Chapter 69: Isaac Lymit

Katniss's POV

The skies are heavy and overcast as I stand amidst the bunched-up crowd of my Seam neighbors, watching with dead eyes as the chubby Victor of the 69th Annual Hunger Games gives his speech. Nobody expected the boy from 5 to win, but the arena can be full of surprises.

Isaac Lymit was fairly rotund at the Reaping last summer; he talked about being the Mayor's son and getting to eat all the fruits and candies and other foodstuffs that are considered a delicacy here in Twelve. I despised him for such privilege and hoped a Career would take him quickly. My certainty of this only grew when he scored a 3 in Training.

I should have remembered from my science class that we humans are made up of close to 60% water. And being as obese as he was, Isaac Lymit was carrying a lot of water. That, among other factors, probably ended up saving his life.

The tributes were thrown into a burning desert this year. There was almost nothing in the way of landmarks except for some scraggly bushes and a few cacti. Isaac, the piggy, ran for his life when the gong sounded and proceeded to wander the sands for the next several days. The Career pack, four strong after dispatching 11 at the Bloodbath, made the fat Mayor's son one of their first targets and went hunting.

Of course, in a desert like that, it must have been easy to get hopelessly lost. Isaac only encountered one tribute in his time in the arena, when the little twelve-year-old from 6 ran right into him. The tyke literally bounced off of Isaac and went careening into the prickly thorns of a cactus, which skewered his liver and caused him to choke on his own blood.

Isaac felt terrible about this kill, even if it was accidental, but it came with a silver lining. Prying the body of the boy from 6 off the cactus, Isaac remembered from the edible plants station in training that some desert plants carry water in them. Like the spikes in cacti. Isaac kept his thirst quenched in this way, stripping the cactus of all its thorns and carrying them off in the one backpack he had only gotten from the Cornucopia because it had been close enough to his plate to bend down and grab.

There were a lot of bloodless deaths this year, and the Career pack was soon reduced to hallucinating and wandering around in circles. When it was just them and Isaac left after three and a half weeks, the Gamemakers said, 'Fuck it,' and sent in a sandstorm, leaving the Victor up to the fates. Isaac was buried alive under the sands, but much like his mentor from the Twenty-Second who was apparently entombed in sand after a tsunami wave crashed over him, he – and only he – climbed his way out from under his grainy grave.

Caesar was beside himself, especially over the history of it all – the Victor with the lowest Training Score ever! "How did you do it?!" he would ask Isaac again and again at the Victory Ceremony. "How did you do it?!" reporters were still, even now in Twelve, shoving their microphones in Isaac's face and demanding to know. I watch as Isaac now smile and gives a helpless shrug, which the media eats up.

Isaac shakes Mayor Undersee's hand before they turn into the Justice Building to prepare for a private dinner function in the Justice Building tonight. Isaac will probably stuff his face. I think back again to how he bounced that one tribute into the cactus and killed him. Daddy had thought that was funny.

A lump catches in my throat. Daddy….. Daddy, who's been dead for over a week after that mine collapse. The private ceremony awarding medals to the fallen was just the other day. Miss Hazelle was there, looking ready to pop. She should be going into labor any moment. I only wish that Mother was well enough to help care for her best friend and act as the midwife, but she's been blankly staring at the wall for the last several days.

Staring blankly as we slowly begin starving to death. I count down the days in my head. 94 days. If I can live for another 94 days and make it to Friday, May 8th, I will turn twelve and I'll be able to take out tesserae and feed my mother and my sister, Prim. The Victory Tour event is breaking up now, and I trudge away. The only thing I can be glad about is that Mother had a legitimate emotional excuse – bereavement – for skipping Mandatory Attendance. And Prim stayed home to look after her, and is too little besides.

It is raining steadily now, but I don't feel it. Just like the tears that are raining down my cheeks. Except I don't feel those, either. I am too numb inside. Numb as I stumble through the Merchant section of District 12, still carrying the baby clothes no one has been willing to buy. Numb from the cold of a merciless winter. Numb because I haven't had anything to eat in days, nor has my mother or sister.

There's a sudden clatter and I jump at the sudden, fleeting pain. Of course I wouldn't be looking where I was going. Walking right into some trash cans. My brain screams at the effort it takes to even do basic reasoning; the synapses are slow to fire on account of getting no nutrition in who knows how long. Trash can….. garbage….. leftovers…..

FOOD!

I know not where my sudden energy comes from, but I am suddenly ripping off the lid and digging desperately through the trashcan's contents. Please God, let there be something…..

I get something, all right. Except it doesn't come from the trashcan. It instead comes from nowhere, in the form of a blow to the head. WHAM! Another clatter as I go down into the cans, sprawling in a heap in the soft dirt. I shake my head from the blow, then scramble around like a crab to find the source. A flash of lightning illuminates the terrifying sight of the Baker's wife, and I know it must be through her garbage I was pilfering.

"Move on, girl! Do you want me to call the Peacekeepers on you? I'm sick of Seam brats pawing through my trash!"

I have no words, no defense, so I struggle to my feet and stumble away, hoping she does not come after me. I only manage a few more yards before I collapse against a tree in exhaustion. Blinking the rain droplets out of my eyes, I can see the lights in the windows of the house across the way. It looks so warm, so inviting…. The warmth seems to be in the very air itself, driving back the cool chill of the rainwater. I breathe deep through my nostrils. The smell of freshly baked bread…. cheese buns…..

Another crash jolts me out of my hallucinations and I cock my head off the tree trunk. Through the downpour, I can see a blond-haired boy stumble out onto the bakery's concrete stoop, the Baker's wife close behind him. Her mouth is open and forming words I cannot hear. Am I in shock? Am I really now that far gone? No, a sentence or two manages to cut through the haze:

"FEED IT TO THE PIG, YOU STUPID CREATURE! WHY NOT? NO ONE DECENT WILL BUY BURNED BREAD!" She stomps off the gray loading dock and into the house. The boy turns toward what must be the pigpen off to his right.

Then his eyes meet mine.

I peer closer, entranced for some inexplicable reason. I know the baker's youngest son, though not well at all. Only his name. Peeta. He's in my year in school. Yet knowing comes from learning, and as I drink in his presence from yards away, I come to know other things about this young man as well. The way his blond hair glistens when it catches the light from inside. In the sun, it must be blinding and beautiful. How even the grayest of days cannot dampen the brilliant blue of his eyes. The way his apron hugs his well-toned muscles. Young. Strong. Healthy. And attractive. The last thought comes to me unbidden, and if I wasn't so exhausted, I would bat it away in a heartbeat.

Peeta looks to his left, and then his right before suddenly tossing the bread as far as he can over his shoulder. It lands in the muddy dust of the street a few yards from me. I stare at the torn loaf, then glance up just in time to see the boy shuffle back into the house and slam the door behind him.

I wait a moment, two, before scrabbling forward and scooping up the pieces of bread before the rats can, cuddling the still warm pieces against the folds of my blue dress. Rain droplets falling into my eyes, I lift my head and stare over at the bakery for a moment. Why would he…. throw bread to me?

I'm still pondering the question as I dash off into the gloom for home.

"All right, class: today we will be discussing the events of the 69th Hunger Games. Now who can tell me who the Victor was that year?"

A head of blonde hair bobs as a perfectly maincured hand shoots up into the air.

"Yes?" Mrs. Henshaw, our teacher asks.

"Isaac Lymit."

"Very good, Miss Undersee! And from which district did he originate?"

Back up goes Madge's hand. Mrs. Henshaw nods to her.

"District 5."

"Very good, Miss Undersee!"

Madge settles back into her seat, and her eyes happen to meet mine. I turn into myself but give her a thumbs-up. She beams at the praise. Mrs. Henshaw is now turning back to the power-point slides and lecturing, adding marginal notations on the blackboard when the need arises.

Hunger Games History class starts when you matriculate up to the higher levels of Lower School. It is one of the most rigorous subjects in school, and definitely my least favorite. Four grades below me, Primrose is still learning how to do her timestables and count higher than thirty. Whereas we older kids are learning rote facts and figures about Victors' names, their mentor's names, and who murdered whom and with what weapon. I'd sooner watch the Games themselves then read about them – and sometimes, we do just that here in class, sitting through Hunger Games re-runs. It's incredibly dull curriculum.

As Mrs. Henshaw drones on, I turn around in my chair and peruse the dimly-lit faces of my fellow 11-year-olds. Many of them have eyes that are glazed over as we learn about Isaac Lymit and the windswept desert that was the backdrop for his arena. There in the back, however, the darkness of the room cannot tame the brilliant blue orbs that are locked onto me, even in the gloom. Peeta Mellark is staring at me again, and I quickly turn away, running a hand through the single braid tossed over my shoulder. Scowling, I try to refocus on the lecture, scribbling notes on my looseleaf as quick as I can. Often, I can beat Mrs. Henshaw in taking the notes faster than she can recite them, which usually gives me a minute or two to then glance out the window. Peering out the panes at the spring day, I breathe in deeply. At least school will soon be over for the term.

My seat in homeroom gives me a good view of the school play-yard down below, and the two stone statues that loom over the space. The statues of District 12's only two Victors. I've never been alive to see one commissioned, because well, I've never been alive to see District 12 get a winner. Mother has always said that see and Daddy remember, when they were a couple years older than me, standing in the play-yard while the Mayor unveiled the statue for Haymitch Abernathy following his win in the Second Quarter Quell. The striking young man, cut from stone, is dropped in a fighting stance, a quick knife jutting out and poised to strike. To that statue's left, another depicts a girl in a sundress of all things, lifting a rattler on high and with her teeth bared about as ferociously as the forked fangs of the serpent she now masters. Whenever either the 10th or the 50th Hunger Games are mentioned in Hunger Games History class, even the slacker students sit up and take notice, for you can bet your hard-earned sesterce that questions about either of these two Games will dominate much of the end-of-year final. I once heard some older kids talking about how Haymitch Abernathy himself was brought in to give a special lecture while their class was studying the Second Quell. So the story goes, Haymitch was visibly plastered throughout much of his visit, but somehow still managed to stay coherent. To my understanding, District 12's most recent Victor hasn't been asked back to lead a class on the subject since.

The bell finally rings, and the lights come up, many of my classmates shielding their eyes from the sudden glare. I quickly gather my schoolbooks and vaguely take in Mrs. Henshaw's warning to review our notes for the upcoming exam. I head quickly through the halls and then one floor down to pick up Prim at her homeroom before the pair of us head out into the warm sunshine. As we pass under the shade created by the Victor statues of Haymitch Abernathy and Lucy Gray Baird, I get the distinct feeling that I am being watched.

Pausing under the statue of Lucy Gray as the school play-yard quickly empties of students, I turn back. Peeta Mellark is gazing at me again from clear across the yard. I gulp, my throat dry with both unease and shame. I've never thanked him for the bread he tossed to me - the bread that we were able to make last for several weeks and which no doubt saved all of our lives. It's largely because of Peeta that I am going to see my twelfth birthday, and thus be eligible to take out tesserae, in the next few days.

I can feel Primrose tugging impatiently at my hand, whining, "Katty? Katty!" and peeking around my blue skirts to see what has my attention. Tearing my gaze away from Peeta's eyes…. eyes as blue as a summer sky… I happen to glance down at the cracked cobblestones.

That's when I see it. A dandelion blossom, pushing up through the concrete. Like it was planted right there for me to see. Stooping, I pick it up, running the stem through my fingers. And for the first time in who knows how long, I smile. I smile with hope.

Lifting my eyes again, I can see that Peeta has drifted closer to lean in the shade made by Haymitch Abernathy's statue. He is trying to act casual while stealing glances at me. I can tell he wants to approach, but is too shy.

Still gripping the dandelion, I square my shoulders. Well, if he won't, I will. As much as I despise owing someone, I have to stop acting like a coward and thank him like a proper district lady. So thinking, I march right up to Peeta Mellark and slam him up against the statue of Haymitch. Before he can make a sound, I fling my arms around his neck and push my lips sloppily against his in a heated kiss.

It is my very first.

And I'm horrible at it, I conclude, which must explain why Peeta's arms are stealing about my waist after a moment of surprise to pull me close. Why he makes a soft, pleased sound against my hard and unyielding mouth. He must pity me, right? A Merchant boy would be caught dead kissing a Seam girl.

After several seconds, we break apart, and I draw away. Peeta's blue orbs are blinking, thunderstruck.

"What was…?"

"A one-time thing," I answer. "Thank you." I don't elaborate on what it is I'm thanking him for, but I have a feeling he knows. I turn and flounce away, heading back towards my stupefied sister.

Suddenly, I feel something tug at my hand and spin me around. I open my mouth to say something indignant… and ended up letting out little more than a squeak around Peeta's soft and pliant lips crashing down onto mine.

He kisses me back.

I forget myself as my lashes flutter shut over my grey orbs and I moan, looping my arms sinuously about his neck to grip his shoulders. "Mmmmmhmmmmm….." My fingers weave themselves into his loose blonde stands and when Peeta's tongue licks the bottom seam of my mouth, I part my lips for him with a gasp. His strong and calloused hands which I've seen throw one-hundred pound sacks of flour right over his head, are impossibly gentle as they come back to encircle my waist, tugging my malnourished but still womanly curves into the hard planes of his chest.

I forget about how I was once starving, forget about how Primrose is standing right there and watching with a child's coy grin. And as Peeta and I embrace and kiss, I forget about the dandelion puff, which now lies back on the cobblestones where I dropped it….