I don't pass anyone as I make my way to my home. It's not too far from Gale's, luckily, but it's tucked away further, towards the edge of town, much closer to the fence. It feels more natural, being closer to the sounds of the crickets and the wind, rather than the moans of starving, dying people.
"You're up early, Everdeen."
I stop quickly and turn around. Gale's behind me, hands shoved in his pockets, smirking.
"Hawthorne," I reply curtly, uttering an airy chuckle. "As are you, sir."
He matches my chuckle, though his is more laugh than air. He moves closer, and we break into a walk.
"What'd you do this morning? I mean, besides not sleeping," he asks, swinging his walk.
"Not sleeping is right," I groan, digging the toe of my boot into the dry, rocky soil. "I took down a goose and two squirrels for my mother and Prim, and then I stopped into the bakery. I went through the front door and the boy was there this time. He gave me two warm loaves. Warm, good bread!"
"Those Mellarks," Gale says, shaking his head, a small smile plastered across his face.
We're almost at my house. "Mellark? That's their last name?"
"Yeah, and I think the boy's name is Peeta. He's in your grade at school," Gale stops in his tracks, for a moment, and furrows his brow. "Actually—"
I'm a couple steps ahead of him, and I swing the creaky door open. Swing isn't really the word, considering the hinges rusted out long ago. Opening the door involves picking it up by the doorknob and pushing it to the side.
Nevertheless, Prim comes flying down the steps. "Gale!" she exclaims, running to him and wrapping his legs in a hug. She's petite and small, while Gale is anything but.
"Hey, little duck," he smiles, patting her head. He's good with kids, and has far more tolerance for them than I do. I love Prim more than anything in this world, but she wasn't my favorite family member when she was little enough to require diapers.
"Let's get to school," I tell her with a smile. She slips in between Gale and I, taking each of our hands.
"What were you going to say about that Mellark boy?" I ask Gale.
"Oh, nothing," he says, exaggerating his expression.
Prim looks up. "Mellark? Aren't those the people that own the bakery?"
"Yea," Gale answers for me.
I look down to Prim this time. "Do they have a child in your grade?"
"Oh, no," Prim replies, shaking her head, but not nearly as loudly as Gale. "But—"
Gale speaks up. "Watch out for the roots, little duck," as he pulls Prim right before she goes down.
I smile, and tug her up with him. School is a while from both our homes, and it's a long enough walk that your feet are always heartily sore by the time you get to school. Prim doesn't mind, in fact, she skips nearly the whole way. Gale and I aren't nearly as enthusiastic, dragging our stiff, worn limbs, wishing it was a Sunday.
Prim breaks from our hands to rush towards her friends as we approach school. Originally, just like the rest of District 12, I think whoever designed it must have been proud of it. It's fairly small, or at least it is now, buried far behind some large, dying trees. The back half of the school is charred and burned, but it's a fire so deep in the history of 12, that you'd be hard pressed to find someone who could tell you how it happened.
Gale and I separate when we make it into the school, each traveling down a different dark hallway. It's an uneasy feeling, walking through the tunnel like hallways. In a way, it must be to prepare the boys who will go off into the mines when they're young enough. But, what good is it to trap them in here so young?
The classrooms themselves aren't much better. The sad, pathetic teacher stands in the front, maybe even more miserable than my mother. They all carry a sad, used expression on their face, even though teachers are regarded as the most educated citizens of 12. They're also the most lackluster.
Backless wooden benches are lined in two columns up and down each side of the classroom, with an aisle in the middle and one on either side. The benches are also bolted to the floor, as if we're not even trusted to not steal the heavy benches.
Some kids don't even take a seat on the benches, rather scatter themselves across the room. Any shelving that might have once been in the room is gone, and a pile of wood is tossed haphazardly in the corner. The textbooks we never use are heaped in the opposite corner. If you flip through one of them, you'll find everything from ash, chewed up food and various other bodily fluids of past kids from 12.
The lights in the room hang drably from the ceiling, barely providing enough light to count your fingers. The whole room is as sad as the people forced to sit in it.
I slip into the room with everyone else. Considering how antisocial I am, there's quite a few loners in the grade. A couple people clamber in with a group, but most are silent wallflowers, who take their seats and lock their gaze on the piece of plastic pinned to the wall at the front of the room.
Most of the lessons — the controversial ones, actually — are taught through Capitol made videos. Our teacher scrawls whatever topic it is across the piece of plastic, before wheeling in a television smaller than the one we have at home.
The Panem seal is the first thing across the screen, followed by a brief description by President Snow. He's just as terrifying when he's introducing the Dark Days as he is when he brings the annual reaping.
I take a seat towards the edge of the room, settling on the bench. I watch Madge Undersee, the mayor's daughter slide into the room, and look at me. I twist my lips up in a short smile, and she crosses over to the other side of the room. She's actually fairly good company, and Gale and I frequently sell strawberries to her father. But, when it comes to class, she keeps her distance. She's still the mayor's daughter, which means she might as well be a princess in District 12.
Our teacher is the last one in the room. I feel a bit sorry for her, as she's just as haggard and skinny as the Seam kids, even if she went to the Capitol to become a teacher. She claps her hands together, but it's as dull as the town square clapping for the Games' tributes. "Class," she says flatly. "We're going to do the Dark Days today."
She turns around to the board, and her large skirt flaps around her. She has big, sturdy bones, and the limbs of a worker. But, her cheekbones stick out too far and her hipbones poke out under her cotton shirt. When she turns to face the board, her thin, bumpy spine sticks out under the thin fabric.
I watch her spindly fingers take the marker, and carefully write 'Dark Days' across the top. When she spins (albeit slowly) around to face the class again, she has a painful smile on her face. "We all know about the Dark Days from the Hunger Games, now, don't we?"
I study her even closer when she says 'Hunger Games'. I don't have much time to contemplate before she grimaces again and looks down at the cue cards that must come with the videos. "Please enjoy this— please enjoy this video— about the— the Dark Days."
The smile falters, and she walks towards the small desk provided for the teacher. She falls into the seat, cups her head into her hands, and lets out a cry.
And suddenly, I'm back on the day of the reaping, the dull, throbbing roar of fearful children pounding their palms together, for two kids they will never, ever see again. Back on the day when the only decipherable noise was a mother's cry.