A/N: Hey guys! Thank you to everyone who has viewed my story. Remember to review, as they are always appreciated and welcome. It only takes a few seconds! Thank you again. Enjoy. ~ Abby
The dinner table is quiet. I push the mashed potatoes on my plate back and forth, vividly aware of the silence setting over the room like a heavy blanket. My Mom sits across from me, taking a miniscule bite every few seconds. I shift in my seat, his words echoing through my mind: "And please take off that dress."
"Thank you for having me," Cedar says, setting his fork carefully down on the white tablecloth and dabbing his lips with a napkin. "It was lovely."
I wrinkle my nose at him but don't say anything; afraid my parents will see. Although it is polite, there is no need for him to talk like that, like he's been offered an award.
"The mashed potatoes are good," I mumble, setting down my fork as well. There have been nights like this before, where my mom refuses to talk because she's off in her own little world and my dad becomes her protective shield and all of a sudden it doesn't matter that I'm their daughter because I'm the bad guy that makes her mother remember the past.
These nights are the worst.
"Thank you," Red responds for my mom, smiling at me. He hasn't been the same since the 25th games. I saw the spark in his eye before them. I noticed the witty comments he made. Then everyone voted on the tributes and he became reserved, holding back every comment, every smile. He's ordinary now, just another father trying to stay alive.
We sit in silence for another moment, our uneven breathing the only sound in the room.
"I'll walk Cedar out," I say finally, wiping my mouth on the back of my hand and pushing my chair back quickly, causing the legs to screech across the polished floorboards.
"Thank you for coming," my dad says again, copying Cedar's sickeningly posh politeness. I scowl at both of them and hook my arm through my best friend's, pulling him quickly out of the dining room and into the hall.
"Well if that wasn't awkward, nothing is," he says, his shoulders slumping in relief.
"I don't know if I can sit through one more dinner with them," I hiss, slamming the door behind us as we step onto the porch. The cold spring air hits me hard and I stumble backwards. Cedar catches me with one hand and easily swings me back up into a standing position.
"Well aren't you just the drama queen of the week," he says, looking down at me. "How could Shay Farley Cresta possibly spend a bit of time with her family? And let alone while they're eating!" I punch him in the stomach.
"Ow," he pouts. "What was that for?"
"Don't sass me," I say firmly, trying to resist the smile making it's way onto my face. He chuckles and swings me around so my face is below his and our chests are only inches apart.
We're both smiling and our chests heave up and down as we catch our breath. It's a whirlwind of a moment. And then I remember whom I'm with and the fast-paced energy begins to die down.
"What are you doing?" I breathe, suddenly aware of how close he is. I can see every freckle on his face, every scar he's collected as souvenirs over the years.
"It's really cold out here," he whispers into my ear, his warm breath traveling down my neck.
"Yes," I agree, my heart still beating a million miles an hour. He is my friend. Only my friend. Forever my friend.
He tilts his head so his chestnut hair falls just above his eyes, and he blinks those hazel eyes at me.
"I've never kissed a girl before, you know," he says suddenly, his voice taking on the hint of excitement it always does when he's talking about something scientific. But this isn't scientific. This is kissing.
"And I've never kissed a boy," I respond. His lip quirks up into a grin and he takes a step, closing the small distance between us.
"Funny how I've never even seen a girl who way before. Not once."
"Yeah. Funny," I whisper so quietly I doubt he can even hear me.
I can feel every inch of his body, from his toes to his hips to his chest to his collarbone. He's always been a part of me and I've always been a part of him. Yet sweat beads on my forehead and my entire body is shaking.
"Are you okay?" he asks, his loving expression turning to concern.
"I think," I manage to get out, desperately wiping the sweat off my brow. I glance up at him, at his handsome face that holds only concern for me.
"I'll see you at the bonfire," I say, forcing a smile. "We can dance the night away." He nods, looking both relieved and flustered. "I'll come pick you up in the afternoon."
I nod eagerly. "Goodnight Cedar."
His mouth quirks. "You too Cresta. You too."
The waves dance and splash and fall against the sand. The bright sun has long since fallen behind the curve of the earth and left our sky a bright navy color. I sit perched on a log as the party goes on around me; my hair in a messy ponytail, my hands cupped around a cup of coffee that has long since grown cold.
Orion's Belt shines above me, so close I could almost touch it.
I don't remember the age I was when I began to wish for another world. One day I was happy playing on the beach and letting my parents hide me from the harsh sun that is Panem, and the next I was staring out at the ocean or the sky for hours on end, wanting nothing more than to reach that curve in the earth. I became someone my parents could not protect. I am glad I am in control of myself now, but I hope I have not become someone they never intended me to be. I hope I do not strike fear into their hearts.
Someone runs past me and slams into my back, knocking the cup from my hands.
"Hey watch it!" I growl, spinning around to face the person.
Instead I am staring into the hazel eyes of Cedar Moore.
He's wearing a Christmas sweater most likely from Urchin's place- and for God knows what reason since it's the end of March.
"I came to your house to pick you up today and you weren't there," he says, offering me a hand. I take it and he pulls me up and leads me further into the crowd of people dancing around the bonfire.
"I came with my mom," I mutter. "Who is still not speaking to anyone."
Cedar's jaw ticks. "Well she better start soon. The reaping's coming up."
"What if I get picked?" I ask, genuinely curious. I've been doing that a lot lately- wondering about the games.
"You won't," he says quickly, too quickly.
"You don't know that," I shoot back. He turns to me, his eyes grim, but all I can concentrate on are the cheerful reindeer prancing back and forth on his sweater.
"I do know that," he says gruffly. "I just do. You won't be picked. You aren't going to the games." My lips press together into a hard line and there are so many things I could say to Cedar Moore. He doesn't know everything. I have just as large a chance of being picked as any other sixteen-year-old girl out here. But I keep my mouth shut.
"Would you give me the honor of a dance," he asks, leaning backwards and offering me his hand once again. My lips turn up into a sharp smile despite the annoyance I feel.
"Why of course." I wrap my arms carefully around his neck and his come to rest lightly on the curve of my hips.
We push our way into the crowd, our hearts vibrating with the constant pounding of the music.
"Having fun?" Cedar mouths.
"Not really," I mouth back. He chuckles against me, his chest heaving with every breath.
He leans down so his lips are by my ear. "The ocean is beautiful tonight." I glance out at the waves as they wash away the fresh sand. They are beautiful, just as they are every night. They are beautiful and strong and free.
I lean my head down against Cedar's chest, listening to his heartbeat.
"And don't worry about your mom and dad," he mutters to me. "They've been through a lot. They'll come back to you."
I hope to God that he is right. I can't go on living with two people lost in their past. I may be independent, I may be in control of my life, but that doesn't mean I don't need them. I do.
"Thank you Cedar," I say finally, inhaling the smell of cotton. He has always had an interesting scent and the only word I can find to put on it is the sky. He smells like sunlight and wind. He smells like the sky.
"I can't take you seriously with that sweater," I say finally, lifting my head and laughing.
His lip twitches. "I can get you one," he says.
"Sure," I chuckle, pushing back his hair. "Then we can match."
I always assumed Cedar and I would grow old together. I always had this image in my head that we wouldn't marry. We would live in conjoined houses on the beach and talk about our lives and our jobs. He was going to be a fisherman and I was going to become mayor. I never thought our lives could lead to anything other than the picture I had created in my head. Now, standing on the beach, dancing to music that the Capitol has created simply to take everyone's mind off an uprising, I begin to wonder. Could Cedar and I grow old and never have to worry about anything in our way? Is my image what our lives are going to be? So much could go wrong. I wonder, I do. I wonder.
My father once told me that I'm always angry. He said that I'm like my mother that way. I hold hate in my heart for the people who are trying to destroy those of us that are good inside. But I stand here with my toes in the sand, my speckled hair blowing like a kite in the wind, staring at the two tombstones with the pink flowers and the ivy leaves, and I don't feel anger. The flowered one reads, "Haley Domhill, age 16. Forever remembered." And the other bears the words, "Tray Kimberly, age 17. The first tribute." The two simple memorials only strike confusion inside of me. Common sense tells me that Tray Kimberly died, but I don't know how and I don't know why it means so much to my mother. Haley Domhill is a little harder to figure.
I bend down, touching the carvings in the stone lightly. Then at the bottom I trace, "what's your story?" I sit back on my heels; half hoping for a response from my mother's deceased loved ones.
"What are you doing out here?" a soft voice asks from behind me. I turn around quickly, falling into the sand, and blink my eyes at my mother.
She's wearing the green dress and her light brown hair is wrapped up in a messy bun on the top of her head.
"Thinking," I say automatically. She slowly closes the distance between us and sits down next to me, her eyes skimming across the tombstones.
"Your father put these here for me," she says after a minute, brushing one painted finger over Tray's name.
I glance at her, biting my lip, trying to decide if it's smart to open my mouth.
"Dad says I'm angry, like you are," I say, my voice cracking.
"I am very angry," she murmurs. "Sometimes I just hate who they are and what they stand for."
"The Capitol?" I ask.
She nods, her fingers still hovering over the small graves.
"The reaping's tomorrow," she says simply. Her voice holds no emotion. She is simply stating a fact.
"I know," I say. "Mom, what if I get picked?"
"You won't," she says quickly.
Sometimes I hate my ability to read someone's expression. If I were unable to tell that she is not lying, I could hold in my heart the belief that I am exactly like anyone else. But she is not lying, and that means that she is hiding something else.
"Why not?" I ask quietly, looking up at her.
Her fingers pick furiously at a patch of grass sticking up through the sand and I can see her teeth gnawing at the skin of her cheek, but she doesn't look at me.
"Tray gave me my first kiss," she says suddenly, her eyes looking somewhere far away.
I blink at her, surprised. That is the most information my mother has ever revealed about her past, and I'm not willing to let her close up to me quite yet. I must tread carefully.
"And Haley?" I whisper, yet my voice still echos across the quiet beach.
"I let her down," Sea says, her voice cracking just as mine did. Her fists clench and unclench by her sides and I know she is trying to stay here in the moment instead of fading into the past.
"I didn't protect her and she died."
"I'm sorry mom," I say, reaching out a tentative hand and laying it gently on her shoulder. She jerks back at first but then settles down under my touch.
We are very similar- Sea Farley and I. From the shade of our skin to the number of freckles dotting our cheeks, we are identical. The difference is that my mother's face has the bare trace of scars left from her time in the games and mine is fresh- unmarked by the wrath of the Capitol.
"Mom," I say, too curious and angry and exasperated to wait any longer. "Why won't I be picked tomorrow? How are you so sure?" Her head snaps towards me, her bottom lip quivering.
"Because Shay," she says grimly, and there is no remorse in her ice colored eyes. She is finally going to tell me something. The excitement that fills the pit of my stomach is surprising and unquenchable. "Your name isn't in the bowl. It never has been. Not once."