This chapter pretty much wrote itself. It's been a while since I wrote a chapter for this story with this much Katniss/Peeta interaction and I didn't even realize how much I've missed it. Hope you'll enjoy!
When I step through my front door it's fifteen minutes past ten and I'm not the least bit surprised to see Peeta's jacket hanging together with Prim's on the coatrack. I feel ashamed at being late, hastily shrugging out of my father's hunting jacket and moving to the kitchen to hand today's kill over to my mother so that I can concentrate on Peeta and our school work. I find the kitchen empty of people but Peeta's backpack sits on the same chair he had it on last time. My brow furrows with confusion but then I hear voices from the sitting room. Peeta's and Prim's. I set the game bag down on the kitchen counter and hurry to join them, the greeting dying on my lips when I step into the room and see them.
"I never thought of using a stick this way before!" Prim chirps, oblivious to my entrance and perhaps even unaware that I've come home in the first place. She's standing next to Peeta, holding in her hand a half-metre long stick with a long string tied to it. On the other end of the string is a bit of balled-up paper. I recognize the string and the paper as one of her makeshift toys for Buttercup but the stick is, as her words also implied, new.
"He seems to approve," says Peeta, nodding to Buttercup who is meowing at Prim's feet, eyes glued to the familiar toy.
"He certainly does," laughs Prim. She moves the toy around and Buttercup chases it, though not quite as passionately as he goes after the light spot from the flashlight when I try to keep us entertained during stormy weathers.
Peeta's eyes leave Prim and the cat and land on me, his face instantly lighting up in a wide smile. The kind of smile I can't resist returning with a smile of my own.
"Hey!" he says, his tone warm and friendly. I'm impressed with how he sounds completely genuine, not like he's just trying to be friendly despite me not even being home when he arrived.
"Hi," I reply, trying my best to sound as friendly as he does. The smile is still on my lips but I feel a little bashful. "I'm sorry, Peeta. I apologise for not being here when we said we would meet up. I got held up. It's really rude and I'm sorry."
"Oh don't worry about it," he says. "Prim here was kind enough to let me in anyway and we've been trying to stimulate young Buttercup's mind. Got to keep him sharp if he's going to be our protection against vermin."
"Young Buttercup?" I reply dryly, though still smiling as I walk closer. "He must be the cat equivalent of about seventy."
"He is not," protests Prim, scowling at me. "He may not be as young and spry as he once was but he's no senior citizen." She bites her bottom lip and gives me a look I well recognize. A longing kind of look. "So did you… have any luck today?"
"Yeah," I tell her with a nod. "But where's Mother? I was hoping she could take care of the game so Peeta and I could get to work."
"She's over at Mrs. Spencer's house, helping her manage her nausea," Prim explains. Mrs. Spencer is one of many pregnant women who come to our door hoping that our mother will have remedies for the seemingly endless number of downsides to being with child. "She should be home in about half an hour."
"Will the meat hold?" asks Peeta. "It's alright if you want to tend to it otherwise. I can wait. I've got Buttercup here to keep me company, not to mention my pretend sister-in-law."
Prim giggles and I can't help but look from one of them to the other, wondering what kind of things the two of them might talk about when I'm not in the room. I'm pleased that they seem to have no trouble getting along but I vividly recall Prim's earlier remarks on finding Peeta attractive and even though I trust him not to do anything inappropriate I'm not quite as sure that she wouldn't do or say something that she'll find embarrassing later on.
"Why don't I just put it in the refrigerator box for now?" I say. "Then Mother can prepare it when she gets back."
Peeta shrugs and then looks surprised as Prim hands the stick over to him.
"I want to see what you caught!" she exclaims. She looks hungry and it hurts my heart.
"I'll be right back," I tell Peeta.
"Take your time," he says. Then he yelps. "Ow, kitty, claw the toy, not me!"
With Prim at my heels I head back for the kitchen and walk up to the counter and my game bag. Normally Prim doesn't want to see the dead animals I bring home. I quickly realize she's got other things on her mind besides the promise of a good meal as I've barely lifted the bird out from the bag before she steps closer to me and lowers her voice.
"Katniss I like this friend of yours." I nearly drop the bird, instantly worried that my baby sister might be developing a crush on my project partner – a boy four years her senior. She notices my wide eyes and quickly shakes her head, placing a hand on my arm. "No, not like that. Well, maybe, possibly, a few years from now but he's a little old for me now I think."
"Yeah," I manage, my mouth feeling strangely dry. I keep my eyes locked on Prim while I open the small refrigerator box and place the bird inside.
"I mean as a friend for you. As someone who comes over and spends time here. He's nice. Really nice."
"Did he bring cookies this time too?" I can't help but ask.
"No," answers Prim with a small giggle. "But just look what he did for Buttercup!"
"Prim, he tied a piece of string to a stick," I point out, feeling a bit placated but not entirely. If her main issue with him right now is that he's four years older than her then she might very well develop that crush on him anyway in a year or two when that kind of age gap doesn't seem problematic anymore. Especially if him and I were to become friends and he and Prim would be around each other on a regular basis.
"He really likes you," she says, almost as if she understands what I'm thinking.
"We get along," I answer evasively.
"You should consider keeping him around." She gives me a pointed look. "As a friend. It's not like you could ever have too many. And he's nice and polite and you seem to be fairly comfortable in his company, which I don't see with everybody. What harm can it do you to hang out with him?"
The response that immediately comes to mind is Gale. He would most certainly mind if I became friends with Peeta Mellark. He's got enough of an issue with Madge; a merchant boy would not be popular in his book. He's already displeased with Peeta coming over for school work.
"He is nice," I say to Prim. I grab my game bag and hand it to her, to be put away in its proper place. "And we do get along. But we are quite different with hardly anything in common and he lives in town and I live here. Once school is over we won't see each other much anymore. He'll be busy working at the bakery full-time and I…" An unpleasant shiver runs through me. "I will probably be down in the mines six days a week."
That puts an end to the conversation. Prim is no more fond of the idea of me going down into the mines than I am but we both know it's a very likely prospect. She nods slightly, kisses my cheek and leaves the kitchen to put my game bag away. I head back to the sitting room to tell Peeta I'm finally ready to get to work, feeling a little funny after the brief talk with Prim. There is a part of me that is beginning to realize I might miss Peeta's company when this project is over. However I have no illusions that we will remain friends. We're from different parts of the district and in District 12 that's usually all it takes for two adult people not to become closely acquainted. Truth be told I'm not even convinced I will still be spending time with Madge once school ends, so striking up a friendship with Peeta that lasts past graduation seems highly unlikely.
When I reach the sitting room I stop by the couch and observe him in silence for a minute. He looks up when I walk into the room and gives me a brief smile but his attention is mostly on Buttercup. Peeta is down on the floor, sitting next to the ragged rug which he has lifted up to place the toy underneath. I watch as he slowly pulls the stick towards himself, causing the piece of balled-up paper to move closer to the rug on the other end. Buttercup's eyes are glued to the paper ball, his pupils so dilated that his eyes look black, his whole body posed to pounce, his tail wagging slowly from side to side. The paper ball disappears underneath the rug and Buttercup promptly goes insane. He dives on the spot where the piece of paper disappeared and attacks it with ferocity, flipping over on his side and using his hind legs to kick the rug repeatedly, as if that would kill the paper ball. Peeta laughs but I roll my eyes, rarely finding anything that cat does amusing.
"Cats are idiots," I snort.
"Are we ready to get started?" Peeta asks through his chuckles.
"Unless you think Buttercup might disapprove."
"Eh," he shrugs, getting up on his feet. "I like you better than the cat so if he forces me to choose he'll be on the losing side." I feel my cheeks flush but before I can think too much about what he just said he casts a look at Buttercup over his shoulder. "Besides, I'm not sure your pet knows I'm still here."
I snort, giving him a death stare equal to what Buttercup seems to be giving to that ball of paper, which he indeed is focusing on completely.
"That mangy old thing is not my pet," I argue vehemently.
"Four-legged roommate?" he suggests. He raises an eyebrow in a conspiratorial manner and gives me a look like he's very intrigued. "Arch-nemesis?"
I can't help but laugh a little and shake my head at him. I nod towards the kitchen and he follows me there, seeming in bright spirits for someone who has a whole day of struggling with an essay ahead of him. He walks straight up to the chair he sat on last time and puts his hands on the back of it, his fingers tapping the wood lightly.
"Ready to get to work?" I ask.
"Yup, sure am. I hope you don't mind that I put my things in here while I waited."
"Of course not. Please, have a seat." I pull out my own chair but then pause. "Would you like something? Something to drink?"
"Uhm, some water might be nice," he says, pulling out his chair and sitting down.
I nod and smile slightly, relieved that he didn't ask for anything that we don't have at home.
"Do you want ice?" I ask, opening the kitchen cabinet to get two glasses. At least that much I can easily offer a guest.
"No thanks," he answers, opening his backpack and beginning to take out all the things he might need. "So, hey, did you have a lot of luck figuring everything out?" He looks up at me through his bangs and our eyes meet briefly before I turn my attention back to the pitcher I'm filling up with water. "All your values and beliefs and everything you want to pass on to our little-"
"Call our imaginary baby Cookie Crisp one more time and I'll spend the next twelve chemistry classes flinging stuff at you from across the classroom!" I warn, turning the faucet off. "May I remind you I have excellent aim."
"Alright, I won't," he laughs. "But we do need to come up with a name." I hand him a glass and start filling it up. "Thank you."
"We don't even know what they see us having yet," I point out. Coming up with one name is difficult enough, never mind two. I set the pitcher down on the table and take my seat, putting a glass down in front of me but not bothering to fill it up with water yet.
"That is true. We could, I suppose, say that we want to wait until we see the kid before naming it. Buy us some more time before we have to find a name."
"Do people actually do that?" I question. "Nine months is a long time. Plenty of time to think of a name for each gender."
"My parents did that with me," shrugs Peeta. "Of course, they had a girl's name picked out already but I turned out to be a bit less feminine than expected."
"More than just a little bit," I say with a small smile. Peeta grins and I look away for a second, feeling a bit embarrassed when I realize what I just implied. I hark and try to act like I said nothing odd at all. "What was the name?"
He barely misses a beat in answering.
"Cookie Crisp."
"Oh come on," I snort playfully.
"I'm not telling you," he insists, taking a drink of water from his glass. "The decidedly female name they referred to me by for the larger part of nine months is kind of a personal detail. You're not privy to it."
"So you don't want to name our fiction baby thusly if it turns out to be a girl?"
"I most certainly do not."
"Pity," I say with a smirk.
"Be nice, or I might take these back home with me." He reaches inside his backpack, takes out a paper bag from the bakery and tosses it to me. I'm so surprised I almost don't catch it. Prim said he hadn't brought anything! Not sure how to react I look down at the bag, feel it's weight and momentarily dislike him. Whatever is inside the bag it's undoubtedly something I would very much like to have but I feel uncomfortable accepting it. I don't like that he puts me in this position, again.
"Peeta…"
"Hey, no refusals!" He holds up his hands. "Compliments of my father. He will refuse to take no for an answer."
"Peeta you cannot keep bringing me things from the bakery when you come here," I say, my tone leaving no room to guess whether or not I'm serious.
"You mean you see us spending a lot of time working here?" he asks, somehow making it sound like an invitation for something far more fun and interesting than schoolwork. It makes me feel even more uncomfortable. I set the bag down on the table, most definitely not wanting to open it but feeling it would be rude not to.
"I'm serious, Peeta. I appreciate the gesture, truly. But it's too much. I know how much bakery goods are worth. I can't repay it and that makes me feel… Well, I can't say I like it."
"They are from my father," says Peeta disarmingly. "So don't you worry about it, okay?"
My eyes study the bag and my fingers graze its surface. I bite my bottom lip, feeling very awkward but deciding that I might as well be frank with him about this. Besides, since we're working on this project together he could benefit from knowing this. And we are meeting up right now to talk about values, aren't we?
"I think you should know," I say slowly. "I don't feel comfortable accepting-"
"Charity?" he cuts me off. "That's not what this is. Katniss… It's just a little something my father sent along, alright? It's not charity, it's good manners. It would be considered rude in town not to do it."
"Well…" I say, struggling with conflicting emotions. I can imagine the look on Prim's face when she learns of whatever is in the bag and I very much want to see that look for real. And I don't want to be rude and appear ungrateful. With my lower lip caught between my teeth I look up and meet Peeta's eyes. He looks calm and kind. I doubt he will accept it if I try to give him the bag back. "Just… Tell your father that it's fine, he doesn't need to send anything with you next time. If there is a next time." I force half a smile. "But also tell him thanks. It's very kind of him." I remember the black eye Peeta sported after the last time he came over here to do school work. I wonder how much of what he just said is a lie. "Very kind of you both."
"We aim to please," replies Peeta with a shrug that doesn't seem quite as casual as he intended. He nods at the bag. "You should look inside. It's really not that much to have a discussion about."
I unfold the top of the bag that's been carefully rolled shut and I reach inside it, pulling out a round cookie roughly two thirds of a decimetre in diameter. Instantly I notice that it's actually two cookies held together with what looks like jam or marmalade. The cookies are a pale yellow colour and have been covered in what looks like sugar but smells like cinnamon. I look up at Peeta, resisting the urge to bring the cookie closer to my face and sniff it.
"What are they?" I ask, unable to contain my curiosity.
"They're called sister cookies." He has a self-satisfied smirk on his face that leaves no doubt in my mind that even if his father made the decision to send along treats it was Peeta who picked them out. "Because of the two cookies making up the whole, see?"
I study the cookie carefully, trying to make up my mind if I'm glad that he chose to bring us treats that are small and thus not as big of a gift or if I should be uncomfortable because the cookies might be exclusive and thus have a higher value. I am in no way qualified to determine how expensive the ingredients might be and after about half a minute I make up my mind to believe they are fairly cheap to make because of their size, thus making it a bit less difficult to accept them.
"Thank you," I tell Peeta again. "I'm sure Prim will be thrilled."
"I hope you will like them, too," he replies, his frankness surprising me a bit.
"Well…" I say, putting the cookie back into the bag and rolling the top down again. "I will put these aside and we can get to work, then."
"Perfect."
I rise and walk over to the counter, setting the bag down carefully. Glancing over my shoulder to make sure Peeta isn't looking I then stick my fingers in my mouth, licking off the sugar and cinnamon that got on my fingertips when I held the cookie. Despite myself I smile at the taste. The moment lasts only a few seconds, then I wipe my fingers on my pants as casually as possible and hurry back to the table. I act as if nothing odd went on just now but Peeta looks like he can barely contain a smirk, though he had his back to me when I tasted the sweets on my fingertips so I don't know how he would know about it.
"Right, then," I say. "Values, beliefs, philosophies. What do we want our little rascal to grow up believing?" I can't help scoffing and shaking my head a bit. "Honestly Peeta, I cannot believe I'm sitting here trying to write up something about how I would raise a child. It's never crossed my mind that someday I would. And I won't."
"Too bad your fictional husband is just too damn virile," jokes Peeta with a crooked grin and a glint in his eye.
"Really, now?" I open a notebook and grab a pencil. "So do you want to do it same as last time? I write down what we brainstorm and you write down the actual thing when we piece it together?"
"Yeah, works for me."
I nod and begin by writing down that we won't use physical punishments, something I don't feel we need to mention out loud just yet since we've already agreed on it. Peeta brings up a couple of things he's thought of and I add them to my list together with one of my own. A moment's lull then falls between us and I hear Peeta tapping his pencil against his teeth. I look up and find him studying me with a somewhat nonplussed expression.
"Can I ask you a question?" he says, his pencil stilling. "It's a real personal one so I understand it if you feel it's none of my damn business."
"Well…" I say hesitantly. "I suppose you're free to ask whatever you want but whether or not I'll answer…" I put my pencil down and tilt my head as I look at him. "But why do you want to ask me something if you think I might find it too personal?"
"Because you fascinate me and I'm curious," he says bluntly.
"Oh." How does one respond to something like that? "Well… What is the question?"
"I was curious…" he says, hesitating slightly before he asks. "How does Gale feel about all this? I don't mean the project, I mean… As I said I know it's absolutely none of my business and you don't have to answer if you're not comfortable about it but… Well, I suppose it makes me wonder. I don't know the guy, so…"
"Peeta," I say, finding his slightly nervous rambling tone to be endearing enough that I don't feel offended by the implied question. "Are you asking me what Gale thinks about my determination to never have kids?"
"Yeah. Yeah, I suppose I am."
Even though I figured out the question before he had asked it I feel my cheeks flush and I avert my eyes, wondering what on earth to answer. I suppose I don't mind answering about my own thoughts and feelings but this pertains to Gale and Peeta doesn't know him. He's right, it is none of his business. Yet I just spoke his question out loud for him so it seems odd not to answer it.
"I…" I begin, fumbling for words.
"Katniss, I'm sorry, forget that I asked." I look at Peeta and he seems distressed at my reaction. His hand comes up and rubs the back of his neck and he cringes. "I knew I was being impertinent to ask. It's really, really none of my business. Especially when I don't even know Gale."
"It's alright, Peeta," I say. "Gale knows where I stand." At least that much is true and something I can easily reveal.
"Still, it was incredibly rude of me to ask," says Peeta, his fingers beginning to play with his pencil against the table in a nervous fashion. "My mother would be mortified if she knew I… Forgive me. It was inappropriate and nosy and I don't know what came over me."
"Don't worry about it," I say gently. His flustered behaviour somehow manages to make me feel okay about it. "I'm not offended or anything. Seriously, it's fine."
There's a pause, neither of us speaking for over a minute. Despite what just transpired the silence is not uncomfortable.
"You're really lucky, you know," he then says, a distant, contemplative expression on his face as his eyes trail the pencil he's playing with, his fingers sliding all the way down its length then turning it over so that his fingers are at the top, sliding them back down again, and repeat, over and over.
"How do you mean?" I ask.
He doesn't answer for almost half a minute, his eyes seeming nearly transfixed with his fingers' movements with the pencil against the table.
"I just… want to experience it too, someday. You know?" I'm about to ask what he means but he stops playing his little pencil game, enveloping the pencil in his fist and looking out the window instead. "To be in love with someone and have that love returned. It seems… almost unobtainable."
"But you've had girlfriends," I say, trying to follow his train of thought.
"Yeah but it was never like that. Never real love. We liked each other, had crushes I guess, but it was all more… wanting to be in love than actually being in love. Like playing at relationships. I mean, my longest relationship lasted all of five months. That's nothing. What I'm talking about is real, genuine love." He looks at me and the expression in his pretty blue eyes makes me feel sad, like I want to help him. But I don't know how. "Really, think of what a rarity it is. How… exclusive a thing you have with Gale. It's almost like I can't believe so many people actually get to experience it."
"Peeta, I think you're building this up to more than it actually is," I say gently.
"No I think I'm not even close, actually. Think about it. Really think about it. To not only fall hopelessly in love with another person but for that person to actually feel the same way about you? It seems like a one in a billion thing! A lot of people never get to have that blessing." He swallows, looks away. "If I ever got to experience that… I would hold on to that woman for dear life. I would do anything… anything to be with her. And if I had to make sacrifices, well what could be better to do so for than love?" He shrugs and scoffs, a sound that seems out of place. "It's all I really want. Maybe that sounds pathetic, maybe it sounds naïve. I'm not ashamed of it though."
"Peeta…" I say. "I'm sure you'll find it. You're a great guy." He smiles with no traces of mirth. "You're a loving person," I continue. "I can't imagine a guy like you never falling in love. You're still just eighteen years old. It will happen for you."
"Oh I know I am capable of falling in love," he says. He has shifted in his chair, sitting sideways now, drumming the pencil against the table. His eyes won't meet mine. "That's already happened." At once my interest is awakened. Is he going to tell me who he's talking about? I would never tell anyone else, his secret would stay safe, but I would very much like to know. And when he looks at me again I feel convinced for a brief few seconds that he is about to tell me. But he doesn't. "The problem is… The rarity is…" He lets out a quick, dismal chuckle. "I have yet to fall in love with a girl who loves me back."
"Well…" I say after a few seconds of silence, beginning to feel awkward all of a sudden. Perhaps I'm not so comfortable after all knowing this much about Peeta's emotional life. "Maybe she does feel it back, and you just don't know it?"
"No," he says. "She doesn't feel it back. No doubt about it."
"Well… Her loss."
He sighs, shakes his head.
"Thanks, but that's just not true."
An awkward silence stretches out between us.
"I don't know what else to say, Peeta," I say, needing the silence to be broken.
"You don't have to say anything." He moves in his chair so that he sits facing me again. He puts the pencil down, harks and reaches for his notebook. "I apologise. I got side-tracked. I shouldn't have said all of that and I'm sorry." He chortles mirthlessly. "Man, I'm on quite the roll, aren't I?"
"You're fine," I assure him softly.
"Well, anyway," he says and harks again. "We should get back to it."
"We should," I nod. I pick up my pencil and make myself focus. I think to myself that one of the values I want to impart on our fictional child is to be self-sufficient. I open my mouth to relay this to Peeta but to my own surprise something else comes out of my mouth instead. "Maybe you just… put too much stock in love."
He looks up at me with an expression on his face like I just proclaimed my excitement of the Hunger Games.
"Excuse me?" he says, sounding utterly bewildered.
"Maybe… finding love isn't that big a deal." I wish I had his way with words so that I could properly elaborate. I don't like the thought that he should feel like his life is worth nothing if he doesn't find that love he's talking about. I don't like the thought of him missing the good things in front of him because he's hung up on something he feels he might never obtain. Only I don't know how to express this to him and what I manage to say sounds far less worth hearing. "There are so many other things in life that matter… Maybe finding mutual love isn't as spectacular as you might imagine it to be."
"That's easy for you to say," he mutters, making a face as he doodles on the margins of his notebook. "No offense. But you've found it, so…"
I don't know what else to say. I don't believe I have found it, not the kind of romance Peeta is describing, but the nature of my relationship with Gale is not something I am willing to discuss with my project partner.
"I have another thing I want to add to our paper," I say, awkwardly bringing us back on track. He looks up at me briefly and pulls the corners of his mouth upward for a second or two but it's clear he's not actually smiling. I could kick myself for having continued the talk of love. "Our fictional baby should learn how to survive, in case anything should happen to us while the kid is little."
Peeta's brow slowly furrows as he takes in what I'm saying. He nods slowly, contemplatively, and looks up at me. Thankfully he now looks less troubled by our previous topic of conversation.
"I take it you don't mean knowing how to pay bills or fix a broken sink?"
"No," I acknowledge with a nod. I'm not sure how much we should write down in a formal essay about the things I actually have in mind. We can't very well talk about teaching the child to hunt and gather in the woods.
"Yeah, that's good," says Peeta, even though I haven't actually specified what things I'm talking about. "Write it down."
We come up with a couple more things we want to include and then get to work actually penning the essay. Slowly but steadily the atmosphere between us returns to normal, with no more talk of our real love lives or anything of that nature. We have no great laughing spell like last time Peeta was here but after about an hour he starts to crack jokes and to my surprise I actually find some of them funny. It's long and gruelling work to piece our essay together but somehow we get it done, roughly an hour to spare before dinner.
"Great work today, Katniss," says Peeta as he begins to pack up his things. "Just out of curiosity… Do you want to read through it one last time before I hand it in tomorrow morning?"
"I don't think there's time for that. It's due first thing in the morning. I trust you to transcribe it just as we wrote it."
"Your trust warms a poor baker-boy's heart," he says dramatically, placing a hand over his heart. I roll my eyes and chuckle at his antics. "Anyway, I should get going. Thanks for agreeing to postpone the work and give us both some time to think." He stands up and closes his backpack. "It ate in to our Sunday completely but I think it was worth it."
"Yeah," I nod. I slowly rise to my feet as well. "Yeah, and good job today. Really."
"Wasn't that difficult, in the end," he smiles gently. "Now that it's written I can admit to you that I was a little bit worried that we might end up arguing and hardly agreeing on anything. I remember when Scotti wrote an essay similar to this during his project. I have never heard my brother argue with anyone that much. Even my mother kept her distance."
I chuckle but a strange feeling comes over me at his words. He's right. We have agreed on quite a lot and the parts where we've disagreed it's been easy enough to reach a compromise. I've always viewed Peeta and me as very different people but we seem to see eye to eye on a lot of issues – important issues, some of the things that matter to us the most. It's odd but not unpleasant.
"Be sure to thank your mother for letting me come here and occupy her kitchen for hours," says Peeta, moving from the table and over towards the door.
"Oh we're the ones who should be thanking you," I say, following behind him. We share a brief look and he smiles slightly and nods, acknowledging what I'm referring to but letting it stay unspoken. While be begins to put on his outerwear I can hear Prim's voice in the sitting room as she explains the new cat toy to our mother, and Mother's exhausted voice replying. I hope they are so wrapped up in Buttercup's frolics that they don't notice that Peeta is leaving. I don't want the farewell committee that we had last time he was here. "Listen, are you sure you're fine doing the transcribing?"
"Positive," he says, thanking me as I hand him his scarf. "It will be fine."
"Okay."
He finishes putting his outerwear on and we stand there for a minute, looking at one another in comfortable silence. It's gotten dark out but the weather is still good, if a little bit cold. I really think he should get himself a hat but he doesn't seem to care that he doesn't have one. I'm curious though to know what he looks like when you can't see his curly hair framing his face.
"Thank you for today, Katniss," he finally says, reaching for the doorknob. "It's been a pleasure, as always. And I will see you tomorrow, and we'll find out what lies in store for us next in our fictional marriage."
"See you then," I say. I don't know why but for a second I get the crazy feeling that he might lean in and kiss me on the cheek before he goes, and to my own surprise I realize I wouldn't mind it if he did. But of course he doesn't. I don't know what possessed me to believe that he might in the first place. He bids me farewell, opens the door and is on his way. I close the door behind him and smile faintly to myself, hurrying to the kitchen to bring the cookies to the sitting room so I can show my family.
"Just when you think this project couldn't get any dumber!"
Peeta tilts his head and gives me a confused look at my declaration. It's Monday afternoon, I've just opened the envelope to our latest part of the scenario and my irritation is at an all-time high with this assignment.
"What does it say?" he asks. "Do you give fake birth to a puppy, or something?"
"I can't work!" I say angrily, tossing the papers on the table.
"Huh?" He reaches for the papers and picks them up, still with a confused frown on his face.
"Yeah, says so right there. Apparently pregnancy means that once you can see that there's a baby in there I am no longer able-bodied and capable of contributing to the household. I hope you like imaginative starvation because that's where we're heading."
"Beats actual starvation…" mumbles Peeta under his breath. He eyes through the first paragraphs, detailing how we're going to have to do more calculations now and try to find a way to make a budget hold as our income is now shrinking down to just what Peeta brings home. "They're probably just trying to rile us up."
"It's ridiculous and I won't accept it," I grumble, crossing my arms. "I can't even remember what job I took but I'm sure I can do it even with a protruding belly! I didn't take a job in the freaking mines! This is nonsense, Peeta. Irritating, offensive nonsense!"
"I hear you," he says, sounding much calmer than me but not exactly thrilled. "You manage the shoemaker's storefront. I agree, that should be easy enough to do until very late in a pregnancy. Especially since both the job and the gravidness are pretend. Want to hear what else do they throw at us this time?"
"I don't care, honestly," I gripe. This latest development has put me in a surprisingly bad mood. What do they expect me to do all day if I can't be at work? I know this is all make-believe but it's supposed to be rooted in reality. It's supposed to have plausibility. I am aware that some women have difficult pregnancies and are unable to work throughout but I'm also aware that a lot of women force themselves to work despite the risk to themselves and their unborn babies. Money has to come from somewhere and few people in this district have the luxury of simply taking it easy for months on end. I look at Peeta and notice that he's got a very thoughtful expression on his face. "What? What are you thinking?"
"This probably sounds a bit crazy…" he begins. "But… What do you say to rebelling a little bit?"
"I'm listening," I say, though truthfully I'm not sure what he means.
"There's a back room in the school library and in it there's an old textbook they don't use anymore. I think in this textbook there are pregnancy facts that could prove our teachers wrong about you not being able to work for more than four months of your pretend pregnancy. After all, they don't say you're struggling with a particularly difficult pregnancy. Maybe that was the idea but they didn't actually put it down in writing. It's a loop-hole and I say we take advantage of it."
"You have my attention, pretend-husband," I say, my mood getting considerably better. "And you know where this book is?"
He nods and smiles.
"Come along. I'll show you."
Ten minutes later I find myself inside the small library, scowling as I survey the place and wonder if this was such a good idea. Where is that back room Peeta spoke of? Should we really be spending our time searching for an old textbook? We don't even know what else we have to deal with this time around for the project.
"Come on," says Peeta and takes me by the hand, "it's back here." He leads me past the row of bookshelves to the darkest corner of the small library and for a moment I begin to wonder what this will look like to the others who are here. I didn't know there was anything of note all the way back here but I do know that couples like to sneak away to the narrow rows between the bookshelves in the back and engage in kisses and touches. Peeta has no such thing on his mind, of course, and is all-business but those who don't know us won't know that. "They keep a lot of old textbooks stashed back here in surprisingly sturdy cardboard boxes," he tells me. "Once the shelves fill up they send the boxes to the Capitol and get newer books in return. Not brand new, mind you, but presumably ones that students in the Capitol have grown tired of, or that aren't in good enough shape for their liking anymore."
"And you're sure this book is back here somewhere?" I ask, looking around nervously. There are only a few people in the library and none of them seem to be giving us the time of day, but you never know.
"Yeah." He lets go of my hand and walks up to a door at the end of the narrow passage between the last bookshelf and the concrete wall. The light barely reaches us back here but Peeta seems to know what he's up to. He studies the bookshelf, chooses a spot and places his foot on one of the lower shelves. "I'm going to need you to steady me a bit so the bookshelf and I don't fall over," he says. Nervously I walk up to him, wondering where I'm supposed to steady him exactly. "Just press your hands against my back or something when I climb up, providing counter support."
"You're not going to tell me why you're climbing the furniture?" I ask, looking around nervously. "Miss Dunhill might spot us, you know, and she won't be happy if she does."
He grabs a shelf with both hands as far up as he can reach, turning his head to me and grinning mischievously.
"You're telling me that Katniss Everdeen is afraid of defying authority?"
Without further ado he asks if I'm ready, counts to three and hoists himself up on the shelf. Hastily I place a hand on his back, grab the bookshelf with the other, and using my foot as leverage against the wall I try my best to put enough pressure that the bookshelf won't tip over on us. Peeta grunts a little and climbs up a bit until his hand reaches the top shelf where there are no books, just a bunch of old frail boxes, globes, dirty beacons and other assorted pieces of junk. A look of concentration marks his features, though I can't see him all that well in the poor lighting. His hand moves about as if searching for something and then he grins widely.
"Got it. Okay, coming back down. You can move your hand away, please."
With a swift leap he comes back down to the floor, making enough noise that I freeze up, expecting Miss Dunhill to come stomping back here any second to ask what on earth is going on. Peeta seems utterly unaffected, as if he didn't even realize he made so much noise, and looks at the object in his hand. It's a key and he uses it to unlock the door.
"Jeez, Peeta, how do you even know about this?" I ask in a muted tone.
"Coach has us help out lifting the boxes full of books," he explains, giving the door a tug. It seems to be stuck a bit. "We have no good weights or other equipment to build muscle so he gets creative." Another tug opens the door and sends a cloud of dust our way, making us both cough a little. "I admire his creativity. I really do. But I've got to tell you, it gets crowded in here with several guys trying to lift boxes without being in each other's way."
I can imagine. It seems narrow for just the two of us to be in here. I look over my shoulder, still nervous that someone will catch us. I didn't ask him before if we're actually allowed back here and now there's no point.
"Let's just get the textbook and get going," I say, stifling a cough in the bend of my arm.
Peeta reaches inside and finds a light switch. A lonesome lightbulb hanging from a rackety socket in the ceiling casts a dimmed stream of light over the small room. It gives me chills, quite honestly. I don't see how more than five people even fit in here, never mind Peeta's whole wrestling team lifting boxes onto shelves. I follow Peeta inside, the smell of old books and dust much heavier in here than in the rest of the library, and I study the shelves that line all three of the walls that don't have the door. Boxes upon boxes, none of them marked. How are we to know which one we are looking for? My heart sinks. This place gives me the creeps and we're bound to be in here all day.
"Here it is," says Peeta, walking straight up to one of the shelves and with his index finger tapping a dark green cardboard box, practically identical to all the other dark green cardboard boxes on the shelf. "Chauvinistic Capitol propaganda in which Capitol men inform you, dear outer district female, on what it is like to be gravid. How your hormones will annoy your husband, how your capabilities will diminish as each month passes, how you will begin to get scatter-brained, all that good stuff."
"We wanted this book why, again?" I say dryly, stifling another round of coughs.
"Because in-between all the horribly offensive crap they accidentally snuck in some really informative things. Detailed pictures of the baby's growth each month and, most importantly for us, actual facts about how the mother's body changes. Like I said before, we can use it to make our case for why you should work as long as possible into the pregnancy."
"If this book is as informative on that matter as you say," I mutter, walking up to him and eyeing the box, "and if this works and gets us a top grade, you are officially the most creative mind in the entire school." He grins widely but I don't feel like smiling back. "It had better be worth all this trouble, Mellark."
"Here, just lift up the box on top of it and I will pull it out."
"No, I'll do it," I say, eyeing the box as if it contained live snakes.
"No I'll do it," he protests. "These boxes are really heavy."
"Listen, I may not be able to lift a hundred pound bag of flour over my head but I'm not a weakling either," I tell him in a no-nonsense voice. "I don't like it when you do all the work – so far I've just been tagging along. Besides, I feel like I have a beef with this stupid textbook and I want to be the one to get that stupid box."
He eyes me sceptically.
"I don't see how those two are related…" he says after a second or two. "But fine. If you really want to."
"Yeah, yeah," I say, waving dismissively. My eyes are still on the box and with a scowl I try to estimate how much it might weigh. "Are you sure it's this one, though?"
"Positive."
"Yes, but how are you so sure?"
He shrugs, looking surprised by the question.
"Parts of a dustjacket sticks out in the grab-hole, see?" He points to the thing he's talking of. "That disturbing cerise hue is hard to forget."
"Okay," I nod. "Let's get this over with." I grab the box and the one on top of it with one hand each. Peeta's hand lands on my arm and I give him a glare.
"Don't," he says. "At least let me lift up the top one. These are heavy."
But I'm in no mood to listen. This place makes me uncomfortable and that seems to fuel what strength I do possess. I snarl at him to step back and let me handle this and he obediently moves backwards towards the door. I lift the heavy top carton with one hand and give an assertive tug to the box below with my other hand. It won't budge initially and I scowl, determined to move it on my own before my project partner gets the idea into his head that he should offer to help again. He doesn't, however. He stands beside me, leaning against the doorpost, waiting patiently. This, for reasons unknown, frustrates me further and I give a more forceful tug which manages to move the box. In the process of pulling it out from underneath the heavy box on top of it I accidentally scrape the back of my thumb against the cardboard. Hissing at the smarting sensation I wave my hand about quickly, as if that would make the pain disappear, and hand the box over to Peeta.
"Hurt your hand?" he asks, springing to attention.
"Scraped my thumb," I say, letting a sigh slip past my lips. "It's fine."
He wedges the box under his armpit so that its weight rests on his forearm and grabs my thumb with his free hand, studying the half-centimetre long surface that I just scratched. His fingers are dry and slightly calloused but there's something soft about his touch nonetheless. I should worry about the germs that must be covering his hands by now but I suppose I'll be exposed to those germs either way.
"Looks epidermal," he says, sounding so much like my mother and sister that I can't help but give him a look. "What? I know stuff."
"I think I'll live through this horrifying wound," I say dryly, pulling my hand back.
"By the grace of God, you just might," he says, the hint of a smile on his face. "You should put something over that, though. You don't want to get it infected and I don't think our paper needs your blood adorning it."
"It's not gushing blood," I say in a tone that implies he's an idiot, although I know without looking that it is indeed going to bleed a little. I hate wounds like these. They are small and seemingly insignificant, nothing more than a top layer of skin scraped off, but they tend to sting and the area around it tends to be very sensitive to touch and pressure for several days – highly impractical when hunting.
"Humour me," says Peeta, the smile a bit more pronounced now. He nods for me to leave the room and I happily do, letting him turn the light off and lock the door behind us. He puts the key in his pocket. "I keep a small pack of plasters in my backpack. My mother insists we stem all bleeding on our hands as quick as possible so we won't contaminate anything in the bakery." He leads the way back out from this enclosed space, back out to the library proper, and sets the box and his backpack down on the nearest available surface which turns out to be a small table with a reading lamp. "Not that she allows plasters on our hands while we're baking either but…" He doesn't elaborate further, making a concentrated face as he digs to the very bottom of his pack to fish out a small tin box that he opens to reveal a handful of plasters in various sizes. I don't think I've ever seen that many plasters at the same time. "No antibacterial anything, sorry. Now be a good girl and hand me your thumb."
I do as told, feeling funny about the whole situation though I can't pinpoint exactly what it is that's giving me that feeling. His hands graze my skin so lightly that it almost tickles, as if he's suddenly worried that it would be improper to have more skin-on-skin contact. I decide I should say something, if only to feel less odd in the moment.
"It looks epidermal?" I echo his previous words.
He grins crookedly, fastening the plaster over the scrape. It has begun to bleed now and I've got to admit it's not so bad having it covered with something.
"I, uh… went out with Aurora Blackwell for a few months last year. Guess I snapped up a thing or two along the way." I nod slowly. Aurora Blackwell is the daughter of Mason Blackwell, the closest thing townsfolk have to a doctor and surgeon. The peacekeepers jokingly call him 'the medicine man'. Peeta's fingers gently press down on the plaster to make it stick to my skin, an interesting sensation. He gives the back of my hand a light pat. "There – all better." He smiles crookedly, bashfully, and it tugs at something deep in my chest. Then he continues with his story. "I've never seen my mother so pleased with me as she was when she entertained the idea that us dating might lead to a serious relationship."
That I can imagine. I'm not sure if he's exaggerating to make a joke or if he's dead serious, the latter thought being rather depressing, but either way I'm sure his mother would love having one of her boys married into one of the few District 12 families that hold some measure of prestige even in the eyes of the authorities.
"Why only for a few months?" I ask, immediately feeling embarrassed at my words. What business is that of mine? All the same I'm curious. I remember seeing him with her – she stands out in a crowd. She's one of only a few town girls who isn't a blonde, having instead thick, raven hair that falls all the way down to her waist, and striking light-blue eyes to go with it. I recall seeing her and Peeta together in the hallways and during breaks, oftentimes standing with their arms around each other the way many couples at school do. I even recall seeing them heatedly make out one time, though that was not on school property. I have to admit I wondered why they only dated for a short period of time as judging from what I saw they were very hot for each other. Although right now I'm blushing both at the memory of seeing them lip-locked and of having asked Peeta about it in the first place. Could she be the girl he talked about yesterday?
"I don't know," shrugs Peeta, his hand pulling away from mine now that his heroic plaster-placement is done. "We had great chemistry and it made sense to try and see if it could turn into more but it just… didn't, I guess." He scratches the back of his neck and looks a little embarrassed. "We both wanted it to. We had a great time when we were together. But it just never… We cared about each other but we never fell for each other, you know? Then we tried being friends once we split up but it just felt weird."
"I'm sorry," I say. "I shouldn't have asked. It's none of my business."
"Don't worry about it," he says. "I prefer the straight question. Most people just gossip and speculate instead of asking. I don't mean about Rora and me specifically but in general, you know?" He shrugs. "Anyway. We tried dating, it didn't evolve into something deeper, I was back to no longer being in my mother's good graces. End of uninteresting story." He puts his backpack on again and lifts up the box. "Shall we get started?"
I nod and follow him to a table with better light but my mind is on the memories of him and Aurora Blackwell and that chemistry he spoke of. They did indeed seem to have a lot of it. The kisses I saw between them, the ones that weren't meant for my eyes, certainly seemed more exciting than anything I've ever done with Gale. Which makes me wonder about what else their relationship entailed. Specifically, is she a woman Peeta Mellark has had sex with? I feel embarrassed for even letting the thought enter my mind, his sexual experiences absolutely not being any of my business, but I can't help myself. Nor can I stop picturing it once the idea is in my head. Peeta and her, lips locked, naked bodies entwined. I'm scandalized by the images my brain can concoct, yet at the same time I feel a little bit sad that I know these images must be very, very tame compared to the real life thing. I honestly don't know what it would look like when two people have sex, other than having a general idea and a basic understanding.
"Does it hurt badly?" asks Peeta, looking at me with concern painted all over his face.
"What?" I ask, trying to understand the question.
"You look… out of sorts…" His eyes go to the plaster on my hand and I quickly move my hand off the table.
"No, it's fine," I insist. "I'm just worried that we forgot to put the key back – you didn't drop it, did you?"
"No it's in my pocket," he says, thankfully buying my lie. He stands and grabs the lid of the box. "No point putting it back until we're done. We need to find a book that isn't falling apart at the seams, or missing pages, or covered in dirt or goo or anything else unpleasant. Then we can put the box, and the key, back in place. Hopefully without any more bloodletting."
He opens the box and we peer inside. A plethora of old textbooks in various states of decay and misuse – some missing parts of the cover, some having fallen apart into several pieces, some so bleached that the cerise hue barely stings your eyes anymore – thrown in in a pell-mell mess. Just as Peeta said the colour is awful. I find a book that has its cover intact, even if half the pages inside have fallen out, and I lift it up to study it. It smells of mildew and the feel of it makes me want to wash my hands as soon as I'm done with it. It's almost hard to believe that even a place like the Capitol could produce something like this and deem it a good cover. It is cerise pink with bright yellow lines that form a woman complete with ample bosom and a pregnant belly in which a foetus is drawn in white. All around the woman are light green bubbles, each with its own bit of text written inside. "The mysteries of womanhood un-mystified," reads one. "The details of conception," reads another. "How to deal with hormones and outbursts," yet another. The whole thing is so tasteless it could border on funny if it wasn't so incredibly sad. I make a face and drop it back into the box, not caring where it falls or if it gets damaged further. These books are all set for destruction anyway.
"This was a terrible idea," I scowl, wiping my hands on my jeans. "What useful information could possibly be written in this abomination?"
"And you make that statement before you've even read inside," notes Peeta with a light chuckle. He picks up a semi-intact book and begins to look through it. "If you think the cover is bad you should get a load of some of the stuff written in it. But like I said, despite their best efforts they actually managed to get some interesting and useful parts in there." He winks at me. "Have faith. We shall surely find a way to save you from the clutches of staying at home all day long."
I find a book that seems to be in one piece and open it to the index at the back, eyeing through it to find something that seems like what we might be looking for. I'm a little bit puzzled by Peeta right now. He acts a bit like he thinks this is a joke and that my reaction to my fictional self not being able to work is silly and amusing, yet he's gone through all this trouble to find a textbook which might help us find a way around it. He's difficult to figure out sometimes.
"Ah, here we go!" he announces, pointing his finger to a spot on the page he's got open. He begins to read aloud. "Stages of pregnancy, how the body changes, what to expect during each month…" His eyes move along the page, surveying its contents. "Yeah, this is what we need. Says a lot of stuff about limitations but also what is good for you when you're pregnant." He looks up at me and wiggles his eyebrow suggestively. "Apparently sex is beneficial throughout the pregnancy. Who knew?" Before I can get too mortified he drops the suggestive look and goes back to being serious. He folds a dog's ear on the page and closes the book. "Let's put the box back and bring this with us so we can read through it in peace and quiet. Grab your copy as well so we don't have to huddle over the same book."
"Are you sure it's alright for us to take the books out?" I ask, nervously looking around to see if Miss Dunhill or a teacher is around.
"They're set to be destroyed anyway," he points out. He opens his backpack and places both our books inside, then fishes out the key from his pocket and hands it to me. "My turn to carry the box. You're on door duty. Don't want you getting hurt again. It's my job to take care of my pregnant project-wife."
He winks at me again, picks up the box and heads for the back room. I follow him hurriedly, eager to put the box back and be out of here. I much prefer working in the assembly room as it is more spacious and doesn't smell of old books and dust. The minute the box is back in its place, the door shut and locked and Peeta has scaled the bookshelf to put the key back in its place I take him by the hand and stride out of there, this time ignoring the looks from a few of our fellow students as we pass them by. Time to get to work.
The cookies Peeta brings are actual cookies we make over here. They're probably made elsewhere too but I only know what they're called here. If you're curious, they look like this: .se/cdn/6-2/1298628/images/2009/img_8429_
I named the librarian Miss Dunhill as a little reference to Stephen King's "11.22.63". Loved the book, not so much the miniseries.
Regarding the latest project development with Katniss not being "able" to work through most of her pretend-pregnancy, I'm thinking that's just something the teachers added to make things more difficult for them. I should imagine that any woman in District 12 who can work for most of the nine months will do so, with pretty much only coal miners taking leave early.
I think that's about it for now. Thanks for reading and please leave a comment!