A/N: The plot bunny for this outtake came from Medea Smyke who, after reading chapter 11, said something along the lines of, "I'm so mad at Katniss I'd rather have Peeta and Madge together." And along with Mrs. M's ideas about matchmaking well…this happened. So, please enjoy an outtake from Madge's POV taking place in the nebulous universe between chapters 11 & 12.

My Last Date with Peeta Mellark

Compared to most residences in District Twelve, the construction of our home is well-kept and sound. In spite of this, the walls in my house are thin. Very thin. Or maybe my hearing is above average. In either instance, after sixteen years of living in this house I am attuned to its every creak and moan. While sitting here in the den with a book in my lap, I recognize the small, muffled footsteps of our housekeeper, Faunka, as she putters through the kitchen putting lunch together. The floorboards in my father's study moan with his slow, lumbering pace down the hall. Quite often I can listen to whole conversations without the assistance of an empty glass against wall. I'm not the only person who is aware of this. Therefore, when there are long breaks in conversation, I know that things are being said that I'm not supposed to hear.

"Francis, this smells delicious! My mouth has been watering for hours," Dad bellows from the kitchen. He persists in calling her by her formal name. I inhale the salty, warm scent of the vegetable soup Dad speaks of. It's more comforting on a cold winter night rather than a humid summer afternoon, but Faunka cooks what she cooks and if you complain, you don't eat.

"Git your fingers off my ladle!" Faunka scolds. I smirk and shake my head. Faunka is the only person in the house, in all of Twelve, who gets away with talking to Dad like that.

"Is Madge around?" Dad asks, the volume of his voice dropping out conspicuously.

"If you kept your glasses on your nose instead of your pocket you might be able to keep an eye on your own daughter." Faunka huffs. Dad laughs, like he does every time Faunka insults him. She couldn't say or do anything that would make Dad angry, other than quitting.

Their voices slip into hushed murmurs difficult for me to decipher. I fight the urge to shift my body closer to the sound. This has been happening all my life and it's driven me crazy for as long as I can remember. Living in an official's household means official business will weave its way into conversations. Dad assures me it's all boring town-related prattle, and it often is, but the habit is ingrained now. Each and every time Dad drops his voice I go still, my ears perk up like a housecat, and I'm overwhelmed with a need to know what's being said. Dad calls me inquisitive. Mom says I'm nosy. Faunka calls me an impudent snoop. She has a way with words.

"Madgie! You here?" Dad calls from directly behind me. I startle at the intrusion, my body having been on high alert when he decided to yell.

"I'm right here," I inform him.

Dad peers over the top of the brocaded wingback chair I'm curled up in. A smile breaks over his face. "Oh, good. I have some news for you. I went into town for some groceries this morning—"

"That is news!" I say teasingly. I slap my book shut and put my bare feet on the floor. Dad rarely goes out for such menial chores. Faunka won't let him; that, and his job is important.

Dad straightens his tie, shooting me a playful stink eye. He's dressed formally for no one in particular; though he has lost his jacket and vest due to the heat. "I'm quite capable of procuring sustenance for my family."

"Yes, but I would have thought you'd be too busy. You've barely stepped out of the Justice Building in a week." I jump up to return the book to its place on the shelf. Periodically I rearrange them, alphabetically or by genre, sometimes I turn them all upside-down. It makes it feel as though I have a new set of books to read. "Faunka and I could have done it."

"I don't like bothering you with chores. And Francis's joints are ailing her and I thought it best she take it easy today."

"Faunka doesn't know the meaning of the phrase." I run my fingers over the spines of the fragile books. I've read them all. Multiple times. Dad petitions for new books all the time, usually for the school, but every couple years all we receive is a new volume of The History of Panem. He encourages me to write my own stories.

"Likely so," Dad agrees. "Anyway, as I was saying, I was in town and I stopped off at the bakery and as I was talking to Mrs. Mellark she mentioned what a nice time her son had with you the other day, and she suggested the two of you get together."

The titles blur before my eyes. I carefully turn around so as not to give myself a head rush. He couldn't mean… "Pardon me?" I squeak.

"I thought it sounded like an excellent suggestion. He's coming to take you out for lunch." Dad puffs up with anticipation for my reaction. The words hang in the air, yet they don't make sense in my head.

"You set me up on a…?" I choke on the word. Compose myself. "Date? With a boy?"

"Certainly not. Merely an outing," he clarifies. Dating has never been expressively allowed or forbidden in my household. It's more that neither my parents nor I have ever seriously brought it up. However, Dad makes the occasional blanket statement about how no boy will ever be good enough for his daughter. "You're allowed to have male friends. I hope that's never been in question."

"It's not," I mumble, twisting the hem of my grubby tank top. Something I wore specifically because no one would see me today. "But there's a difference between going out with a friend and my father arranging it. It's not as if we're toddlers and you're setting up a play date."

"Oh." Dad deflates, both in voice and in physicality. And let me say, it takes a lot to make the tall man appear small. "Oh, I see," he repeats. One would think a man living in a household of women would have some kind of clue as to how the female mind works. Mortified is the correct emotion to feel here, right?

"I kept thinking of how you mentioned enjoying his company," Dad says, plunking into my chair.

I sigh reluctantly. I did enjoy Peeta's company. Hanging out with him was far preferable to the brigade of girls from school, even if all we did was paint. I didn't plan on telling Dad anything about it since I'd agreed to go out with the girls and then I ditched them. Or they ditched me. It may have been a mutual ditching. Anyway, I ended up having to disclose the whole story about Peeta when I came home with a swish of blue evidence on my cheek that gave me away. And like I said, I told Dad I had a nice time with Peeta. My father is a diplomat. It's his job to act on behalf of others. I can't blame him for coordinating something he believes will make me happy.

"And Mrs. Mellark was so insistent about it," he adds.

Well, that I can imagine. Harpy.

Dad fishes his glasses from his shirt pocket and cleans the lenses with a handkerchief he always seems to have on hand. "And I worry about you sometimes, Madgie," he confesses. "I don't want you to be lonely." He places the round glasses on his pudgy nose.

Translation: I feel guilty. That's what he really means.

Besides, I'm not lonely. I'm alone, but I'm not lonely. I find being alone to be easy, even comforting. I don't know if that's because I was genetically equipped with such a disposition from birth or if it's a behavior I learned growing up. But no one believes you if you say you're not lonely. Not ever.

Flashing a tight smile, I sit down on the ottoman in front of the armchair. The cushion of which has long since worn flat. "The only thing I'm plagued with a meddlesome father."

He smiles back. Pats my bony knee twice. "I apologize. Don't worry about a thing. I'll take care of him when he arrives."

"Don't do that," I say impulsively. My own sense of diplomacy kicks in. "I'll go out with him. Peeta is a friend, after all." Sort-of. We're not enemies. We even have a mutual friend.

"Well, that's fine, too," Dad replies with a satisfied nod—the same one he gives me when I earn a hundred percent on a test or when I master a new piece of music. It makes me want to take my answer back. My agreeing to go on a date should not be put on the same level as my accomplishments. I bite the impertinence resting on the tip of my tongue and glance down at my lap instead. Grubby shorts that match a grubby top.

"I guess I'll go change."

My closet contains the same clothing it does every day. It occurs to me that I should be concerned about what Peeta will see me in, but I'm not. The fact is Peeta has more than likely seen me in every one of these outfits. And secondly, he won't care what I'm wearing because he's dating someone else. He's in love with someone else. Poor Dad. He set me up with someone completely unavailable.

I pick out a sleeveless top, a clean pair of shorts, and leather sandals. Then I stand in front of my vanity mirror and decide to brush my hair. I have to appear to put on some effort. Should I be more uneasy about going on a date with my friend's boyfriend? That probably should have been my first thought, huh? Instead I focused on being humiliated that Dad has taken an interest in matchmaking. Nonetheless, I know it's all a coincidence and not from any secret agenda of Peeta's. The rumors were flying around for weeks about him and Katniss and I finally got a vague confirmation out of Peeta the other day. I didn't tell anyone; it's their business. And it would seem that they haven't told anyone either, including Mrs. Mellark. Suddenly, I'm starting to look forward to the outing, if only to tease Peeta about where his secret-keeping has gotten him to.

After all the snarls are combed from my hair and the flyaways are battened down with a couple hairpins, I run out of things to do. Some instinct tells me I should be more anxious about this. Maybe I would be if it were a boy I was interested in. That seems like a crucial distinction.

Finding no reason to idle in my bedroom, I step into the hall. The door to my parent's room is open a smidge. The room is dark. I wish I could go in there and grumble to Mom about what a intrusive pest her husband is, and she would agree but chastise me gently, and then in some roundabout way she'd convince me to do this for my father's sake, assuring me I might even enjoy it. But the room is dark, which means the curtains are drawn, which means she needs darkness and quiet. A gesture I learned to recognize a long time ago.

The stairs creak one at a time. The clicks of hard-soled shoes tell me it's Dad. He arrives at the top of the stairs with a lunch tray for Mom—the one I take to her daily. I want to smack my palm to my forehead for not seeing it sooner. I should have known when my father stayed home today, during his busiest time of the year, that something was up. He's seeing to Mom while I go out and "be a teenager", as he would say. He also waited till the last minute to tell me about it so I wouldn't change my mind. I'll have to remember that strategy for future use.

"Madgie, I believe there's someone at the door for you," he says, being careful not to splash any soup from the bowl. The smell is intoxicating. I wish I could invite Peeta to stay here for lunch, but then we wouldn't be going out.

"Already?"

My father makes a face. Was I whining? "He's punctual."

"No one important is ever present to appreciate punctuality," I recite.

"You don't have to quote Francis to me. Hold on one moment, Madge." Dad sets the tray down on a side table that rattles when anyone so much as breathes on it and reaches into his back pocket for a small leather pouch. "I don't know where he plans on taking you, so take this in case." He places four coins in my hand. I never carry money, not even when I pick up groceries. Everything goes on a tab that Dad pays each month. We're one of the very few families able to purchase on credit, perhaps the only family.

"I doubt he's going to take me shopping," I say. The coins feel warm and heavy in my palm. And strange. Despite what people may think, I don't have any money of my own, and the house and everything in it belongs to the district, not my father.

"I want you to have a good time."

Little does he know my standards for fake dates aren't very high. I'd be happy to paint the side of a building again. I pocket the money, unwilling to disappoint him. "Thank you."

"Well, you look beautiful. Have fun." He winks and picks up the tray again. Quietly, he enters his bedroom to wake my mother, undoubtedly thrilled to tell her all about his sneaky plan to set me up. I wouldn't even have to strain my ear to hear the conversation.

When I reach the bottom of the staircase, Faunka is a half-step away from opening the front door. Subjecting Peeta to Faunka would be worse than a man-to-man chat with Dad. I won't put him through that, especially when I already know he's as much of a victim in this as I am. "Stop right there!" I say calmly, but forcefully.

Faunka pauses with her hand hanging in the air. "Is it no longer my responsibility to answer the door?" she gripes. "Because my old bones would be happy to hear it."

I ignore the comment. By now I can tell when Faunka is trying to distract me. "You could have warned me, you know," I say, remembering their whispered conversation in the kitchen.

"Young people have an insatiable curiosity to know everything, except what is worth knowing," she says with superiority. I don't know where she pulls these proverbs from. She barely finished school and District Twelve doesn't provide much of an education as it is. And they're not from the books in the den.

There's a quick, impatient knock on the door. "You're only answering the door to get a peek," I accuse, sliding in between her and door to protect Peeta.

"I'm old. It's my right to be nosy."

And my parents wonder where I picked up my bad habits. "Faunka," I say in a warning tone. If there's anything Faunka appreciates it's being forthright. She makes a noise of disagreement, but shuffles back to the kitchen. Finally in the free and clear, I take a breath and unlock the door. I'm prepared to open with a cheerful greeting, but my voice stops short when I see him. Peeta looks…awful.

"Hey." He coughs.

"Hi," I rasp. The cough doesn't sound like that of an illness, but that must be the reason because he looks terrible. His hair is flat on one side and sticking up on the other. His eyes are red like he hasn't slept in a week, and I just saw him four days ago. His clothes are wrinkled and dusty, like he came right from work. "How are you?"

"You ready to go?" he asks stiffly.

"Oh. Sure."

Peeta takes off before I get the door closed. Good thing I already have my shoes on because I have to rush to catch up with him. He doesn't offer any compliments on my outfit or questions about my well-being as one would expect from a polite conversation with an acquaintance, let alone a date. Not that I have any delusions that this is a real date. If anything, I thought Peeta would think it as humorous as I do. "Where are we going?"

"I thought we could go to Zeke's," he mutters with his hands stuffed in his pockets.

And he sounds so excited about it, too. "Zeke's?"

"It's a…restaurant. Ezekiel Marsh owns it," Peeta explains without looking my way. "We don't have to go there. We can do…something else."

How considerate of you. For the hundredth time I hold my tongue. I save it only because I've had a morbid curiosity about Zeke's since Faunka told me it's is nothing more than a "bolting-hutch of beastliness". "Zeke's sounds wonderful," I say pleasantly.

Peeta doesn't appear as if he's listening at all. His eyes cloud over and he stares at the ground directly ahead of us. I'm surprised he doesn't run himself into the side of a building.

"The weather's nice, isn't it? Not too hot," I say idly. I'm boring myself with this conversation. "It'll get warmer later on, I suppose."

Peeta says nothing. Fake dates shouldn't be this hard.

"And the bakery? How are things there?"

"Busy. We had to start a wedding cake over from scratch. My mom was pissed," he growls.

"That's unfortunate," I offer. This person next to me, stomping through the square, is not the Peeta I've grown up with. Peeta Mellark is known for his generally sunny disposition, just like I'm known for being mannerly and Katniss is known for being abrupt. Peeta was in such high spirits a few days ago, even in the midst of doing his chores.

Is it…is it me? Am I such unwelcome company?

My house isn't far from the square and the square isn't far from anything in Twelve so we make it to Zeke's in no time at all. Although, Zeke's is barely part of what is unofficially known as "Town". Because the population is so small District Twelve is officially all one entity.

The large bay windows in the front are clouded up with dust and look like they haven't been washed in fifteen years or so. I cup my hands over the glass to block the glare from the sun. All I make out is some cobwebs stuck to the inside of the glass.

"Why did you want to come here?" I ask out of pure curiosity. From what I've gathered this place is more of a tavern than it is a restaurant, only serving food to give the place a smidgen of respectability.

"I don't know. Mom told me to spend some money. Prove we could afford it, I guess." Peeta shrugs. Ah, well Mrs. Mellark needn't do that. My father could easily obtain a family's earnings for the year. In fact, he often does when he sends census forms to the Capitol. My stomach grumbles and I think of Faunka's soup. "We can leave," he proposes.

"No, let's go in," I say as I quickly make for the door. An opportunity to see a den of iniquity does not come by often. But upon entering, the only evidence of iniquity is a lack of cleanliness and the scent of stale smoke. The place is tiny, bordering on claustrophobic. It's also empty, save for one person who sits at the bar, hunching over a glass of something brown, murky, and undoubtedly homemade. Twelve is technically a dry district. It's possible no one is aware of this or if they are they ignore it, but it's in the district charter that hangs on the wall in my father's office at the Justice Building. I've read it five or six times.

"Shall we?" Peeta sinks down at one of the few tables meant for patrons such as us, the lunch crowd. I sit down across from Peeta in a chair that doesn't match his. I glance over at the bar and see and image of us in a warped piece of mirror hanging behind it. It's unlikely Peeta and I fit the description of Zeke's usual clientele. In fact, a dirty limerick about townies that's carved into the table top makes this very clear to me.

When Peeta doesn't say anything, I fiddle with a gas lamp that rests in the middle of the table; appropriate for a mining town. It may be a good thing they don't bother to wash the windows. The limited daylight helps to conceal the coal dust and peanut shells on the floor. "I've never been here before." That's probably obvious. The man at the bar wobbles in his stool as he lays his head down on the counter next to a television that's broadcasting static. I never thought of watching the Games anywhere other than my own house. I suppose if you're making bets you might need to be here to collect.

"I was here once last fall," Peeta says. "When Rilee turned eighteen. He wants to have my brother's bachelor party here, too." It's hard to imagine this place set up for a party. Seems like the kind of place to drown your sorrows. Maybe that's why Peeta had no qualms about bringing me here. His mood matches the décor.

Suddenly, the table jolts from under our elbows when a woman bashes straight into it. "What can I getcha?" the woman asks. She looks to be around thirty with wide hips and scuffed elbows that must bump into every surface of the tiny establishment.

"Two teas. Two cheese sandwiches," Peeta orders. The woman darts away before I can open my mouth. "Trust me. That's the only item worth ordering," Peeta informs me. He slouches down in his seat, tilting his head over the back of the chair. Again, I wonder why he chose to bring me here. We could have just as easily gone to the bakery or eaten the meal Faunka made. As far as pretend dates go, this one ranks low.

Peeta and I sit in silence for several minutes. The woman brings our tea, splashing a fair amount onto the table when she sets the cups down. No milk or sugar. It's weak, lukewarm, and not at all satisfying on a summer day. Not that anyone is coming here for the tea. Hutch of beastliness and all that.

Peeta continues to stare at the ceiling, ignoring me.

You know, maybe it's not the place that's wrong. Zeke's doesn't exactly come out of a girl's fantasy, but neither is doing chores, which is what we did last week and it was fun. This could be entertaining if Peeta weren't being a miserable killjoy. I'm stuck in this, too. It's not him alone. Even Katniss would be disappointed in him for acting this way.

Clearing my throat I say, "So, your brother is engaged? Grace Fielding, right?"

"Right," Peeta grunts.

"How did he propose?"

"The first time or the second time?"

"He needed to propose more than once?"

Peeta sits up, but leans his head in his hand like it's too heavy for his neck to hold up. "Well, the first idea fell through. Miche made a cake for her, covered in frosting roses, with the words 'Will you marry me?' written on it. Then, the night he was going to give it to her, Grace made some comment about not wanting her proposal to come in frosting."

"How did she know?"

Peeta rubs the back of his neck. A grimace takes over his face. "I think my mom might have had something to do with it. She ruined the surprise. She doesn't like Grace much."

I recall seeing Grace and Peeta's brother Miche as a couple when they were still in school. They were sweet. And every girl in my class was jealous of Grace Fielding. I grin, thinking every girl in my class would be jealous of me for sitting here with Peeta. Well, not for sitting here in particular.

"Anyway," Peeta continues. "My brother isn't the most creative, so his second idea was to make a bunch of cookies and lay them out on her kitchen table in the shape of the words." The idea seems quite appropriate coming from a baker. And it's nice to think of someone putting in so much effort to make the girl he loves feel special. "I don't know why Miche had it in his head that the proposal had to be food related," Peeta mutters.

I laugh unexpectedly. Peeta glances at me like he isn't aware he made a joke. "She said yes though?"

"There wasn't any doubt. They've been together for years." Peeta sighs, his shoulders drooping. If the depressing surroundings aren't enough, it's impossible not to feel bad for him with such a forlorn look in his eyes. Who am I kidding? He doesn't want to be fixed up with me. He wants to be with Katniss, doing silly, romantic things like writing her messages in frosting. That's the way the Mellark boys are, a couple of them anyway.

Our sandwiches arrive a moment later. Luckily, I have my teacup in hand when the waitress comes barreling in. The sandwiches are served hot with whitish cheese oozing out of the sides. Amazingly enough one side is burnt and the other doesn't appear to have hit the pan. Peeta pushes his plate aside and scrubs his hands over his face. "Look, I'm really sorry about this," he says seriously. "My mom…well, my mom is a piece of work. When she saw you the other day she decided to match us up. I didn't ask her to do this."

"It's okay, Peeta. I didn't think you planned it," I assure him. "We have meddlesome parents is all." Glad we finally got that out of the way. No sense in pretending this is anything but what it is. I take a bite of my sandwich, if only to say I did it. How does a sandwich manage to be soggy on one side and crunchy on the other? I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand in lieu of a napkin. "I'm glad it was me your mother decided to match you up with and not someone who doesn't know what's going on with you and Katniss," I say honestly. I think back on the way Vesta threw herself at Peeta last week. He would have been a dead man today with anyone but me.

"There is no me and Katniss."

I'm brushing crumbs off my lap and suddenly couldn't care less about them. "What?" I whisper, even though there's no one to hear us. I'm pretty sure the man at the bar is sleeping.

"As of last Tuesday, she ended it," Peeta says matter-of-factly, but his eyes couldn't be emptier.

"I'm sorry," I reply. The words sound hollow and meaningless. Tuesday? The same day he told me they were together. So this is the reason for the poor dress and the haunted appearance? How could I have been so slow to realize? I haven't had much experience with heartache, but now it makes sense. Peeta's not ill or upset he was matched by his mother. He's heartbroken. "What happened?"

"I don't really want to talk about it," he mumbles, slouching deeper into his chair.

I wish my sandwich were worth eating, if only to give me something to do. I sip my bland tea, searching my mind for something to say. The truth is, I don't know a lot about Katniss and Peeta's relationship. No one does. It's obvious Peeta is miserable, which makes me wonder how Katniss is. She's even less forthcoming about her personal life, but that doesn't mean she's not hurting.

"What do you know about Gale Hawthorne?" Peeta suddenly asks. He peers at me through narrowed eyes. I freeze like I've been caught eavesdropping, which hasn't happened since I was eight. I've become very good at not getting caught.

"Uh…not much. He…uh…works with Katniss," I say vaguely. I'm not about to take any risks on Katniss and Gale's behalf, even in a place as disreputable as this. "Sometimes he sells us berries."

"Hmph," Peeta grunts in response.

I release a breath of relief. There's more I could say about what I've observed and concluded. They're close friends. They spend a lot of time together. Alone. But I don't think those things impact what Peeta has…had with Katniss, not really. Because Gale…well, Gale also has a reputation. In particular, a reputation with girls. Katniss has never struck me as the type to participate in what goes on at the slag heap.

And how do I know these things? I…I couldn't help it. The day Gale arrived at our doorstep offering laundry services, a scruffy boy back then, was the day he became another secret I needed to unravel. It was impossible not to be curious. It's still impossible not to be curious about the dark-haired, stoic, and sometimes menacing man he became. But it isn't his looks or the differences in our backgrounds that keeps me interested. No, it's something much less honorable. I value my diplomacy and my patience, but when I talk to Gale Hawthorne, he never fails to get under my skin. And the temptation to best one another is something neither of us can resist.

The red-haired kid doesn't even bother to watch. I think his name is Rags. He's a freshman; that much I know. Every year freshmen are recruited to run the games. But instead of actually doing his job and watching as I throw rubber balls at a stack of painted milk bottles he stares across the lawn at a freshman girl with brunette pigtails. I should be glad. I mean, why would I want someone to watch me fail at this stupid game? Yet, if he were paying attention that would at least present the illusion that he thinks I might win.

In a fit of irritation I throw a ball at the kid, but unfortunately, my aim is just as bad as it was with the milk bottles and I miss. It does get his attention when the ball smacks twelve inches or so from his shoulder. He flashes me a dirty look. I shrug innocently.

I wind up my arm with my final ball, but just before I release, a voice startles me. Deep and cynical and…familiar. "You need to work on your follow through."

I peek over my shoulder. Gale Hawthorne stands a head taller than everyone else. Most seniors don't stay for the end of the year festival having grown too old for carnival games. They pick up the free food and leave. How long has he been watching me?

"My what?" I inquire.

"Your follow though. Don't stop short when you throw."

Stop short of what? Of hitting the bottles? Because the whole ball to bottle concept I already understand. It's the execution that I haven't gotten the hang of yet. I twist back toward the booth and throw without thinking. My aim isn't any better, but the sound the ball makes when it hits the back of the booth is gratifying. I look back at Gale. "Better?" I bark.

"Not really." He smirks, stepping toward me. "I thought the guys were supposed to play the games and the girls were supposed to watch."

I roll my eyes. The festival traditions are a touch antiquated, but that's all they are, little romantic traditions. They aren't hard examples of gender roles in Twelve or anywhere else. Despite this, my face flushes and I wish I weren't standing in front of Gale empty handed. "Maybe I want the satisfaction of having won my prize on my own," I say with confidence.

"With that throw you're not going to have much chance of that," Gale scoffs. He leans against the corner column of the booth, folding his arms over his chest.

"Do you seek me out just to make fun of me?"

"Not usually, but in this instance I couldn't resist."

Liar. You take advantage in every instance. I flick my eyes toward anything other than Gale's face. They catch on a bright purple paper rose hanging out of his pocket. "And who might the unfortunate recipient of that be?" I point to the flower.

Gale glances at his pocket. Then back at me. He doesn't even blush. He would if he had any decency. It could be for any number of girls. "Maybe I picked it up just for you," he taunts.

I snort. "No chance."

"Why not?"

"Because even you're not that brave," I say. And it's truer than I want it to be.

Rags—I'm now ninety percent sure that's his name—finally distracts himself from the brunette girl and begins picking up all my wayward pitches. Gale remains where he is, leaning against the booth. And doing it way too well. We may be closing in our longest interaction ever. He usually only has time to collect his payment, make a snide comment, and leave.

"It's for my favorite girl," Gale says abruptly. "I promised her one."

"Isn't she lucky," I say sarcastically…sincerely…I'm not sure what I mean.

"Yeah, well, she's four so she doesn't have very high standards."

Four? Oh. "Sister?" I question. My voice comes out without an attitude. Dad would be proud. Gale nods. "Lucky." This time it's said with all sincerity.

Rags returns to the front of the booth, dropping all the rubber balls on a counter between us. "Did you want to try again?" he asks. There's no line behind me. In fact, several of the booths have started packing up. I didn't get here till late. I went home after school to take care of Mom so Dad could concentrate on work. I wasn't planning on going to the festival at all except Faunka stuck her nose in and mentioned it, and when Dad realized what I was missing he sent me here with instructions to have fun.

The kid eyes me with contempt. He'd much rather be off chasing that brunette no doubt.

"Yes," I answer assertively, picking up a ball. Rags sighs dramatically and steps off to the side.

I ignore him and start lobbing missiles at the target. I skim the top tier once and it wobbles.

"Is that how they teach kids to throw in town?" Gale wonders aloud.

"It comes naturally," I snap. I could have learned. There were always kids playing outside in the neighborhood. Except, I didn't like to be far from my mother; not because I was afraid of what might happen to me, but because I was afraid of what might happen to her if I left. She wasn't always ill, but her health could change so suddenly. And she needed me there to bring her cold glasses of water or to sing her songs about snowflakes and chocolate cake while she slept. These days, Dad constantly tells me the best thing I can do for her is to go out, have fun with friends. Nonetheless, that tethered feeling remains. I don't think it'll ever go away entirely.

After another whopping miss, Gale pushes off the column and rubs his hand over his forehead. "I can't watch this anymore. It's too pathetic."

Good. Leave.

"Please, let me show you," he pleads.

This makes me pause. He draws closer. His calloused fingers gently touch my elbow, which is petrified in the midst of my unsuccessful technique, and pulls it down against my side. Little sparks of electricity itch across my skin where he touched me. I look away. "Fine." I'm surprised by how relaxed my voice is. The inside of my mouth feels as dry as a cotton ball.

Rags sighs loudly, again. There's no end in sight for this poor kid. You'd think he'd just give me a flower to get me out of his hair.

Gale flicks his head at the kid and says "Beat it." Rags blinks at him, takes about three seconds to think it over, then he jumps over the half wall of the booth and scurries off toward a group of freshmen and the brunette he was eyeing.

"Okay," Gale begins, his voice taking on a composed, instructor's tone. He picks up a ball and moves into a natural, athletic stance. "Plant your right foot. Lead with your left." He demonstrates. I follow. Easy enough. "Arm back," Gale says.

I copy his pose, but apparently I have it wrong. Gale touches my elbow like before, only this time he lifts it up higher.

"When you throw, point your elbow toward your target." He pretends to throw the ball in smooth, slow motion. The muscles of his arms flex with the movement. I narrow my eyes tightly on the stack of bottles and pray my face isn't as flushed as it feels. "Cross you arm over your body to follow through," Gale finishes with a flick of his wrist.

Oh, so that's what he was talking about. Follow through. It takes a few tries to get my arms to coordinate with my legs. It's also hard to focus knowing that Gale is standing there, judging me. Then again, when is he ever not judging me?

"Good," Gale comments on my seventh run through. "Now let go of the ball."

Darn. Just when pretend throwing was going so well.

Okay. Focus. With my right foot firmly in place, I wind my arm back, snap forward, and definitely follow through, but instead of hurling through the bottles like I imagined, it veers off to the left near the base of the setup.

"You pointed your elbow left, so it went left," Gale assesses. He demonstrates the form, this time moving comically slow. But Gale isn't one to make jokes, not with me anyway. And I know that this gesture, this whole lesson perhaps, is for his own amusement. So later on today he can laugh about how he couldn't teach the mayor's daughter, the little girl, the townie, to throw a stupid ball!

The ball soars from my hand without any conscious effort on my part. And on my second try since the lesson, my fifteenth try since I started, I hit the center of the stack and the bottles fly apart, clattering against the ground.

Gale leans back on his heels. "There it is," he says. Surprised. Perhaps pleased. Who knows?

"Too bad you chased Rags away." It comes out more harshly than I meant it to.

"Who?"

Oops. Maybe that wasn't his name. "The kid." I gesture to where the freshman attendant was sitting. "I won't get my prize."

"Oh." Gale shrugs. He leans over the counter and comes back up with a pink paper peony. He holds it out to me. "Here." I hate the way my hand shakes as I take it, so I do it quickly, hoping he won't notice. "Wouldn't want you to be accused of stealing," he jibes.

The flower stem crinkles in my fist. I take a deep breath and try to calm the gritty annoyance slipping though my veins. This is what Gale Hawthorne does. He hides venom in innocuous words. And then worst of all, I still feel the need to prove myself to him.

"I won this fair and square," I mutter. I stare at the flower and suddenly have the urge to pluck each and every delicate petal.

"You could start a new tradition where the girl gives the guy a flower."

I sniff at that. "And who would I give it to? You?" That level of frankness I usually keep to myself, but the combination of irritation and his closeness rattles is out of me.

Gale shakes his head, smirking. "Depends. Are you that brave?"

I look up before I have to good sense not to. He stands close, not uncomfortably so, but close enough that I can see the scruff on his chin, notice he's missing the top button of his shirt, and watch his eyes flit over my face. Practically every word Gale has ever said to me has been a hidden challenge, but never like this. My heart pounds rapidly in my chest and I wonder, not for the first time, what would happen if I called his bluff.

I don't get the chance. Not today.

"I have to wrangle up my brothers," Gale says, stepping back. "See you around."

I barely hear Gale's light footsteps as he treads off. I don't allow myself watch him leave. Instead, I curse myself for letting him leave me feeling the same way he always does: breathless.

Later on I realized I might have overreacted to the throwing demo, but with Gale Hawthorne it's so hard to tell. "Hide not your poison with such sugary words", as Faunka would say. We're both at fault, I suppose, to the point that I can't remember who started the feud. But if I had to bet I'd put all the coins in my pocket on him.

I can definitely relate to Peeta when it comes to speculating on Gale's motivations. "Is Gale the reason Katniss ended it?" I ask.

Peeta shifts in his chair. The scowl on his face deepens. "I don't…I don't think so," he says dismally.

I bounce between a myriad of emotions. Confusion, concern, uncertainty…relief. That last one I swallow back with the last dregs of my tea.

"Do you think that a townie and someone from the Seam can be together?" Peeta asks. I'm surprised to see him sit up a bit straighter, watching me seriously for my answer.

"Of course," I reply. "We're free to be with whoever we wish."

"So if you brought home a miner your father would be fine with it?"

It's a good thing I finished my drink because otherwise the shock would have had me spitting tea directly in Peeta's face. Not so much about the miner part, just the idea in general. "If I brought any boy home I think my father would fall victim to some kind of cardiac episode," I say to avoid the subject both in my mind and in this conversation.

"He let you go out with me," Peeta points out.

"He arranged for me to go out with you. There's a difference." A big difference. A pretend date versus a meet-the-parents kind of difference. And while I do think that bringing a boy home would upset my father, especially at my age, I don't see the Town/Seam issue becoming anything of note. Would he be concerned? Of course. What father wouldn't? But the care of my heart would be his most important worry. I have little doubt however that in the case of Mrs. Mellark and her adamant matchmaking, love was the furthest thing from her mind. "If you love someone it doesn't matter."

Peeta pokes his drab uneaten sandwich. His pale face matches the color of the cheese. "Simple as that, huh?"

"There would be sacrifices, but there's no reason for us to be as polarized as we are. We—" My chair protests when I sit up. I take another appraisal of the dilapidated bar no more than a half mile from where I live in a comfortable house with thin walls, but no cobwebs or coal dust. Peeta looks just as out of place, despite how hard he's trying to waste away before my eyes. People from town, people from the Seam, we face different struggles, but we all have the same needs. We just lack the resources to fulfill them. The fault doesn't lie with my family or Peeta's or Gale's. It lies with the Capitol. If only that could be said during something other than whispered conversations. "We all live here," I say quietly.

"I guess." Peeta leans onto the table again. He moves onto tracing the carvings in the table. I lean forward onto the table, mirroring his movement. "There's something else. She doesn't want a boyfriend. At all," Peeta murmurs sadly, his voice rough.

Finally, we get to the crux of the situation, though I don't entirely understand it. I wish I were closer with Katniss. I regret not being a better friend to her. But one thing I do know about Katniss from the interactions we've had, is that she's steadily pragmatic and she has a reason for everything, even this. I tap my fingernails anxiously as I prepare to say something I know Peeta will not want to hear. "Then I suppose you should respect that."

Peeta swallows back on nothing. His cheeks redden for the first time today. Too bad I don't carry a handkerchief like Dad does. "Even if she has feelings for me?"

"You can't force Katniss to do anything," I point out. If he's gotten close enough to Katniss to call himself her boyfriend, then he's well aware of that. "If you care about her, you wouldn't want to."

The waitress abruptly manifests beside us once again. Both Peeta and I sit back in our chairs so she can take the plates. She doesn't even comment on how we've barely touched either one. On her back to the kitchen, or wherever she disappears to, she sets one of the congealed cheese sandwiches next to the man at the bar. He lifts up his head and sniffs the air, then immediately smacks his head back down.

Peeta uses this time to compose himself. His face is still red, but he's no longer sniffling, which is good because I don't know what I would do with a sixteen year old boy in tears.

"This is my first date," I blurt out. "Ever."

Peeta blinks. "You're kidding."

"Nope."

Peeta becomes the second man today that I'm able to embarrass. "I'm sorry," he apologizes hastily. "I've been…and this week has just been…and next week…" He clamps his mouth shut. Amazingly, that babble I actually decode. He's had his heart crushed. It's been the worst week of his life. And next week is the reaping. The most wretched day of the year.

Wordlessly, I accept his apology. I reach into my pocket, find the coins there, and plunk one on the table. This might have been the worst date ever, but I would feel bad making Peeta pay for me. "Thank you for taking me on my first date."

"This does not count toward your first date," Peeta says adamantly. "Your first is going to be with a guy who worships the ground you walk on, who doesn't need his mother to ask you out for him, who—"

"Who isn't in love with another girl?" I laugh. Peeta looks down at his lap. That wasn't meant to make him feel worse. If anything, it's a comment on my bad luck. "Regardless, it was memorable," I promise him.

I push off the table to stand and straighten my clothes. Peeta doesn't bother to adjust his wrinkled shirt, but he does remember to set a coin on the table. It bounces next to mine, and all of a sudden I have a fantastic idea. The perfect way to end this disaster. "Do you have a pen?"

Peeta digs in his pockets, but comes up with nothing. I bite my thumbnail and glance around for a errant nail or a lost fork. Zeke's is cleaner than I initially gave it credit. I push my hair out of my eyes. My fingers brush against the hairpin I put there earlier. Excellent. The pin isn't sharp or broad enough to carve deeply into the table, but it does scratch the surface. I have a natural compulsion to look out for the waitress, but what are the odds that she'll care? The table is already crowded with graffiti.

"What are you writing?" Peeta asks from over my shoulder.

Nothing all that inspired unfortunately. If Faunka were here she'd come up with something genius. "Just a little note to prove I was here," I reply. I lean back so Peeta can see my scrawl.

MU WAS HERE, it reads.

Not too creative. Not very rebellious. But it's evidence I was here. Proof I was brave.

A/N: You know, a long time ago I told Medea that First Date was not going to become a Gadge story. At the time, I meant it. Thanks to her for the plot bunny and for coming up with the title.

Quotes paraphrased from Oscar Wilde & William Shakespeare. Also, thank you to my Great Aunt Faunka and my Great Uncle Rags for letting me snag their names.