When I'm at the barre, nothing else exists but the back of Madge Undersee's head. It's my focal point, where I rest my eyes, and it has been all year. Without fail, every day, her bun has flyaways. Today is no different.

My hair, as usual, is slicked back into a bun that's high and tight. No stray tendrils peeking out, no loose knots, nothing like that. It's so taut that it pulls the skin of my temples up, which is exactly how I like it.

"Lift up out of your waists, girls," our teacher, Miss Effie, says. "Preparation seven, then eight. Demi plié, one… and two. Three… and four. Now, lifting up tall as we grand plié, and down..."

I bend my knees generously and stare straight ahead, dipping almost all the way to the floor. I let out a long, cleansing breath as I reach the full position, just warming up, and straighten to my full height as the rest of the girls do.

"Rond de jambe and fourth, and back," Miss Effie says, repeating the word she says nearly every day for this barre warm-up. We don't need her to say them, the music is enough of a guide, but our memorization doesn't stop her. She likes to hear her own voice, I think.

After we've finished with pliés, Madge fiddles with her bun - something she can always be counted on to do. She tightens it, tucks a few pieces away only to have them slip right back out, and smooths down the top. I'm not sure why - none of her adjustments stick.

"First position!" Miss Effie says. "Six, seven, eight. And one, plié. One, two, be very precise. Front, back. Good! Back, plié. And one and two."

I let my mind go blank as my muscles get ready for rehearsal today. It's a nice blankness, a welcome one, after a long day at school. The chemistry test that I spent weeks studying for was more difficult than I imagined it would be, and even though the exam was first period, I couldn't stop thinking about it all day. Right now, with my fingers wrapped around the barre, is the first time it's left my mind, and I'm grateful.

I hear the jaunt of the piano from a far-off place, with our centuries-old pianist, Mr. Claudius, playing for us live. He chooses songs I know so well I could hum them in my sleep, and I probably do - Claire de Lune, Moonlight Sonata, the entire Nutcracker Suite. He's probably too old to learn anything new.

Miss Effie's voice snaps me out of the pleasant reverie I'd found myself in. "Delly Cartwright! Do not sickle those feet!"

Hearing Delly get scolded reminds me to correct my own feet. I don't think they were sickle, but the last thing I want is to get singled out in the way Delly does. I run my thumb over the wood grain of the barre, centering my thoughts and telling myself not to let my mind wander again. It doesn't bode well for my technique.

I stay fully and completely focused for the rest of the class, working towards perfection when it's time to show Miss Effie our most recent solo combinations.

The senior showcase is swiftly approaching, and each of us get a private lesson a few times each week to work on our solos. I usually don't like being singled out, I never know what to do with the attention, but ballet is where that changes.

"Katniss, you're up!" Miss Effie says, and I start.

I run in a succession of small, quick steps, then lower into a tendu derriere. Plié, and stretch, plié, and stretch. Glissade, royale, glissade, royale, glissade, royale, petit jeté, temps levé, battu, coupé, assemblé, entrechat quatre, and end in a demi pointe.

Miss Effie nods as I stand there, arms held in position with a stage-appropriate smile on my face. "Very nice," she says. "Bonnie, now you."

…

After rehearsal is over, I pack my pointe shoes into my dance bag and switch them out for my favorite tan Uggs. My feet are thankful to be in something so soft - they'll most definitely need to be iced tonight.

I keep my hair in its bun and don't bother changing out of my leotard, I just throw a pair of sweatpants and a cardigan over it. I check the time before I leave the changing room and notice that rehearsal ran late - Prim is probably wondering where I am.

In my hurry to leave, I bustle out of the locker room and run straight into Madge Undersee in the hall. We collide and everything that both of us are holding falls to the ground in a cluttered heap.

"Oh, my gosh, I am so sorry!" she trills, one hand over her mouth in surprise.

I shake my head, wordlessly telling her not to worry about it. I'm not sure why I can't say the words - they just don't come out.

"I'm such a klutz," Madge says. "Seriously. Ask anyone."

I keep my head bowed as I gather my things, barely looking as I haphazardly pack them away and heave my bag back onto my shoulder.

"Got it all?" Madge says.

"Mm-hmm," I say, avoiding her eyes. Then, I slip past her and the tall boy she's with so I can make it outside in time to catch the bus.

…

When I throw open the front door, my stomach growls as soon as I smell dinner cooking. Prim is home.

"Hey!" I call out, dropping my dance bag in the foyer and kicking my Uggs off.

"Oh, she's alive," Prim murmurs from the kitchen.

I come around the corner to find her standing at the stove, stirring something in a pot. If I know her, it's probably pasta, and I'm not complaining at all.

"Of course I am," I say.

"I texted you like, a billion times!" she says. "I was asking what you wanted to eat. Did your fingers break, or something?"

"I didn't get any texts," I say, turning to grab my phone from my dance bag. I lift it out and the screen comes to life, but the lock screen is not something I recognize - it's a dog sitting in front of a field of flowers - and the texts lining the screen aren't from Prim, they're from a contact called 'Peeta.'

This isn't my phone.

"Shit," I mutter, staring at the device like it might magically morph into something that belongs to me.

"What, shit?" Prim asks.

"Don't say that," I scold.

"What? You can and I can't?"

"This isn't my phone," I say, then scan the texts.

RECEIVED, 5:34pm: Tell your mom I said thanks for the CDs. I've never heard these guys before

RECEIVED, 5:38pm: Hey who was that girl you crashed into after practice?

RECEIVED, 5:38pm: Was that katniss everdeen?

RECEIVED, 5:38pm: It was right? God remember how I used to never shut up about…

I can't read the tail end of that last text because that's all the banner notification shows. With my cheeks burning as hot as they are, I don't want to read anything more anyway. This must be the boy who was with Madge, the one I slipped by on my way out the door. Tall and blonde - her cousin, I'm pretty sure.

He was asking her about me. Like Madge knows anything about me other than the fact I stand behind her at the barre every Monday, Tuesday, Thursday, and Friday.

"Whose phone is it?" Prim asks, pulling my attention from the screen.

"Oh," I say, clicking the phone off. "This girl, Madge, from dance. Our stuff got mixed up… I must have grabbed it by accident."

"So, she has yours then."

"I guess so," I say.

The phone lights up with another incoming text.

RECEIVED, 6:10pm: Lmao you don't have to tell me about her if you don't want to, I just…

Again, I can't read the rest of the text because the notification cuts off.

RECEIVED, 6:10pm: I won't bother you about her I swear

I take a deep breath and allow my thumb to hover over the Home button, wondering if Madge has a passcode that I'll have to get by. It feels strange, letting Peeta carry on talking about me - I don't think he'd be going on like this if he knew I was the one reading the texts and not his cousin. It's making me squirm inside, so instead of just putting the phone down and ignoring it until tomorrow at school, I press the Home button.

Madge doesn't have a passcode. She's too trusting.

Without peeking at the entirety of the above texts, I quickly type out a reply to Peeta.

SENT, 6:11pm: hey sorry this is katniss. I accidentally picked up madges phone when our stuff got mixed up after rehearsal.

As soon as the message gets delivered, bubbles pop up - Peeta is typing his reply.

RECEIVED, 6:11pm: Well this is officially embarrassing….. Hey Katniss :)

RECEIVED, 6:12pm: I'll call Mads landline and tell her whats up.

That's a relief.

SENT, 6:12pm: thanks. We can switch back first thing at school tomorrow

I'm about to put the phone down and away for the rest of the night, but it buzzes in my hand before I can.

RECEIVED, 6:12pm: It watched you dance today. You're really good!

My face flames again, and I stand with my eyes glued to the message for a long moment before pressing hard on the button that powers it completely off.

This isn't even my phone, and I don't know him. I don't need to be texting Peeta Mellark.

…

As I walk into school the next day, Prim gives me a side hug and hurries off almost as soon as we're through the front doors. With the unfamiliar phone clenched in one fist, I'm dreading the fact that I have to find Madge and have a conversation with her.

I've never talked to her outside of dance before, and even at the studio we've only traded a few words. And 'trading' the words isn't exactly what happened - it was more like she talked at me while I figured out a way to escape the conversation.

She's probably somewhere hanging out with her group of friends, gossiping and catching up on whatever might have happened on social media in the short time it's been since they last saw each other. With my head low, I pass through the cafeteria looking for her, but I come up with nothing. I spot Delly Cartwright, the queen of sickle feet herself, as she makes out with her boyfriend, but not Madge.

I pass by the lockers that encompass the last half of the alphabet, but she's not there, either. I'm about to give up when I pass the library and spot her through an interior window, sitting alone at a table with a book open.

Taking a deep breath to steel myself, I open the library door and head in. As I get closer to the table, Madge looks up and she smiles once we make eye contact.

"Katniss!" she says, placing her book face-down. "There you are."

I stand next to her chair and glance at the book she was reading - The Book Thief.

"That's my favorite book," I say, then wish I could take it back. Why does Madge care what my favorite book is? Why am I making conversation? Small talk is stupid. I'm here to give her back the phone and that's it.

But I do love The Book Thief, and I always have.

"Oh, me too," Madge says, running her fingers over the frayed edges of the paperback cover. "This is my third time reading it."

I try to give her a friendly smile, but I think it comes off more stilted than anything. But Madge doesn't seem to mind.

"I got home yesterday and I was like, whoa, why is my phone blowing up?" she says. "And I looked at it and I was like, wait, who's Prim? Then I remembered that's your little sister's name! And I was like, oh no way… I think I must have Katniss's phone!"

I nod along with her story. "Yeah," I say. "Your cousin was texting you."

"Oh, god," she says, slapping a palm to her forehead. "What did he say?"

Much like last night, my cheeks get hot when I think about it. "He was… um, he was asking about me," I say. My voice is so quiet, I have no idea how Madge even hears me - but she does.

"Oh my gosh," she says. "He's so obvious. He has no idea how to be subtle, I swear."

She gives me a look that I have no idea how to interpret, so I just extend my arm and hand over her phone - unsure of why I didn't do that right away. "Here's your phone," I say.

"Oh, right, duh," she says, giggling while rifling through her giant purse. She pulls out my phone from a side pocket. "Here you go!" The first bell rings as soon as she puts it in my hand, and I glance towards the library doors. "Oop, better go," Madge says, gathering her things. "See you at dance later?"

I nod, holding the eye contact that she makes a point of giving me. "Okay," I say, and show her a real smile. Small, but real.

…

In the locker room, I'm sitting on the cushioned bench, putting on my slippers when Madge hurries in.

"Thank god, I made it," she says, tossing her dance bag to the floor.

The rest of us are already changed into our leotards and tights, hair smoothed into buns, waiting for the clock to show 3:30pm before we head into the studio. I lift my eyes to watch Madge, but quickly avert them as she tears off her school clothes to start getting changed.

"Peeta, freaking Peeta!" she says. Somehow, I know she's talking to me even though her back is turned and I'm not even looking. "Making me late. He stopped to talk to literally everyone he saw on the way out of school."

I tie and retie the tiny bow on my soft pink slippers. This is the place in a conversation where a normal, social person would ask a question. But not me. Ignoring the silence, Madge soldiers on.

"I can't wait 'til my car gets fixed and I can stop depending on him! Miss Effie would've killed me if I was late."

I'm finally settled with my shoes, and I look up to see that Madge is fully dressed now and working on her bun. Well, working isn't exactly the right word - more like fumbling. Part of me wants to offer to do it for her, I could get it just right in a matter of moments, but I don't speak. I still can't get any words to come out. I'm so shy that it's stupid.

It's 3:30, anyway. Time to go.

I follow the rest of the girls out of the locker room and take my spot at the barre. Madge stands in front of me, then glances over her shoulder to smile in a friendly sort of way. She's never done that before. I try to smile back.

Her hair is worse than usual today, but I stop fixating on it quickly enough and lose myself in the movements. After our muscles are warm, Miss Effie leads us through combinations.

"Preparation six, open arms on seven, take the barre on eight," she says, and we follow her directions as she says them. "We're going to do an enveloppé," she begins. "And a one, and a two, and a three, and a four. The second half are long dégagés. And five, and six. And two to the side. Lift up, turn it in. Turn it out, expand from that plié! Lift up high, grab the knee to lift it up higher - higher, Delly! And back down to fifth plié."

I smile to myself once it's over, feeling content for the first time all day. In the studio, following instructions like this, is where I feel most like myself. This is what I know how to do. This is who I know how to be. I know what's expected of me and I know how to fulfill those expectations. If I could make ballet class last forever, I would.

But, unfortunately, it does come to an end. And today, the end of class comes with more buzz than usual.

"When you head outside," Miss Effie says, "you'll notice the list of soloists posted for the senior showcase."

As soon as she says it, the room breaks out in a low hum, static electricity running through all of us. Other girls turn to their friends and commiserate, worry, and titter, but I stare straight ahead at myself in the mirror. Only because I'm looking in the mirror do I realize that Madge is giving me an encouraging wave from where she's standing just behind me. I look at her with a confused expression, then listen as Miss Effie continues.

"Not everyone was given a slot," she says. "But my most promising students can be found on that list."

I have to be on it. There's no other option. I have a scholarship from Northwestern University hinging on that solo - the school doesn't hold auditions, so my performance in the showcase is essentially my final ticket in. That, along with my continual high grades, is what's getting me where I need to be next year - because everyone knows I can't afford it otherwise.

My stomach is jumping and I can't stop wringing my hands after Miss Effie dismisses us. I let the other girls bottleneck through the door first and linger behind them, keeping my eyes on the floor while trying to take deep breaths.

"You've gotta be on there, Katniss," I hear, and suddenly Madge is right beside me.

"Oh," I say. "I don't know."

"You're the best out of all of us," she says. "It's a no-brainer! Come on. Let's go look."

She takes my wrist and I can't do much but allow myself to be dragged over to the bulletin board where the rest of the girls are huddled. I see the big, bold title at the top of the paper - SOLOISTS - and before I have any say in the matter, my eyes scan downwards. And there it is, in the first space available - Katniss Everdeen.

I can't help the smile that works its way onto my face, lifting the corners of my lips. I bring my fingertips to my mouth to cover it, I don't want to seem like I'm gloating, and Madge gives me a big hug from the side. "I knew it!" she says. "Congratulations!"

I can't wait to tell Prim. She and I have been ruminating over this for months, ever since I got the scholarship to Northwestern. This is it - this puts me one step closer to everything I've ever dreamed of since before I can even remember.

I stand at the bulletin board long after everyone else has dispersed, barely hearing the excited squeals, or the opposite - dissatisfied groans and complaints that Miss Effie isn't fair. I just keep reading my own name, over and over again, placed in the top spot.

"You've earned it, dear," Miss Effie says, passing through the hall and heading back towards the staff lounge. "Now, I need you to keep working."

"I will," I say, clasping my hands tightly together.

"I know," she says, then smiles. "Go home. It's getting late."

I nod and step away from the board and into the locker room, where I put on my sweatpants and boots. On the way out, I'm zipping up my coat when I hear Madge's voice in the lobby as she talks to her cousin. Peeta.

"And you know what I said? I said, I bet you don't even know what snow-blowing is," she says.

"Do you know what it is?" Peeta asks.

"I… well… that's not the point. Oh, hey Katniss!"

I give her a small wave and hold onto the strap of my bag with both hands. I'm not really sure how to act around Peeta - whether to acknowledge his presence or not - especially after the texts from last night.

He doesn't let me off easy, either. Before I can bid them goodbye and head out the door, he says, "Heard you got a solo."

I look up and nod, saying, "Yeah."

"Nice," he says. "Congrats. Good on you for beating out Mads with her two left feet."

"Um, excuse you!" Madge says, rolling her blue eyes - the exact same shade of blue as Peeta's I'm now noticing. On her, they're pretty. On him, though, they're disarming. Just looking at them makes my heart beat in my throat for reasons I'm not sure of. "I just dance so my mom won't make me join her crocheting circle. Katniss is actually good."

Peeta laughs and I join in, too, just a little. It's true, I've been dancing with Madge for a long time and she's not exactly a shining star on the dance floor. She's not quite as hopeless as Delly, but that's not saying much.

"Do you have a ride, Katniss?" Madge asks. "You should let us take you."

"My car, but okay," Peeta says.

"Whatever," Madge says, rolling her eyes yet again before looking over at me again. "What do you say?"

"Oh, that's okay," I say, waving her off. "I usually just take the bus."

As I say the words, the light drizzle that had been coming down turns into thick sheets of rain, spurred on by a crack of thunder overhead. And, as it pours, the bus rumbles past the stop because no one was standing at the pole waiting to get on.

"Come on," Madge says. "You can sit in front!"

At this point, I don't really have another option. My house is more than ten miles away, and the last thing I want to do after ballet is walk home with sore feet in the pouring rain. So, I say, "Okay."

Madge claps and Peeta breaks out in a wide grin. These two are easily pleased.

…

In the car, Peeta sits in the driver's seat and I'm in the passenger's seat as Madge promised. Unable to be left out of anything, though, she sits in the middle of the back so she can lean forward with her head between us.

"I wish it wasn't raining," she says. "Then, we could go get ice cream."

"Agreed," Peeta says.

"Prim would be pissed," I say, and the words come out before I have a chance to filter them. It's all I can do not to clamp my lips shut after. I'm usually silent around new people, anyone other than Prim really, so it's a wonder I managed to say anything at all.

"Your sister's the cutest," Madge says. "I see her when I sit in on Mr. Crane's Freshman Focus class. She's so pretty!"

"She is," I say, because Prim truly is beautiful. "Our mom always says she could be a model."

"So could you," Peeta says.

His words shock me so much that my mouth goes completely dry and I have no idea what to say. My mind is wiped blank and my heart speeds up, and I tuck my hands under my thighs to give them something to do.

"God, Peeta, just tell her already," Madge says, a smile in her voice.

I don't look to see if she's actually smiling, though, or at what expression Peeta is making. Instead, I stare out the window so neither of them will notice the wild blush on my cheeks that I can't seem to control.

"No idea what you're talking about," Peeta says.

"Uh-huh," Madge says, nudging him. "Sure. Sure." She snorts, then taps my arm. "Sorry, Katniss, he's being a total boy about this. I've been telling him that he just needs to get it off his chest and tell you that he-"

"So, um, Katniss, what's your address?" Peeta asks, effectively cutting Madge off. I'm glad for it. I don't have any idea what she was going to say, but I don't think I'm ready to hear it - whatever it may be.

I mumble my address to Peeta and he plugs it into his phone, and as soon as Google starts telling him directions, my stomach sinks. It hadn't crossed my mind how far out of their way Peeta and Madge are going - who knows if they've ever even been to this side of town before? My house is a shack compared to what I'm sure their two homes must be like - mansions, if the rumors are true.

I know their families are rich. They come from the same money. Madge's mother is Peeta's dad's sister, and the money comes from that side of the family. While our town may be divided, it's pretty small. Everyone knows each other's history, which means I know that the Mellarks, and, by proxy, the Undersees, are wealthy.

And the Everdeens, over here on the other side of the tracks, quite literally - we are very much not.

It shouldn't matter, but it does. I try to see this half of town how they must be seeing it. Dirty, run-down, washed out, and gray. Nothing alluring about it. My mom has turned our small house into something cozy and quaint, but 'cozy and quaint' doesn't hold a candle to what it's like where they live.

The car is quiet, the only sound being songs I don't recognize coming from Peeta's phone, interrupted every so often by the voice of Google. By the time we pull up in the driveway, I'm more than ready to get out of this car.

"Hey, look, there's Prim!" Madge says, then rolls down her window - even in the rain - to wave at my sister. "Hi!" Prim smiles and waves back through the rectangular window beside the door, and Madge rolls her window up again. "Wow, a sibling that actually acknowledges my existence," she says snidely.

Her words seem to strike something within Peeta - what exactly, I'm not sure, but he physically recoils after she says them. She notices, too, because a guilty expression passes over her features.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to bring it up like that," she says.

"No worries," Peeta replies, his sunny demeanor having returned just like that. I watch his face, lingering for a beat too long, and he notices. He studies me as I'm studying him, and I'm the first to break.

The feeling of his eyes on me like that is too much to handle. I don't know what to make of it, but what I do know is that it's time for me to leave.

"Thanks for the ride," I say, heaving my bag over my shoulder.

"Anytime," Peeta says.

"Yeah, for real," Madge says, then giggles. "He means it. He'll gladly give you a ride anytime."

Peeta scrunches up his lips and closes his eyes, then lets out a long breath. "Sorry about her," he says.

I have no idea what either of them are going on about, so I just raise my hand in a small wave and step out of the car. I duck my head, run to the porch, and wave one more time as the car pulls away.

When I get inside, Prim is practically jumping out of her skin. "OMG," she says, choosing the silly acronym over the full phrase. "Do you have friends now? Like, real, live friends?"

I roll my eyes lightly and swat her on the arm. "No," I say.

"You totally do!" she says, bouncing as she leads the way into the house. "You do!"

As I take off my Uggs, I realize she might be right. Maybe, for the first time ever, I might have made some friends.