I give her all my love. That's all I do. And if you saw my love, you'd love her, too. And I love her.
Katniss wasn't sure what she was expecting. If she had been honest, the date had actually slipped her mind. Being with Johanna had made the days and weeks suddenly irrelevant, other than separating the weekend from the weekdays. Somehow, though, Johanna had remembered. Underneath her sadness and anger Johanna had remembered.
They had been together exactly a year. One year ago, to the date and possibly the hour, Johanna had leaned forward on the dusty table and kissed her. The dull shade of everyday life exploded into technicolor. Music, happiness, love. Johanna had brought all of those things into her life without guilt, without pretense, without guile. She wanted nothing in return except a little patience, to be loved. Katniss had both of those in spades.
The one thing that stuck in her mind from her mother and father's marriage was the certainty. When they would lock eyes from across the room, even if they were doing two different tasks, minds on two very different things, they'd somehow come together in that brief moment. You could never doubt their love. Katniss had envied that as a child, especially when he died and her mind was like a rogue planet, zipping through the cosmos tethered to nothing. She missed the certainty of her parents' love. She doubted ever finding that kind of absolute in her life. Nothing is forever. Nothing is in stone.
Except Johanna.
She gives me everything and tenderly. The kiss my lover brings, she brings to me. And I love her.
A few months into their relationship Katniss had imagined their year anniversary somewhat differently. She imagined taking Johanna somewhere far away and clear, making love to her from sunset to sunrise. Something cheesy that you'd take a picture of and send to someone saying "don't you wish you were here?" A snowy mountain, a shining lake nestled in a blanket of forest, a secluded beach with an unexplored cave. Her mind raced with wildly romantic thoughts that were altogether alien but not at all unwelcome.
But fate had changed all that. They'd hit a squall in their voyage and Katniss as unsure of how to take back the wheel. The painful part wasn't even really the lack of touching (though it was agonizing), it was the twisted, pained expression Johanna wore when Katniss knew she was holding in what she wanted to give. The fear was blocking her from showing how much she cared. The frustration behind that fear even more heartbreaking.
A love like ours could never die as long as I have you near me.
In place of some romantic gesture, Johanna had managed to get the house alone. The piano that sat in their downstairs foyer she had tuned and repaired, shining the instrument until it reflected every light in the living room. She couldn't bring herself to do something over the top like she had wanted. She struggled every day with kisses and hand-holding. Sex was absolutely out of the question. But music. That was a piece of her she could manage to part with.
Candles lit around the room were there not only for ambiance, but also to mask the smell of burnt food and pizza, the result of Johanna's laughable attempt to cook something of substance for them. A broken fire alarm (smashed on the floor), swear words and one large cheese pizza later, Katniss was laying on the couch, listening to Johanna sing. Her voice was lower than normal, a rasp that Johanna couldn't seem to shake out like she had a cold for the past few weeks.
Bright are the stars that shine, dark is the sky. I know this love of mine will never die. And I love her.
Johanna slowly plunked out the last few chords of the song, letting the instrument resonate through the room. Katniss stood from the couch, crossing the few feet toward the piano and sitting on the bench next to her. Johanna turned and pulled her leg underneath her knee as Katniss swung her leg over and straddled the bench. They faced each other close, but Johanna's eyes still held distance. Katniss wanted so badly to cross that gap between the present and wherever Johanna was.
"Is it okay if I kiss you?" Katniss asked softly, placing her hand on Johanna's cheek as gently as possible. Gray eyes searched chestnut ones, trying to find a piece of her Johanna in there.
Johanna nodded her head. Cashmere had said she wanted to ruin Johanna. She was off to a good start. Setting fire to the only thing that mattered to Johanna - her relationship ith Katniss. They'd never get anywhere if Johanna kept acting like she was. Afraid to be touched but offended at being treated differently. Katniss managed to walk that tightrope for the past few weeks but Johanna knew it was only a matter of time before she fell one way or the other: away from her or too close.
Lips pressed gently against her own in an achingly sad touch. Johanna thought she could feel the restrained pulse of Katniss's desire in her lips. She wanted them both to give in to that desire. She wanted to whisk Katniss upstairs and make her body sing. How desperately she wanted to make Katniss's body shake with desire and steal the breath from her lungs.
The fear was paralyzing. Even now, as her tongue ran boldly across Katniss's lip and drew a groan from her lover, a shudder ran through her not rooted in desire. She remembered Cashmere's lips kissing her deceptively soft, whispering against her skin that no one would ever love her. Nobody takes care of broken things. That's what she was now, Cashmere had reminded her, a broken thing.
If Cashmere wanted her broken, she would have to be whole. Her fingers ran along Katniss's arms, tingling goosebumps in their wake until they were in her hair, gripping her and holding her close. Katniss expelled a startled breath against Johanna's lips as she placed open-mouth kisses along her cheek. "Do you want to stop?" Katniss asked against her ear, tucking a rogue strand of raven hair behind it.
Johanna nodded and they slowly pulled away. Katniss smiled and held Johanna's face in her hands. "I'm sorry."
"For what?" Katniss scooted close to Johanna on the bench, her fingers still rubbing small circles underneath Johanna's hairline. "This has been the best year of my life. I haven't ever been happier." Johanna's eyes dropped to the space between them and Katniss lowered her gaze to catch them. She brought both their eyes back up and smiled again. "I know that this is hard for you. But that fact that you're still here is all that matters. You're here, and you're mine and no one can take you from me."
You hate the tenderhearted torch song.
The classroom was disturbingly quiet. The grating scribble of lead on paper and the very low murmur of a small radio in the corner of the room the only noises in the air. Johanna's ears couldn't help but tune into the song coming out of the speakers of the small radio near the window. Not only was it a song she liked, but she was like one of Pavlov's dogs when music played. She was drawn to it on a physical level. It stirred her soul.
Her pencil began writing verses to the song playing that didn't exist. These creative writing exercises that Cressida had them do once a week had become something Johanna, while at first resistant, now looked forward to every Friday. By the seventh week she was close to running out of time each class to finish hers. The criteria was always open: they could write whatever they wanted in whatever style, as long as they turned it in at the end of class. Johanna looked up toward the blackboard to observe Cressida, who was busy grading one of their earlier assignments. A sleek black ballpoint pen was bitten between her teeth, her pale blonde eyebrow raised high on her head as she moved her eyes across the page.
"Cressida?" Marvel called from the back of the room, his arm high in the air. Nosy students turned their heads to see him. Marvel was not one of Johanna's favorite people. He ran in the same crowd as Cashmere and her cronies and Johanna was fairly certain he was functionally illiterate. The only reason he'd graduate with them this spring was because of his status on the football team.
Bright blue eyes looked up and she withdrew the pen from her mouth. "Yes, Marvel?"
"What's another word for 'hate'?" Cressida got up from her desk, skirting around the side to sit on the front of it. She rested her bottom on the edge of her desk, her short, flowing short splaying out in front of her. She crossed pale legs over each other.
"That depends. What kind of hate?"
Marvel looked around at his classmates for support, getting only giggles in response. He ran his fingers through his cropped brown hair and gave her a thoroughly stupid look. "Uh, I dunno. Just regular hate."
"Regular hate?" Cressida repeated, raising her eyebrow. She was not at all amused by Marvel's showboating in front of the class. She folded her hands in front of her, looking down at them before glancing back up at the boy. She held an intensity in her eyes that caused many people to shrink away. Notorious for maintaining perfect eye contact through a conversation, thereby intimidating the other person. Johanna had watched many students and teachers alike melt into a puddle because of her intense gaze. "Marvel, words don't exist so they can fall out of your mouth like an accidental baby."
"Look, Teach," Cressida grimaced at the word. Marvel sounded like a 1950s American, like Danny from Grease. "I'm tryin' to write a rap verse here and hate doesn't flow. I just need another word."
"You 'need another word.' No. You need the exact word. The word hate is very powerful. It's an emotion you feel in every part of your body. Studies have shown the effects of hate on the nervous system, the immune system. Something that complex cannot be boiled down to one word to cover it all. If your girlfriend cheated on you with your best friend, would you hate them?"
"Uh, well, yeah, duh." Johanna felt like his words were just the primal grunts of a monkey, beckoning a tree for a banana. Moot and stupid.
Cressida ran her tongue along the bottom row of her teeth inside her mouth to hide the disdainful smirk she knew was coming. She nodded instead. "Right. But you wouldn't just hate her, or him, would you? This is the highest betrayal. You gave your heart to her and she smashed it like it was a cake at a toddler's party." She lifted herself from the desk and began walking down the row of seats toward Marvel very slowly. Despite the clack of her heels against the tile, Johanna thought she moved like bobcat. She wrote that as such in her notebook.
You catch a flame to my sentiment, my sentimental tune.
"Well yeah I'd be pissed. I'd break up with her and screw one of her friends." The boy next to him gave him a high five. Johanna felt revulsion in her veins.
Cressida's eyes rolled as she continued to make her way toward the back of the room. "In your poem, Marvel, what do you hate?"
"It's a rap verse," Marvel clarified. "The police."
"The police? Why the police?"
Marvel shrugged his shoulders, his large letterman's jacket bobbing up and down. "Because they suck. I've always hated them, even as a little kid. They take my stuff. Last year they tried to take my license because I was speeding."
"Good," Cressida cooed, finally reaching Marvel's desk. She stood behind him, looming over his shoulder. "So you think they're thieves."
"Yeah, I do. Paying taxes so they can rob us on tickets and fines and shit."
"Fair enough. What else have they taken from you?" Marvel's smug grin began to disappear. He turned his torso in his chair to face Cressida, whose head was tilted awaiting an answer. "I imagine this hatred you want to name is not just because of a few parking tickets. That kind of hate passes fleetingly. That's displeasure, irritation, annoyance. Quick, dirty, hot, meaningless. Like sex with someone you don't love." The class giggled and murmured their agreement.
"What are you talking about?"
"Think, Marvel. Your hatred of the police. This has boiled inside you since you were a boy. A slow brew of anger rising up inside you like a dormant volcano. Small eruptions when you get pulled over or find a small piece of paper underneath your windshield wiper. And it settles, you go back to normal, but that hate is always there, right?"
Johanna watched Marvel's mood rapidly deteriorate. The classroom's giggling and muttering got deathly quiet as they awaited the boy's answer. "I don't know."
"Yes you do," was Cressida's quick reply. Everything about her reminded Johanna of a fresh fall apple. Crisp, bitter, sweet, confident. An apple was always an apple, no matter what you put it in or covered it with. Insistent. Constant.
"No, I don't!" he snapped, gripping his palms on his desk.
"Yes, you do," she replied calmly, clearly unruffled by the boy's rising temper. "Think, Marvel. A man in uniform is approaching you, staring at you through mirrored sunglasses. You can't help but notice the gun in his holster, the nightstick on the other side of his belt. He walks with calm authority toward you. He wrinkles his nose as he gets toward you, as if your mere presence offends his sense of smell. Black whiskers moving around underneath his nose. He's got a wad of gum in his mouth. You can almost see it when he chews, open-mouthed and loudly like a cow with cud. He's there to take from you. They always take from you." She leaned down next to him, her hand on the back of his chair. "How do you feel?"
Marvel seemed to simmer for a few moments, his green eyes narrowed in deep thought. Johanna suddenly recalled being a kid and her mother telling her how some kid's dad got arrested, only a few months after her own father died. Sort of a 'See, everyone's families are messed up' kind of way. Could that have been Marvel's dad?
"I'm...I'm... I'm fucking furious."
"There you go!" Cressida exclaimed, startling Marvel from his rage. She slapped him on the back and gave him a warm smile. "Great job! Fury. Use that. Fury, like a whirling tornado destroying everything in its path without discrimination. Obliterating people's lives, homes, streets, yards. You're not angry, Marvel. You're furious. You're infuriated."
Cressida walked back toward the front of the room and around to the back of her desk, slipping into the leather chair. "Let that be a lesson for all of you. Don't just use a word because it's there and it's easy. Use the word you mean. Think about why you need that word, then tailor it correctly. Sure red thread can sow a button on a green jacket, but you need red thread to make it look right. And what if the jacket is crimson? Will you use a fire engine red? No, it simply won't do. You dig and dig until you find the perfect shade." She smiled at the class. "Find the perfect shade of phrase you're looking for. Don't settle."
Hard-hearted don't worry, I'm ready for a fight.
A few of her classmates had finished, handing in their black-and-white marble composition notebooks to Cressida and shuffling out the door. Johanna continued to write on, barely conscious of the words that were emerging onto the blue-lined paper. It was when she let her stream-of-consciousness run free that she felt even a little separated from the shackles of her memory.
Johanna slapped her notebook closed and began rummaging things around in her messenger bag, buckling the sides in and hoisting it over her shoulder. As she passed by her teacher's desk she stopped, tilting her head to the side. "Do you want some help?" Cressida was attempting to carry not only her briefcase with her laptop and papers, but sixteen composition notebooks. Johanna saw the blonde about to protest and she took half the stack of notebooks, adding hers to the top. "Don't be so proud."
"Are you the pot or the kettle, Mason?" Cressida asked with a grin, following the younger woman out of the classroom and flicking off the lights behind them. Johanna rolled her eyes at the jab and walked side-by-side with her teacher down the hallway that was still cluttered with students leisurely getting their things from their lockers.
"That was some show with Marvel the Meat-Head."
Cressida laughed heartily as the pair made their way into the faculty parking lot. Johanna was relieved to see the sky was a pale wash of blue and white. Thunderstorms and even the light pitter-patter of rain made her nauseated. The blonde woman fumbled in her briefcase for her keys, emerging with a set of color-coded keys on a small keyring.
"Don't you have a clicky thingy?" Johanna asked, looking out toward the parking lot. "You know, to boop the car and tell us we're getting close?"
"A clicky thingy to boop the car?" Cressida repeated with a raised eyebrow. Johanna glared at her. "No, I do not have a key fob - the phrase you lost somewhere in that brain of yours - because my car was made in the 1960s." They approached a candy red convertible with the white hardtop up, racing tires gripping the gravel of the parking lot. Cressida went around the back and stuck the key in, popping the spacious trunk.
Johanna followed her with a skeptical gaze. "This is your car?" She placed the notebooks in the trunk which was upholstered with a black leather fabric, a spare tire to the right. It was clean and organized, like how Johanna kept hers.
Cressida closed the trunk and crossed her arms over her chest. "Mason, would I have the key to a car that was not mine?" She grinned. "And to think you called Marvel the meathead."
Unnerved, the nerve, you're nervous. Nervous that I'm right.
Johanna ignored the comment and walked slowly around the old muscle car, eyeing it approvingly. "This is a 1969 Plymouth GTX. Original paint," Johanna slid her finger along the side of the car as she made her way to the hood, "and an air grabber." She peered at Cressida over the car's roof. "That was not standard. May I?" Johanna motioned toward the hood and Cressida nodded, coming around the side of the car to join her. Johanna ran her fingers under the roof and found the lock, popping the hood open and pushing it upward. "Wow. This is gorgeous."
She glided her hand along the smooth surface of the engine, which was painted candy apple red to match the exterior. "Typical of a girl who likes old jazz to appreciate the finery of a well-cared for muscle car."
Johanna grinned wickedly at Cressida. "Oh you have no idea. I don't just appreciate. I ogle. I'd sell my soul to you for this car." Cressida chuckled as the younger girl closed the hood and touched the top of the car affectionately. "Not that I don't love my car. A 1966 Pontiac GTO. All original parts, inside and out," she stated proudly.
Cressida whistled her appreciation. "That's a beautiful car. How did you come upon something like that?"
Johanna shrugged, moving around Cressida's car to appreciate more of its streamlined beauty. "Something I inherited from my dad." Johanna placed her palms above the driver's side door, staring into the interior. "He kept it in shit condition - like he did everything else in his life - so my mom and I spent a summer fixing it up. Took me forever to find the original parts. But after like eight months we got her purring." Johanna's eyes narrowed into the vehicle. "Stick?"
Cressida shook her head. "Automatic."
Johanna smirked. "Pussy."
"Excuse me?" Cressida placed her hands on her hips. "First of all, need I remind you of how misogynistic it is to refer to your own anatomy in a derogatory way? Second of all, they only made four manual transmission GTX's in 1969. It was the last year for the convertible. Only eleven are like Arwen with the Hemi, even fewer with the air grabber. I will not let you try and degrade my choice in transmission simply because you chose the most difficult way to drive."
"Arwen?" Johanna caught, licking her lips and raising her eyebrow.
Finally, Cressida blushed. Johanna smirked triumphantly at finally having chipped away at the thick layers of the older woman. "Yes," Cressida replied crisply. "From Lord of the Rings."
"Oh I know where it's from, nerd." Cressida's perfectly painted pink lips formed an offended 'o' shape. Johanna shifted her messenger bag on her shoulder and rejoined Cressida toward the front of the car. She got within just a few inches of the other woman, smelling the intense rose-scented perfume she wore. She leaned into her space slightly. "It's okay Teach. My car's name is Joplin."
Cressida's formerly flustered face moved back into its perfectly put together confidence, bordering on indifference. Johanna was reminded of Katniss by Cressida's talent for hiding her emotions. Katniss could switch of her reactions in the blink of an eye. Johanna envied that ability. "Scott or Janis?"
Johanna shrugged, brushing passed the older woman as she walked away. "Either. See you on Monday."
With a bit of friction, I'll be under your clothes. With a bit of focus, I'll be under your skin.
Katniss leaned on the rounded table, her eyes darting from her textbook to her notebook with rapidity. The faint clamor of piano keys and the clattering of silverware against china filling her ears as she attempted her Trigonometry homework. It was only November and she was regretting having taken the extra year of mathematics. Her mother had thought it would help her chances of getting into college. She hadn't told Johanna yet, but she had already applied to Stanford in California under their Restrictive Early Action. She would hear by December 15th whether or not she'd been accepted. Johanna hadn't explicitly stated where she was going to apply to college, but Katniss knew that someone of Johanna's talents would have no problem getting into any prestigious music schools, many of which would be on the opposite side of the country.
The lights inside Bogie's club were dim with the exception of a lamp for Katniss that the owner himself had set up, and two lone spotlights shining on Johanna at the piano. Katniss was elated that music had finally started creeping back into Johanna. Haymitch had finally convinced the girl to come back to the band after missing two months of performances. Katniss knew he was worried for Johanna; he seemed to be the closest thing Johanna had to a father figure in her life. He hadn't gone so far as to ask what was wrong, but he could tell - like any good parent - that she was hurting.
Johanna was finally turning that anger and sadness back into music in a more constructive way. Her moods were still a little uncontrollable. Sometimes Katniss would call her and it would be like old times, gentle teasing and loving words. Other time she'd call and it was like talking to a ghost, Johanna was distant and emotionally void.
Johanna's fingers pounded at the keyboard as Haymitch sat nearby, accompanying her on the violin. The tune was "The Promise" by Michael Nyman, a somber and reflective piece she had always thought carried the same atmosphere as a post-apocalyptic wasteland. As she played the piece she imagined a man emerging from a pile of rubble triumphantly, only to find the world he knew destroyed. He'd walk through the abandoned streets, regretfully eyeing the storefronts that were once alive with electricity and light, now deadened and broken.
The piece ended unresolved and Johanna adored it. It was almost like a sentence being cut off. She knew they'd never play it live; nobody wanted to be depressed when they'd spent $60 on a dinner and a show. It moved her to play the piece though. It felt like all the emotions and words tumbling inside her finally had a cadence. If she could play them and make them dissipate into the air like the music itself then maybe it would leave her.
"All right," Haymitch said, placing his violin on the ground. He motioned for one of the men working to turn on the house lights, causing both Johanna and Katniss to flinch in their yellow brightness. "Time to do something less depressing."
"What, like a love song?" Johanna asked scathingly, glaring at the older man.
Haymitch nodded. "Yeah, like a love song," he shot back with a smug grin.
Johanna was not to be tempted. Katniss's ears immediately recognized the pounding piano intro as Johanna played it and she tried to hide her grin in her textbook. Johanna was punishing the ivories with her fingers, staring at Haymitch's light blue eyes.
Head under water, and they tell me to breathe easy to a while.
Haymitch laughed as Johanna sang, raising his hands on defeat. He walked off the stage as Johanna continued to play, joining Katniss at her homework table. He peered at her page and his face immediately twisted into confusion. "Well that looks like absolute nonsense."
Katniss looked up at the worn blond man and smiled. "That is scarily accurate." The Trigonometry was over her head, and this homework was not going to get done tonight. It was a Friday anyway, Katniss reasoned with herself. She had wanted to get her work done before the weekend so she could have more time with Johanna, but it looked like this was going to be another Sunday late-night assignment.
I'm unusually hard to hold on to.
Katniss was elated to see the familiar pomposity and challenge in Johanna's eyes as she sang. There was a clarity in her voice that had been missing for the past few months. What Cashmere stole - Katniss and Finnick had narrowed down the list of possible people and had decided most definitely on the vindictive blonde - from Johanna was something intangible. The very essence of what made Johanna tick. Katniss couldn't help but feel responsible and secretly bore that burden. Maybe if she hadn't left that night, maybe if she had just not been so confrontational when Cashmere came to her house, maybe if she had just told Johanna when Cashmere had seen her.
Maybe, maybe, maybe. What if. The hypotheticals buried Katniss when she allowed them, but for Johanna's sake, she attempted to climb out from beneath it and be a pillar for her girlfriend. Talking about what happened was completely off the table but Katniss could at least be a shoulder to cry on and a smile to lift her spirits.
You mean well, but you make this hard on me.
In what was a vividly selfish thought she wondered when Johanna would let her touch her again. Not necessarily because she was some sex-crazed fiend, but because she wanted to soothe the physical memories Johanna had. She wanted to show her touch was full of love and consent and care. She wanted to lift every mark and bruise Cashmere left with her own kisses. Johanna had only just started allowing their kisses to progress back to the consuming, fiery, bruising embraces of early in their relationship. Passion slowly hissed into their relationship like a slow gas leak.
Katniss tried not to let her anger consume her when she thought about who had done this. Everything she had read late nights on her computer had said that threatening the abuser never helped the victim. She had to physically restrain Finnick from attacking Glimmer. But she herself was wondering when the next opportunity to see Cashmere was. Would she come home for Christmas break? Would she dare try and contact Johanna?
If all you have is leaving I will need a better reason to write you a love song today.
Katniss closed her textbook and filed it away in her backpack, content to sit and watch Johanna play. Gale approached behind her, waving to Johanna before sitting down next to Katniss. She smiled at her cousin, who lifted his chair to bring it closer to her. He watched Johanna play for a few moments before leaning in as surreptitiously to Katniss as possible.
"I know where she is."
Katniss didn't look over to Gale but she narrowed her eyes. "Who?"
"Cashmere," Gale whispered, smiling at Johanna when she looked toward them.
I learned the hard way that they all say things you wanna hear.
Her fingers tensed around her soda glass, rubbing the condensation with the tips of her fingers. "Where is she?"
Gale leaned back in his chair, inhaling a deep, slow breath. "Boston. Boston University." Katniss felt relieved. Boston was a long ride from home. There would be no way she would come home for another but major holidays. Gale rubbed his fingers together. "I've never wanted to punch a girl in the face before." Gale had been the only person Katniss felt comfortable speaking to about Johanna. He had reacted similarly to herself - angry, sad, misdirected rage shooting out in all directions. He felt protective of Johanna the same way he was protective of Katniss and his own little sister.
Katniss let out air through her nostrils in a laugh, looking away from Johanna for the first time since Gale had sat down. "I want to kill her."
My heavy heart sinks deep down under you. Your twisted words, your help just hurts, you're not who I thought you were.
Gale nodded. "I know you do, but that's not going to help Jo."
"I don't need it to help her. I need it to help me." She turned her full attention to her cousin, wild gray eyes desperate. "I want her to suffer for this. I want to see her choke on her last breath. And I don't even know what to do with that feeling. But I can't stop feeling so angry and hurt about it."
"Have you tried talking to Jo?"
Katniss scoffed. "Yeah, that'd be great. While she's dealing with her own emotions about her rape I'm going to tell her that my feelings are hurt?" Gale pursed his lips in understanding, rubbing the small amount of stubble on his chin.
"She loves you. If you are hurting she deserves to know. It's not going to help for you to bottle this in and explode on Cashmere if she comes home for Christmas."
"I'll explode something all over her fucking face." Gale grimaced at her words and Katniss rolled her eyes. "You know what I mean. I don't want to be a burden on Jo."
Gale placed his hand on her shoulder, giving her a small smile. "I'm positive she doesn't think you're a burden." He stood up, giving Johanna another wave. "I'll see you later, Catnip. Don't kill anyone while I'm gone."
"I'll try." Katniss flashed him a grin before he parted, exiting the club behind her. Maybe Katniss did need someone to talk to, but she was sure Johanna was not the solution. Even bringing up Cashmere's name would make them both too angry to continue. She resigned herself to visiting Effie Trinket when she had the chance. Maybe the school's designated counselor would be able to help.
If not, the only other solution would be a several hour drive to Boston to murder Cashmere. And Katniss didn't look good in orange.
Promise me, you'll leave the light on.
Author's Note: Gratzi (in Brad Pitt's Inglourius Basterds Italian accent) for the reviews and the new followers! It's hilarious to see the Joniss shippers slowly creeping to Johanna/Cressida. Because truly, the thought of Natalie Dormer and Jena Malone together makes my head burst. In a good way.
Music: "And I Love Her" by the Beatles, "Sentimental Tune" by Tegan and Sara, and "Love Song" by Sara Bareilles.