Heads up, this chapter was updated on 4-4-17. Nothing big changed, just some cleaning up of the conversation in the last third of this chapter post greenhouse.

AN: I wanted to give a big thank you to everyone that favorited or followed this story and especially thank those of you that took the time to leave a review. All the feedback I received was very encouraging. It motivated me to get this new piece out as fast as possible.

I did want to take a second to address a few things people asked about. First of all, I will be continually adding in more of the canon characters as I go along. You'll meet a few in this chapter actually. I am trying to keep everyone close to their original ages though, so chances are there won't be any other Victors as students. I imagine that most of the Tributes from the 74th Hunger Games are at the same school with varying ages and only a few exceptions. Rue will probably be in junior high with Prim… In an early draft I had Finnick as Peeta's friend from school but I didn't feel it fit very well. So until I find an official place for him, you can all just imagine that Finnick is the young hot PE teacher/swimming coach that all the female students have a major crush on. If you have any suggestions on capacities I can use other characters in I'd love to hear them!

In regards to the drinking cups, I think I gave the impression that they are a bigger deal than they actually are, and unfortunately I didn't get to the red cup/blue cup line I teased last time in this chapter, so it's all still a mystery. It's nothing all that nefarious really. The answer is coming up in the near future. For now keep guessing! For the sake of transparency I figured I'd admit that Cato didn't actually drug Katniss' drink. I'm not saying it isn't something he would do, but in this particular case he simply didn't have the opportunity. Katniss is just being cautious, which is certainly not a bad thing.

Anyway, that's about it. I hope you enjoy the new chapter. I look forward to hearing your thoughts!

I'm quick witted enough to smoothly slip behind a cluster of people before he sees me. For a brief moment I'm tempted to dash back into the living room and out the front door, but then I remember that's the direction Cato and Marvel went, and really I'd rather bump into Peeta any day of the week than the two of them. Still, I'm feeling anxious, and my nerves are fried and I'm really just desperate to get out of here as fast as possible without running into someone I know. Not that Peeta and I really know each other. We know of each other, sure, and we've had a few semi-meaningful interactions over the years, but we aren't what I'd call friendly. He is someone I attempt to avoid though, because my memories of him and my feelings of indebtedness towards him are complicated. Now is really not the time to be dwelling on all of that, though.

I watch him closely as he slowly eases his way through the crowd, and am momentarily puzzled because he actually looks nervous, as he warily glances around the room. I'm at a loss at first, trying to figure out what he's doing. Then it hits me. He's trying to sneak in without being noticed, and frankly doing a very poor job of it. I can't help wondering why he's acting this way. He played in the football game we're currently celebrating. Wouldn't people expect him to come?

Still, he's trying so hard to go unnoticed that I find myself flinching with him when a loud voice shouts out his name from across the room. "Peeta! You made it!"

"Of course," Peeta replies, recovering smoothly as the boy that called out to him reaches his side. "Been here for a while actually. Where've you been?"

I quirk up an eyebrow, a bit astonished by how he lied so easily, but really, it's none of my business what he's up to. I continue to watch him as I try to figure out my next move. He's not trying to blend in anymore, and I can't help noticing how easily he's shifted into a casual conversation. There's an obvious difference between Peeta Mellark and someone like me. Even before bumping into Cato I was planning a quick departure, counting down the minutes until my hour was over and hoping I could scrape by until then without anyone talking to me. Gale was right all along. I have absolutely no interest in socializing with these people. A part of me can't help wondering what it would be like though, to actually enjoy the conversations I work so hard to avoid. I try to imagine being as free with my words and my smiles as Peeta is and almost instantly find my insides clench up in trepidation.

Peeta on the other hand looks completely at ease. He walks around calling out to practically everyone by name. Everywhere he turns he appears to find his best friend in the world, and is eager to hear everything they have to say as if he's listening to the conclusion of some thrilling saga. He remembers right away who and what to ask everyone about, and knows so many small details about their lives. I recognize that it's not just me he differs from. Peeta is special. He can make practically anyone feel appreciated, and cared for. It's a gift really, one I've been on the receiving end of not so many times, and even I can't help being affected by him.

I've tried to puzzle it out on more than one occasion, what makes him so special and good at this whole socialization thing. Part of it is that he genuinely listens to what other people have to say instead of spending the time where they are talking preparing a follow up response. This is not to say he isn't plenty interesting himself. He has an amusing sense of self-deprecating humor, and is quick and witty. And kind. Always kind. I can't remember a single harsh word he's ever said to anyone, save for the mysterious argument he got into with Cato earlier this week.

I flush slightly thinking back on it, only because it forces me to acknowledge that I've been paying a lot more attention to this boy than I intended. It's hard not to notice him though, especially now in this room full of strangers that I know nothing about. It's just that something about the discrepancy between the two of us fascinates me. If I'm being fully honest, something about him fascinates me, and I've never really been able to figure out why. I don't understand what motivates him, and makes him tick. How can he be so nice to everyone? What does he get from it? I flinch at the thought because right there is the flaw in my thinking. It's not about what he gets from it at all. That's how I think, a poor girl from the old run down part of town that can't afford to be free with her smiles and her resources. Peeta can't possibly know what it's like to live in a world where kindness is seen as a weakness, and I wouldn't want him to know anyway. After all, he's one of the nicest people I know, one of the only pieces of pure genuine goodness I've experienced in my life.

I suddenly come to the realization that I've been staring at him for a while, and really I should be gone by now. Besides, he's clearly engrossed in conversation, which means sneaking out of here should be a breeze. He's ended up on the opposite side of the island counter from me, so I start my trek towards the door, smoothly weaving my way through the people gathered there. I've always been good at fading into a crowd. Much better than Peeta is at least. I'm short, and easily over looked. I also have a kind of sure footed poise that's great for moving about undetected. So really, there's no reason why he should notice me.

But he does. I've just about passed him completely when his head jerks right in my direction as if he's been alerted by a loud noise, and his eyes immediately find my own. At first I think he'll just drop his gaze or look away like he always does, but this time he doesn't. He's probably just shocked to see me outside of school… But then that doesn't seem right, because even though his expression is bewildered he doesn't look that surprised. It's yet another bizarre reaction I will add to my ever growing list of peculiarities that have plagued this night. I think it will be best if I ponder all of that from the safety of my own home, though. With that in mind, I snap my eyes forward, square my shoulders and start marching resolutely towards the back door again, no longer concerned with being seen. Clearly it's too late for that anyway.

I immediately get tripped up though, because there are people everywhere blocking my path and a graceful retreat is clearly going to be impossible. Even though a part of me was anticipating it, he takes me by surprise, reaching my side in far less time than I thought was possible. "Hey Katniss," Peeta calls in such a cheerful voice that I almost believe he's glad to see me. If it wasn't for the hint of nervous tension deep in his eyes, I think I would believe it. "I didn't expect you'd come here tonight."

"Yeah well, I got out of work early so…" I trail off and shrug, cursing the way my voice sounds so small and unsure. It's a weak explanation at best, because no one believes my job is the sole reason I've stayed away from these functions throughout the years.

"Right," he drawls. "So how are you liking the party? Having a good time?"

"Oh yeah it's… It's…" I rack my brain trying to think of anything positive to say about this experience and realize there's no way I can lie to him. I let out a woof of air and drop my pretenses. "It's really not my thing, I have no idea what I'm doing here," I admit in a rush of words.

He simply laughs. "I figured as much. You look like you're having about as much fun as Mr. Abernathy at an AA meeting." His eyes flick down to my cup then and he frowns slightly. "Speaking of which… You don't, I mean, you're not actually going to drink that are you?"

I don't know why I do it. I'd completely forgotten about the drink in my hand anyway. But apparently I'm really sensitive lately to people implying I'm not going to do things. With an indignant sniff I raise the cup to my lips and take a heroic gulp. Unfortunately my theatrics fail me in the next instant and I'm immediately coughing and grimacing in disgust. Predictably Peeta starts to laugh again and takes both my cup and my wrist before pulling me further into the kitchen. "Come here," he intones, tossing the contents of my cup into the sink as he passes over to the fridge. He rummages around for a few moments before pulling out a two liter bottle of Sprite, which happens to be my favorite drink, and fills the cup up to the brim.

"Should you be… I mean are you supposed to do that?" I hiss, taking the cup from his offered hand apprehensively.

He shrugs. "You shouldn't throw a party if you're worried about people messing with your stuff," he reasons, and I notice there's a secretive grin playing at the corners of his mouth. "Besides, I think Cato's going to have his hands full for a while. And Clove's busy on the porch out there," he says gesturing towards the back door I'd been heading for. He's just given me two valuable pieces of information. Is he doing it on purpose? My suspicions are all but confirmed when he leans a bit closer and whispers, "trust me, you really don't want to go out that way."

I can only nod in understanding. He's right of course. The last thing I want to do is interrupt Clove with her stupid boyfriend and give her yet another reason to hate me. But if I can't leave through that door either, how am I going to get out of this stupid place? I'm surprised to find that having Peeta around actually does make me feel a bit less apprehensive, but I'd be stupid to think he's going to stick by my side for the rest of the night. I really need to figure something else out.

I'm distracted from my thoughts as Peeta reaches across me and grabs an empty cup, red again, and starts to fill it up with the Sprite. "You're not going to try the beer?" I challenge somewhat boldly.

"Considering your reaction to it I'd have to be pretty stupid to want to try it myself," he quips. Then as if deciding that wasn't much of an explanation, he shrugs and says, "Truth be told, from what I understand it's an acquired taste, and not one I've ever been particularly interested in acquiring."

I nod and hum in agreement simply because it seems the thing to do, but really I'm scrounging my brain for anything else to say to him. Predictably I come up with nothing, which is fine really, because I wasn't planning on sticking around anyway. "Well uh, thank you," I finally manage, indicating the cup. "I should probably be going though…" I stammer, looking around again as I try to figure out where to go next.

"Ah, yeah, of course. There's uh… Another door…" he hesitates momentarily, his eyes drawn towards the front of the house before seeming to decide something. "Here, I'll show you," he says, taking my wrist again and leading me out of the kitchen, through the dining room, and then finally to the main hallway. He looks to the front doors before stepping fully into the hallway and then quickly leads us in the opposite direction towards a set of doors at the back. Really, the size of this house is ridiculous. I should've expected there'd be even more doors. I'm a bit surprised that Peeta knows his way around so well, and baffled that he seems to instinctively know who and what I'm trying to avoid, but I'm grateful for the guidance and not about to question it at this point.

I'm flooded with a sense of relief the moment we step outside. There are still a lot of people in the yard, huddled around a large, fancy swimming pool, but even with the crowds, something about being outside helps me to relax, and I feel like I can finally breathe easily again. Even my earlier concerns about Cato and Clove seem silly in the open air. I spare a quick glance towards Peeta and can't help noticing he looks almost as relieved as I do. It's probably because he knows he can go back to the party now that I'm on my way and do whatever it is people like him do at these things. I'm expecting him to wave me off, but instead he gives me his best smile and asks if I want to see the garden.

"What?" I ask, perplexed.

"Mrs. Alistar keeps a pretty nice garden over that way," he says gesturing towards a side plot of the yard. "I mean I assume it's nice. I wouldn't really know much about it. But I thought you might like to see it, considering that's your specialty and all."

"I wouldn't say it's my specialty really," I murmur with a dismissive shrug. "I just sell a few things from our garden when the markets run."

"Are you kidding? Your stuff is great. Dad always makes a point of buying his carrots from you when you have them. Says they're a lot healthier than the ones he orders from the hothouses, and the size to cost ratio is the best deal he's found. He uses them for his carrot cakes, and he sells out of them almost as fast as he can make them. Honestly he should pay you a commission. Either that or you should start charging him more."

"I'm just… Glad he likes them," I stammer, feeling a bit awkward from the praise. Peeta's father is a baker, and he does frequent my stand quite regularly. He's actually one of my better costumers. He never demeans the quality of my produce in an effort to haggle on a better price, and instead always pays what I ask. In return I make a point of saving my better carrots for him, along with some of the nicer corn. Prim's not very good in the garden, too afraid of all the bugs, but once or twice a year I take her blackberry picking, and we sell whatever we collect to Mr. Mellark exclusively. We don't have a bush of our own at our house, they're far too unruly and take up too much space, but I've found some great wild bushes over the years that not many people know about. It's probably not the most cost effective use of my time, but I make the trips anyway just to keep Mr. Mellark happy. He doesn't talk much, but whenever Prim and I come by with the berries, he gets this twinkle in his eyes of grateful amusement. He pays us well, and always slips us a bag containing three cookies with a sly wink as we prepare to leave. It's always the same, two chocolate chip cookies for Prim and me, and a raspberry white chocolate one that just happens to be my mother's favorite. How he knows it's her favorite is beyond me, but the cookie always makes her smile, and since that isn't a particularly common occurrence for her these days, I've never made much of an attempt to ferret out the reason for this secret exchange of theirs.

Mr. Mellark has always been very good to me, so I'm not particularly surprised to hear he thinks highly of me. I just never really imagined that he would talk about me or my sales with his son. I'm honestly not sure how to feel about it. I'm so caught up with the whole revelation that poor Peeta's forced to awkwardly repeat his invitation to me.

"So, uh, you want to see it then? I think she might have a greenhouse even."

This of course peaks my attention. I could never afford to build one, and our yard doesn't have enough space anyway, but greenhouses fascinate me. I've gotten pretty good at stretching my produce over the years so they last as long as possible, but even I can't make plants grow in the winter. The fact that people can grow fruits and vegetables out of their season and climate throughout the year in a well-designed little house has always boggled my mind, and I've developed a bit of a hopeless obsession with the structures. So I'm only a little surprised when I find myself agreeing to go with Peeta.

We make our way past the crowd at the swimming pool, and I glance around as we go. Most of the yard is expertly landscaped and I know the design was not dreamed up by the likes of Mrs. Alistar. However, the little garden plot Peeta shows me is most likely her own doing. I give a derisive snort when my eyes fall on some marigolds she's planted and crouch down for a closer look.

"Those yours?" Peeta asks and I smile unbidden. Marigolds have always been one of my best selling items, and it's the only flower I bother with. They're cheap and easy to care for and since they're good at keeping away pests they're quite popular. It's easy enough to grow them from seeds in containers that I keep indoors, and once they're ready for planting I sell the majority of them, keeping only a few for my own use. The fact that Peeta knows I sell these isn't surprising. I've seen him at the market plenty of times before, walking around with his friends or running errands for his parents. But there's something particularly fitting about the two of us standing around discussing my marigolds, and I suspect that even he doesn't know the significance of this exchange.

It happened a long time ago, back in sixth grade, just before everything went wrong in my life. Peeta and I had been involved in this horrible little play our school was putting on, and one day we'd been forced to stay even later than usual so we could take promotional pictures for it with a professional photographer. I was really jittery though and tired of being cooped up inside all day. Plus I was seriously irritated by the photographer who was obsessing about how every single pose and expression had to be perfect, and maintained for a ridiculous length of time. When we finally moved outside for better lighting it was all over for me. The day was beautiful, and I couldn't be bothered to pay attention to the odious man any longer, too entranced by the sounds of the birds in the tree and the site of the little orange flowers popping up for the first time that year in the planters. Peeta must have noticed and been annoyed by the fact that my inability to focus was forcing us to stay even later, because eventually he stomped over to the planter, grabbed a handful of the flowers, and thrust them at me, his face all scrunched up and red, no doubt because of his frustration with me. "Here!" he'd exclaimed loudly. "If you like them so much you should have them!"

A teacher scolded him for picking them of course, and I was sure he was mad at me about it, but regardless the gesture had succeeded in cheering me up. I'd never received flowers from anyone before, and it was such a thoughtful gesture, even if he'd only done it to get me back on task. I didn't care. He knew I wanted them and so he'd given them to me. Only Peeta would think to do something like that. For some reason the whole thing had made me ridiculously happy, and I couldn't stop smiling. As a result, the next few pictures were deemed to be perfect, and we were finished for the day in no time. I was clutching the small orange flowers between my hands in the shot they finally ended up using.

I put the flowers in a cup on my nightstand, and didn't forget about them until my father died the following week. On the night of the play my parents had been in a head on collision with a reckless driver. Dad was killed instantly, and Mom injured her back pretty severely. It's taken her years of physical therapy to get it straightened out right, and she still takes a great deal of Vicodin for the pain that I suspect is more psychological than physical at this point.

Though the timing for such a tragedy is never good, for us it couldn't have come at a worse time. My father was very athletic, and took an interest in a great deal of activities, from tennis, to martial arts and archery. There are a lot of poor families in our town, and lots of kids with nowhere to go and nothing to do but wander the streets until their parents get home. Dad had always dreamed of creating a place where they could go after school to learn and play and grow healthy with exercise. He'd planned for some of the facilities to be free to use, and the lessons the center offered would have been discounted with scholarships available as needed. The variety of special courses available would have been appealing to the rich families in town as well, so the business would have had no trouble breaking even. It was a solid business plan. It was during that year that he had finally started to put his dream into place, taking out a loan and starting the center with an old friend of his from high school. Given another year they would have been able to pull a profit. Unfortunately he'd never gotten the chance to even it out.

Dad had never taken out a life insurance policy, being young, and not having much money to spare, and the court settlement for the accident took almost two years to finalize. Ultimately there was a period of time where Mom couldn't work because of her injury, and we had absolutely no income to offset our growing debt. Mom could've signed up for disability services and welfare, but that wasn't something I was aware of at the time, and she was too far gone in her depression and her pain to make the effort to sign up herself. I didn't really understand the meaning of the red envelopes that kept appearing in our mailbox, but I was old enough to understand that we were running out of food in our pantry and that we had very little money to restock it.

Fortunately I knew where I could get some of our food. My dad had always taken really good care of the small plot of land in our back yard and had planted a variety of things in the rich soil he'd spread. I cried tears of joy the first time I went out there and found a large cluster of red tomatoes hanging from one of the plants. I cried tears of another kind the following week when I discovered that most of the garden had been eaten to near uselessness by pests. I'd learned a lot about caring for our plants from my dad, and I immediately set to work, doing everything I knew for the garden, but it wasn't enough, and I was beginning to worry that we'd lose all of it. I remembered that dad sometimes purchased a special pesticide that he sprayed on the plants, but I couldn't remember which one he had used, and regardless I knew we couldn't afford it. So I went to our school's library and checked out every book I could find on gardening. It wasn't long before I found a possible answer.

Marigolds, a pretty orange flower that somehow deter pests. As soon as I glimpsed the picture in the book I recognized it. It was the same kind of flower I'd had sitting on my nightstand during the past weeks. I immediately ran to my room and plucked up the flowers from their cup. They had wilted away to an ugly brown, but when I pulled them apart I found long spikey seeds inside just as the book had described. I planted them all around the garden that same day. They started sprouting the next week.

Now that I know more about marigolds and how they work as pest deterrents, I realize it's very unlikely that they made any difference in saving our garden. Marigolds don't really do much good during the first year, and especially not when they are grown from seeds. Contrary to popular belief it's not the smell that is beneficial, but rather the type of insects and worms it attracts that ward off the more harmful pests and churn up the soil. But the seeds had given me hope again, and a determination that I could really take care of my father's garden. Somehow I managed to get it through the season, and I learned everything I could about gardening from the books I checked out. By the end of spring I had torn up the rest of the grass in our yard and had devoted the whole plot to growing fruits and vegetables from seeds I'd cultivated myself, and a few cheap seed packets I'd found shoved in a drawer. The marigolds grew in nice and bright, and despite everything they always managed to bring a smile to my lips. I never could shake the connection of how Peeta's spontaneous, thoughtful action had been responsible for ultimately saving my father's garden.

The flowers weren't the only bit of hope Peeta gave me during that difficult time, but it was the gesture I was the least conflicted about. I knew the flowers had been given to me for no real reason, except that he knew I liked them, and hoped they'd help me focus on what we were doing. But everything else he did for me came out of pity, and that was something my pride had a tough time swallowing.

When Prim and I started going to school with empty lunch boxes, Peeta was probably the only one that noticed. I was glad I'd managed to fool everyone else, because that had been my intent. I knew that the teachers would start asking questions if we showed up to school every day without a lunch, but as long as we brought our boxes, they never suspected a thing. Occasionally I'd scrounge up a few crackers for us to nibble on during the lunch break, or I'd have an apple for us to share, but mostly Prim and I sat at the back of the cafeteria, sipping water, and pretending to eat. Then one day I opened my box during lunch and found a bag of day old leftovers from the Mellark bakery inside. The students in our class always kept our things in a cubby at the back of the classroom, and a lot of times things got mixed up, so at first I just thought it was a mistake and that Peeta's lunch had somehow fallen into my own box. But when I looked around the room, I quickly found him sitting with his friends eating a lunch of his own. It puzzled me, but before I could decide what to do about it Prim had started devouring a glazed doughnut, and I was so hungry that I quickly followed suit. There was a small loaf of cornbread inside the bag that I had us save for dinner that night, and mom smiled for the first time since the accident when she saw it before dragging herself up off the couch and making a basic stew out of some of our vegetables to eat with it.

The bakery bags continued to appear in my lunchbox every day for about a month. Peeta and I never said anything about it though. Whenever I passed him in the hallways he'd flush and immediately look away or veer off in a different direction, so I figured he didn't want to talk about it. Honestly that suited me just fine. I was afraid that if we ever did speak about it I'd have to tell him to stop. I'd overheard some of Mom's relatives talking about how it was shameful for her to be burdening others with our needs, and I'd been learning enough about the red envelopes and debt to know that I didn't want to owe anyone anything. So I was equal parts terrified and grateful for Peeta's generosity. I hated being pitied and feeling indebted to him, but the smile on Prim's face every day at lunch when I passed her a new treat was enough to make me endure the hit my pride took by silently accepting his help, and ultimately I found it was a humiliation I could live with.

Then one day Peeta showed up to school with a black eye, and I instinctively knew why. He'd gotten caught sneaking things from the store, and his witch of a mother had hit him for it. I've never felt so miserably guilty in my entire life. Despite all the good his gifts had done us, I wished he'd just turned a blind eye to us from the start, or that I'd stopped him long ago like I knew I should have. All those weeks, he'd been so kind to us, and I'd never even been able to thank him. The only reward he'd ever received for his good deed was an injury. After what he'd endured I knew I'd never be able to make it up to him, and certainly he would resent me forever for getting him in trouble. It was just like the time he'd been scolded for picking the flowers for me, only much worse. Helping me only caused him problems. It was never in his best interest.

The unfairness of it all finally spurred me to action, even though I'd always been afraid to acknowledge our arrangement in the past. That day, when I passed him in the halls I reached out and grabbed his hand, trying to figure out how I could convey to him all I felt, and ultimately coming up with nothing. I wanted to at least ask him if he was alright, because I knew a weak thank you would always be pathetically inadequate. I hoped he could see it in my eyes at least, all the concern I felt for his pain, and all the appreciation I felt for his generosity. But he never even looked at me, let alone gave me a chance to say anything. Instead his eyes fell to the floor, unable to meet my gaze as he stammered out an apology and hurried away from me.

I never really understood the apology. What in the world did he have to be sorry for? I was the one that should have been sorry, not him. Did he think I was chasing him down to demand my day's share of bread or something? Did he think that was the only thing I cared about, and that I was mad at him for getting caught because it meant I wouldn't have food from him anymore? Did I really seem like that callous of a creature? Or maybe he'd learned his lesson that I was beneath his notice, and didn't deserve his concern, and he just wanted to get away from me.

Whatever he thought, the whole thing ate at me for the rest of the day. I was desperate to do something to help him in return, whether it was to repay a debt or show him in some small way that I cared for his well being I scarcely knew myself. But really, what could I do for anyone? All I had was a ratty little pest ridden garden... Then I remembered… Maybe there was something I could do for him.

I rushed home as soon as I could, and started cross checking my gardening books with the plants in our yard until I found what I was looking for. We still had one, a small aloe plant. I remembered them from the year my dad had planted them for my mom. She used to use the gel-like pulp inside the leaves on our scrapes and sunburns. I imagined it would help with the bruise around his eye as well.

The aloe leaves weren't in great shape, and I had a hard time cutting them right. I ended up using up the entire plant just to cultivate enough of the pulp. Mom was more alert by then, and figuring out what I was doing, silently came to help me, cutting the leaves and indicating which ingredients to throw in from the cupboard. I imagine we only had about half of the items we really needed, but we made it work. In the end it was a pretty pathetic looking mixture. The color was weird, and the consistency was clumpy and barely filled up the small plastic container I put it all in, but it smelled nice, and I told myself it was better than nothing at all.

I almost didn't give it to him though. The next day his eye was already starting to look better. Maybe he'd been to the doctor? I wished I could've been a fly on the wall for that visit. I wondered what his parents had told the physician. That he walked into a door? Tripped on the stairs? They'd probably just blamed it on one of his older brothers. It was horrifying what Mrs. Mellark had done. I couldn't imagine either of my parents ever hitting Prim or me, especially for doing something so kind. My parents would have been proud of a son doing what Peeta had done. I was glad at least that his parents weren't denying him treatment for the injury she'd inflicted, though it made my own intentions rather meaningless. Clearly the Mellarks could afford better medicines and creams than the stupid homemade stuff I'd put together. I should've thought of that before I went through all the trouble and destroyed Mom's aloe plant.

As we neared lunch I still hadn't decided what I was going to do. I was leaning more and more towards not giving the gel to him. It was such a pathetic exchange for all the food. Surely it would be less insulting to give him nothing at all than to offer such a meager compensation. But then by chance I happened to notice the glances our classmates were giving him. I recognized them as the same looks I'd been at the receiving end of the previous month. Some were pitying, some were mocking, but all were silent. Peeta was a lot better liked than me even then, and I'm sure some of his friends were genuinely sorry for him, and had guessed at the source of his injury. Still, none of them were brave enough to say anything to him or do anything about it. Maybe they were just afraid of saying the wrong thing, or were supposing he wanted to be left alone. But I knew better. It feels awful to have your misery ignored. It's a lonely feeling, thinking that no one really notices or cares. Peeta had been the only one brave enough to show me I hadn't been forgotten, and that someone still cared about me. I knew that sentiment had been as valuable to me as the food itself. I couldn't return his courage with my own cowardice. Even if the gel was useless, surely the thought would mean something to him?

With only minutes left before the lunch bell rang, I tore a sheet of paper from my notebook and scribbled a hasty note on it, reading simply, "For your eye, –K." I folded up the paper and took it and the little container to the back of the room pretending to sharpen my pencil. When no one was looking I slipped it into his lunchbox. It wasn't until I was back in my seat that I realized I should have written something a bit more meaningful. At the very least, a thank you. Clearly speaking the words to him out loud was beyond my abilities. The note had probably been my best chance at expressing gratitude, and I'd just thrown it away. I hoped he'd know anyway, and somehow understand all that the gesture was meant to say.

In the cafeteria I watched him from the corner of my eye, but avoided looking at him directly. Still, I knew the exact moment he'd found what I'd left. He stared at the note for a long time, reading it over and over again, as if there would somehow be more to it if he kept looking at it. Eventually he carefully folded up the paper, slipped it in his pocket and then went back to the conversation with his friends. His eyes flitted in my direction only once, and I could tell from across the room that his face was red.

Whether he used the gel or not I never knew. He never said anything about it and I told myself I was glad since it spared me the unwanted attention and embarrassment. Over time though, the gravity of the things we never spoke of stretched out between us, forming a divide that I was certain we'd never be able to bridge. But I never truly stopped thinking about him, or what he'd done. The memories flooded back whenever I saw the orange flowers in our yard. The boy that picked me marigolds. The boy that brought me bread.

Summer break came, and things started getting better for us. I met Gale by chance. He'd seen me in my garden one day harshly ripping out the leaves and vegetables that were too bug eaten to do us any good. He wandered straight into our yard offering in his gruff business like way a dozen eggs if I gave him the pile of refuse to feed to his goat. I considered for a moment before insisting on some of the goat's milk instead. We went back and forth for a while before finding an agreeable compromise. We started making trades on a regular basis after that. Gale was a lot easier to deal with than Peeta. I never felt like I owed him anything. Everything he gave me I earned fair and square. It wasn't until much later that his mother Hazelle confided in me just how important that first trade had been. They'd been about to sell the goat, unable to keep up with the cost of feeding her.

It was Hazelle that took me to my first market. It was quite intimidating in the beginning. I knew that the markets weren't technically legal, and wasn't quite sure what to expect from them. The majority of the sellers don't possess official permits, which actually worked in my favor since you can't even apply for one until you turn 16. The cops could easily have the whole thing shut down at any time, but Mayor Undersee has always encouraged them to turn a blind eye to it, knowing that the markets are an important source of income to a lot of our town's residents, and seeing no real harm in it. Besides, truth be told the officers shop at the markets just like everyone else.

The more time I spent at the markets, the more I felt at ease, and began to enjoy the atmosphere. There wasn't really much to fear. Us sellers tend to band together and stick up for each other whenever there's a problem with a customer taking advantage, or trying to back out of paying what they owe. I didn't have much worth selling that first year, but I observed what others did closely, and by the time they opened next year, I was better prepared. I watched Hazelle mostly. She was an amazing seamstress, making all kinds of beautiful clothing out of different methods and materials. Her stuff was incredible and always turned a good profit. She taught me everything I knew about how to make sales, and had often fondly remarked that I was a lot better at it than Gale would ever be. At one point she even tried to teach me how to knit, a skill she knew well but didn't have much time for. That was a disaster. It became clear pretty early on that I sucked at knitting and had absolutely no patience for it. Prim took to it beautifully though, and knitted both our families an abundance of hats and scarves on a regular basis.

Once my mother started taking pills for her depression, she was able to function enough to drag herself down to the welfare office and get us temporary means of assistance. She negotiated new payment plans for our bills and slowly started to work things out. She went back to her nursing job as soon as she was able, but it wasn't until the accident settlement finally came through that we were able to put the debt completely behind us. The results for the settlement were far from what we were hoping. The other driver's lawyer had managed to find some technicality that forced us to agree to a ridiculously low compensation, but we made it work.

The sports center my dad had helped start was doing well, and his business partner, Blight Mason tried to help us out as much as he could, paying off his own part of the business loan, as well as a good chunk of our own as soon as he was able. It was a large facility, with game courts, practice fields, a boxing ring, swimming pool, and even an archery range, among other things. Prim and I started spending a lot of time there during summer break while my mother worked her shifts at the hospital. We'd mostly play in the pool together, as I tried to teach her how to swim. Eventually Blight convinced me to resume archery classes free of charge, and Prim would patiently color, or knit in his office while I practiced. Archery was a favorite hobby of Dad's that I had enjoyed learning from him. I fell back into it with ease, and by the end of the summer Blight had me helping with the beginner's classes. He started paying me under the table for my assistance with classes and other odd jobs he found for me to do around the center. It wasn't much, but every little bit helped.

In the end we learned to get by. I knew it wasn't the life Dad had wanted for us. He had big dreams of making his business great, buying us a new house in the better part of town, and saving up enough money for Prim and me to go to college. We'd never have any of that now, and we'd never have him. But we'd traded our wounds for strength, and we'd learned to survive together. It wasn't a lesson I took lightly.

I didn't see Peeta at all during the summer. By the time we started junior high I scarcely recognized him. He'd shot up like a weed, and his voice had deepened. Suddenly I wasn't the only one noticing him. The other girls in our grade started paying attention to him, giggling about how handsome he was, and what a wonderful smile he had. He started playing sports, excelling at wrestling, basketball and football. He easily fell in with the more popular crowds. Meanwhile I had grown reserved and quiet, with a serious look constantly creasing my brow. My skin had burned, freckled and tanned from all the time outdoors, and my hair had grown courser from sun and chlorine. I'd given up on wearing frilly shirts and skirts in favor of sturdy clothing I could work and exercise in and most of my clothes were stained with grass and dirt. I rarely smiled. People mistook my quiet, pensive nature for snobbishness, and really I couldn't bring myself to care. I just wanted to be left alone, and whatever needs I had for companionship in that time were easily filled by Madge's presence at my side.

I suppose in another life and another time Peeta and I could've been friends, but circumstances had set us on very different walks of life. We continued to grow up parallel to each other, but our paths never truly crossed again. In the end there was nothing between us except for our old secrets and the occasional awkward glance in the halls. I knew better than to expect there'd ever be anything else.

It's been six years since our last real exchange. We've scarcely said three words to each other in all that time. And yet here we are in the middle of Mrs. Alistar's garden, casually discussing marigolds of all things as if we've been best friends all along. It's nothing short of surreal.

His question of whether or not the marigolds are mine is especially poignant, because I can't help thinking that in a way they are his as well. All of my marigolds came from that first bouquet he gave me. But of course I could never tell him that. "They're probably mine," I say instead. The markets have become a bit of a trendy thing for the local rich folk to frequent, and since Mrs. Alistar fancies herself a botanical expert, she likes to 'get back to the roots' as I've heard her say and purchase natural plants that are chemically unaltered. I'm forced to listen to her long winded tirades every year about what I'm doing wrong with my produce, and how I can improve my crops. I'm no real expert myself, but I'm able to recognize that the advice she gives me is a bunch of nonsense. She pays well though so I suffer through it. Still, I doubt she'd buy from me again if Clove made a point of telling her exactly who I am.

"I sold her a box of marigolds at the market over the summer," I continue, shaking my head as I notice how she's arranged her plants. "I tried to tell her not to put them by the beans though. It's one of the few plants the flowers don't get along with. But surprise, surprise, she didn't listen," I say as I dust my hands off on my pants and stand up. I've noticed the greenhouse a little further down the yard and absently start making my way towards it.

"Guess that's where Cato gets his pigheadedness from," Peeta mutters under his breath, falling in step beside me.

I let out a short laugh and look at him with amusement. "That must be the most insulting thing I've ever heard you say."

"Yeah, well that just means you don't know me very well," he responds.

"What's with you and Cato lately anyway?" I ask, my curiosity getting the best of me. "I always thought you two were friends or something. That fight you guys had a few days ago seemed pretty serious though."

Out of the corner of my eye I notice he's tensed up slightly. "You saw that?" he asks, his tone suddenly laced with unease.

"Just the tail end of it. Sounded like he was saying something about Clove actually," I say, my brows furrowing together. It didn't make any sense. Cato has always been fiercely loyal to his sister. I wouldn't put it past Peeta to stick up for someone that Cato was mocking or threatening, but I can't imagine why Peeta would need to stick up for Clove to her own brother.

"Yeah well, Cato will do absolutely anything for his sister," he murmurs bitterly. This statement confuses me even further, but I bite back any further questions, sensing that the topic is agitating him, and that he would prefer to just drop it. I'm a little surprised when he starts talking again without further probing on my part. "Cato and I have been on a lot of the same sports teams over the years," he begins, his tone reflective. "We have classes together a lot and share some common friends. It's always just been easier to try and stay on good terms with him. But I can't say I approve of how he treats people and talks about them," he says as his jaw clenches. "But in answer to your question, no, we aren't friends. Especially not after this week. He's not a nice guy and I try and avoid interacting with him as much as possible." He looks straight at me then, and his voice drops an octave. "I'd suggest you do the same," he finishes pointedly.

The warning in his tone makes my blood run cold, and I'm dying to ask him, "What is it that you know?" But I don't want to appear as if I'm weak or unprepared. I can handle someone like Cato, can't I? All I have to do is put him off without upsetting his ego until he grows bored and moves on to someone else. In all likelihood, he's moved on already, too worried about the state of his precious car to remember a brief flirtation directed at a simple Seam girl. And even if I can't handle Cato, it would be wrong of me to depend on Peeta to help me. Helping me has never ended well for him before. Why would this situation be any different? I don't want him involved, I decide. The simple warning he's given me is enough, and I doubt I'd be able to stomach listening to the details of Cato's intentions anyway. Having it come from Peeta's mouth would be an extra horror, and I'm not sure I could face the humiliation of it. Also, I do feel certain that if there was anything specific I needed to know he would find a way of telling me. It's alarming actually how much I trust that fact, and since he doesn't feel the need to tell me anything else I am encouraged.

"No need to tell me twice," I respond to him with a stiff laugh. Having reached the greenhouse, I try the door, but find it locked. I let out a small grunt of disappointment. "But I do find it a bit strange that you're here at his party if you're trying to avoid his company," I call over my shoulder as I circle around the structure, attempting to peer in through the windows despite the darkness inside.

A slight smile quirks at the corners of his mouth. "Yeah well, truth be told I wasn't going to come. But I got a call a little while ago telling me that this was one party I simply couldn't afford to miss."

I scoff slightly and wrinkle up my nose in distaste. "Why? This doesn't seem like anything special to me," I say waving my hand derisively in the general direction of the party.

"It's not," he shrugs. "They're pretty much always like this."

I stop circling the greenhouse and turn back to face him curiously. "So what makes this one different?"

"You mean other than the fact that you're here?" he asks with a playful tone.

I roll my eyes. "Well, yeah, obviously."

"Nothing," he says.

"Nothing? I don't… I don't understand."

He doesn't explain it to me though, simply shaking his head with a secret smile on his lips. "Katniss Everdeen, whatever are you doing here?" he singsongs.

I flush in agitation, certain I'm being mocked in some way. "I already told you! I didn't have to work late!"

He waves my words off dismissively. "That only explains your availability. Not your interest in coming."

I let out a huff of air. "Madge asked me to meet her here," I respond after a moment. "She seems to think I need to try new things on occasion. For some reason I said yes. Then she failed to show," I grumble.

"You mean Madge Undersee? The mayor's daughter?"

"Yeah. We're friends."

He's suddenly deep in thought, no doubt trying to figure out why someone like Madge would be friends with me, and I'm anticipating his next question to suggest something of that nature. Instead he asks, "What kind of cookies does she like?"

"I-I don't know," I stutter lamely. I'm beginning to rethink my earlier belief of Peeta being a whiz at socialization. I can't follow his train of thought at all, and spend most of the time confused by the random things he says. He raises his eyebrows at me expectantly, waiting for an answer so I'm forced to consider his question. "I… Think she likes those strawberry lemonade ones. I know she loves strawberries at least."

Peeta nods his head as he appears to consider this. "Okay then."

"Why?" I ask.

"Oh. I figured I'd make her something. And girls usually like cookies, right?" he asks with a shrug.

"I... I guess," I respond hesitantly, because this whole thing just continues to be baffling. It's not because Peeta's planning on baking or anything. His father is a baker, and I know Peeta helps him in his shop. I've seen him there before, and I've also known him to make treats for school bake sales and the like. I've also seen him passing out things he's made to his friends before. They tease him about it sometimes, the usual nonsense about him making some lucky guy a great wife someday, but they don't seem malicious about it, and he always just rolls his eyes in good nature. "Yeah, you laugh now," I heard him say once. "But let's see how funny you find it when I'm impressing some pretty girl with my mad baking skills."

The memory of his words come back to me like a shot, and suddenly everything clicks into place. Madge. That's what all this is about. He's interested in Madge!

It makes perfect sense. Of course he already knew she was my friend. That's why he's talking to me, and showing me around, and being all nice to me. He thinks I can be of use to him in winning her over. He wouldn't be the first guy to try and chat me up in the hope it will get him closer to Madge. It happens quite a lot actually. After all, she's beautiful and blonde and rich and perfect. I've never recommended anyone to her before though, content to let her handle her own dating arrangements. Besides, I am fiercely loyal and protective of my friend, and really no guy has ever seemed to be good enough for her. But even I have to admit that the idea of Peeta and Madge together almost makes sense. They'd make a lovely couple, I'm sure. Madge would be perfect for him, she's just his type probably, and she could certainly do a lot worse than dating someone like him. I may actually be persuaded to recommend him to her. I can't think of a reason not to, although I'm dismayed to find that I don't really want to. I don't understand why though. Maybe it's because I'm jealous he's making her something and not me? That must be it. It's been a while since I had anything from the Mellark's bakery after all.

I rid myself of my confusion and concern with a slight shake of my head. "It uh, might be better if you ask her yourself though," I say, deciding on a whim that I should help Peeta out with Madge. "Maybe I could uh, give you her number? I don't think she'd mind."

He looks a bit surprised by my offer. "Um, no that's alright. I trust you guessed it right."

"You-You don't want her number then?"

"No thanks. I don't really need it or anything. I don't even think we have any classes together."

My eyebrows wrinkle together. "You have English together, first period." How can he not know this, I wonder. Maybe his interest in her is a new thing?

"Oh. That's right," he says looking a bit chagrined. "I guess I forgot. She's kind of quiet..." he grins then. "How did you know about that?" he asks with a mischievous lilt to his tone.

I blink a bit taken aback by his question and flush slightly. Why do I know something like that? Certainly it's because Madge mentioned it, right? I'm relieved when a memory of her doing just that quickly comes to me. "Madge, she uh mentioned it once. Back when you guys did those visual representations from Wuthering Heights? She said you made some kind of 3D model representing the moors that everyone was really impressed with."

"Oh," he says, sounding slightly dejected. "Is that all?" he mumbles. The question sounds rhetorical, so I don't answer, glad for the chance to move the conversation along.

"But... If you don't want her number... Why are you wanting to make her something all of a sudden?" I ask, trying to puzzle out again what his angle could be.

He smiles and takes a casual step closer to me. "So I can thank her for getting you here. I'm sure it wasn't easy for her, talking you into it," he answers as if it's the most natural explanation in the world. I can only sputter in disbelief. Clearly Peeta Mellark is a mad person.

"You're making a girl cookies because she convinced me to come to a party?" I ask incredulously.

"Sure why not?"

"Why not? More like plain old why would you do that?"

"Because I'm glad I got to see you tonight," he answers plainly, and I'm amazed he can say it while keeping a straight face.

I however can't help but laugh. "That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard. If you were really that happy to see me, you'd just ask what kind of cookies I like," I say in a self assured tone, certain I've caught on to a gaping hole in his logic that will ultimately reveal his true intentions, whatever they may be. And let's face it, maybe it's because a part of me likes the idea of him baking me something too.

He only laughs, not phased in the slightest. "I don't need to," he says confidently. "I already know what you like."

My eyes widen. This is not a response I'd considered. "You do not!" I exclaim, though there is a frisson of doubt distinguishable in my tone.

"Want to bet?" he challenges, his smirk impossibly wide.

I hesitate, considering. "Bet on what?" I ask cautiously, as a slight shiver wafts down my spine.

He hesitates for a second. "I don't know," he finally says with a shrug. "Any chance Madge will be talking you into going to the dance next weekend?"

"You mean Homecoming?" I scoff. "Not likely. Dances really aren't my thing."

"Well, before tonight you could have said the same about these parties, and yet here you are. Besides, how do you know you won't like them if you've never been to one? Personally I agree with Madge. It's good to try new things. And I think you'd like a dance more than something like this."

"What makes you think I haven't been to one in the past?" I bristle.

"I've never see you at any of them."

"Well maybe I was there and you just didn't notice me."

"I'm pretty sure I would've noticed you. I was always hoping to see you actually, but I never did."

I swallow roughly against a throat that feels suddenly dry and look away abruptly. "Yes well I imagine Delly and Glimmer helped distract you from your disappointment," I say, feeling the need to deflect by bringing up a few of the girls I've seen him with before. The statement comes out sounding a bit sharper than I intended though, with a bite of something resembling jealousy.

"Hardly. The one time I took Glimmer she spent the whole night talking about who designed her dress, and whose outfits were dreadfully out of style. She's really not that bad once you get to know her, but she can be a bit tedious at a dance. Of course Delly's an absolute sweetheart but all she ever wants to talk about is Malachi Rogers," he says rolling his eyes.

This comes as a bit of a shock to me. I always kind of assumed Peeta and Delly were dating, at least for a time. I wonder if it bothers him that she spends her time fawning over another guy, but he certainly doesn't seem upset about it. I for one can't imagine how anyone could go to a dance with Peeta and spend the evening thinking about Malachi Rogers of all people.

"You could have just asked you know," I say absently.

He startles slightly at my statement. "Asked… What?"

"If I was going or not. I mean… If you were really that curious about it."

"Oh I couldn't have possibly done that! If I started talking to you about a dance you might've thought I was asking you to go with me and that thought was terrifying."

"Oh." I stutter lamely suddenly feeling as if I've been knocked back down to earth. All his talk seemed to be leading up to something, and now I just feel like an idiot, because of course he wasn't actually implying he'd want to take me to a dance. I guess I'm even more of a freak than I thought. My best friend Gale has no interest in me whatsoever, and guys like Peeta Mellark shudder in fear at the mere suggestion of going to a dance with me. "So what's different now?" I find myself asking, though my voice sounds hollow and numb. "You aren't worried about giving me the wrong impression anymore?"

"Only because it wouldn't be the wrong impression," he says almost shyly.

"What?" I ask, thoroughly confused.

"I am asking if you want to go with me," he clarifies in a straight tone.

"I… What? You just said the thought of going with me was terrifying."

"No I said the idea of asking you was terrifying. Big difference."

"Why would asking me scare you? Contrary to popular belief I don't actually bite," I grumble.

His expression stiffens slightly at my words, and for a brief second he actually looks angry, though I can't place why. It doesn't seem to be directed at me, more likely an unpleasant memory of sorts, because a moment later he shakes his head dismissively and smiles again with a self-deprecating shrug. "I know that. But you are a bit intimidating."

"Me?" I laugh. "I'm not intimidating. I'm just not very good at being… Friendly."

"You're better at it than you think. Someone just needs to know you well enough. I was just afraid of asking because I was certain you'd say no."

"Oh. And… You're not afraid of that anymore?"

He shrugs. "I wouldn't say that exactly," he says, as his eyes dart away from me. "But..." he begins, choosing his words carefully. "It's our last year, so if I don't ask you soon I'll have missed my chance." He says the words simply enough, but there's a look in his eye that I can't place, an evasiveness that makes me think there's something else he's not telling me. "Besides," he finally admits with a sigh. "I'm a bit worried about someone else asking you." His eyes flicker for a brief moment back towards the house as he says it, and somehow I know he's talking about Cato.

Oh. So that's all it is. Peeta and his stupid white knight syndrome always trying to save someone. Of course that's all this is about. He doesn't actually want to go with me, he's just trying to protect me from Cato. But it's absolutely ridiculous that he would go to such lengths. I certainly don't need his help that badly, and I'm a bit irritated that he thinks I can't handle this on my own.

"So will you?" Peeta eventually asks, pulling me from my thoughts.

"Will I what?" I find myself snapping a bit carelessly.

He rolls his eyes playfully. "Will you go to the dance with me?"

I frown at his question, my irritation shifting into a need to deflect again. "You're not going with Delly?"

"Nope," he says, popping the 'p' and flashing a toothy grin. "This year Delly gets to spend the evening talking about Malachi Rogers with Malachi Rogers."

"A-And you're okay with that? Weren't you two… Dating?"

He stares at me aghast for a brief moment before proceeding. "Uh, no, Delly's just a good friend. She lives next door to me. We've been playing together since before we could talk. She's nice, but more like a sister. We just always went to dances together when we didn't have anyone else to go with."

I find this statement completely ridiculous. Peeta's a good looking, popular guy. Surely if he wanted to ask someone special to a dance he'd have no trouble getting her to agree.

"So?" he ventures.

"What?" I ask, confused again.

"The dance?"

"What about it?"

"Seriously Katniss?" he laughs nervously. "How many times are you going to make me ask you? If I didn't know any better I'd think you were trying to get back at me for all the times I failed to ask you before."

"Oh no I uh, sorry I was just… Thinking of something else."

"Yeah totally the reaction I was going for."

This time I am the one to roll my eyes and I even smile a bit. He's good at this whole flirting thing, if that is in fact what this is. The fact that it appears to be directed at me still has me seriously confused, and I'm painfully aware that I am way out of my league in more ways than one. Peeta's always been good at flirting. I've seen him at school plenty of times, joking and smiling with the girls in our classes, tossing out his compliments freely. But as far as I could tell not much ever came of it with the other girls, though not for lack of them trying. I thought it might've been because he was with Delly, but according to Peeta they're just friends. He's probably just looking for some casual date to replace Delly with, and since I'm currently in a bit of a jam with Cato he thought I'd jump at the chance. But Peeta and I aren't friends like he and Delly are, and though I find I wouldn't really mind being friends with him, I'd much rather see him take someone he actually likes.

"Look, Peeta," I say with a sigh. "I appreciate what you're doing here, but it's really not necessary. I'll just tell Cato I can't get out of work. I don't need you to play my decoy."

"Decoy?" he stammers. "I didn't mean it like..." he trails off, his mind suddenly diverted and his voice takes on an almost dangerous sounding edge. "Wait. Did Cato actually ask you to go?"

I blink in confusion. Wasn't that what all this was about? "No," I say, and Peeta's whole body seems to relax. "I'm not even sure if he was going to. He was... flirting with me I think, in the kitchen, but then he had to run out to check on his car…" Out of the corner of my eye I can see a smile twitching at the corner of his mouth again. Then it hits me. The timing of Peeta's arrival at the party... The way he snuck in through the backdoor and then proceeded to pretend he'd been there for a while... "Oh my gosh! Was that... Did you... egg Cato's car?" I ask incredulously.

Peeta gasps dramatically. "Cato's car got egged?" he asks in mock disbelief. "I had no idea!"

"Uh huh," I snicker, unconvinced. "Tell me, does Mr. Mellark know you stole eggs from his bakery so you could vandalize poor Cato's Porsche?"

"I would never steal eggs from the bakery," he says valiantly. "I would however throw out the expired ones, just like my father asked me to do."

I can't contain the laugh that erupts at this new revelation. "Ew, they're rotten eggs? That's even worse!"

"Yeah, especially since he left the top of his car down."

This only makes me laugh even harder, and he easily joins in. "Oh!" I exclaim when my mirth finally subsides. "He's going to kill you!" I warn.

He shrugs uncaring. "He's never going to know it was me. It'll be fine."

"Still… Why would you do that?"

He considers the question for a moment, and when he speaks again I feel the humor between us dissipating with the weight of his words. "Because… He cares more for his car than he does human beings. And I guess I wanted him to see what it's like to have something you care about messed with, and taken for granted."

I suck in a breath of air and bite my lip nervously against an unbidden smile. "You know, you're a bit different than I thought," I admit, but I don't tell him why. I knew he was kind but I never knew that kindness extended him to a need to right wrongs that weren't his own. I'd never realized just how attuned he could be to the cruelty of others.

"Should I take that as a compliment?"

"Maybe," I say, finally giving in to the temptation to smile.

The grin he gives me in response is much brighter than my own. "Come on," he says. "Go to the dance with me? We'd have fun."

And just like that the comfortable ease in which we'd found ourselves conversing vanishes. "Peeta," I whine, rolling my eyes away from him. "Why would you want to go with me anyway?" I ask, and it comes out sounding far more suspicious and wary than I'd intended.

"Because I…" he hesitates and then ultimately shakes his head. "I've always found you interesting," he says in the end.

I snort derisively. "That's only because you don't know me very well," I say mimicking his own statement from earlier. "I'd be a horrible date. I'd have no idea how to act, or what to say. I don't know if you've noticed, but I'm not exactly a winning conversationalist."

He sighs, sounding a tad frustrated, and the evidence of it is starting to slip into his tone. "Well, I'm fairly certain you wouldn't spend the whole evening talking about dresses or Malachi Rogers, at least."

"I wouldn't count on that either. Malachi Rogers is awfully dreamy," I tease, trying to lighten the mood again. Somehow it seems to work.

"I think it would be fun to go with you," he insists. "You're not as bad at socializing as you seem to think. And I'd be plenty entertained just watching your reactions to everything. Honestly Katniss, you could go the whole night without saying a single word and I'd still find you to be the most entertaining person in the room."

My breath catches slightly at his words, and it gives me an unfamiliar jolt. I'm not sure how he manages to say such things so naturally, with no hint of irony.

But this is all too bizarre. Peeta can't possibly mean any of it. He thinks I'm interesting? If that's true, why has he spent the last 6 years avoiding me? It's much more likely that he's trying to help me avoid Cato and just being very thorough about it. I don't believe for one second he really wants to go with me, and I know there's nothing he can say that will convince me he does...

"Besides, I always hoped I'd get a chance to dance with you again someday."

Nothing... Except perhaps for that...

AN: Okay, so I have to ask, does anyone really believe Peeta was mad at Katniss when he gave her the flowers? No? So it's just Katniss then? Yeah that sounds about right.

I find young Peeta and Katniss absolutely adorable. And guess what? We'll get to see more of them in the beginning of next chapter. Obviously they have a bit more of a history in this story than they did in canon. I imagined that the differences in Katniss' circumstances in this story would allow her to be a bit more open with her gratitude, although to be honest I was going back and forth for a while about whether or not she'd give Peeta the Aloe gel.

In case you missed it, Mr. Everdeen's business partner is named Blight. Blight was the male District 7 Tribute in the 75th Hunger Games in canon. There's not much source material for him, but he seemed like a good fit for this part in the story. His last name in this story is Mason… Three guesses who his daughter might be?

Thanks again for all the feedback! I'd love to hear more from you. Until next time!

-C