes a deep breath, evading his eyes again and shoving his hands in his pockets.
"Katniss if you only…" Then he shakes his head and clears his throat. "I should go."
"Before you do…" I say, rising to my tiptoes to kiss his cheek. His now cleanly shaven skin feels strangely smooth under my lips. "Thank you. Are you ever going to stop making me beholden to you?"
For reasons I can't understand he doesn't look pleased at all. If anything, he looks like I just gave him another black eye.
"Please, don't say that," he begs. "That makes me sound so…" Then he shakes his head and takes a step back. "But I guess maybe I am," he adds in a mutter, more to himself than to me, and I don't get what he's referring to. He gives me a quick look. "I've got to go. Tell Prim I'm glad she's doing okay."
And then he's gone. I'm left standing there puzzled, unable to understand what's got him acting so out of sorts. It takes me another five minutes to realize I never even got to asking him about having a cake made for my birthday.
Friday after school I head straight out into the woods in the hopes of catching some game, which I might then sell to help pay for the cake I promised Prim I would get. Luck is on my side, and almost immediately I come across a flock of turkeys. I shoot the largest one, the rest instantly scattering, and bring the bird to one of the peacekeepers' doorstep where I sell it for a decent sum. Now that I have a bit of extra coin in my pocket I feel better about spending money on something I consider to be frivolous, and so I head to the bakery. It doesn't cross my mind that since I'm here to shop, not trade, I could go inside the store. Instead I head for the back door, like I always do, and knock.
I recoil just a touch when the door opens to reveal Ryean Mellark, who very rarely answers the door. His face is flushed from the heat inside the kitchen and his apron is uncommonly dirty, suggesting he's been hard at work for a long time today. He doesn't look surprised to see me, though I suppose there are few others who come knocking on their back door like this, but what surprises me is that despite him appearing to have a lot on his hands at the moment he doesn't seem irritated by my being here. When we came by to trade during their spring cleaning he seemed really exasperated by our presence, but for whatever reason he doesn't seem bothered now. He casts a quick glance over his shoulder before giving me what seems like an entertained look.
"Well good day, Miss Everdeen," he says with a lopsided smirk. "Don't usually see you on a Friday afternoon. If you left your Seam sweetheart in the mines to come and be ogled by my brother then I fear I must disappoint. Peeta's busy and doesn't have time to hang out by the back door and waste oxygen for however long you had in mind."
"Is your father here?" I ask, ignoring his words and taking care to sound polite and business like. "I came to, uh… commission a cake."
Ryean's eyes widen a touch, but he doesn't make any comment about how unusual it is for a Seam girl to make such a request. Probably they do at least some of their business with coalminers, but to my knowledge the Everdeens have never bought a specially commissioned cake. I was considering simply choosing one out of their standard selection, but I recall Peeta telling me at one point that those cakes range from six to twelve slices, which makes even the smallest one is twice what I need. This cake is for me, my mother and my sister, and I don't have the money to spend on a larger cake than needed.
"When do you need it?" Ryean asks. He sounds surprisingly kind, professional in fact, which is a relief. I half expected him to mock me. "This is a really busy time of year for us, with the Reaping coming up, and the summer weddings and everything…"
"The Reaping is in a month," I comment, not quite sure how that adds up. "And summer weddings even further away."
"It takes time to order special ingredients, and plan everything out, and, well, lots of other boring bakery details you don't care about. Meanwhile we've got to keep our regular business going. I'm just trying to give you a heads' up. We'll need at least three weeks for a special arrangement. Seven days for something more basic."
"I want basic. Something small. I don't care about… flower beds on top of the cake, or cakes made up to look like birds' nests, or cakes looking like those pictures of galaxies in our school books." Deep down I want to someday have a cake like the beautiful ones on display at the storefront window, but I can only imagine how much extra that would cost. Having a bakery made cake at all is a luxury I've never been able to indulge in, and I tell myself the only important part is how it tastes.
"Well that's a pity," says Ryean, the corner of his mouth turning upward for a second. "Peeta will be so disappointed to hear that."
I feel my cheeks flush with embarrassment and I avert my eyes, unable to look Peeta's brother in the eye. I can't tell if he's teasing me or not. I do know, though, that any cake decorated by Peeta would be like an edible masterpiece, and I do my best to convince myself that it would be too precious to ruin by eating, thereby negating the whole purpose of getting the cake in the first place. So much better then to get something standard, with just icing or marzipan on top.
"I want something basic," I repeat in a mumble. "And if it could be ready by next week, that would be good."
"We might be able to have it ready by the end of next week. Come inside, talk to my father." Ryean steps aside and gestures for me to walk past him into the kitchen. I hesitate with my foot on the threshold. I've never been inside before. I don't know why the thought of it makes me nervous. Ryean sees my hesitation and rolls his eyes. "I'm not going to shove you into one of the ovens; get inside or go around to the storefront and talk to my mother about a standard cake."
Hurriedly I walk through the door, knowing for sure that the last thing I want is to go inside the store and talk to the terrible Mrs. Mellark. As I enter the kitchen I'm surrounded by the heat from several ovens operating at once, and above all from an overwhelming, mouth-watering smell of baked bread. Ryean closes the door behind me and with both a nod and a pointing finger directs me to a half-open door in the other end of the room. Filled with a sudden curiosity I am about to take a good look around and take in my surroundings when the swinging door to the store portion of the building opens and Ryean's brothers walk in, deeply engrossed in a conversation full of phrases and lingo that hardly mean a thing to my ears. Not that I care one iota about the words they are saying. My eyes are drawn to Peeta, whose face seems just a little bit better than yesterday. He doesn't appear to notice me, however, having his attention fully on a tray in his brother's hands.
"I don't think the colour is quite right, yet," he says, his tone as serious as if he were discussing a life-changing decision. "I would like just a bit more pink."
"That will make it garish," argues Scotti. He sets the tray down on a kitchen island and turns around and opens a large cooler of some sort. Smoky puffs of cold air come pouring out when the door opens, and for a brief moment the heat in the kitchen seems to lessen. He takes a tray out and closes the door. "But hey, you're the artist. If you want more pink, go with more pink." He sets the tray down carefully next to the first one, and I marvel at the perfectly round decimetre-high lavender ball sitting on it, though I have no idea what it is. Scotti looks at his youngest brother, then he notices me, and gives me a small nod. If he's surprised to see me inside the kitchen he doesn't show it. "Oh, hey Katniss."
Not until he speaks my name does Peeta notice me. His uninjured eye seems to widen a touch, and like his brother he nods in greeting.
"Katniss. Hello."
"Say hi to my brothers," Ryean instructs me, and I blush again, realizing I haven't said a word in greeting to either of them, or even nodded in return. "Then go say hi to our father. Hope you don't mind, we're rather busy."
"Of course," I say with a hurried nod, awkwardly saying hello to Peeta and Scotti. I begin to walk towards the open door Ryean directed me towards, feeling three pairs of blue eyes on me. I will myself not to blush again, feeling quite awkward about it all. The two who arrived last must be wondering what I'm doing here, and I stop right outside the door, turning my head to meet Peeta's gaze. "I'm here to commission a cake," I explain lamely. As if I needed to justify my being here.
"Yeah, they figured that out," says Ryean, and now his tone is mocking me even though it's not overt. "On account of this being a bakery, and them not being exceedingly stupid."
"Way to make our customers feel welcome," says Scotti dryly. Then it appears that he has lost interest in my presence, and he begins to talk to Peeta about different hues of pink again. I take the opportunity to knock on the door and the second Mr. Mellark calls out for me to enter I flee inside the small office before the middle Mellark boy can say anything else that will make me feel uncomfortable or make my cheeks flush with embarrassment.
Mr. Mellark is such a kind man. I know he must be surprised to see me in his office ordering a cake, but he treats it like the most natural situation in the world, even though it immediately becomes obvious that I have no idea what I'm doing or what I actually want. I want a four-piece cake, but other than that I had no idea there were so many options. Vanilla, chocolate, or strawberry? Banana or jam? Cream or custard? Glaze or marzipan? Even though it's just a stupid cake I soon begin to feel overwhelmed, and it surprises me how much that upsets me. I must look as lost as I feel, because Mr. Mellark rises from behind his desk, walks around to stand next to me, and with a gentle, friendly smile makes a few simple suggestions. I suppose it's correct to say that he more or less decides everything about the flavours of the cake, but I have a strong suspicion that he's not making random suggestions or lucky guesses. A sponge cake base, a thin layer of raspberry jam, a buttercream and coconut glaze, all things that I know I've told Peeta that I like, or would like to try at some point.
"And you need it for the end of next week?" asks Mr. Mellark, taking notes on a small pad.
"Yeah," I say evasively. Then I shrug slightly. "It doesn't really matter. Peeta can tell me at school when it's ready and I'll pick it up later that day."
"Surely it's got to matter when it's ready." Mr. Mellark studies me with one eyebrow raised just a touch. "What is the occasion?"
Again I feel embarrassed. My birthday is on Monday, but I never gave a thought to whether or not a cake needs to be ordered several days in advance. I hesitate to answer, ashamed to admit I dropped the ball on forward planning. But I also can't come up with a convincing lie, so after about a minute I drop my gaze to the hands I'm wringing in my lap and mumble my answer.
"It's for my birthday."
"When is that?"
"Monday." Quickly I look up and meet his kind eyes, so similar to his son's but without the alluring element to them. "But it doesn't matter if it's not done until next weekend. We haven't decided when we'll celebrate, anyway." That last part is a lie, but not entirely. I assume we'll celebrate when we have the cake to celebrate with.
"Your eighteenth birthday?" he asks, and I confirm with a nod. He smiles kindly. "We will have the cake ready for you on Monday after school, Katniss." I open my mouth to protest but he holds up a hand and stops me. "I won't hear of any objections. Follow Peeta back here when school is out on your birthday and he will make sure the cake is in your hands as you leave."
Feebly I try to think of something to say, some way of protesting, but I can't think of anything. He's being so kind to me, just like he always has been, and he's never had any reason to. It feels wrong to repay his kindness and generosity by trying to argue about it. And I guess that a four-piece cake is much faster to make, especially one that has no decorations on top.
"Thank you, Mr. Mellark," I say, a rush of affection for Peeta's thoughtful father coming over me. I rise and shake his hand, managing just the faintest smile.
When I walk back out into the kitchen I'm struck by how serene it seems, despite the hectic tempo and the work load that remains high even though it's less than an hour until closing time. Judging by the dozens of loaves of bread lined up on a counter, and the additional five that Ryean is currently taking out of one of the largest ovens, they have a large order of bread for tomorrow morning. I know from Darius that the peacekeepers have a monthly Saturday morning meeting during which they discuss whatever it is that peacekeepers need to discuss with one another, and typically they enjoy a hearty breakfast during that meeting. I hadn't thought about it before, but there are well over a hundred peacekeepers in District 12, and not even the most efficient family of bakers would be able to bake bread for all of them in one morning. It seems, though, that Ryean is doing this baking on his own. Scotti is moving back and forth between the kitchen and the store at a rapid pace, and each time he passes through the swinging door there's a hum of voices coming from the other room, suggesting several customers still there even at this hour. Each time he comes back to the kitchen he's picking up a box of some form of baked goods, and each time he stops for a second to observe what Peeta is doing.
That is what I am doing, too. Stopping to observe Peeta. He barely seems to be aware of my presence, in fact if he hadn't looked up briefly when I came back from his father's office I would have assumed he was unaware of my presence. I know I shouldn't be here still, my business is done for today, and I know Prim is waiting anxiously at home to hear about the cake that I ordered. I find it hard to leave though, mesmerized by the magic he seems to be capable of creating with his bare hands. I know he's talented, I think everyone knows that about the baker's youngest son, but I've never seen him actually at work with this before, and it's captivating.
"How's it coming along, Peeta?" asks Ryean as he swiftly moves bread loaves from the hot tin to a cooling grate, seemingly unaffected by the heat of the steaming hot bread.
"Mmm, fine, I guess," mumbles Peeta, full of concentration.
Tentatively I step closer to where he's working, making sure I don't make any noise or do anything that might distract him from what looks like delicate work. Though it seems I needn't worry, because Scotti comes bursting through the door again and stops to lean over the tray his brother is working on, clicking his tongue approvingly.
"I think you were right about the colour," he comments. "It looks just right."
Peeta makes a humming sound in response, but otherwise doesn't seem aware that his brother is even there. He doesn't seem aware of his other brother, either, or the rustle and bustle, or me, the intruder in the kitchen. Behind me I hear the office door open with a creak that lets on that it needs oiling, and Mr. Mellark's heavy footsteps come closer to me. His large, steady hand lands on my shoulder for a few seconds and reluctantly I take my eyes off of what Peeta is creating and look up at the baker.
"He's talented, isn't he?" The quiet voice is full of fatherly pride. I can only nod. There doesn't seem to be any other words that could accurately describe what I'm seeing, so there is no point in trying.
"What is it?" I take the opportunity to ask, my voice a whisper, just like Mr. Mellark's.
"I guess you could call it a mousse cake. Instead of a traditional wedding cake. For a wedding tomorrow."
He goes on to explain it in great detail, but I only pretend to listen beyond the first description. Half of what he says makes no sense to me anyway, and it sounds needlessly complicated. Not only that, but it is much, much smaller than a traditional wedding cake, which means that either this couple is spending a lot of money on a private toasting, or a family-only affair, or someone wanted this particular dessert so badly that they were willing to forego the cake. As I watch the dish take shape on the tray in front of Peeta, I find myself assuming that it's not even the mousse itself, or any of the flavours involved, that the bride and groom are so keen on, but the aesthetics. I have never seen anything like it, and I can't imagine that anyone else in the district – including Mr. Mellark and his wife and sons – ever have either. How Peeta is able to create it, and with no guidebook or even a picture to help, amazes me to such a degree that I utterly forget the time, or even where I am. I have to stay and watch this wedding mousse be sculpted until it is completed. Peeta seems to have forgotten me entirely, Ryean pays me no heed and the baker himself would have asked me to leave several minutes ago if he had any problem with me staying to watch this. I think he's rightfully proud of his son, and more than happy to allow an audience.
Peeta is working with something his father calls white moulding chocolate, though it's been dyed a bright, cerise hue of pink, and it's evident for what purpose. Carefully, meticulously, Peeta uses a small, very sharp knife to cut slices of the pink chocolate. He then takes the slices and bends them, shapes them, somehow transforms them into petals of a beautiful, edible rose, assembling it on the dome shaped mousse, which I can now see is frozen, which in turn appears to make it easier for him to work with. It's mesmeric to watch it take shape, and I don't think I've ever seen anything you can eat look this beautiful. But after a little while I catch myself watching the patissier as much as I'm watching the creation he's working on. It's as if there's a whole new man before my eyes, one I've only seen glimpses of during the past six months. He's got a whole other intensity about him when he's concentrating this way; even though one of his eyes is swollen almost entirely shut he is capable of seeing things that the rest of us do not. It's as if he can already see the finished rose before his eyes, real as the knife he uses to cut chocolate slices, or the dome of mousse that forms the basis of his creation. As if all he's doing is placing the cerise chocolate petals in places and in ways that have already been laid out for him, like in first grade when we got to colour by numbers to help learn the numerals.
Suddenly, without warning, he turns his eye away from the nearly finished rose and looks right at me. When our eyes meet it feels like I've been caught spying on him, but I know that's not the sole reason why a jolt of electricity runs through me. He keeps his eye on me for maybe ten seconds, and the intensity makes me have to look away. Is he self-conscious over me watching him work?
Somewhere in that moment, when the intensity forces me to look away, I come to my senses and realize what on earth I have been doing for the past… well, however long it has been. I came here to commission a cake, I did that already, and now I ought to go. I ought to have left a while ago. My cheeks are suddenly flushing hot again, and I look around to try and figure out the nearest route to the door without being in anyone's way. I head there quietly, discreetly, hoping not to disturb anyone. Peeta has already gone back to the chocolate flower, working as if he has forgotten that I was even here to begin with, and for a brief, selfish moment that makes me feel deeply disappointed.
"Peeta that flower, it's… it's absolutely wonderful," I say with my hand on the doorknob.
He makes an acquiescent noise in the back of his throat, but his focus is clearly on the mousse cake thing, and not on me, or anything else. I feel dismissed, which is a strange feeling to have around him. And when I leave and begin my long walk home, the lingering feeling is one of having been rejected. I shouldn't find that strange, or upsetting even, but for some reason I do. That desert is going to turn out masterfully, but today I was secondary in his attention to pastry. I'm realize I'm not used to not having his full attention when I want it. The realization makes me feel funny – partially it's a nice feeling to have him focus entirely on me when he does, partially I feel like a bad person for wanting to be the focal point of his attention like that. I mean, really, who feels upset because they were upstaged by pastry? And he was working! I love that he puts so much care into his craft.
Shaking my head to clear it I hurry along the way, eager to get home and get out of the rain that has begun to fall. For the moment I force myself not to think about the patissier.
On Monday afternoon, when the last class is over, Peeta comes up to me and asks me to follow him back to the bakery to get my cake. He looks better now, the swelling almost entirely gone and the welt no longer dark, but a much paler green hue. It still mars his handsome face, but it also reminds me every second I see it that he stood up for my sister. I'm still not entirely clear about his reasons for doing so, or why he won't own up to his moral courage. But I have decided not to press the issue. There is a lot I don't know about Peeta Mellark, and if he doesn't want me to know more about this then I won't press the issue.
I gather my things and catch up with him by the main entrance, and together we walk through the streets in town, where spring is blossoming all around us. I draw a deep breath through my nose to enjoy all the smells in the air and he laughs and gives me a warm smile. I smile back at him, feeling a growing excitement and curiosity over what my cake will taste like – and how it will look. Peeta helped make it, didn't he? I feel almost sure of it, but I feel bashful asking, so I leave it be.
"It feels weird that you're not running off to wrestling practice," I say, deciding I should try and make conversation when we've made it halfway to our destination. "It's Monday afternoon."
"Wrestling competition has come and gone," he says with a shrug. He gets a melancholy, wistful look on his face as he stares off into the distance. "Yeah, it's strange. So many years of my life, the entire time I've gone to school, and now it's over and done with. Just like that."
I think to myself that it's a real exercise in futility, putting all that time and energy into something that just dissipates after one last event, but I don't say it. It would offend him, and I don't want that. Instead I smile softly and give him a nudge with my shoulder.
"At least you won. Went out with your head held high."
He hums in response, tilting his head from side to side a couple of times in acquiescence. He doesn't say anything more, and I can't think of anything to say either, so we stay silent for the duration of the walk. He seems comfortable enough with this, so I decide I can be, too. I find it's pleasant enough just to walk beside him, though I can't ignore how several people give us odd looks along the way, as if they are judging us for walking side by side through town, a merchant and a Seam child. It infuriates me. What, they think we are romantically involved and they disapprove? To hell with them! I almost want to take Peeta's hand in mine, just to show off and to spite them all, but I refrain from doing so. Peeta would no doubt be confused if I did, and I don't feel like explaining, even though I think he would understand.
We reach the bakery, and I stop in my tracks when he doesn't turn to go into the alleyway but continues to the door to the shop. He opens it, and I hear a bell ringing inside, but he stops on the threshold and smiles slightly at me. I remain frozen in the spot.
"You coming?"
"We're not, uhm… not going to the kitchen?"
"No, finished cakes are kept in the store." I scowl but he doesn't seem to notice. "We have better refrigerators there, to keep them to the right temperature."
"Okay…" I say slowly, hesitantly.
He holds the door open for me and I step inside the bakery, for the first time in my whole life. I've looked through the window so many times but never been through the door. With some trepidation I enter, struck at once by how it smells so nice, yet it's not an overpowering smell like it can be in the kitchen. There are several small tables where you can sit and have something to eat and drink, and though I had expected the walls to be lined with rows of baked goods all of that is kept at a large counter in the other end of the store. The counter has a large glass window allowing their selection to be on display. Behind the counter there are large wooden crates lined with towels, containing a wide selection of bread. On the wall is a large blackboard detailing everything they have for sale, and what the prices are. My mouth waters instantly, but the presence of Peeta's mother behind the counter keeps my excitement contained. She glares at me with disapproval, but obviously knows why I'm here as she goes to a refrigerator in the corner and takes out a small, blue cardboard box, handing it to her son. Peeta smiles at me and opens the box to let me appraise the cake before I pay for it – as if anything would make me reject something he had taken part in baking.
The cake is small, just the size I wanted. The buttercream glaze makes it look golden, and even though I specified that I didn't want any decorations on the cake about half of it is covered in what looks like real sand and spread out among the grains are tiny katniss flowers made out of something I can't identify on sight. That's not quite how they grow in real life, but I can see the thought behind it, and I'm momentarily stunned. I look at Peeta with wide eyes, not knowing what to say. I'm overwhelmed, endeared, touched, but at the same time I said no to decorations because I can't afford any. Peeta closes the box and ties it up with string, then walks around the counter and up to me, taking me by the arm and leading me towards the door. His mother clears her throat, reminding me that I haven't paid yet, but Peeta seems unconcerned. He stops us at the door and hands the box to me. I take it, holding it by the string, almost afraid to move my hand in case it will tilt and somehow be ruined.
"Decorations are free of charge," he whispers to me, giving me a smile that's so charming it melts away my refusal. "My birthday present. A guy's got to be allowed to give his ex-project wife something for her birthday, don't you agree?"
"How… That sand looks so…"
"Oh. That's just pie crust crumb." His smile is inescapable, and I turn the corners of my own mouth upward in return, worried he might think I don't absolutely love what he's created for me. Quickly I then reach inside my pocket and fish out the exact sum the cake was going to cost, handing the money to him and feeling awkward that the bills are so creased and crumpled.
"Thank you," I say in a sincere whisper, my eyes telling him my feelings far better than my mouth ever could. He nods and holds open the door for me, the bell ringing again when the door opens. I step outside and stop on the street, looking into his eyes again, almost wanting not to leave even though Prim is at home, anxiously awaiting to see what I bring home.
"Katniss," he says, his smile changing into something even warmer. "Happy birthday."
So about Prim and what's going on with her, it's not going to play any significant role right away since their school year is almost over. It might come back later on though, when she's back to school without having her sister around. Just how much room her subplot of becoming a young adult will get is for the future to tell, but elements of it will be included for sure.
Coming up in the next couple of chapters: Graduation, the Reaping for the 76th Hunger Games, and something many people have been waiting for...
Thanks for reading!
