Chapter 7: Deep In the Meadow

We meet in the meadow on Wednesday. I return from a hunting trip in the woods to find him lying near a patch of dandelions, and I watch him silently for a moment. His eyes are closed, his face lifted towards the sun. I'm almost sorry to disturb him. Approaching quietly, I stand over him and nudge his arm with the toe of my boot. He jumps, his eyes flying open, but he smiles as he squints at me.

"I didn't even hear you," he says, sitting up.

"I wouldn't be a very good hunter if you did," I retort, and he laughs. I sit down cross-legged beside him, setting my bag down. "I can't stay too long because I've got to trade this game before it goes bad."

Peeta nods, picking at the blades of grass near his knee. We're quiet for a moment until he speaks up, "This is really nice out here. I think I'll bring some parchment next time to draw." I hum a noncommittal sound, propping my elbow up on my knee and resting my chin in my palm.

"I'm sure that would be nice. The apple tree you drew was incredibly realistic," I finally offer up, hesitant, and he turns his eyes on me.

"Thanks," he says, his voice soft. "Spent a lot of time looking at that damn tree, I guess." I look away then, swallowing my shame at the 20-year-old memory, and I wonder if his fascination with that tree has anything to do with me.

Digging through my game bag, I pull out a smaller pouch and open it to reveal some strawberries I picked. "Would you like some?" I offer, setting the pouch down on the ground next to him. He nods, snatching one up and biting into it.

"Thank you," he says around the strawberry, his eyes lighting up. "These are good." I smile, picking one up for myself. Chewing thoughtfully, Peeta drops the stem of the strawberry to the ground and sucks the juices off his fingers. I squirm as I watch him. "We—well, not me anymore—but at the bakery, they've got a really good strawberry shortcake. You should try it sometime." I bite into my strawberry, my fingers catching some of the juices that dribble down my chin. "Or...I could make it for you," he suggests, and I look at him sharply.

"Oh, no, I couldn't possibly let you do that—"

"So, you can share your food with me, but I can't?" he asks wryly, then he grins. "Sorry. I'm doing it anyway, so you're just gonna have to deal. That's what friends do."

I roll my eyes, swallowing another bite of strawberry. "Fine." We lapse into a brief silence while we eat more of the berries until I speak up again, "Reaping's this Sunday." His gaze shifts to my face, then off into the distance. It's the first Reaping in 20 years where I don't have to worry about someone being chosen, whether it is myself or someone I care about. Last year had been Posy, my sister-in-law's, last reaping. Until my niece, Aster, hits reaping age, I have a brief respite from the dread and stress of the Games.

"Yeah," Peeta says darkly, and I'm reminded that he has nephews to worry about, nephews who are of Reaping age.

"Sorry..." I offer weakly, and he just shakes his head.

"Not your fault." He stares at the ground for a moment, silent. "It's not really my nephews I worry about, if I'm being honest. I know the odds favor them." He looks up at me. "It's my students. I teach a lot of kids from Town and the Seam. I know them pretty well. It's tough, worrying about them." He swallows, his eyes a stormy blue. "A few of them...I've known a few of the ones who've been chosen, over the years. They don't ever come back."

My breath hitches slightly. "I..." I don't know what to say. I've never considered how it might be for him as a teacher, watching his students get shipped off to die. Shaking my head, I look away. "I just don't get it," I say simply, my mouth curving into a frown.

"What?"

"I just—I don't even understand how people can want kids. It was horrible enough worrying about my sister. I know it's going to be horrible when it's Aster, my niece's, time. And, I mean, I can only imagine how it feels when it's actually people you know, people you care about, who are chosen. I just don't get it. I just—sometimes I feel like the only person in this district who doesn't suddenly and completely forget what that mind-numbing terror feels like every damn year when it's time for the Reaping."

He laughs, a dark, biting sound, and I startle, gawking at him. "You're probably right," he muses, leaning back on his hands. "Sometimes, I think, maybe it was a very cruel blessing that I could never have kids of my own."

I cringe as I realize how callous I must sound to him. "Sorry, I didn't mean...sorry."

He shrugs. "I meant it. I've had a lot of time to think about it. Maybe I should be grateful. I don't know." He pauses, looking at me. "Every year around this time, I wonder, who's it going to be? Will it be someone I know? Because most of the time, it is. I know most of these kids at least casually, even if I never taught them directly. Every year I watch, suffering in a silent kind of misery because I know these kids aren't coming home. I'll never see them around school, in my classroom, on the wrestling team." His voice is raw, and the sound tugs at my heart. "There was one kid one year, Doran. He was on the team. He was...he was a really good kid." I remember Doran; he was also from the Seam. "I thought, maybe he could win. He was strong. Really smart. But...he was gutted in the bloodbath by a Career."

I stare at Peeta's profile. I can see the tears shining in his eyes, and I don't know what to say. Cautiously, I inch my hand closer to his, the one that rests in the grass close to me, until my fingers nudge his. I wrap my hand around two of his fingers, squeezing in what I hope is a comforting gesture, and he looks at me, his mouth parting in surprise. His gaze drops down to our hands, and I am about to retract mine when he squeezes back. He smiles at me then, and my heart flutters.

We sit there for a little while longer until I begrudgingly leave to do my trading for the day. Peeta decides to stay in the Meadow for a bit, and I wave goodbye with a promise to meet him here next week.


When I wander into the Meadow a week later, Peeta is already there, sketching in a parchment pad. I sneak up behind him to look over his shoulder. He is drawing the woods and the fence that separates it from the Meadow.

"That is really good," I comment, making him jump, and I try not to laugh.

He chuckles, shooting me an exasperated look as I sit down next to him. "One of these days, I'm not going to startle when you approach."

"Good luck with that," I say with mock sincerity, smiling when he laughs again. He sets his pad aside and shows me a basket he must have brought with him.

"For you," he says, and I take the basket from him warily. "It's probably a little melted now, though. Sorry." Curious, I peer inside. A strawberry shortcake wrapped in plastic is nestled inside on a plate. I look at Peeta sternly.

"You didn't."

"I did."

I sigh. "Peeta—"

"Nope, I don't wanna hear it. You're gonna eat it, and you're gonna like it," he asserts, picking up his pad to start drawing again.

I scoff. "And what if I don't like it?"

He shrugs. "Impossible. The Mellarks make the best damn strawberry shortcake in the entire district."

"No one else makes strawberry shortcake in this district."

"Exactly." He winks at me, then ducks his head back to his drawing, the stick of charcoal scratching across the parchment. Sighing, I unwrap the shortcake and pick up a fork he included.

"What about you? Are you going to eat?" I ask, but he shakes his head.

"I ate enough while I was making it for you. I'm stuffed. That's all for you."

Carefully, I scoop up some of the shortcake with my fork, making sure to get a large bite of strawberries and whipped cream, and I shovel it into my mouth. Chewing slowly, I moan in the back of my throat, and I blush when I realize he was watching me. I swallow. "You should include cheese buns and strawberry cupcakes in that friendship contract of yours."

He chuckles. "I thought you might appreciate it." I scarf down the rest of the shortcake, and he draws in silence. When I'm finished, I push the basket aside and stretch out in the grass beside him. He glances at me. "No trading today?"

"I got it done earlier," I say, looking up at him. He turns his eyes back to his paper, but a smile plays at the corner of his lips. I watch him as he draws. After a few minutes of silence, I ask him, "Did you know either of the tributes chosen?"

His hand stills, his face falling, and he glances at me with a nod. "Siobhan was in my class a couple years ago," he says solemnly. I don't know what to say, so I chew on my lip.

"Peeta," I say a moment later, and he hums a response. "Did you and—Analise ever...think about adopting from the community home?" At his look, I rush to add, "You don't have to answer that if you don't want..."

He sighs, running a hand through his hair. "I wanted to. But she...didn't. You have to understand that—she felt—feels—broken, in a way. She told me she didn't want a child that wasn't her own, our own. It makes her angry, I guess. And the kids in the home, she..." He falters, looking at me sadly. "Well, she thinks they're broken, too. And she doesn't want a reminder of her own brokenness."

Narrowing my eyes, I look away to glare at the sky. I understand what he didn't say: Analise thinks those kids are broken because they're from the Seam. Because Seam children are the ones who are most often left homeless and parentless.

"You didn't want kids?" he asks quietly, and I shake my head, dreading this conversation. Then again, I'm the one who initiated it. "And Gale...?"

"He does," I say sullenly. "He's not too happy with me. But he knew...he knew before we married. Guess he just thought I'd change my mind..." My voice catches, and I clear my throat, closing my eyes against the glare of the sun.

Peeta is quiet for a while, and I hear the scratching of his charcoal again. Finally, he mutters, "I guess it's funny how things work out." I don't know if "funny" is the right word, but I grunt petulantly. "Here, I drew you something."

I open my eyes and look at him in surprise. "Oh?" I sit up as he tears the parchment out of his pad and hands it to me. My eyebrows shoot up when I realize he has sketched me, lying in the grass, my face turned toward the sky, my braid coiled on the ground. My jaw drops, and I look up at him, a slight flush warming my face. "Oh," I squeak. "It's really good, Peeta, but...what am I going to do with a picture of myself?"

He grins at me then, taking the paper from me. "Okay, fine. I'll just keep it for myself." His eyes glint mischievously, and the flush ignites my entire body. Ripping out another sheet of paper, he gives that to me. It was the picture of the woods he had been working on earlier. "You can have this instead."

I smile, gingerly skimming my fingers over the image, careful not to smudge the charcoal. "I...thank you." I look up at him, worry creasing my forehead. "You keep giving me things, and I haven't really given you anything in return..."

With a shrug, he gathers his things and stands up. "So, give me something next week if you want. But I don't expect anything. Your company is enough." Scooping the basket up, he smiles down at me. "I gotta head back. See you next Wednesday?" I nod, and he gentlemanly tips his head in parting before turning away. My eyes linger in his direction until I can't see his form anymore, and one thought crosses my mind: What is he going to do with that picture of me?