Chapter 5

I was forced up early, awoken by the sunlight breaking through the blinds and hitting me in the eyes with sharpshooter precision. I cursed the early hour, burying my face deep within the soothing dark of my comforter. But the morning sun had warmed up my brain and thoughts of the uprising now pounded wearily through it.

Without much of a choice at this point, I dragged myself up to a technically sitting position. I sat there motionless for a minute, dreading the next step. With a groan, I pulled myself up onto my feet.

I shuffled to my closet, my groggy mind suddenly concerned with the day's fashion choice. Weird. It was probably due to the intensely chic nature of the girls' attire. Far out of my area of expertise, I threw on an undershirt and a light blue button-up shirt, hoping the color would contrast with the gray of my eyes. Or something.

I rolled the sleeves up to my elbows and made my way to my dresser, throwing open the bottom drawer and deciding on dark wash jeans. Light shirt meant dark jeans, right? Or was I supposed to match? Whatever. Dark sounded right.

I slipped on a pair of Vans (surprisingly, the longest running company in Panem history) and studied my reflection in the mirror. I cocked my head to the side, only now seeing how long my blonde curls had grown out. I decided to get my father to trim them soon.

Content with my appearance and finally waking up a little, I slipped out of my room and into the kitchen, where the smell of strong coffee greeted me. I breathed in the glorious aroma, and my father chuckled.

I looked up to see him at the coffee maker, my mother sitting eagerly on the other side of the counter. She spent the first ten years of my life pretending she hated the stuff, but now she lived by a caffeine-jumpstarted routine, accompanied by two creams and three teaspoons of sugar. It was sweet enough to make you sick.

"'Morning," I mumbled, my eyes perking at the steaming mug in front of me—black, but with a pinch of sugar. I took a sip, instantly jolted awake by the delightful bitterness tracing its way down my throat.

"Good morning, Drew," said my mother, shivering as she took the first sip of her dreadful concoction. She closed her eyes and smiled in delight. "I need you to go to the Market for me today. We're out of…food."

I remembered the practically bare cabinets last night, and rolled my eyes. But my annoyance with my parents was quickly replaced by adrenaline. I could see if Ivy and Charlotte were still there.

"He needs to come into the bakery," my father said. "We have an order for a wedding cake."

"How long?" I asked, trying not to sound too eager to get out of it.

He thought. "An hour. I'll pay you."

Fair enough. "Alright, I'll go into the bakery for an hour and then go down to the Market." And then meet the girls. "Sound good?"

I walked down to the bakery, only a few blocks away from our home, going in through the back door to avoid the obnoxious chime of the bells my father insisted on keeping above the main entrance. He met me in the back and threw me my apron. "Suit up."

I threw it around me, tying it loosely behind my back so as not to wrinkle my shirt. He brought out two relatively small, round tiers, one obviously meant to sit atop the other. "This one," he gestured to the smaller of the two, "needs a layer of bright rose fondant. Line the borders with white frosting and edible pearls. Put a lavender bow around the sides and dust it in silver shimmer."

"This is a wedding cake?" I asked, making an involuntary face at the tackiness.

"Just wait." He chuckled. He pointed at the larger tier. "This one needs a layer of soft gray fondant. Frosting in jet black, pointed loops."

The contrast was shocking. "I think the bride is manic."

He laughed. "Some would argue that about Effie."

I smiled. "So Haymitch finally tied the knot?" The two were family friends, and the cutest, most peculiar elderly couple in the district.

"It only took him 20 years. But you know Haymitch." He patted me on the back and left the decorating station to work on the other tiers.

I rolled out the fondant, inducing myself into what I refer to as an Artist's Coma. I started on Effie's tier, knowing I should exhaust the current surplus of artistic enzymes building up in my blood. I covered the cake, trimmed the edges, and got to work on the icing, allowing my mind to slip away as it often did while I was decorating.

When I broke out of my artistic haze, I looked down to notice that I had finished both tiers. I hardly remembered doing it. I inspected my work, making sure that my distracted mind hadn't produced something inadequate. But, sure enough, every iced line laid perfectly, and even Effie's bow fell with perfect folds and creases. I smiled. Thank you, Artist's Coma.

I checked the clock in the front of the shop, confirming that I had completed the task in half an hour, leaving thirty minutes I needed to waste to ensure I got paid for a full hour. Suddenly, an idea sprung to my mind, and I grabbed two miniature un-iced yellow cakes from the display case.

I brought them back to the decorating station and got straight to work, dirty icing the first with white buttercream frosting and putting down a layer of off-white lace fondant. I covered the entire cake with deep green ivy vines, swirling together and entangling into hopeless knots atop the delicate background. I layered the second with chocolate frosting and dark gray fondant, pressing lavender lace onto the dark canvas. I topped it with delicate, soft gray roses.

I examined my work, pleased with the embodiment of the girls' characters within the delicacies. I glanced up at the clock, seeing that my hour was officially up. I balanced the cakes on either of my palms and called to my father. "I'm done! Tiers are on the table, I'm going to the Market." I slipped out the back door before I heard his response.

I walked briskly to the woods, jogging through the street, the two cakes balanced precariously on my upturned palms. I swore aloud when I reached the chain link fence. This was a flawed plan.

For about five minutes, I awkwardly shifted my body to different positions, mentally debating on how to climb a fence without hands. Then, logic set in, and I realized that was impossible. With a sudden spark of brilliance, I found a flat piece of wood and set the cakes on top, using one hand to balance the makeshift tray and the other to aid me in my climb.

Once I was over the obstacle, I jogged as quickly as I could through the forest without losing my center of balance. I reached where I had met the girls, and my heart fell. They were nowhere in sight. I groaned loudly, making no effort to conceal my profanities.

Suddenly, I heard a light noise above me. Which, naturally, quickly morphed into a horrifying screech: "Shut. The HELL UP!"