I am in class, minding my own business.
I gaze out the window, not paying attention to the words of the teacher. There is nothing, no inclination, to suggest this day is different from any other day of my life. I will finish this class period, shove the homework into my threadbare backpack, then go wait in the school yard to walk my sister, Primrose, home. Gale and his brother will join us, as they always do, and everything will be exceptionally as usual.
A normal and unextraordinary day, without any surprises.
Except, I hear this cough. Not a fake I'm-trying-to-get-your-attention sort of cough. Just a cough. It's startlingly loud in the otherwise dreary classroom.
I feel the muscles in my face tighten, disgusted. Memories flood my mind, of the sick Mom and Prim occasionally take care of.
The coughing continues, moist and wheezing.
I'm not and probably never will be a healer, but there is something horrible about that sound.
I opt to ignore it. Until it just doesn't stop. The cry of an insistent crow; caw, caw, cawing.
The teacher pauses in his lecture, concern etched into the face of a man who I have never seen take a second glance at the starving children from the Seam. This immediately seizes me as strange and I turn my head, to see – and yes. I am right to assume. The girl is from Town. Her blonde hair, which is usually falling down her back, is tied messily at the top of her head, and her pale skin, though always pasty, has taken on a strangely sallow hue.
Everyone is watching her, bent over herself, and turned to the side of her desk. She has two hands clasped over her mouth, chest heaving. She is trembling and her eyes are watering with her effort to quell the coughing. Or is she crying? I feel the first prickle of concern touch me beyond my careful mask of indifference and sit a little straighter in my chair.
"Delly," the teacher starts, haltingly, and it clicks in my mind.
Delly Cartwright.
How had I not immediately made that conclusion? I should have known instantly, just on a glance. We share a grade after all. Plus, Delly is particularly kind, usually uncaring of the prejudice between Town and Seam. Though it is not ignorance or unwillingness or even prejudice within myself that has made me not recognize her immediately. It is her appearance. The presentation that is not… right.
It is Delly, herself, thinner than she was, somehow pastier, smiles stolen from lips well-made for them.
The girl waves one of her hands at the teacher; vague, dismissive. Coughing, still... cawing, cawing. Every inhale Delly manages is fleeting and probably painful, and thick.
She is gasping, her hand held awkwardly over her mouth, and her eyes are streaming tears, and she says her words between each sharp inhale of breath: "I – need – please... excuse – me."
She stands. She doesn't touch her books or bag or wait for permission. Which is wrong, very wrong, because Delly always has permission. Delly isn't rude or disrespectful or rebellious...
She flees the classroom.
Everyone is quiet.
Someone rises from their seat.
My eyes move instinctively over to see who, and then I instantly regret it, when I recognize Peeta Mellark moving across the classroom. He's stopped at the door by the teacher, who commands him to sit. Which he does, grudgingly. The teacher turns to the class, narrow-eyed, telling us to behave, and then he slips out into the hallway.
Almost instantly, as if the room is some sort of teeter-totter, half of the students on one side of the room transfer to the other, doubling up at the desks of their friends, whispering and gossiping and worrying about Delly. Some aren't though. Some laugh. Some talk about how awful she looks. How they wouldn't dream of showing up looking like her.
Their shallowness makes me feel sick to my stomach. Angry, because Delly has never said and would never say anything remotely near what they are whispering about her now, and Delly is sick and hurting, but they are uncaring. But, of course, I won't get involved. The people of Town have always ignored the desolate population in the Seam, so I should be used to their impassivity. It is only... that I thought... expected... a certain degree of decency. The people from the Seam truly aren't their friends, aren't within their social or economic circle, but – but Delly is. She is one of them.
And it doesn't matter.
At least in the Seam, we look out for one another. This isn't always true – but in a general sense, it is. It isn't conditional, or specific to only these few, or only as long as it makes them 'look better'. It is an understood respect for each other, for each other's struggles and where we come from, no matter how much we hate it, and it is kinship, and compassion.
I don't know why I am thinking this; it helps no one and I can't very well pretend to be Delly's best friend. No, I can't. But there is someone who might as well be. My head tilts slightly, as subtlety as I can, and my eyes roam toward the opposite side of the classroom, where I know he sits.
He is an exception.
His face is appropriately taunt with worry, eyes focused on the door of the classroom, and his feet are braced against the floor, as though ready to spring up and greet her on her return. Except she doesn't. Come back, that is. Delly is sent home, the teacher tells us, and we are let out for the day, five minutes early – weirder, still.
The day is strange and off-kilter as I wait out in the school yard for my little sister. My hand fidgets with the shoulder strap of my bag, twisting the fabric around it until my fingers are pale and purple and bloodless. I slip my hand free of the trap, then twist the coarse fabric around the appendage again and again. I keep thinking back to the classroom. About what happened mere minutes ago.
I hadn't wanted to see it, hadn't wanted to mention it, or point it out, because the very sight had made my stomach twist around itself. Blood doesn't frighten me. I've slaughtered enough animals to know that blood is just blood, and I've had my hands buried in entrails before.
Except, this is different.
This is human blood.
This is Delly Cartwright's blood.
I had been sitting in the perfect spot: in the back row and to the right of Delly. I had seen the blood when Delly flung out that hand. I saw it, dripping from the corner of her lips, the bloody spittle rolling down her chin before Delly hastily brushed it away. Blood on her tongue, rolling over her stark white teeth with each violent caw.
A shiver runs up my spine. I shrug my shoulders in complaint and refocus on the present. Students mill about, just released, excited that the day of learning is over, but moving slow, lazily, because for most, this means it's time for work.
One group passes near me, talking loudly – Delly's name is falling from everyone's lips.
Somehow this makes me nervous, makes my stomach feel sicker.
My thoughts go to peculiar places, untraveled routes, of maybe going to see her. Perhaps, just pop by the Cartwright's house, make up some inane excuse, and confirm if I saw what I thought I did. Because that would fix my churning stomach, surely. That would soothe the knot in my throat, tugging tighter each time I recall a faded memory of Delly smiling at me, or waving, or offering a hand of aid in class projects or gym activities.
That all collapses when Primrose shows up. She reminds me that I have more important things to do, that there is a family – two, counting the Hawthornes – that need me, depend on me and my presence. There are plenty of people – more welcome persons – that will show up at Delly's house, offering kind words and get-well-soon phrases. I'm not much good at those things anyway.
Yes. It is better to just go home.
I greet Gale, Rory, and Prim as I always do. My smile is thin, but they don't expect more than that. I walk between Gale and Prim, hand still wrestling with my bag's strap. Once we reach beyond Town the atmosphere grows easier and Rory begins to tease Prim about some recess folly that happened today.
Gale turns his head, considers my expression, and watches, almost in intrigue, my fidgeting hand.
"I heard that Delly made quite a performance today in class," he says.
"Where from?" I ask, setting my jaw. I'm not angry. I shouldn't be. Yet, irritation is zinging in my blood. Or rather, I feel pestered... pressured. Gale most likely heard it from everyone and could not help hearing it as he walked through the yard.
I just would rather hear him answer my questions, then have him ask me more.
I don't want to lie to him. If he asks me what I saw, I'll have no choice but to tell him what I saw. Yet, I'm not sure enough to share... not even with Gale, my best friend, the person I illegally hunt and poach and sell things with. That is how uneasy the whole thing makes me.
I gnaw on the inside of her cheek, allowing my hand to fall from the shoulder strap.
Gale gives a careful, cautious, shrug. He is watching me. No doubt wondering what is wrong with me.
"I heard it from Jarek first. Then Thom told me all about it. I just thought, since you were actually there, you knew something those numb skulls didn't..."
For a moment I wonder what is wrong me. It is just blood. I've seen a man vomit blood once, out the corner of my eye, as I fled the house and then my mother swooped forward to care for him. But he lived... he lived... and I'm not so sure... and I don't want to think about it...
"She was coughing," I say and I'm glad to find my voice level and natural. Something about this day has to be normal, and if it can't be my thoughts, then at least I can appear composed outwardly. "Probably the flu or a cold. Minor stuff. You know how everyone likes to exaggerate."
"Yeah," Gale agrees. "Town is all about drama."
I'm glad when Prim and I reach home and there is no one there to discuss it with. The evening passes quickly and uneventfully. I'm relaxed by the time I'm undoing my braid and dressing for bed. Primrose is doing her usually ritual, cleaning father's old shaving mirror and petting Buttercup into a stupor.
My dreams are of screeching crows. I'm chasing them, furious. Somehow, I keep missing. All my arrows are going askew at the last moment, as if some invisible hand reaches out and is flicking them to the side just before they hit their mark, or it is simply that the crow dives out of the way and takes flight in a flapping, cawing mass of black wings.
Near the end, murky in the way only dreams are and shrouded from any real conscious thought, I know I get one. I hit one straight in the neck and I race over to the place where it fell. What I find is a slow death. The bird wails and its voice is strangely high-pitched, human, girlish. The sound is thin and gurgling as the blood gushes from the wound in its neck and out of its mouth.
I wake suddenly, holding my breath, and the day begins like that, in a slow dreading trudge. I knife my way onto my back before pulling myself from the bed, feeling sweaty and cold. But when I press my knuckles into my cheek, it is flushed, and my pulse is ramming through my wrists. I shake myself.
It is early. The sun has not risen, and Gale is waiting for me.
By the time I get to our meeting place beyond the fence, the horizon is the pale gray of pre-dawn.
"Point the way," I tell him.
Gale leads at my word.
After a while the cold of the morning ebbs and his smile comes free and sudden; mine, too, though I keep scoping the sky for crows.
We get a fairly good haul from the traps, and I manage to shoot a squirrel.
"We'll take this to the bakery after school," says Gale, stuffing it into the game bag, already skinned and prepared for sale.
I agree with the dip of my chin.
After splitting the goods, we return to our respective houses to change and grab our school things. Primrose is ready, as always, sitting demurely on the end of the bed we share. The room is still dark around her and Mom slumbers on.
I glance at the woman worriedly; I had considered, briefly, mentioning what I had seen. She is a healer by all rights, but I had stalled myself, because I still held a grudge against her and didn't want to admit need of help, nor could I find it in myself to mention Delly out loud.
It is in the past. Tomorrow was strange, but today is new. It's bound to be normal. A safe, familiar normal. I dislike new. New is bad and foreign and I'm unprepared for change.
But that's ridiculous.
Delly Cartwright's well-being has no influence over my life.
Primrose skids over the gravel, waving at neighbors and greeting other kids also on their way to school. I follow slowly, keeping my eyes trained on the head of blonde among a sea of black. Gale jogs up to my side, grinning, tugging a Rory by the arm behind him. He lets go of his brother once he is at my side and tells him to stay in sight.
I offer Rory a smile and warn him not to get Primrose in any trouble.
The boy's face grows appalled in a comical way. He is walking backwards, having stalled in his flee to face me. He throws up an arm, crossing it diagonally over his chest. His eyes are gray and shining and proud and – indignant, like someone else's I know – and he says, quite smartly, "I'm her friend. I protect her from danger." He drops his chin. "I don't drag her into it."
Gale reaches out a hand and ruffles his hair.
"That's right." A pause, as Rory rights his hair and Gales gazes over his head. His eyes return to his brother, mocking. "I think I see Marcus Arbuckle pulling on her braids right now. Better get to it."
Rory is gone in a heartbeat.
My eyes fly up to check this claim, too, and I wonder, fleetingly, if I need to have a talk with this Marcus. Only I find that it is a lie and I shoot Gale a disgruntled look.
He is smiling like a goon.
"What?" he asks.
"Nothing."
I tug at the straps of my backpack and there is no further comment or thought about the subject.
Not until we get to Town. I sense almost instantly that there is something wrong. Prim is not in sight, at first, as my eyes flicker through the mill of children and teenagers, Seam and Town. I feel a wave of gratitude when I spot Rory, holding Prim by a hand and dragging her back toward us. He's just a boy, yes, but sweet and good, and observant, that he is.
Gale has risen to the tension and is looking around the square. "Why are there so many?"
Peacekeepers, he means.
"I don't know," I reply, pulling Primrose to me and holding her around the shoulders all the way until we get to the school.
Fortunately, the Peacekeepers don't even notice the day-to-day traffic of the district, off to work or school or the mines; they all look preoccupied and stressed. Why? Gale and I share a hundred curious and uncertain glances, but neither of us can answer that question. No one can, as everyone murmurs and frets and whispers.
There are theories, both ridiculous and rational, that spring to thought. Something to do with the Hunger Games? That's rational because there are never that many Peacekeepers within District 12 except for on reaping day. There is a nervous titter of executions and punishment rolling from tongues, and I feel my face fall deeper into the mask. I think of hunting this morning, then recall the squirrel in Gale's game bag stored somewhere in his house, where Hazelle and Posy and Vick are staying, oblivious to the need for obscurity.
After walking Primrose to her class, I find my first period and enter the room that is stiflingly tense and… sad. My eyes scope the room for Madge. The blonde is perched in her usual seat near the back. I am careful when I sit beside her to look deliberately in her direction, because there is a gleam in the back of Madge's blue eyes that suggests today won't be normal.
"Do you know what's going on?" I ask her.
"Delly's dead, Katniss," says Madge, point blank.
I feel myself nod, not breaking eye contact. I wrap my head around this news quickly. It is not difficult. Almost too easy, actually, to accept the fact that the bubbly and smiley Delly is dead.
Stone cold. Six feet under. Gone.
"How?"
Madge looks around the classroom, pressing her lips together. She leans towards me, over the small aisle between our desks and keeps her voice low.
"I'm not really allowed to tell anyone. I mean, I was only eavesdropping on my father... and I'm not even supposed to know. They said she was sick. But they said it weird. Like it wasn't a normal kind of sick."
"An epidemic?"
"No," Madge says, voice soft, "worse."
"But... Delly is just one person," I object.
Madge's eyebrow arches, high. "Is she?"
I turn my head and regard the classroom. I take attendance for the teacher and –
Oh, no.
But I pretend like I don't see the glaringly empty seat. I turn back to Madge and my mask is carefully in place; a little bemused, indifferent to the right degree, and curious, too. Underneath, I am frowning. My heart sinks, but I can't say why. It hadn't sunk for Delly Cartwright.
"Who?" I ask.
"Peeta."
"Who?" I know it's stupid, to pretend that I don't know him. I do know him. I owe him, a dept I have never repaid… for my life – my family's life – Primrose's sweet life.
Madge does not see beyond my mask. My only friend, aside Gale, that I have, does not show even a smidgen of surprise or suspicion toward the fact that I can't recall the simple name of a classmate we've had for years – not to mention that he is one of the most liked.
"Peeta Mellark," says Madge. Glumly. "He's the baker's son."
"Oh."
Oh, no.
"Yeah. He's really sweet."
I nod, unsure of how to reply.
Madge adds quickly, because the teacher is walking into the room, "I heard my father say to the Peacekeepers that they were to take into custody ever person that visited Delly yesterday, or that had physical contact to her. That's probably where he is. Delly and Peeta were always close."
I nod, numbly, then turn in my seat and respond, "Here," when the teacher calls my name.
Nothing happens when Peeta's name is called; silence, stillness, glances passed between his real friends and those who have a right to worry. I shouldn't be feeling so... strange, and it must be because if he dies, then I'll never of had the chance to thank him. Which is important, of course.
Important enough to linger over that frivolous, tedious wording in Madge's sentence? "...physical contact... always close... Delly and Peeta..." But no. I don't care about his life, and his... physical contacts. It is just… I have this image in my mind, gory and vomit-inducing and it is him kissing Delly and she has blood in her mouth, and he is... appalled. All of this is appalling.
I have more trouble than usual focusing on the day's lessons. The whole school is having trouble, as rumors flutter through ears and eyes brighten at the prospect of petty gossip and everyone notices. Everyone is observant today; they notice Peeta is gone, they notice our teacher that had went after Delly is gone, a boy from three grades below is gone. What makes it all so meaningful, noticeable, is the fact that none of the teachers are mentioning the lost students, or the dead one, at that, or the Peacekeepers that have so suddenly taken up resident in District 12.
At lunch I can't help thinking it's a good thing I didn't go over to the Cartwright's after school. What would I do if the Peacekeepers showed up at my house to take me into custody? What would Gale do? Something drastic if I know him. And I do. Primrose would cry. My mother might try to placate the Peacekeepers... or more likely just stare with those ghost blue eyes. It wouldn't matter. She would fail me no matter what she did.
It is the last class of the day, and I am staring out of my favorite window, with its perfect view of an oak tree that stands tall and majestic in the middle of the school yard. My eyes are tracing over the branches and my thoughts are wandering, wondering if I were to climb it, which branch would I take first, how high could I go, and all the nonessential things to distract myself from the fact that today won't be normal – and tomorrow might not be either, and I am bracing myself for anything.
I almost let out an exasperated sigh at the hint of a noise to my side, from another student –
It is sudden, sharp, and I assume it is a cough. My skin grows clammy, while my fingers wrap into a fist and I turn my head, in time to hear the real sound that it is –
It is Gin Pander, from Town, who squeals and jumps from her seat and hugs the figure that has timidly emerged from the classroom door. Peeta Mellark smiles ruefully at the girl, patting her back, and he shoots the substitute teacher apologetic glances for interrupting the lecture. He presents a note to him. The teacher motions for the two to take a seat.
Gin is chattering under her breath as the two go to their seats. I hear only a gist of it: so worried, thought the worst, everyone was saying... you're okay... couldn't believe... with Delly and... you... gone.
I stare. I know I shouldn't. I'm not even being subtle. It is a blatant and guarded stare across the room. My eyes are fixed on Peeta's expression as he reassures his friends.
I note things.
I note these things, as though I am able to tell that they are new attributes.
(But that would suggest I know Peeta. And I don't. I've never even talked to him before.)
Yet, still, I see the nervous run of his fingers against his desktop. I see his foot bouncing underneath the desk and it is not like the energetic jitter he sometimes has. It is an impatient thing...
Peeta's eyes suddenly flicker from Gin's face, over her head, and meet mine. At first, I see that he does not realize that we've made actual eye contact; Peeta glances up, then down again, lazily, as though on instinct, but then he jolts. His eyes fly up again, wider than before.
He realizes that I was already looking.
Today really is the day for noticing things, isn't it?
I stare at him and don't turn away. I refuse to feel the heat pooling in the skin of my neck and shoulders. I wait for him to look away. I refuse to look away first. I'm too stubborn to appear abash or smile or – do anything but scowl, because that is a safe expression. It is an easy movement of muscles in my face, when I panic, faced with those scorched blue eyes. In a matter of a second, running through my thoughts, I recall all those other times, when I'd catch him looking my way and he'd turned away, red-faced and running a hand through his hair.
I will not do that. I refuse to do that.
Peeta is bewildered at the most and warm, at the least, his eyes somehow brightening. I do not know how to describe it. Can't understand it, really.
I wonder if there is a reason that he holds my gaze for the first time in all of our lives – that day, that class, in that moment. Is it because he feels reckless – faced with his friend's recent death? Or because he feels like he's just survived something by walking away from the custody of the Peacekeepers unharmed and not a tribute of the Hunger Games? Does that attribute also to the small, barely noticeable, tug of his lips and the indistinguishable tip of his head, before he returns his attention to Gin?
Did I imagine those things?
No. That would imply I wanted them to happen. That I hoped to see them and so my imagination decided to make me feel like it happened. But I didn't. I don't. I don't even know why I was staring at him in the first place, let alone what I was hoping to get out of it – which is nothing, because I need nothing from him at all and if I did, that would only mean I owed him something more and I hate owing people...
In an effort not to think about it too much, I simply attribute it to what Madge said, not me, but Madge. That he is sweet, and he was merely acknowledging the fact that I was there.
I'm relieved when the class is dismissed. I stand, pushing out a breath, and pull my backpack onto my shoulders, then hurriedly slip through the rows of desks. My eyes are unfocused. My thoughts on what I am going to do when I get home: how I should explain things to Primrose – my little sister is bound to hear something – and what Gale and I might have to do, if the Peacekeepers plan a long stay.
By chance, I hear Peeta's voice, talking –
No. A cough. My head lifts almost instantly. I spot him, walking down the hall with a fist against his mouth. He's smiling. It was only one cough, and he doesn't look upset about it; but I'm not the only one who looked up and is eying him up and down.
He doesn't notice; or pretends not to notice.
Madge's words echo in my head. One sticks out the most. Worse.
I decide that I must keep my distance even more so from people. I can't afford to get sick; can't die. Primrose can't get sick either, and she is always talking to people, helping them and offering her hands for aid. Like Delly. Is that why Delly got sick? Got this somehow ominous illness that has led to her death at only sixteen?
And it was so sudden. I had seen her on Tuesday, the day before her death, and Delly looked quite normal... yet, on Wednesday, I looked at her and didn't even recognize her for a moment. If she could get that sick, that fast, then maybe there is a good reason there are Peacekeepers in the district. It would be the first I've thought this, and I almost feel... I almost feel relieved… that there is a government, that there is the Capitol –
Perhaps that's the wrong word. I hate them. Who doesn't? They are cruel and unusual and petty to the widest degree. But they're smart… some of them. They know medicine, the real stuff. They know how to figure out the mysteries of the body.
"Katniss?"
I lift my head slowly.
What could he want?
What do I say?
Is a thank you good for right now? I've never thanked him before because there was never a proper opportunity. I was either busy, or he had friends, and I had Primrose or Madge or Gale, and –
I look around.
There is no one else in the hallway.
Primrose is outside waiting, no doubt, with Gale and Rory. Probably wondering where I am.
They'll worry too. I know it. They'll think of the rumors today, and glance toward Town and consider the possibility that I got sick or something...
"Are you... alright?"
Odds. I haven't said a word.
"Yeah. I'm fine," I say, quickly. My voice wavers. The traitor.
I curse in my mind and straighten my shoulders, looking him square in the eyes.
Only... it's that he doesn't look alright. And I panic, a little, on the inside. Not for him. Not really. I panic for myself, because I don't know what to say or how to possibly soothe the... upset in his eyes, and the queasiness in his face – which is currently stretched into some sort of attempt of a smile that is half-pained and half-hopeful.
I just stare at him.
"I–" Peeta starts, falters, and his smile widens, embarrassed. His cheeks grow red when his eyes drop to his hands. He looks sad. He looks scared. "I... uh... I'm sorry for holding you up. I know you must have places to be. I just... I made a promise to Delly."
My hand finds the strap of my bag on my shoulder and twists it around my fingers so tightly I feel the instant, icy prickles of dying nerves from the lack of blood. I fight to keep a level face. He's talking about Delly, and it must be hard, and this must be something private, which makes me unsure as to why he would share this promise he made to her, of all people, to me. I don't want to be rude and ditch him here –
But Primrose is waiting and Gale and Rory –
"A promise?" I murmur, quietly.
Peeta shifts, peaking up at me through his eyelashes. Sheepish, almost. But no. Something in my expression must encourage him. He clears his throat, seems to get control of his bashful side and –
He lifts himself to his full height, and tells me, "Delly is one of the... few people who I trusted... to tell. This secret. Or, well, it's not a secret. It's just... you."
"Me?"
I do not see where this is going. I am worried about where this is going.
He drags his hand through blonde curls, and he is smiling.
Still smiling.
And it bugs me.
He is smiling; when I know, know it so much, that he doesn't want to be smiling.
"Is this..." I have just as much trouble speaking as him apparently. "Is this about... the bread?"
Confusion rolls over his expression, eyebrow drawn tight.
"The bread?" he asks.
I can't believe the rush of momentary, uncontrolled, disappointment in me.
He forgot.
And I can't believe I let him see it. He saw my face falter, and he saw the disappointment; and somehow that reminded him. Or so it seems because his eyes widen, too and he says, "Oh. The bread... from when we were kids. I remember. And no, it's not about that."
I shift uncomfortably. Yes. Of course. Alright.
"So... what is this about? Because my sister's waiting... and –"
"And Gale," Peeta finishes, watching my face carefully.
My eyes narrow. "And Gale."
"Right." Peeta looks to the floor, breathes deeply.
He's nervous, I realize.
Why is he nervous?
Why is it so hard to just spit out whatever it is he's trying to say?
"I admire you," he says, all at once. The smile is gone, for once – but he doesn't look sad. He looks anxious and serious and not kidding. "And I mean that in... the way you probably don't think I do... because I..." A cringe. "I think you're amazing... no. Respectable. And stubborn. And a survivor. Twice if not ten times the person any of these other people are. I told Delly I'd tell you, because I've been nagging her about it for who knows how long, and she has always... encouraged me to talk to you... and she said she was sad she wouldn't be here to see... and... I'm – That's all."
My mouth opens, then closes. I process his words as quickly as I can. Looking for loopholes. Trying to find other motives behind this... confession. But there is none. I see nothing that conveys insincerity, or that suggests he is telling me these things as a joke or... for anything other than the reason he gave.
I am not sure how this makes me feel – that the person I owe my life to admires me – or what I should say, or what he hopes that I will say...
And I wonder when Delly made him promise this –
"Katniss!"
Both Peeta and I turn at the sound of Primrose's voice. My sister stands at the end of the hall, propping open the door, and behind her back I spot Gale and Rory. All of them expressionless, looking at me standing next to this boy that I have never previously spoken to.
Too close to the boy I realize, and I take a startled step back. When did that happen? It must have been him. Not me. I look back to Peeta, but he is staring off toward the wall on our right, tugging at the zipper of his jacket.
I open my mouth, looking at him, eying him in concern and curiosity and uncertainty, then close it.
"I'm coming, Prim," I say, turning away, my back to Peeta and hurrying down the hall to the door. I take Prim's hand into mine and shoulder by the Hawthornes and can only think of escape.
We are halfway through Town when Gale gets a word into things. "What was that?"
Lie. "I don't know," I say.
"We thought something happened," Prim pipes up from my opposite side.
I smile at her and try to make it warm while I hug her close to my waist. "I promise if anything was ever to happen, you'll be with me, and we'll be perfectly safe."
Prim nods and returns the smile.
No one speaks again until we reach the Seam, and it is only Rory and Prim, to say goodbye. I tell Gale not to take the squirrel, because the Peacekeepers, and he nods curtly in my direction.
It's only when I reach the house that I realize that what Peeta was saying might mean more – that he meant those things romantically. Not just platonic. And in that case, my own promise, or rather decision, of how I will never get involved that way, let alone marry or have children, with a man would have been the proper response to his statements. It still is the response. If that is what he meant. And I resolve myself on that; if he wants a reply for what he said today, then I'll have one.