Much thanks to my wonderful beta, Shelby. This chapter and story would not be what it is without her talented self. And many thanks to those who have reviewed, alerted, and favorited! I hope you enjoy and please tell me what you think! I love hearing all your thoughts.
~Terri~
Wish I may, wish I might,
Find my one true love tonight
Do you think that it could be you?
- "Serial Killer", Lana Del Rey
November 1930, Miners' Hill, PA
The main road to our town was unusually empty for a Friday afternoon as Madge and I walk home from school.
The wind's been picking up since classes were dismissed and I can't stop looking at the dark grey clouds that seem so low that if I reach my hand up it'd feel like I could pick a cloud out of the sky like an apple off a tree. Another snow storm must be in our near future and I subconsciously pull harder on my beige wool sweater, urging it to warm me. My arms shiver when another huge gust of wind blows at us and I think, once again, just how much my clothes aren't enough for Pennsylvania's rough winters. No matter how many layers I put on the wind still cuts me to the bone.
Out of the corner of my eye Madge's red pea coat flashes to tuck a piece of blonde hair behind her ear and I feel a bout of jealousy surge through my veins. The coat must have cost at least $10; it was from a new American designer, she'd told me when the first cold front had hit this year. My flimsy, holey sweater looks pathetic next to her pretty red coat.
I'm about to insist that we walk faster so I can get home when Madge stops in her tracks, grabbing my arm to stop me.
"Isn't it so sad?" she questions. Madge is a lot more sentimental than I am, much like my little sister, but right now I have no desire to help some animal or bum. I just want to get home. "Oh, Katniss…" She walks over to the curb and that's when I see the large pile of furniture lining the street.
Oh.
Another foreclosure.
Madge focuses all her attention on the childhood games that sit on the chairs while I count how many white shutters the now-vacant Montrel house has. The big brick house doesn't look abandoned, but the white sign hammered in the front yard that reads "FORECLOSED. PROPERTY OF BANK" tells me otherwise.
"It's so sad," my friend continues, holding a wet rag doll in her hands. The furniture must have been out here all day. "Every little girl should have a doll to tell all her secrets to. It's not right."
I might not care about the Montrels, but it is worrisome seeing their foreclosed house. Maybe not for the same reasons Madge must be thinking, though. No, the fact the Montrel family have lost their home doesn't bother me as much as it should. In fact, I'm tempted to bring some of the furniture home with me. They don't need it, but my mother would be mortified at the thought since it's like grave robbing. No, the foreclosed Montrel home worries me because if a family who lived in the nicer part of town have managed to lose their home, what hope does my family have? My father's been out of a job for almost three years, in prison for murder, and my mother is only able to find odd end jobs that don't pay much. We can barely pay our mortgage let alone Prim's medical bills.
What hope do we have to stay off the streets if a family like the Montrels can't?
I pick at a hole in my sweater, wondering when we can get going again. Darkness is coming earlier and earlier and I don't want to walk in the dark woods alone. Plus I'm freezing. Some of us can't afford pretty coats to keep us warm while we mourn unfortunate like Madge.
Madge sighs, shaking her head at the furniture one last time, before stepping back to stand next to me. "It's just a shame," she remorses. "My mother often had tea with Mrs. Montrel."
I shrug, blowing warm air into my hands and rubbing them together. "Jesus Christ, it sure is cold out here!" Hopefully she gets the hint.
"Well no wonder," she teases, pulling at my sweater. "Katniss, fall's over. Where's your winter coat?"
Madge and I have been close friends for as long as I can remember. Before the Depression and before my father was sentenced to thirty years in prison, our mothers used to spend countless afternoons gossiping over tea and coffee while Madge and I played house in her bedroom. I spent so many afternoons at the Undersee house that it was like a second home to me, like I was one of them, but I wasn't. We would always walk back up the hill each afternoon to our small rundown house where my few toys were all homemade or so old they were useless to play with. As a little kid, I didn't understand things like money and cost. I just wanted to know why Madge always had freshly painted, freshly store bought toys and dresses while I had to settle for old, rundown things. Mother used to get so flustered with me, and was furious when Madge started giving me the toys I commented on liking.
"We are not a charity case, Katniss Everdeen!" she screamed when she discovered what we'd been doing. "This is robbery! Taking things from the Undersees, embarrassing!" And she spanked me so hard I felt like I couldn't sit for at least an hour.
Madge has always known my family's never been able to afford much other than the necessities; we've known each other long enough for her not to know, but sometimes she forgets we're from opposite sides of the hill, and it bothers me how oblivious she could be about it. Like now.
"I outgrew it," I mutter, embarrassed. Normally I would have used Mother's coat, but she needed it to go visit Father at the city prison today. So thirty layers of sweaters it was.
She doesn't pester me after that, but now I can't help but get the feeling she's feeling sorry for me when I really don't need her pity. What's pity ever going to accomplish?
We continue on our way home in silence⎯ Madge feeling sorry for having mentioned my family's financial status and me just being myself. I rarely ever strike up conversation unless I'm being encouraged to, and even then my slight stutter returns if I have no idea what to say. No, it's always better to observe the situation, watch others before saying anything, but if I'm being honest with myself, I'm not talking because I'm a little mad that my friend can never seem to remember that her and I come from two different worlds.
"Do you want to come to my house?" Madge quietly asks, keeping her eyes trained on the muddy sidewalk. My mind goes to my mother's lecture on charity as it always does when I'm asked over to the Undersees' now and I wince, still remembering the beating she gave me for "stealing." "After you're finished with dinner, I mean. My parents are going out for dinner and a movie and told me I could invite a few friends over." Madge nervously pulls at her school bag, making me feel bad for getting mad at her. She doesn't mean anything by the things she says; I know my friend means well. "We could tune in for The Shadow and listen to records... My father just got a new record player from my uncle and I thought it would be fun to just hang out. You don't have to," she relents shyly.
I try to think of any activities I could have planned for the night. Tomorrow is Saturday, so I don't have to worry about my homework until tomorrow night, and Prim's been sick, so there's nothing much to do with her since she'll probably go to sleep after dinner. Mother might need my help with laundry, but she's been to the prison today which means she'll be listening to old records and crying into her hankie for the entire night. That alone makes me want to stay clear of my house.
"Sure," I smile, "Why not?"
"Great," Madge smiles back.
A car drives past, splashing muddy snow towards us, and we jump out of the way, laughing at our girlish screams. Our arms link up to share the body heat, our little tiff already forgotten, and we continue on our way until the split in the road comes up. The left road turns into the much nicer part of our community, where all the families who come from old money or own businesses in town live. It used to be filled with families a few years ago, but now with the Depression a lot of families were heading toward the Hooverville that recently popped up near my house on the right side of the road, hidden by the trees of the forest.
We unlink our arms, the bit of warmth I was able to receive vanishing at the drop of a hat, and I head up the small hill on the right, waving goodbye to Madge.
"I'll see you at seven!" she calls out, white puffs of air blowing in her face.
I wave again and turn to make the trek through the woods to my house. The long, slippery walk bitterly reminds me why winter is my least favorite season of the year. What was there to like about winter, anyway? It got so cold that moving took effort, it got darker earlier, all my clothes that still fit weren't equipped for this cold, and heating a home cost so much we might as well stick our money in the fireplace. Winter was a terrible season.
I pass the new Hooverville and duck my head to avoid any eye contact with its inhabitants. Mother was so mad when she saw them building the shacks out of metal and cardboard, saying how it's bad enough "the Hill"⎯ the kids my age like to call it⎯ is considered the dangerous part of town, but now to have a bunch of troublesome bums? "It's just terrible!" Mother had ranted that night, forbidding Prim and me from having any contact with "those people."
I don't think they're any trouble. In fact, I find it kind of depressing that those families have to live in metal shacks, especially in such cold weather.
I peek an eye out from behind a piece of my hair and see a small group of men and a couple of women all huddled around a fire, hands sticking out from their bulky rags. They must be talking about something because I see white puffs escaping their mouths and for a moment I wonder what they could possibly be talking about. The harsh winter that is sure to come since we've already had our first big snowfall of the season in early October? their lives before the Depression? Do they have hopes and dreams now that life has dealt them this terrible hand?
I must be standing there too long because a man shouts at me, asking what I want, and I almost trip over my loafers I shuffle so quickly out of view.
My heart is still beating as I make it through the clearing where I live. Our old beat up Ford Model T is parked out front and I pause for a moment, leaning on the cold numbing metal as I collect my breath from the run up the hill. I was so afraid one of those bums would chase after me, or word somehow getting to my mother that I spoke to any of them.
The metal is freezing under my sweaters, my legs shivering in my simple dress, but I lean against it anyway and look at my home, the home that's been in my family since my great-grandparents moved here from Germany in the mid-1800s. My house doesn't look as majestic as the neatly bricked house with the blood red door and white shutters like the Montrels used to own, but it didn't look half bad with its grey siding, white window paned windows that lined the front and side, and the sloping roof and porch, either. It was home and hey, at least my family could still afford to live here.
That's what mattered.
I see my mother's silhouette from the front window and know I've stalled too much.
I brace myself for my mother's tears before opening the front door. My hand squeezes hard on the ice cold knob because I can only imagine how upset she'll be over this visit. If she's home already it means her visit with my father didn't go well. None of them have been going well for months now and all she's been wanting to do is talk about him, about how he's innocent and doesn't deserve this. I really can't handle another one of her episodes. Talking and crying just isn't something I do.
Taking a deep breath, I push hard on the door and relish the gust of heat that hits my face, my cheeks flaring hot in seconds.
The house is filled with the stink of beans and boiled cabbage and Paul Whiteman's band soothingly plays throughout our tiny living room on our old Victrola. Whiteman playing gives me more than enough evidence that the visit didn't go well. Mother only listens to his record when she's upset, a gift from my father after a particularly bad fight years ago.
Covering my face from the rancid smells coming from our kitchen, I tiptoe to the dining area, peeping through the doorway to the kitchen and see my mother stirring and crying. Crying and stirring.
No, the visit did not go well.
I try to be as quiet as I can when tiptoeing across the living room to the stairs, but the loose board on the second step betrays me, squeaking throughout the small room.
"Katniss," Mother greets from the kitchen. "How was school?"
"Fine," I wince, not really in the mood for her tears and rants. It's normally Prim's job to console her after visits with Father; not mine.
She steps out of the kitchen, her wavy blonde hair pinned back, floral apron spattered with red sauce, and her eyes are blotchy red and puffy from crying, making them bluer than normal. Her smile strains seeing me and my stomach drops. She's expecting a conversation from me now.
"What did you do?"
"Oh, you know, just school stuff."
We awkwardly stand there, neither of us knowing what to say now, but I know she's expecting a better response than that. "I got an A on my English paper."
"That's good." She wipes her bony hands on the dish towel in her grasp and walks over to me. "Your father sends his best." I knew she'd bring him into this. I move away before she can touch me.
"That's good." Coughing from upstairs pulls my attention away as I ask, "Is he well?"
"He's a little bruised up, but nothing too bad." She steps back, hurt by my rejection. Ever since the judge sentenced Father away, Mother hasn't been the same. She cries more easily, makes snap judgments on everything around her, and for at least three months after his imprisonment, she refused to leave her bedroom, forcing me to figure out how to make her laundry runs, feed Prim, and go to school. I was so stressed with all the pressures around me that I was close to dropping out of school to help out, but my parents expected me to stay in school, and get good grades, no matter what the situation was because the Vincents, Mother's parents, valued high education before dying of influenza a few years before I was born, and I think she always wanted to prove to them that marrying beneath her didn't mean her children would grow up to be uneducated hicks. No, dropping out of school was never an option during those three months she was practically in a vegatative state.
If it were any longer we would have surely lost our home, but it was Prim's health that finally pulled her out. She tried going back to being our mother after that, but the damage was done. At least for me. I couldn't respect her as our caretaker any longer, but even though I resented her and tried to avoid her as often as I could, Mother still held the authority in our house while Father was in prison and I had to acknowledge that with clenched teeth.
"I'm sorry to hear he's bruised," I wince, just wanting to go upstairs.
She tries to shrug it off, but her hankie wipes at her eyes once more. "It's expected in there." She wants to talk about him more, but I don't like talking about Father much anymore, not after what he did to all those men. It brings up too many emotions I'd rather avoid.
The beans start to burn at that moment, catching her attention, and I steal away as she rushes back into the kitchen.
That was a close one.
Out of habit I head toward my old bedroom, but have to step back and head to Prim's room, which is now our room. I had given mine up when we started closing rooms to save money on gas and electricity.
For two sisters, our styles couldn't have been more different.
Prim has always had an obsession with Hollywood actors and movies ever since she saw her first film when we were little. She was mesmerized by the beauty of it all, even though she didn't know what was going on since she was still learning how to read, but the glamour and music won her over. Ever since, Prim saves every penny she earns to see Clara Bow or the romantic dramas of Greta Garbo and John Gilbert on screen at the small theater by the school. She would gush about all the love stories and the comedies going on in the Hollywood world while cutting out pictures from old Life magazines Madge would give Prim when her mother was finished with them and paste them on her walls like the obsessed teenager she was.
I wasn't really into the glamour as much as Prim. No, I enjoyed the written word: poetry to be more specific. I could spend hours at a time reading Whitman's poems about life and war, or Emily Dickinson's short stanzas on death, yearning for something out of her reach. Words spoke to me more than any movie or actor could project, and I missed the inspiring quotes and lines the walls of my bedroom were covered in. I missed them because they brought happy memories of my father to mind, memories from before the accident, when he used the words of Whitman to help with my stutter when I was little, having me write out a stanza each night and recite it until the stutter ceased to interrupt the flow of my sentences.
I missed those days.
Our room isn't big, but Prim is welcoming to my things, even clearing a wall to put some of my favorite quotes and verses up. I haven't yet, feeling weird about invading my little sister's space, but it's nice to know the option is up there in case I ever decide to.
In the lone bed we both squeeze into at night, a sick Prim is snuggled underneath layers of blankets, a Life magazine in her lap with piles of school books surrounding her. She bashfully smiles at me, blowing her nose, when I come in. I give her a tiny wave, throwing my schoolbag into the closet, and collapse onto the bed.
"How was school?" she asks, running her hand through my hair in amusement.
"Fine," I mutter into the blankets. She laughs and asks for more details.
Prim's sick a lot⎯"A weak heart," the doctors told my parents soon after she was born. She can't do many strenuous activities in order to keep her heart pumping healthily and because of that she's absent from school often⎯especially in the winter when colds and germs are flying amok. It frustrated Prim to no end having to skip so much, and Mother once had to put a chair in front of our bedroom door to keep her from going to school. She's so smart, my little sister. She could be the next Madame Curie for all I knew, but with her being sick so often, it hinders her education a bit.
I wish I could cure her heart so she could do anything she desired, but that's impossible and instead I tell her how Ben Costin had one of the beakers explode in Chemistry today, forcing us all to evacuate the room while the teacher cleaned up the cheap chemicals, and how I finally got a higher score in English than Nell Madison.
Prim smiles at that. "What did she say?"
"She stuck up that pug nose of hers and told me, 'It was an interesting project, wasn't it?'" We both giggle at my impersonation until a coughing fit hits her. I crawl closer and start to rub her back until the coughs stop. Her smile is apologetic, but I shake my head. It's no trouble helping my little sister.
"Was it that poem you were working on all last week?" Her curiosity is genuine, but I blush, not liking the fact she knows what I scribble down my thoughts and poems every night before bed. It's one of the few times I miss having my own room. Poetry holds a special place in my heart, and even though I would hardly call myself a poet, it's calming. It's special to me.
Somehow having people know about it makes it less special.
I try steer the conversation away from myself, choosing not to answer her question. "What have you been up to today, Little Duck?" I pull on her braid teasingly.
"Reading and trying to keep up with my studies." Her hand displays many of my old text books. "It's frustrating that I can't be there to ask Mr. Perkinson if I'm doing this right," Prim huffs. "What if I'm doing it all wrong?"
"I could look over it for you, if you want."
Her smile warms my heart. "That would be wonderful! In fact, I have Arithmetic you could check..." She starts digging around for the right notebook, but I tell her I'll check it over tomorrow since I'm going over to Madge's tonight.
"Has Mother agreed to let you go?" she pouts. Guilt rushes through me as I imagine how lonely Prim must be up here by herself.
"She hasn't," I confess, tracing the H to her American History book. "But it's Friday night, and I'm sixteen."
"Too old to spend time with your measly twelve-year-old sister," Prim sighs, picking at her blanket. "I understand."
I frown, not understanding why she's taking this so personally. "Hey," I say, pulling her chin toward me. "You know I love you, but I've been locked in this house for weeks, Prim, and you know I can't stand Mother after visits to the prison." Her eyes downcast and I tell her to look at me again. "We'll spend tomorrow together, okay?" I smile. "I promise."
Her lips perk up and she nods her head. "Okay." Her excitement returns immediately once I promise I'll bring home some more magazines from Madge's. I give her a hug and apologize again for leaving her tonight.
"Please don't worry about it," Prim shrugs off, content on getting more magazines to add to her walls. "Tell me how scary The Shadow is."
"I will." I bop her nose with my finger and she bops mine with hers. A little handshake we had created years ago.
A voice clears itself from the doorway and we both turn to see our mother standing there. It's obvious she's been crying in the kitchen again.
"Dinner is ready," she announces, rubbing her thin, reddish-pink hands against her apron. "Are you well enough to join us, Prim?"
Prim nods, pushing me away so she could unwrap herself from the safety of her covers. I help her up and we make it down the stairs to the small kitchen table. Mother serves the beans and cabbage on our plates and pours water into our drinking glasses, passing each cup around until we're all settled in for our meal. I try not to look at the empty seat next to me, where my father should be, but his lack of presence is always most noticeable at dinner when Mother folds her hands in prayer and patiently waits for someone else to say grace. He normally did, but now it was up to me and Prim to take that role.
"Dear God," Prim begins, deciding it was her night, "thank you for this meal and for the roof over our heads. Thank you for having Katniss beat Nell Madison in English." I give her a look for that, and Mother clears her throat to reprimand my sister. Prim mischievously smiles and continues, "And thank you for watching out for Daddy in that scary prison⎯" a small sob escapes Mother. "We all appreciate what you have done for our family, and please keep a watchful eye on those who are not fortunate enough to eat a meal tonight in a warm house. Amen."
We all murmur "Amen" and start to dig into our simple meal. I ravage through mine, not even caring about the awful taste, and try to slow down to make it last longer, but it's so hard since this is my first meal of the day. My stomach is so hungry. Prim slides her helping toward me once I finish.
"Prim, I can't," I argue, pushing the helping back to her. "You're sick. You need your strength."
"I can't hold anything down. Eat it, Katniss." She takes a sip of her water, refusing to argue. My stomach gurgles at the thought of more food and I grab her plate, finishing it off in mere seconds. All my meals felt like they ended far too soon.
Mother frowns at my table manners, but I don't care. I clean off the plate with my spoon; manners be damned, I'm hungry.
"Are you going to Madge's now?" Prim asks once we start to clear the table: Mother washes, Prim dries, and I put away the dishes. It's been our system for as long as I can remember.
Mother looks over at me in surprise, her sullen blue eyes perking up in interest. "When were you going to ask if you may go, Katniss?" I glare at Prim for ratting me out before I even had the chance to ask.
"I was going to ask once everything was put away." The cabinet creaks as I close it, the last plate put away. "May I go?"
"I don't know..." She looks out the window, worry sketched into her premature wrinkles. "It's rather dark, and you never know with those bums..."
"I'll be fine," I beg. "Please, Mother, it's just one night." I must be desperate to get away from here if I'm resulting to begging. Father would be so ashamed. He never believed in begging, only earning. You have to earn what you want.
"What will you be doing at the Undersees?"
"We're going to tune in The Shadow⎯you know, that new radio show that everyone's been talking about⎯and probably listen to her parents' records after." I see my mother's resolve start to crumble. "I'll have Mr. Undersee drive me home. He won't mind, Mother. Please?"
She sighs, massaging her temples with her hands. "As long as it's fine with him," she relents tiredly.
I smile and dash for her coat and scarf. "It is!" I shout, shoving my feet into my too-small penny loafers.
"You be home by eleven," Mother instructs, tightening her evergreen scarf around my neck. "And make sure to be respectful over there, young lady. I don't want the Undersees thinking I raised my daughter like one of those wretched bums." It's the typical lecture she gives whenever Prim and I are going anywhere in Miners' Hill and I almost roll my eyes, finding it ridiculous how much she cares about appearances, but she's letting me out of the house and I can't complain about that.
I nod, shoving my wool hat on and saying another farewell before running out into the chilly night.
Madge's home is at the end of her street, and is one of the biggest houses in the neighborhood. None of the rooms in her home have been closed down to save money like mine, and I wonder, as I make my way up the brick pathway, if her family has been hit at all by the Depression. It doesn't seem like it.
I knock on the dark wooden door, my fingers tingling from being numb for so long, and I bounce on my toes to try and warm my body up. Her house is always so warm and I can't wait to warm myself up by the radiator in her living room. The front door opens and Madge is all smiles, telling me to come on in. She takes my mother's coat, hanging it in the coat closet, and tells me to make myself at home like she always does. My face must be flushed, it's so warm in here, and my limbs tingle from the shock of sudden warmth. We both laugh at my bright cheeks and tangled hair and I follow her into the living room.
"You came just in time." She takes a seat on the pink velvet couch, patting the seat next her. I hesitate, always afraid the grimy rags I call dresses are going to soil the furniture, but she insists and I sit down. "Mother and Father just left a little while ago."
"Is it just going to be us?" I question, remembering how Madge had said friends when asking if I would come over.
She shakes her head, her blonde curls whacking her face like Jean Arthur's. "I invited Delly as well."
I look at the grandfather clock in the far corner of the room and see we have another thirty minutes until The Shadow comes on.
"Let's go make hot chocolate," Madge decides, pulling me along to her kitchen. I have no objects to this; I love hot chocolate. It's a rare treat for me, and I take every chance I can get to have some.
She pulls out the milk, a pan to melt the chocolate in, and a kettle to warm the milk in. I turn the stove on to melt the chocolate and Madge turns the small radio her mother has in the corner on to a jazz station. We start to sing to Harry Richman's "Puttin' on the Ritz" and Madge starts to dance around her kitchen floor to the Victory Drag, a dance we learned ages ago. The sight is so ridiculous with her trotting around, her arms in the air, and singing loudly off-pitch that I have to cover my face with a rag to hide my laughter.
She pulls me toward her when she trots over, begging me to sing along, but I shake my head, going back to keeping watch over of the chocolate. Dancing has never been something I was good at, only doing it when Madge needed a partner to learn the latest dances and I wasn't in the mood to making a fool out of myself tonight. Not when my two left feet could barely do the simple steps let alone the dances.
The door bell rings, interrupting our fun, and Madge goes to answer it, teasing how I'm no fun.
The upbeat song dies down and Ruth Etting's "Dancing with Tears in my Eyes" slowly sweeps through the room. I start to sing along with the light melody, my hips swaying as I pretend I'm watching my true love dancing with someone else. Trying to smile, once in a while, but I find it so hard to do. For I'm dancing with tears in my eyes, 'cause the girl in my arms isn't you...
Applause is made behind me and I spin around to see Madge, Delly, and a blond-haired boy I don't recognize clapping happily at my impromptu performance. My face flushes red in embarrassment and I stutter out a thank you, mortified they had seen that. How much had they seen?
"That was wonderful," Delly lightly laughs, bouncing on the balls of her feet. "You should sing more!"
Mortified now, I focus all my attention on stirring the milk into the pot of chocolate. "No, I shouldn't," I mutter.
Madge pulls me closer, giving me a side hug. "She's just being modest," she teases, pinching my arm affectionately. "Don't act like you don't have a voice! You always got the solos for those silly Christmas pageants when we were little."
The boy snickers at the two, letting them do all the talking, and leans against the doorway, looking at me. I cautiously stir the pot before chancing a peek and am struck by the small dimples in his cheeks, amusement written all over his heart-shaped face. Who was he? His deep blue eyes dance in delight as he watches me stir and I shift my weight on the balls of my feet under the scrutiny, biting back an embarrassed smile.
My two friends chatter about something I'm paying no mind to while me and this stranger stare at each other for another second before I duck my head back down again, more fascinated with my stockings now, but his eyes stay on me. I can feel them.
Delly must notice our interaction and gasps in shock. "Oh, forgive me!" She pulls the boy into the room, closer to me, and we both bite our lips simultaneously. "Katniss," Delly introduces, "this is Peeta Mellark. Peeta, this is Katniss Everdeen."
Peeta, I think. What a strange name.
Peeta's grin grows into a toothy smile, his dimples becoming more prominent in his features and butterflies in my stomach start to flutter. I've met lots of boys before, even trying my hand at dating once, but never has a boy's smile affected me as much as Peeta's Mellark's has.
"It's my pleasure, canary," Peeta slurs, an accent hinted at in his greeting. He kisses my hand like the gentlemen do in the movies, and my heart could run its own jazz band it's beating so hard.
"Hello," I whisper, extremely shy all of a sudden. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Peeta."