Disclaimer: The Hunger Games isn't mine.

Chapter 3

I take one step, two steps forward off the rope at the back of the sixteens' area towards Katniss but as I pass, Madge takes hold of my arm, shaking her head.

I look into her eyes, and her touch takes me back through my memories. Three years ago in this square, under a sky full of stars, I tried to kiss my friend Madge. It was after the feast we hold every year for the Hunger Games victor, and spirits were unusually high. Everyone had stayed in the square after the victor, that year from District 2 I think, had left.

Madge always sat with her family. As daughter of the mayor, she was given the honor of sitting with the victor at the head table. But afterwards, she had come to be with the other town kids. Around school, she has always been something of a loner but does spend a little time with the town kids in our class. I have always felt close to her, though. She is a listener, an observer, quiet where other girls often annoy me with their loudness. Other boys admire her, too. She is very pretty, and I thought that night I could see her as something more than a friend, someone who could help erase the one girl I could never seem to get off my mind.

I waited until she had stepped a few feet away from the group and came up behind her, tapping her on the shoulder.

"Happy Victory Tour," I said. She just laughed and smiled up at me, but the smile didn't really reach her eyes. Hoping to change that, I bent my head towards hers. Madge allowed my lips to touch hers, a butterfly of a kiss, and pulled away. She looked up at me, said, "Who is it you really want to be kissing, Peeta?"

Then she turned and walked away. Somehow she knew, maybe had always known. She has always noticed more about me than anyone else. Never accepted my explanations when I come to school bruised or cut. Or when the others make fun of me for daydreaming so much. Always, she seems to see the truth of things.

I watched her walk away, thinking to follow her to explain, but there wasn't anything to say, really. As Madge left the square that night, she gave the same tiny wave I saw today. My eyes followed her line of sight, and saw her, just as I had today. Back then, Katniss was also in a group of Seam kids, all full of food for once. She was laughing with a tall boy, and holding her sister's hand. Her sister, Primrose, alone among the Seam kids in her golden blonde hair, fair skin and light eyes. Prim for short, who is known and loved by the entire district for her gentle, caring nature.

Prim, who now walks toward her imminent death. Angry murmurs ripple through the crowd gathered in the square today, but softly. There's nothing anyone can do to stop the oncoming horror, the death of this tiny, fragile girl.

Prim's steps are steady, and as she walks past us I can see the back of her shirt has come untucked, hanging over her skirt. I close my eyes. I don't want to see this, don't want to be part of this ceremony where kids like Prim even have the smallest chance of walking to their own destruction. Because sometimes, that small chance becomes the only one. Like the year of Jemin's first Reaping. Like today.

I move my arm in Madge's hold until I have her by the hand, squeezing it for strength. She squeezes back in reassurance. I wish, if just for a second, that I could take the place of the girl walking to the stage. I have forgotten to be worried that another may wish it, too.

My eyes snap open when I hear a strangled cry.

"Prim!" Katniss is moving toward her sister, "Prim!" and no one is trying to stop her. The pain in her voice draws me to her like a moth to a flame. I make to go to her, but Madge's gentle hold turns into a vicelike grip on my hand. I turn to look at her, surprised. She's incredibly strong for such a quiet girl.

Again, she just shakes her head. She knows there is nothing I can do, nothing can be done to stop what I know is about to happen.

"I volunteer! I volunteer as tribute!"

The words slice through me, a hot, sharp knife through just baked bread. And that's it. As relieved as I was, now I am sick. I can't think, can't move, can only hold onto Madge's hand while I watch my nightmare unfold in front of me.

Katniss shoves Prim behind her, blocking her from the eyes of those on stage, from the cameras and those who would put this little girl in such grave danger. Mayor Undersee, Effie Trinket, everyone is confused. In the more wealthy districts, closer to the Capitol, where being a tribute is a privilege and winning the Hunger Games is an honor, volunteering happens so often the procedure is well known. But no one in District 12 ever volunteers. There hasn't been one in my father's lifetime, and nobody seems to know how to handle it.

Effie Trinket recovers first, "Lovely! But I believe there's the small matter of introducing the reaping winner and then asking for volunteers, and if one does come forth then we, um…" She stops, looking back to Mayor Undersee for assistance.

He steps forward, "What does it matter?" He says gruffly, looks at Katniss, shakes his head in a gesture so much like his daughter's, "What does it matter? Let her come forward."

If you have looked at her face as much as I have, you would see the brief flashes of emotion that Katniss reveals then. Relief, fear, resignation. Everyone else probably just saw a mask of determination settle around her eyes as she takes her first step forward.

But Prim has locked her arms around Katniss's waste and is screaming. "No, Katniss! No! You can't go!"

This is all so unreal. It's happening somewhere else, somewhere far away. My brain can't process the pain my heart feels as I watch Katniss turn to her sister and tell her to let go. Her voice is harsh, unyielding, a tone I have never heard her use towards Prim. I can see the pain that's causing her to lash out at the one she loves the most, and wonder if anyone else can.

Prim isn't breaking off, but suddenly a tall boy, man really, is pulling her away, hoisting her up and whispering in Katniss's ear. It's the same boy I saw with her that night in the square after the Victor's Feast. The same boy I see her with almost every day we are out of school. I am jealous of him, have always been jealous. I want to snatch Katniss up like he has Prim, and run as far as I can, but Madge still has a hold on my hand. I can only watch as Prim turns into his broad shoulders and sobs. Katniss finally makes her way up the stairs. Prim is carried to her mother, pale and shaking almost as badly as Prim.

When Katniss reaches the top of the steps, she moves to stand beside the podium.

"Well, bravo! That's the spirit of the Games!" Effie Trinket is fairly glowing, ecstatic to finally have something interesting happen in our quaint little district. "What's your name?"

"Katniss Everdeen," she says. Her voice is flat and emotionless. She has shut out the bubbly Capitol mouthpiece on her left, the cameras, the audience, everything, and stares straight ahead.

"I bet my buttons that was your sister!" Effie says, "Don't want her to steal all the glory, do we? Come on, everybody! Let's give a big round of applause to our newest tribute!"

I shudder. Applause? Glory? Can she really think Katniss wanted this? Can Effie really be so blind to what happened at the foot of that stage? The gaping hole in the pit of my stomach suddenly fills with what feels like fifty pounds of flour. I will not clap, will not condone this.

No one else in the district will, either. We all just stare at the stage, at the girl who was brave enough to walk into certain death for her sister. Bravery is highly prized here in District 12. It takes a certain kind of courage to survive down in the coal mines, a courage to face an unstoppable force and draw something useful from it. The tons of rock in our mountains, the Capitol, both unstoppable forces the people of District 12 can only endure.

Katniss has shown she has that courage, and we honor it the only way we know how, with our silence. I slowly move my left hand towards my mouth. Madge sees the movement and releases my other hand to do the same. We touch the three middle fingers to our mouths, and hold them out towards Katniss. Those around us see what we've done, and follow suit. Soon, the whole district is holding up their left hands.

This is an old gesture in our district. They teach us in school these things from before the Dark Days are to be forgotten, but a few have held on. This one is rarely used, mostly at funerals, and it means admiration, thanks, goodbye to someone you love. It's the only way I can tell her now, how I feel, my awe at her bravery and my love for her. And how much I will miss her, this girl who I've never had the courage to speak to myself.

"Look at her! Look at this one!" Haymitch Abernathy's voice booms out from the silence. He makes his unsteady way across the stage, throwing his arm around her to regain his balance. The crowd drops their hands and collectively cringes at the slurring in his words.

"I like her! Lots of… Spunk! More than you!" The drunkard releases Katniss and wobbles towards the front of the stage, "More than you!" he shouts, pointing directly at the camera closest to him. The silence turns from solemn to shocked. Could Haymitch be deliberately taunting the Capitol?

He gesticulates wildly, as if to continue, but sets himself off balance and tumbles from the stage, knocking himself unconscious. More confusion ensues as those closest to the front push back to allow the Peacekeepers through. They move Haymitch's unresponsive form onto a stretcher and carry him away, every camera following his progress through the crowd.

But I'm not looking at Haymitch. I'm looking at Katniss, her expression unguarded for just a second, disgust, relief, and could that be gratitude flit across her face. Her eyes seek out her mother and sister, clinging together at the back of the audience, two fair heads bent together in sorrow. The steel in Katniss's eyes slams back down. The show must go on.

"What an exciting day!" Effie Trinket tries to get us back on track. She grabs her frosting pink hair, which must be a wig as it has listed severely to the right, in an attempt to straighten it. "But more excitement to come!" She trills, "It's time to choose our boy tribute!"

Holding onto her hair, she crosses purposefully to the clear glass ball containing the slips of paper bearing the names of all the boys in District 12. Her hand dives in and grabs the very first one she can reach. She's given me no time to refocus, no time to worry for myself or my brother when she nearly runs back to the podium and reads the name.

"Peeta Mellark."

Peeta Mellark!

Now I know this must be a nightmare. I know I will wake up in my bed in the attic above the bakery. I will hear my brother's snores and see the old wooden rafters supporting our roof. I'll go down to the kitchens to help my father, and everything will be normal. Katniss will be safe, I will be safe.

But someone is tugging on my hand. My eyes clear and I can see Madge's face. Her lips are moving, but no sound is reaching me. I think I'm in shock. They talk about this in school, that after a mining accident it's not uncommon for whole families to remove themselves from the situation. To see everything as if it's happening to another person.

That's how I feel right now. I know Madge is pushing me gently towards the stage, but I can't feel it. I know my feet are moving, but my mind isn't controlling them. I pass the other kids, keeping my eyes forward. As I make it to the stairs, I see a crumpled blue ribbon ground into the dust. It must have fallen out of Prim's hair as she struggled to hold on to her sister.

That ribbon brings me back to the present, back to my body. I can feel myself begin to panic but fight hard to hold in the emotion. Like Prim, there is nothing I can do but walk forward. But unlike Prim, I have no one who will shove me aside. No one who will take my place. Jemin is too old to be eligible, and Colm, who could, never would. What Katniss has done is the exception, not the rule.

I make my way up the steps and catch the eyes of Mayor Undersee. He looks tired, sad. Has Madge talked about me at home? Does he recognize the boy who sometimes walks her home? Does he care that I'll never return to District 12?

I take my place beside Katniss. I know the mayor has moved to end the ceremony by reading out the rest of the Treaty of Treason, but I don't hear anything. I can feel her presence burning like a flame down my left side, since this is the closest I've been to her in years. His dull words flow over me as I enjoy the warmth of her nearness, a sharp counterpoint to the cold horror slowly creeping into the rest of my body. Isn't it funny, that the Hunger Games would bring us together? Isn't it terrible?

The mayor finishes his speech, and motions for me to shake Katniss's hand. I move towards her, holding my hand out to take hers. It's so much smaller than my own, but calloused like mine, and strong.

I look into her eyes and she looks back, but I don't think she's seeing me. Her mask is still in place, and her gaze is empty.

What I see a five year old girl, two dark braids down her back, in a red plaid dress. She's standing on a stool in our music teacher's room on the first day of school, singing in a high, sweet, clear voice, and even the birds have stopped their chorus to listen. It's the moment I fell in love with her.

I see a girl, maybe seven, walking with her father down the street. They are totally absorbed in each other, smiling and laughing, taking no notice of the small boy who watches them out the window, hidden behind the cakes and pies and bread.

I see a girl with lanky legs, ten, running in a foot race outside the school building. She's faster, much faster, than the other girls. Her eyes flash with triumph as she crosses the finish line.

I see an eleven year old, cheeks hollow and eyes sunken in, leaning against the old apple tree in our backyard. My mother has warned at her to leave our property or risk having the Peacekeepers called, but I watch as she slowly sinks to the ground, protected on two sides by gnarled roots. She is dejected, hungry, hopeless. I can see it from the slump of her shoulders, the heavy angle of her head. It is late, and my mother has returned to the kitchen to finish up the evening's tasks. I turn and follow, moving to the far oven, taking out the final loaves of the day. I hold them in my hands, crusts still hot from baking, and make a decision. I pretend to trip over the knotted rug in front of the ovens, made from rags and fraying at the edges, and let the loaves slip from my fingers, falling just as I had planned into the open fire grate where Colm is spreading out the last of the dying embers.

Colm scrambles to retrieve the loaves, but it's too late. They've been burned beyond scraping, beyond even being served to our family for a meal. My mother hears the commotion and rushes over to see the damage. She turns on me, reaches back with the wooden spoon in her hands, and brings it crashing around on my face, right underneath my eye. The sting automatically brings tears to my eyes, and I can't help but whimper faintly as she brings the spoon down again, on the exact same spot.

She screeches, "Feed it to the pig, you stupid creature! Why not? No one decent will buy burned bread!"

This is better than I could have hoped for. Only two blows, and no need to sneak the loaves out of the trash and into my school bag to take to the girl the next day. I hurry outside before she can change her mind, tearing chunks and throwing them to the pig while I can feel her eyes on me. Luckily, the bell at the front of the store chimes, signaling a paying customer has entered, and her gaze lifts off me. I look over my shoulder, just to be sure, and throw one, then both loaves at the girl's feet.

I see the girl the next day, cheeks still hollow, but eyes sharp and clear. She is collecting her sister, ready to head home for the afternoon, and she looks up. Our eyes meet for a moment, but I look away. I don't want her to know I'm staring.

I see and remember all these things as we stand, hands clasped across a chasm I know I will never be able to cross. I wonder now why I could never gain the confidence to talk to her, get to know her, be with her, tell her how I feel. But it doesn't matter. It never will.

We turn together to face the crowd and the anthem of Panem plays.