Chapter 3: How to Trade for Bail

No matter what amount Cray ultimately posts for my bail, I begin my prison sentence under the fair assumption that the cost will be higher than anything Mother can afford to pay, and I'll be stuck here for the full 48 hours.

As it turns out, I only have to wait about 12.

Thank the State it's at least easy to measure time in this place. There's a clock on the wall, fully within my sightline, allowing me to observe the minute and hour hands ticking by at an agonizingly slow pace. Plus, for all it symbolizes as a system of oppression, the inside of the Justice Building has always been well lit. The windows are plentiful, if not exactly large, yet the sun's rays are beaming into this corridor-turned-makeshift-cell-block with soothing consistency. It feels just as bright as yesterday morning, when I was saying goodbye to my sister.

It's roughly 9:30 in the morning, just a little over twelve hours beyond when I was…. gentlemanly escorted into the Justice Building, at the moment Darius comes striding in, twirling his set of jail keys around his large fingers. He comes to a halt at my jail cell and unlocks the door.

"You're sprung, Miss Everdeen. Someone posted bail for you."

I can't hide the surprise on my face. Even Gale looks shocked, three cells down, but it quickly turns into impressed relief.

"I knew your mama would find a way, Catnip," he murmurs.

I nod to him absently, letting Darius take my arm. As we turn away, I look up at the striking Peacekeeper. "What about Gale?"

"Only one bail was posted, Miss Everdeen – yours. I'm sorry," Darius grimaces. "Hawthorne will be out night after tomorrow, I'm sure of it. Cray won't go anywhere past the minimum sentence. Frankly, he wants this kept under wraps and over in as little time as possible."

Makes sense – with how publicly Gale and I flouted the law (even if it was an accident), Cray should be worried about keeping his job. It's probably why he even deigned to punish Gale and me at all – our misdemeanor was so blatant, he couldn't just ignore it. The Head Peacekeeper has to prove he can keep order in his district. And frankly, we're better off under Cray than without him, because if he were ever replaced, I have a feeling any successor would not be holding prisoners in the Justice Building but two days for straying outside district borders, missing Mandatory Attendance, and allegedly (though not proven) poaching on Capitol lands.

I suppose I should feel grateful to my mother that she pulled herself together enough to do the bare minimum of good parenting – springing her eldest daughter out of jail. As Darius and I stride arm-in-arm through the hallowed halls of the Justice Building, I turn to look at him again.

"Out of curiosity, Officer, what was my posted bail?"

Darius nibbles his bottom lip. "Surprisingly unequal for the charges at hand, miss. Fifty sesterces. The Head Peacekeeper ordered that we publish the bond for you and for Mr. Hawthorne in the local paper."

I arch an eyebrow in shock. Mother, Prim and I have never had more than five sesterces to rub together, never mind fifty. Much of the money we do see is in coin, far lower in value than the banknotes funneled in by the Capitol. Even then, Mother and Prim are primarily paid for their Healing services in traded goods – lye soap and chestnuts and other necessities. Hazelle Hawthorne's agreement with us is doing extra loads of our laundry every time Mother has to treat one of her four children.

Fifty sesterces would be enough to feed a trio of Seam families for six months, probably. To the Capitol, that kind of cash is pocket change. So how did Mother scrounge up enough money to free me – more money than any of us have ever seen in our lives – in a little more than twelve hours? A pooling of resources from our neighbors might have been enough, though barely, and even then I doubt it. Certainly, the money wouldn't have all come together in merely half a day.

Another thought strikes me: oh no…. did Mother go to… Cray….? Our Head Peacekeeper is notorious for bedding pretty, young district women. Did Mother proposition him as a sort of bribe? Even at only just 40, and even as grief has aged her, my mother is still a beautiful woman. Perhaps she swallowed her pride and traded a fuck for her daughter's freedom. For all I know, Cray was the one who actually posted the money after having her for a round of shagging in bed. I suddenly feel quite sick.

But, when Darius and I emerge into the sunlight on the Justice Building's front steps, I don't find Mother waiting for me. Instead, I find Peeta Mellark.

I sway to a halt, eyes narrowed, suspicious. "What… what are you doing here?" I try to make it sound hostile, but all I can manage is little above a whisper.

"The transaction has been processed, Mr. Mellark, as we agreed. A fine day to you young folk." Darius glances between us, as if trying to figure something out. His smirk is the exact same, matchmaking one Prim… Prim always used to get on her face. The State knows my sister has been attempting to marry me off to some fella since I came of Reaping age. I sneer halfheartedly at him, and with a chortle and a tip of his visor, he takes his leave.

"Much obliged, Officer," Peeta waves. When we're left alone, he briefly lifts his brilliant blue eyes to me, then just as quickly glances down at his feet, scuffing his shoes.

"Are you all right? As soon as I heard… I didn't even know there was a garrison in the Justice Building until Leven told me. I saw your picture in the paper, and…"

My grey eyes have grown huge in astonishment as understanding dawns. "You posted bail for me? How?" Compared to the Seam, the Merchant Mellarks are well to do. They run a successful business – but even at the most booming of times, I doubt the Bakery has fifty sesterces in savings with the district bank.

Peeta's turned a perplexing shade of red. He still won't meet my eyes. "I… I used up all of my allowance. I've been stashing it away for years. That way, if… when…. I take over the business, I'd have a nice nest egg to start with. Even then, it was only just enough to meet bail for one of you." He finally has the nerve to look at me again, blue eyes genuinely pained and apologetic. "I tried to negotiate for Hawthorne down to what I had in remainder, Katty, but Cray wouldn't have it. I'm sorry."

My brain is spinning. Amazed that this boy would stick out his neck, throw away his hard-earned money clearly going back years, to buy my freedom… and then go the extra mile and try to bargain for Gale's liberation too with whatever he had left. I feel as though a stone has lodged in my stomach, gnawing at me acidicly as I realize that, once again, I owe this young man. First my life for the bread when we were children… and now my freedom with the bail money.

"My… my mother and sister only call me Katty," I stammer out, at a loss for anything else to say. "Well, and the Mayor's daughter."

The little light in Peeta's eyes dims. "Oh, I'm – I'm sorry…"

"It's fine," I cut across him abruptly. With what I have now accrued in debt to him… "You can call me whatever you like."

He nods. After an awkward pause, I cross my arms, turning into myself and scowling. "What do you want?"

Peeta blinks, thrown. "I… I don't…."

Rolling my eyes, I let out a huff. "Oh, to hell with it!" And taking his hand, I guide him with purpose down the steps of the Justice Building. I don't stop until we've stolen into a little-used back alley on the border of Seam and Town. Turning to him brusquely, no-nonsense, I reach behind me to undo the straps of my blue dress. A trade's a trade, and I intend to make this one fair. I intend to repay my debt to him. It's gone on too long anyway, and that was only due to my lack of nerve. Well, no more. I have a strong sense of what he wants in return, what any boy his age would want.

"Kat – Katty….?"

The bodice of my dress loosens, and I shimmy it off so that my left boob now hangs free and in full view. For what he's done for me, Peeta's earned a free chance to screw me. He can take me how he wants, for a frantic fuck in a back alley. Other kids our age have managed to copulate in far worse spaces.

His impossibly blue eyes pop, and he lets out a choke. "Katniss, no!"

Wordlessly, I take his hand (calloused and strong, from working in the ovens) and guide it to my breast, letting him cup me. "Go ahead," I whisper in what must be my best attempt at a sultry, seductive voice even though the tremble in it gives away my fear. Hiking up the skirts of my blue Reaping dress, I lift my leg and hook it around his torso, pressing him against me. "I'll…. I'll be quiet."

I am just about to lift, push my hips against his when Peeta suddenly jerks away from me as if burned, dropping his hand from my boob. We were only in each other's embrace but a moment, and yet I try not to dwell on the bizarre pang of hurt that goes through me. This young man has the chance to take a Seam girl's virginity for free, and he doesn't grab it? It irks me, and still at the same time, I can't help but be… impressed.

Peeta is clearly trying very hard not to ogle my exposed breast. Casting my eyes down with shame, I quickly cover it, redressing myself.

"You… you don't have to do that. I don't want that," he finally croaks out in a hoarse whisper.

I scowl, anger suddenly scalding me. "I know what any boy would pay for!"

"I'm not like those other boys!" Peeta bites back, more discomfort than malice in his tone, still averting his gaze from me out of some sense of gentlemanly respect.

"Well, what do you want, then?" I fold my arms, causing them to push my boobs out pronouncedly.

His answer stuns me, when he blurts it out. "Have dinner with me."

I reel back, grey eyes blinking dolefully. "What?"

"Our…. our siblings will be due in the Capitol this evening. The Reaping recaps are Mandatory Viewing, but we never have to go into the Square to watch that first night. Public Mandatory Viewing won't start until the chariot parades tomorrow."

I roll my eyes. "I'm well aware of the itinerary of ceremonies," I huff, lofting my voice in my best imitation of Effie Trinket, our district escort. I strangely have the urge to smirk when it garners a laugh out of Peeta. "But why do you want to have dinner with me?"

Peeta finally becomes a worthy adversary when he parries back exasperatedly, "Look, Katniss, you might think you're alone, but you're not. It's OK… I had someone I love sent into the arena too. And I just think we stand a better chance of getting through watching our siblings fight to the death if we do it together. Please, bring your mother by and have dinner with my family. We'll watch the Mandatory Viewing together; I'm even planning on asking Delly to come round. She needs the support as well."

I quirk an eyebrow, wary as I appraise this boy before me, sizing him up. I don't like Delly Cartwright much, and while I have enough reason to believe that Peeta's witch of a mother won't let us past the front stoop… I grudgingly have to admit it's better than sitting with Mother alone in our cold, drafty shack in the Seam, watching our Little Duck led like a pig to the slaughter.

"Will… will your parents be all right with it?" I throw out my last excuse.

"You let me worry about that. I'll arrange it." Peeta's grin is strikingly luminous. It catches me off guard, a little, to concede that I rather like his smile.

I finally nod stiffly. "All right, then." I turn to flounce out of the alleyway, when Peeta suddenly catches my elbow. The feel of his hand on my skin sends an electric shock up the entire length of my forearm, and I suck in a breathless gasp.

"Wait. Can I…. can I pay a call to you tonight? You know, pick you up? I know the Bakery's out of your way."

I study him for a moment. "May I pay a call to you tonight?" I correct his grammar. At Peeta's blue eyes blinking, I seize the moment to softly shake my head. "No, thank you. Mother and I know the way." And I run out of the alleyway for home.

I nearly crash into Mother when mounting our front porch steps and she is just coming out, my note from last night in her hands. Cheeks burning, I quickly explain the situation more fully, and how the Baker's son managed to post bail for me.

"He asked us both to dinner, Mama. To watch Mandatory Viewing with his family."

Mother's lips purse in a thin line, lost in thought. Her blue eyes – Prim's eyes, though a darker shade than Peeta's – betray a sense of nervousness. "Well, that was very gallant of him, dear. It's good manners to accept his invitation."

I inwardly sigh. I was hoping she would beg off on account of her health.

Late that afternoon, I have to help Mother bathe in our metal washtub, then lay out her best dress on her bed. I grin and bear it as I sit through Mother returning the favor, like I'm still a child. Then, as I stand naked as the day I was born and let the draft dry me, I watch as Mother takes out the ironing board and cleanly presses my blue Reaping dress. It's the only nice dress I own, and even then, it's a hand-me-down from Mother dating back to her days as a Merchant.

Once I slip the garment over my head, listening to how the fabric rustles, Mother manipulates me in front of our cracked, grimy mirror. I don't know why I let her go so far as to pin up my chestnut tresses in the single braid running down my back; I tell myself that it's because this is about all the mothering she'll have left to do. In a matter of weeks, I'll be all she has left.

Mother steps back to admire her handiwork. A sad yet proud smile adorns her lovely but tired features. "Now you look beautiful, too."

She's sometimes said it before, though I've never believed her. Prim is the real beauty of the family; I inherited the olive tone and darker features of my father. Thinking of my little sister, I wait for her to predictably confess how she wishes she looked like me, but my Little Duck doesn't make a sound. She's not here to – she's in the Capitol, awaiting death.

I feel the salt sting my eyes from where tears now pool there, though I don't dare to wipe them away. Not in front of Mother. "Let's go," I mumble, sharply turning away.

We walk hand-in-hand down the dusty path from the Seam, Mother's shawl draped over my shoulders. I am fortunate I was allowed to keep it throughout my admittedly brief ordeal as a convict. As we walk, I murmur quietly to Mother about how Gale fares. It's an attempt at making conversation, anyway.

"I know Hazelle will have seen the posted bail in the paper. Rory came pelting round the back of our house, hollering about it, and that's how I found out. Though by then, you were probably already released."

I nod. It stuns me that these are probably the most words Mother and I have exchanged in the past couple of years. I find myself wanting her to ask me how Peeta Mellark came up with the money; I'm oddly disappointed when she doesn't.

When we reach the cobblestoned streets of Town and I see the lights of the Bakery looming ahead, I'm uncertain whether to approach from the back or the front. Mellark's Bakery has a loading dock in the rear alley bordering the building; that's where Gale and I have always gone to make our trades with the Baker.

Before I can make a decision, however, I see Peeta and his father throw open the front door, casting light out onto the small green of their lawn as we approach. My gaze shifts to take in the one apple tree that dots the lawn.

For a second, I am eleven years old again, slumped under that tree in a driving rain, gazing into the eyes of a handsome boy off in the short distance. He carries two burnt loaves of bread in his arms, and there are the makings of a shiner over his brilliant, blue eyes….

"Belle!" the Baker calls jovially. He strides forward, livelier than even I've ever seen him.

To my shock (how many times have I been caught off-guard today!), Mother smiles weakly. "It's been too long, Wheaton." They even kiss cheeks during a gentle hug.

Behind his father, I see Peeta, bashfully rubbing the back of his neck. I unconsciously float over to him.

"How do our parents know each other?" I hiss.

"Your mom grew up in Town," Peeta blinks, as if this was obvious.

"I know that!" I snap. "What I didn't realize is that they knew…"

"Oh, your mom and my dad used to date."

I reel back in speechless horror. "What?!"

To my annoyance, Peeta shrugs it off. "It was a long time ago. I thought you knew."

"No, I didn't," I scowl. Before I can demand more information, Mother is turning to Peeta.

"Katty told me everything. I don't know how you pulled off springing my girl, young man, but I'm much obliged."

Peeta blushes, causing me to stew. "No trouble at all, ma'am." Then he shocks me by gallantly offering me his arm. "Madam: may I have the pleasure?" He puts an emphasis on the second word that might be teasing, and it causes my lips to buzz as they wrestle with a smirk. …. Amused, I shyly accept Peeta's arm and allow him to escort me into his family's home. As we cross the threshold into the Bakery, I even dare to murmur low, "Someone appears to be learning…." Peeta hears anyway, and when our eyes meet, he tentatively grins.

We enter into the main waiting area of the shop. Between the front windows and the bakery counter, there is another table off against the left wall. An indent in this same wall leaves me to wonder if the Mellarks' dining table is folded up into the building's infrastructure when not in use, during business hours. Most of the Merchants I know live above their businesses.

Peeta somehow seems to read what I am thinking, for I feel his breath tickle my earlobe as he whispers, "It's just our loft upstairs. For sleeping." I feel heat creep up on my neck as I strangely latch onto the last word. An impure image of him and me … I quickly banish it before it can be fully formed.

Peeta gallantly pulls out my chair for me, and I tuck in my skirts while sitting daintily as I can. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Wheaton – Mr. Mellark – do the same for my mother.

Three other people are already here. I only recognize Peeta's eldest brother from seeing him in passing. If I had to guess, he and Peeta have the same age gap as Prim and I do. I turn to Peeta, suddenly feeling quite embarrassed.

"What's your brother's name?" I half-mouth it.

"Leven," Peeta's smile holds nothing against me. "That's his wife, Morticia." Morticia looks to be scarcely in her twenties, yet she possesses the same albino, gaunt features of my chronically depressed mother who is twice her age. A curtain of straight, black hair frames the features of the undertaker's daughter.

"She's pretty," I float.

Peeta holds back something that might be a snort. "In her own way, yes. She and my brother are expecting a baby in the winter."

Directly across from me, Delly lifts her eyes to meet mine. I try to smile at her kindly, and hope it doesn't come off as forced. With my luck and lack of social skills, it probably still does.

A hinged door, likely leading to the bakery's rear corridor, suddenly opens with a bang, heralding the beady eyes and stout figure of Peeta's mother. Her arms are laden with platters of food. The muscles in her face are just as tight, forming an expression that is more sneer than smile. I don't know how Peeta got her to agree to this dinner, but I'd wager he went through his father first and the Witch was boxed in.

"Dinner is served," the Baker's wife announces, half-dumping the platters onto the table.

I immediately feel unworthy, and not just because of the heated stare I can feel radiating from the Witch in my direction. I've never seen such food. A slab of ham that would take me felling two wild hogs just to recreate. Applesauce and fresh-ground coffee. Tea bags.

The palette is one that a working-class Merchant family could claim, and yet compared to my upbringing in the Seam, it's a feast.

Mother smiles politely. "It looks superb, Miriam." The Witch turns away as if she hadn't even heard her. I frown hard.

The Witch is now hovering over Delly, and it is a strange disconnect to hear such sweetness, almost syrupy, coming out of the plump, older woman's voice. "How do you take your coffee, Delly dear?"

Delly gulps. "Black," she speaks up meekly. Miriam pours from the kettle. If she hadn't been standing directly across from me, I doubt she would have even deigned to turn in my direction. She lifts the kettle silently, an eyebrow disappearing into her receding hairline. I suddenly feel very small.

"I don't drink coffee. Never have," I blurt out stupidly.

The Witch looks oddly smug at this. "No, I suppose you haven't," she chirps. "A lady of your background…"

The statement hits me right between the eyes, which now narrow dangerously. Before I can think of anything to say in my own defense, Peeta steps in.

"You should try it, Katty. It's good. District 11-imported."

I glance between mother and son, feeling conspicuous. "I'll just have a water, please," I mumble. The Witch pours my glass curtly, liberally and sloppily. I have to wonder if she did it on purpose.

On the corner of the Bakery counter, there is a small TV set with antennae; similar to the one Mother and I have at home. From its perch, everyone can get a clear view of it at the table. I start when the static comes to life, right as the clock on the wall strikes the hour.

"Good evening. Please register for Mandatory Viewing to receive credit."

Everyone pushes back their chairs and form a line, walking up to the bakery counter one by one. I can feel the heat from Peeta directly behind me, and I wait to reach the front of the queue.

Whenever submitting to Mandatory Viewing at home, Mother, Prim and I are required to scan our retinas, so our identity profile can be matched with our DNA records kept in the Justice Building. As I step to the head of the line, I stoop forward and let the TV scan my eyeballs.

"Match: Everdeen, Katniss Magenta."

I scowl at the static screen. I hate how everything has to be recited with my full name.

I stand aside, waiting for Peeta to scan his retinas. The TV gives his full name as Mellark, Peeta Joseph. Turning to me as we walk back to our places at the table, Peeta smiles at me, clearly amused by something.

"Magenta?"

I turn the same color as my namesake as I mutter, "Family tradition." Then: "I hate my full name."

"Well, I think it's beautiful." I gaze up into Peeta's eyes, blinking, knocked off-balance by his sincerity.

We've all barely retaken our seats before Caesar Flickerman, the Games' long-time host, comes on, monologing about the exciting crop of tributes fielded this year. Then the camera cuts away to reveal the silver bullet train pulling into the Capitol train station. Immediately, fear wraps a noose around my heart.

The pair from District 1 is classically attractive. Well, the girl is – blond hair and tits the size of rebel bombers. She looks like a real knockout. The boy is pleasing to the eye enough, though nowhere near as handsome as Peeta. He comes off as dim, but maybe that's because I notice the slight physical affect in his features. As one of the Careers, the tributes from Districts 1 and 2 (and occasionally 4) who always team up to hunt the weaker kids, this Marvel, if I caught his name right, will stick around for a time, though likely with no thanks to his own skills. He'll piggyback on his district partner.

There is nothing weak about the boy from 2, Cato. He's blonde like Peeta, though even bulkier, if that is possible. The smirk on his face is arrogant, and I wonder if the media has crowned him Victor already as a mere formality. His district partner looks like a pixie, can't be any older than fifteen, yet she scowls as hard as I do. Clove…. I've found from even watching the Games casually that it's never a wise bet to judge a tribute based on their stature. I think the girl from 2 will be a threat, despite her size and youth.

I just hope I can judge my Prim on the same standards.

Much of the rest of the field is forgettable after that, with only two standouts. The girl from 5 has the same shade of hair as Delly, though her eyes are more shifty than kind. She'll be one to watch. The boy from 10 has a bum leg. It isn't until we get to District 11 that I shift, sit up, in my chair again.

The boy from 11 is clearly eighteen, just as large as Cato and even Gale. Thresh is basically Cato with dark skin. He'll make a go of it. But I'm even more struck by his preteen, wisp of a partner. Rue… she reminds me painfully of Prim. It's never easy to see a twelve-year-old sent in, and there are three of them this year, including my sister. The other is the boy from 4, surprisingly.

Then, I see my sister, looking pleasantly astonished by the enthusiastic reception she is getting. I drink in her face, searching for any sign of emotion or tears from her; I'm relieved and proud when I detect none.

Then it's Rye, Peeta's brother's, turn.

He bounds off the train, pointing at people in the screaming throng and giving shout-outs. He swaggers a bit like Cato did, but there is something decidedly more clownish in his movements. Rye's working the crowd like a comedian on late-night TV or even Caesar Flickerman himself. On the whole, it amounts to a vulgar display.

Peeta at least seems embarrassed for his brother, groaning audibly. "Come on, Rye… get your head in the game!"

Caesar and Claudius Templesmith do manage to note how Rye Mellark managed to come in first place at the district school's wrestling tournament, but they seem to be having a hard time believing it. "Did his opponents go down 'cause they were laughing too hard?"

"Of course not, you fucking cow!" Leven catcalls at the TV, sounding truly offended. Morticia bites her lip at her husband's colorful language. I also purse my mouth, hands folded ladylike in my lap.

The coverage ends not long after, the TV droning in its automatic voice that we have now received credit for Mandatory Viewing. The dinner breaks up, Peeta and his father walking Mother and me to the back loading dock.

"Thank you for having us," Mother grins at her apparently former lover.

"My pleasure, Belley."

I turn away to face Peeta, who is gazing at me with something I can't quite name.

"Thank you," I clear my throat. "Dinner was… lovely."

"You're welcome," Peeta murmurs, and my heart performs an insane pattering in my chest. I feel my face grow warm.

"And… and thank you. For posting bail." A pause, and then, taking a deep breath before I lose my nerve, I add in a whisper, "And also for the bread."

I figured he won't know what I mean, so I am touched when Peeta's blue orbs widen in immediate understanding. "From when we were kids?" I nod dumbly. "You don't need…. Katniss, you don't need to thank me for that."

My throat goes dry. "Yes, I do," I whisper. I sway forward on my tippy-toes, suddenly inspired by the mad urge to… but I hang back.

"Good… goodnight," I hum, turning away and dithering out of the alleyway, Mother trailing in my wake.