Chapter 3: Reaping Kisses – A Puzzlement

"Class, will you all please give a warm welcome to our guest lecturer today, District 12's latest Victor, Mr. Haymitch Abernathy?"

Mrs. Henshaw, our Hunger Games History teacher, starts off a round of applause that is far more zealous than the half-hearted slow clapping the rest of us join in with. I don't know if our teacher's enthusiasm is even so much genuine as it's likely perfunctory. A 'let's get this over with' kind of clapping.

In the seat directly behind me, Peeta leans forward to whisper, "Latest? Is that what we're still calling it when he won twenty years ago?" His breath tickles my earlobe, causing me to shiver, even though it is nearing the height of summer. I cover up the unnerving yet oddly thrilling feeling with a tiny laugh. One seat over from Peeta, Delly Cartwright nudges him in the arm.

"Be nice!" she scolds quite sincerely. I have to suppress an eye-roll. It's so like Delly to want to be nice to everyone, to need to find the good and never see the bad in every single person…. even if that person happens to be a pathetic drunk like the man who is about to address our class.

Final projects are over; end-of-year exams have been completed and turned in. On this, one of our last days of school, it is always a tradition in the Hunger Games History classes spanning our grade and all of Upper School to invite our Victors….. or, in our case, Victor – singular – to speak. It's one of the ways the District 12 government prepares us for the Reaping, which will be held early next month. Given that this is the first year I and my classmates will be eligible for the Reaping, I've never heard Haymitch Abernathy give a lecture before. Gale Hawthorne, who has taken to partnering with me when I go out hunting in the woods beyond the fence (a practice which is still new to me, but has slowly become familiar), told me that he's sat in on Haymitch's lectures before, and that…. well, they left much to be desired. As Haymitch Abernathy lurches to his feet and gives Mrs. Henshaw some kind of awkward salute, I slump down in my seat a little, as if to better brace myself. It's hard to keep the cringe off my face. The man's hair looks like a blonde rat up and died on his head. Days-old scruff of a matching color clings to an admittedly strong jawline. He has a paunch, flabby belly that casts him as someone older, rather than a guy who's apparently my mother's age. Though his graphite eyes – Seam eyes – still flash with a sharpness that almost unnerves me, Haymitch is nonetheless clutching a flask in his hand the way a baby would a bottle. On the whole, it makes for a jarring and tragic image. The countenance of him, our latest Victor…. which, to somewhat answer Peeta's mocking question, I suppose he technically still is our latest Victor, given that no other person from Twelve has come back from the Hunger Games since him…. alive.

The knowledge that apparently every district school invites their Victors as guest lecturers towards the end of the term doesn't make me feel much better. At least all the other districts have more than one Victor to invite. Haymitch has to perform this duty all alone, going up grade by grade from ages 12 to 18, one lecture for each class period.

The clapping died down a while ago, and for a moment there is silence while we wait for Haymitch to finish taking a pull from his flask. He sets it down, uncapped, on the corner of Mrs. Henshaw's desk, no doubt so it will be in reach when he needs it. Oh, Snow… this is going to be a disaster…

"Haymitch Woodrow Abernathy," the drunk gives his full name, before turning and writing it in big, block letters on the blackboard. "Ex-tribute….. Mentor….. Victor of the 2nd Quarter Quell." He turns back to us, stormy eyes sweeping the room. "Now then, kiddies: how many of you have been to a Reaping?"

We shuffle in our seats, glancing at each other. No one raises their hand, as I believe Haymitch expects of us…. except for Peeta.

"Blondie," Haymitch points with the chalk clenched in his left fist.

"Excuse me, Mr. Abernathy…. your Excellency," Peeta stammers, actually nervous, which is quite an interesting sight indeed – Peeta never gets nervous. He's always carrying himself with a confidence that I can't help but bask in. "Do you mean in attendance as eligible tribute, or just attendance in general?" He's right to ask for a distinction – even though this will be the first year we're roped off in the pens, my peers and I have all been to a Reaping before, for as long as we can remember. Once a District 12 child begins school, they are required to attend the Reaping, as part of what the Capitol calls Mandatory Viewing. Really little kids, toddlers and infants, are the only ones exempt from such required attendance.

Haymitch actually rolls his eyes. "There's always a goody-goody in class…." he mutters, only half to himself. "Attendance in general. Now I'll ask again – how many of you have been to a Reaping?"

Every single hand in the class goes up.

"How many of you have ever needed to wield a sharp weapon? – by this, I mean knives, saws, pickaxes, meat cleavers," Haymitch elaborates on the question before Peeta can ask him to.

Most of the Town kids lower their hands, sheepishly, a few giving each other confused looks. Where is the coot going with this? Behind me and one seat to the left, Delly half-lowers her hand in indecision.

"Um, do letter openers count?"

"No," Haymitch quips sharply. Biting her lip, Delly drops her hand into her lap, for once uncharacteristically subdued. Several other kids giggle, and I frown in sympathy for her. I thought it was a fair point – Prim pricked her finger on a letter opener once while I was picking up mail from Delly's father, the Postmaster, Mr. Cartwright. The resulting blood and tears nearly sent me into a panic, even though Prim had been curious and didn't know any better; she was only five at the time.

My hand is still up there, along with a handful of other Seam kids whose fathers I know still work with pickaxes in the mines. Rafe Cronin, the butcher's son, also has a hand raised (he's probably been handling meat cleavers since he could walk)… and so does Peeta, still. Baking and cutting loaves of bread, he's handled sharp knives at least.

Haymitch makes a sweep of the ten or so kids with their hands still in the air. "All right…. how many of you have ever needed to use those sharp weapons to take life? The life of…. anything?" I note with a chill how he says anything and not anyone, for if we have taken the life of another person, that would make us…. murderers, wouldn't it?

I watch as most of the other hands slink down to desks, Peeta's included. After a brief, internal debate, I keep my hand aloft, for under Haymitch's criteria, I can technically still answer Yes to the question. Glancing around, I realize that only two people in the entire class still have their hands raised – Rafe Cronin, the butcher's son, and me. There is genuine, palpable fear in a lot of the kids' faces.

I can tell Haymitch is a little surprised that any kids' hands still remain in the air, though he does a good job of hiding it. He points to Rafe Cronin first.

"What's your name, kid?"

"Rafe Cronin," the butcher's son states proudly, almost smugly. "I've been sticking hogs since before I learned to read!"

Haymitch leans back a little, stroking his five o'clock shadow. "Really? A butcher's son, huh? Tell me, young Rafe, have you ever…. stuck another kid?"

Quick as lightning, faster than humanly possible, it seems, Haymitch is suddenly on Rafe, a knife in the Victor's hand. Several kids scream and try to scrabble back as far away as they are able, which can only be done so much in our wrap-around desks. Poor Madge Undersee learns this the hard way, leaning on her desk with such force that the entire thing tips over into Leevy Thompson's next to her, then skids so it goes horizontal onto the floor. The Mayor's daughter cries out and Peeta springs out of his seat to help her up.

Rafe, meanwhile, is struggling like one of the piglets he's just boasted of skewering, eyes beady with terror. He tries to strike out at the Victor, but Haymitch holds fast – an admirable thing, considering the man is inebriated, though to what degree, I can't really tell.

"Get off of me, ya drunk! Let go of me!"

"Mr. Abernathy!" Mrs. Henshaw cries out, horror-struck. "I don't see how this is relevant…."

"Calm down, Veronica – it's completely relevant!" Haymitch hollers half over his shoulder, though his stare doesn't leave a petrified Rafe. The bastard is actually holding his blade (I have zero clue how he managed to smuggle that into the school past the metal detectors) against a teenage boy's neck.

"You ever taken one of those meat cleavers and shanked another kid with it, Rafe?" Haymitch's eyes are crazed, his voice demanding.

"No, sir!" Rafe yelps.

"Ever watched someone bleed out and know you were the cause of it?"

"No, sir!" Rafe's timbre is nothing but a squeak at this point, tears are streaming down his cheeks. One of the toughest kids in school, now crying like my baby sister does when she so much as stubs her toe.

"Ever seen the whites of another man's eyes, and watch the life fade from them?"

"N-no, sir."

A long pause. I and everyone else is watching the chilling tableau, mouths open in shock. A tingling sensation in my arm tells me that I am losing circulation in my raised hand, and I don't know anymore if I want to keep it aloft.

Haymitch finally releases Rafe, who is sniffling. The Victor lowers his knife, studying the boy. Finally, he snorts, scoffing.

"Butcher's son, my ass. You know what you are, Rafe? – Cannon bait. You try making The Run to the Cornucopia, you'd be dead in thirty seconds. Like that." He snaps his fingers for emphasis. Rafe lets out some kind of whimper, curling himself into a ball.

Suddenly, Haymitch is swiveling to me so abruptly that I jump, though it's slight. I wrestle against the instinct to put my hands out to defend myself, and manage to hold the Victor's gaze.

"How about you, Sweetheart? What's your story?"

I gulp. "I've…. killed game. That wanders in from beyond the fence." I can't let on that I've been hunting illegally, but I still have to maintain some semblance of truth. I did keep my hand in the air for a reason.

"Yeah?" Haymitch cocks his head and studies me, actually intrigued. "Bagged any squirrel?"

"Yes, sir."

"Rabbit?"

"Snowshoe hares, mostly."

Haymitch lifts his knife again, but instead of attacking me with it, he merely points to me with it, calling to the room at large. "Pay attention, kiddies – she has the package."

"The package for what…. Mr. Abernathy?" I amend at the end.

"The package to be Victor." The silence seems to suck all of the air out of the classroom. Haymitch is still studying me the way a painter might peruse a canvas. "What's your name, Sweetheart?"

I bristle at the term of endearment, which, coming out of Haymitch's mouth, doesn't sound endearing so much as it sounds misogynistic. Sounds like it would come from a man who holds power and abuses it. I decide I don't like Haymitch Abernathy very much, no matter what he might think of my hypothetical chances in the Hunger Games.

"Katniss Everdeen."

Haymitch's smokey eyes – sullen and haunted – blink rapidly. "Everdeen…. You, uh…. Belley's girl?"

I nod. "She's my mother." I had no idea Haymitch Abernathy knew my mom's first name, much less who she was.

Haymitch looks at me, then snaps his head back to look at Rafe. Then…. he laughs. "A Healer's daughter. How ironic…."

The bell rings shrilly, causing everyone to leap nearly a foot out of their desks. Haymitch is across the room and out the door before the sound even fades on the air. We all shakingly rise to gather our stuff.

"Field Day is tomorrow!" Mrs. Henshaw calls out a reminder, though her voice is quivering, recovering from the…. lecture we just had.

Out in the hall, Peeta has a consoling arm over a weeping Madge. Delly drifts into step beside us, biting her lip with concern.

I nod to Madge in sympathy, feeling bad that she got so scared. Peeta and I share a shaken look, and I try to ease the tension by cracking a joke.

"I'm starting to wish Lucy Gray Baird was around – we probably would have gotten a better lecture from her."

Peeta shrugs. "Maybe, maybe not."

I frown. "What do you mean? Any other Victor could have presented better than him!"

Peeta purses his lips in thought. "On substance, maybe. But you can't deny…. Haymitch has style."

The early days of summer vacation have been broiling hot. But being under the somewhat cooler canopy of the trees beyond the fence is better than being in school. Working as a team, as we have for the last several weeks, Gale Hawthorne and I are able to shoot farther. Track game smarter.

He certainly knows a lot, this boy who lost his daddy in last winter's mine collapse, same as me. The fact that he's knowledgeable is starting to make up for the fact that he can be a little cold and brusque. Taciturn, but he's a good teacher. I think some of Gale's stoicism comes from not trusting a lot of people, which I can understand. I only trust and care about a select few, and for my sake, I hope that inner circle doesn't expand much farther.

I'm finally gaining some mastery on setting snares, and Gale and I crawl back under the fence with a good haul. Standing in the tall field grasses, we cordially split our prizes between us – a rabbit here, a wild cat there. On our fishing lines, we ended up getting more than we anticipated in the form of a beaver, which Gale cedes over to me rather than have us split hairs and venison in an attempt to bisect the creature evenly.

We always share amongst ourselves enough of what we think will get each of our families through the next week. Whatever's extra, if any, we sell in the district. Here, in selling our wares, Gale and I are both learning as we go, the stakes of trial and error high, but so far, the risk has paid off more than it hasn't.

On this particular morning, we have some squirrel left over. "What can we do with these?" I pick up one of the little beasts by the tail.

Gale grins – something he rarely does. "I know a place. Follow me."

Frowning in bemusement, I trail behind the taller boy past Victors' Hill, into the Seam. When we reach the Hob, the illegal black market here in Twelve, I expect Gale to make a turn, but he doesn't. How far are we going….?

My curiosity only grows when we cross over the dividing line into Town. I can detect from his body language that Gale is about as comfortable over on this side of the tracks as I am, but he continues doggedly forward before abruptly ducking down into a sidestreet. An alley, really.

At the back of this shopfront, there is a concrete loading dock with a ramp, leading up to a metal door. Glancing around furtively, Gale knocks. After a moment, the door opens, and I feel my heart leap in my chest in pleasant surprise.

"Peeta?"

Peeta blinks, blue eyes lighting up when he sees me. "Katty! What a surprise!"

Gale frowns tightly at the familiarity with which my classmate and I greet each other. "You know this Townie?" The disdain, distrust practically drips from his voice.

"We share classes in school. Same grade," I shrug, unsure why my hunting partner's tone has gotten so hostile.

"Morning to you too, Gale," Peeta greets mildly, as if the other boy hadn't said a harsh word against him. "I take it you have some squirrel for me?"

Gale's eyes squint nearly into slits. "That depends," he hedges guardedly. "Is your father around?"

"Helping a big customer out front. I can deal for him, though," Peeta offers.

Gale edges back slightly, insisting. "I'd prefer to haggle with the Baker directly, if it's all the same to you."

"Gale, knock it off!" I chastise. "We can trust Peeta."

Gale looks down at me in shock, blinking, his expression wary. It's like he's unsure about something, and whatever it is, he doesn't like it. But he finally stands down and allows Peeta to substitute for his father in making the sale. Peeta seems satisfied by the catch we've brought, then smiles to me as he ducks back inside the bakery. A momet later, he returns armed with four loaves of bread, grouped off in pairs. He hands them to each of us.

"Sorry that these are starting to go stale; Mom watches the fresher pastries like a hawk."

"They'll do," Gale quips shortly. He turns on his heel to go…. then glances back when he sees that I haven't moved.

"How are you? Enjoying vacation?" Peeta asks me.

"Much as I can," I smile as easily as I am able. "Prim's birthday is coming up the day after tomorrow!"

"No!" Peeta's face grows even more luminous, his smile wide. His impossibly blue eyes seem to dance. "How old is she – eight?"

"She'll…. be eight," I correct, ever technical, a weird blush staining my cheeks. "I still can't believe it – she's getting so big!"

Peeta's eyes shift in thought as an idea comes to him. "Wait there for a moment." He disappears back inside. Out of the corner of his eye, I see Gale toss up his bread-laden arms as if to say, Now what?

We stand there listlessly on the back loading dock for a little while more, but Peeta finally returns, the metal door pushed open against his back before he turns, cradling an entire cake. Strawberry – which just so happens to be Prim's favorite.

My grey eyes expand as I finally clue in on what Peeta means. "Oh no, Peeta – I couldn't possibly…."

"Nonsense," he grins at me easily. "Every kid deserves a cake on their birthday. Besides, Mom won't miss this one."

Perhaps, perhaps not – the cake is medium-sized. I know of Town kids who've had both bigger and at the same time smaller ones on their birthday.

Gale's entire expression has now clouded over in indignation. "We don't need charity, Townie!"

"Gale!" I hiss at him, mortified. Though a tiny part of me has to agree – this is too much. Between this and a pair of bread loaves besides, it certainly doesn't equalize a handful of squirrel meat. I owe Peeta – yet again. Only this time, it isn't so obvious how I'm going to repay him, as I accept the cake, eyes pricking with tears.

"Thank you. This will mean a lot to her. It…. means a lot to me." Bracing the cake against me, I just manage to reach up and gently cup Peeta's cheek, smiling at him in gratitude. For just a fleeting moment, I have the strangest and strongest urge to…. but it passes as my face nearly catches fire at the thought. Turning away, Gale and I steal out of the alley.

Prim predictably adored the cake, and my sense of owing compelled me to nearly eradicate the entire squirrel population in District 12 over the next month before giving much of that meat to Peeta and his family. At the rate I've been going, the Mellarks will have squirrel meat stored up from now until the Harvest Festival.

Before long, the day I've been dreading since Haymitch Abernathy's lecture at the end of the school term and even before arrives: July 4th. Reaping Day. People say the date used to symbolize the celebration of independence for the country that preceded Panem. For us, it's just the date that we learn which kids among us are going to go off to die. And for the first time ever, there is a chance that the girl who will die might be me.

Gale and I got two-days' worth of hunting done in the evening before, knowing that the Peacekeepers would be on higher alert for the big event today. But we still have some meat left over that could be traded off, so I wake up early and go into Town to pass off this squirrel to the Bakery.

The back alley leading to the loading dock is quiet when I get there, at least until:

"Hi, Katniss!"

I jump and wheel around at the overly-cheerful greeting, but it's only Delly Cartwright, a mail bag slung over her shoulder. She must be delivering the mail for her father; I've never been out trading this early.

"You have something for Peeta too?"

I lift my game bag awkwardly. "Squirrel meat."

"Fantastic! We can do our errands together!" Delly loops her arm through mine and drags me up the loading dock ramp. I wince – Delly can be a little too…. happy for my tastes. She's probably a good indication of what would happen if the sun shone in District 12 all the time. You could get sunburned from Delly's cheerfulness.

My sort-of-friend knocks on the door, and Peeta answers it, lips upturning into a happy smirk when he sees who it is.

"Two lovely ladies at my back door? What wonders are in store today?" He chuckles. I turn pink at him referring to me as a 'lovely lady.'

Delly beams. "Here's your mail, Peeta." When my friend turns to me, I grow even warmer but fork over the squirrel meat.

"Again?" Peeta laughs. I shouldn't flinch at the inquiry, but I do.

"Extra from yesterday," I mumble.

"Fair enough." Peeta stores both the mail and the squirrel just inside the door, still grinning.

"You nervous?" Delly asks him with sympathy.

"A little," Peeta's head bobs. "Leven sat me down last night – told me what to expect." Leven – that must be the name of his eldest brother; he's gotta be on his fourth Reaping by now. Peeta glances between Delly and I. "So: either of you ladies stolen a Reaping Kiss yet?"

I gawp at him. The Reaping Kiss is one of the oldest superstitions in District 12. A good-luck charm, really. No one knows how or when or who started it, but legend has it that if you are eligible for the Reaping, and you kiss someone who is also eligible on Reaping Morning, both of you are guaranteed not to be picked.

Delly giggles. "No. You?"

"Uh-uh. I saw Leven get one from Bristel Raydin at the crack of dawn this morning. Don't know what Rye's gonna do…."

Delly licks her lips a little, smiling, and then suddenly looping her arms about Peeta's neck, she presses her lips firmly to his.

My eyes widen at this, and I quickly avert my gaze, finding the drab concrete at my feet very interesting. I feel like I'm intruding on something private, but when I glance up, Delly is leaning in to deepen the kiss for just a second more before she draws away. She and Peeta break apart with a pronounced POP! They're both bright red, but send each other shy, thankful smiles. Unconsciously, I feel my heart hiss with jealousy in a way that I can't explain. Are Peeta and Delly seeing each other? If so, I don't know how Peeta could do much better – Delly might be a little too glass-half-full, but with her cascading red hair, she is quite lovely. Lovlier than me, anyway….

"What about you, Katniss?"

I lift my eyes to his, starting in surprise. "W-what about me?" I stammer.

"Are you gonna get a Reaping Kiss from someone?"

My face is the color of the cherries I used to pick with my daddy. "Oh no, I…. I don't believe in that stuff. Superstitious crap." I duck my face away so Peeta doesn't see me flush.

Delly and Peeta look at each other, before the Baker's son just shrugs. "Suit yourself. Good luck to you both." He hugs Delly, then hugs me quite tightly before turning and heading back inside.

Delly and I walk out of the alley together before parting ways in the street, and I head for home feeling more than a little flustered. Was Peeta asking me if he could kiss me too….? No, he couldn't have been…. But if he was…. would I have said something different?

I arrive home to find Prim done up in her best. Mother eyes me dully. "I've laid something out for you too." Her voice is but a soft whisper, and I don't even deign to turn my head in her direction. Although I do reluctantly let Mother do up my chestnut tresses in the single braid running down my back, after I wash in the tub.

Just as I finish getting ready, there is a knock at the door. Mother answers it and greets Hazelle Hawthorne with a warm hug. All three of her sons are gathered behind her, and her little daughter, Posy, is cradled in her arms. Only Gale is of Reaping age, like me - his third so far.

Our group of eight hikes for the Square quietly, underscored only by my mother and Mrs. Hawthorne talking in low tones to each other. Prim is holding my one hand, but soon I feel a palm nudging to slip into my free one. I glance down to see Vick Hawthorne toddling on little chubby legs beside me. Vick is only six, with his closest brother Rory two years older and Prim's age. I lace my fingers through those of the littlest Hawthorne boy.

"Have you gotten a Reaping Kiss, Katniss?" Vick bubbles adorably.

I smile genuinely, even laughing a little. "No, Vick. I don't need one."

"Voodoo garbage," Gale harrumphs to our left. Vick sticks out his tongue at his brother.

"It is not, Gale! You Reaping kissed Tulip Dayfeather this morning – I saw!"

Tellingly, Gale's jaw clenches in embarrassed anger. "You little…"

"Oh, Gale, stop it!" I chide. "If you Reaping kissed someone, that's just fine. To each their own."

"But you gotta get Reaping Kissed, Katniss! You just gotta! If you don't, you'll be picked!" Vick's eyes are huge with terror. I can only smile softly at him, trying my best to be reassuring.

When we arrive at the check-out line, I feel Vick tug on my wrist. "Katniss."

"What, Vick?"

"Come here." Vick motions with his little finger. "I wanna tell you a secret." I kneel down so I'm at his level, my blue Reaping skirts fanning around me, waiting expectantly for Vick to whisper in my ear.

But instead of going for my ear, Vick lunges in and kisses me right on the mouth.

It's chaste and clumsy, and adorable coming from a little boy, but my eyes still pop at his courage. This strangest of Reaping Kisses only lasts a second or two, and then Vick springs away, beet red.

"There," he states triumphantly, though he concaves into himself bashfully. "You won't get picked now."

Above us, Gale doesn't seem sure whether to laugh uproariously or cuff his baby brother behind the ear in a fit of protective rage that he kissed me without my permission. "That's not how it works, Vick! You have to be of Reaping Age, too!"

Vick's bright eyes dim strickenly. "But…."

"Those are the rules," I smile brightly at him. "But tell you what, Vick – we'll count it, just between us."

Vick's face resembles a tomato and sneaking a glance at his big brother, he darts off to hide behind his mother's skirts as I stand, softly shaking my head in amusement.

Gale just snorts. "Crazy boy. Don't know what the hell he's doing…."