Two
That night, as Mariah sits across the table from me, silently chewing her dinner, she asks me something. "Do you realize, May, just how lucky we are?" I'm taken aback by this question-yes, by standards compared to most of the people living here, yes we are. But I think of Father-only returning from jaunts away from us occasionally, completely drunk, and the amount of times Mariah and I have had to wipe the sick from his face and put him to bed. I think of all the times he's come back, and left almost as quickly, but not without leaving hand-shaped marks imprinted on our faces. I think of Mother; and the long winter that brought her death. We have money, yes, but only because of the success of our past family. And that money is running out.
"I guess," I say, eating my dinner slowly so the amount looks bigger. I twirl a strand of the dandelion flower we are eating around my fork, over and over. "I mean-we've never had to sign up for teassare," Mariah begins, her face flushed. I don't know if she's trying to convince herself we won't be picked this year, or not. "We haven't." I say softly, "But we may need to soon." My voice is barely a whisper, masked by the clinking of forks and knives. We both know it-the money I keep about my person in a pouch is slowly sinking. Today we have a free meal: dandelion plants and some bread rolls July's mother gave us. But soon we will need the grain; and the oil. I'm kicking myself we didn't sign up this year.
"We need to talk to him-get him back to work." Mariah says, and we both know who 'he' is. I can imagine the consequence-we've tried talking sense into Father, but it always results in something bad for us. I nod, silently.
Hours later I finally decide sleep is fruitless, and slip out from under the thin duvet. The house is silent: the only noise is the shallow breathing of Mariah in her sleep. Father has decided not to grace us with his presence: something I am quite happy about. I pad on the floor: my feet icy upon the ground. When I get to the main room, I kick the chair back that is our security and wrench the door open, dragging my nightrobe closer around me as I am greeted by cold wind.
I walk round to the back; to the place which is our garden. Well, it is a garden shared by everyone on the street. July, Mariah and I spent our childhood playing games in here. It's as if I can see it now; shadows of my former self running and giggling past me. I walk up the cobblestone path, wincing as the stones dig into my feet, and find my haven.
It's our old den. I think Mariah and July have forgotten it: but I certainly haven't. It's a gathering of trees at the end of the garden, clumped tightly together to make a small clearing. We propped up more big branches, and made a little hut in the middle. Occasionally I go and sit down in it; and loose myself in the quiet peace and forget what is going on. I carefully sit down in the hut, craving the small bit of warmth it will give me, and just sit there silently.
Eventually, the nightsky gets lighter until it is the perfect orange shade known as sunset, and I decide it's time to go back in. I hobble my way back down the path, and get back into the bed, shivering. Mariah turns in her sleep across the bed from me, and I watch her, fascinated by the void that keeps us apart. Mariah is only separated by sleep; and yet I don't like it. When she is older-married to Brian, surrounded by a dozen beaming kids as she vowed she would have, and possibly the mayor's wife, I don't know how I will put up with not seeing my sister for possibly days.
Later that day we visit the market, July and I. Mariah tells me she wants to go and visit Brain, and I reluctantly leave without her. At the market, I carefully look at everything, analysing the price and the benefits in my mind. I select only the things I need: bread, milk and shoelaces. The shoelaces agonizingly remind me of my own shoes and how they rub against my feet; but I look at my greatly depleted pouch and decide against it.
After a miserable look around the market with July having the money to buy what she pleases, I tell her I need to visit the Town Hall. Her eyes widen, but she nods and passes me a mint from the bag she bought. I pop it in my mouth, and with July in tow I climb the steps and enter the cool, ornate building I know only from childhood.
Several minutes later, I come back out and join July who is waiting on the steps. "So," she says, "Why'd you go in there?"
I sigh, knowing she'll find out anyway. "I signed myself up for tessare."
July's face crumples, and she whispers, "No…"
"Yes…we need it. I haven't put Mariah up: and you can't tell her! I want to keep her safe. One of us has to be the one doing the looking after. And that's me. We need that grain, July." July nods, ashen. "We could have helped you," she says, softly. "We can't keep accepting from you all our lives, July," I say, "Someday soon, we're gonna be moved out the Merchant's Village and into the Seam…I need to start making sure we'll be able to cope."
The walk back home is awkward and silent. Neither one of us wants to talk about what happened. As we reach home, I stop in front of July and look her squarely in the eye. "July, you cannot tell Mariah. I will tell her, when I know she'll be okay with it. Got it?" July nods, and gives me a quick hug before scurrying off back home. From behind me, I can hear the crunch of footsteps upon gravel and I open my gate, not wanting to talk to July again.
"Excuse me." But the voice is deep, and mysterious, so I turn around. A boy from the Seam-in my year- holds his palm out to me, and in it is one of the shoelaces I bought today. "You dropped your shoelace." He says casually, holding it out and inserting his hands in his pockets. He meets my eyes; and I notice his are the exact same unruly grey as mine.
"I'm Maylisee," I say brightly, "Who are you? Thank you, otherwise I wouldn't have known." I smile politely, wanting to just go back home and curl up. I've admitted defeat; and I want to just sit and cry. Apparently no one is letting me do that. "I'm Haymitch. Haymitch Abernathy." Haymitch grins, and offers his hand which I accept and he firmly shakes my hand. "Maylisee Donner," I say. "I guess I'll see you around."
"See you." Haymitch walks down the street, hunching his shoulders as I go up the path and open the door. As I open the door, I see Haymitch has turned and is watching me. I let myself in, and the first thing I smell is the rancid smell of puke. Father is home.