Interlude: Peeta
Then
She is not beautiful.
I think that's always what hits me first. She does not have the shiny hair and well-fed curves of the girls that I've started exchanging tentative smiles with at school. Her clothes aren't crisp, and more often than not she shows up with a barely held together braid that carries a leaf as ornament instead of a bow.
Her eyes have a dark gleam like a cat's; they are a peculiar shade of gray that reminds me of silver melting over a fire, the purer undertone diluted with ribbons of almost-black, with tiny flashes of coal-fire that flare up like errant sparks. The light in her eyes died out a long time ago, but I'm convinced that they will still shine if you wait long enough and patiently enough for the right person to come along.
I wait. I notice. I see them in my dreams where I can hope that I'm the one.
Today, particularly, she is even looking less turned out than normal. Her pants are too small and scrunch up high enough to give me a glimpse of the dirt-pocked skin at her ankles. Her shirt has a rip in one arm and I can see the pale skin when she moves the right way and the fabric gapes like an open mouth. Her hair is completely soaked and has escaped its braid to hang limply around her face in a way that brings to mind pictures I've seen of seaweed.
She is not beautiful but I cannot stop staring at her.
It took me a strange minute to place her when my mother caught a glimpse of what was happening outside the window and cursed under her breath. There was no hesitation, just a slam of the door against the brick outside and a furious tirade that startled this poor girl into dropping the garbage can lid with a harsh clang before taking off for safer grass.
I have seen her steadily decline from the girl who used to tie her braids with ribbons to the girl that sits in the back and refuses to answer with more than one syllable, but this is a new low even for her: dirty cheeks, eyes swimming with unshed tears, her lips cracked bloody and raw, her body thin enough to be almost completely hidden by the slats of the pigpen in our backyard.
There is something about the dejected tilt of her head that keeps me coming back to the window, threading together a dozen weak excuses that my mother saves patiently like pearls strung on a necklace, waiting for me to weave a strand long enough to hang myself.
It doesn't take long before it catches up to me, when I make one trip too many and scurry back to the ovens only to be greeted with the telltale plumes of black smoke that mark burning loaves of bread.
The weight of the excuses around my neck makes it ring hollow when I tell her that it was an accident.
In other families there might be yelling, or threats, or forgiveness. In mine there is only a smart slap that makes my ears ring and my eyes water, and I clench my lips together until I feel my teeth dent the soft skin beneath and remind myself of how the hair cupping the sides of her face looked like the soft wrap of the night sky against the pearly luminescence of the moon.
She is not beautiful, but when she looks at me all I can see is the stars.
My mother barks out short commands that sound eerily similar to the honking of a goose, and I dutifully wrap a towel around the hot bread and open the door, feigning ignorance as I walk over to the pigpen, pretending not to notice the eyes that are peering dully above the splintered wood.
I tuck one loaf under my arm and set about breaking apart the second, keeping my head down, the rain tapping out a brisk staccato on the back of my neck. I steal one glance at her, and wallow greedily in the longest second in existence when I have the gunmetal gray of her eyes finally close enough to memorize, when I finally have the time to map the stubborn upturn of her nose, the soft curve of her lips, the determined set of her jaw. I force myself to look back down, as if I have not seen the face that will haunt me in my dreams for the rest of my life, and then sneak a glance back over my shoulder to see if the blue eyes so unfortunately like my own are watching.
The glass at the window is empty, and I flick my wrist like I'm snapping a wet towel, sending the second loaf of bread through the air to land at her feet. I chance another look and see the surprise on her pale face, her lips trembling as if she cannot figure out quite what to do with them, and I satisfy myself with that and turn and walk away.
Inside, my mother waspishly asks if the pigs were happy with the unexpected treat, and I demur.
She is beautiful.
She is so beautiful.