"Miss Everdeen, Mr. Mellark…" Mr. Stoker's voice is entirely bereft of merriment when he waves us over at the end of the last class before project time. Swallowing nervously but keeping my face neutral I hold up while our classmates hurry out the door to enjoy the brief recess. "A moment of your time before you run along?"
My eyes go to Peeta several rows further down in the classroom, but he doesn't turn to look back at me. He seems unaffected, though, as if it was completely ordinary for him to be asked to stay behind after class. It must be the knowledge of why Mr. Stoker is asking us that keeps him so unbothered. For my own part I'm not so calm, though I make sure to seem so outwardly. I stand by our decision last week, in fact there's a part of me that's come to enjoy having done something different and challenged the assignment, but I don't like getting called out in front of our entire class like that. It brings the kind of attention I would much rather do without.
The classroom quickly clears of students, all of them no doubt eager to make the most of our short break, or to get the best spots in the assembly room. I walk briskly up to the teacher's desk, eager to get this done so we can go work, and to have it be quick so as to minimize gossip. Peeta, of course, takes forever to gather up his things, though he does seem to be doing his best to be quicker about it. He nearly drops the books in his hands when he rushes over to join me and slams into a chair. He always seems to be making noise whenever he moves.
We stand beside each other, facing our stern-faced teacher who slowly opens a drawer and takes out an envelope with what must be the papers we handed in last week and hopefully new instructions for this week. Hopefully it's not a letter of reprimand that I need to take home and have my mother sign. Mr. Stoker holds the envelope out to us, his reproaching eyes travelling from one of us to the other and back, over and over. Then he breaks out into a light laughter, shaking his head at us.
"Well that was interesting," he says. "At least you did the work to back it up. I was hoping I wouldn't have to encounter that particular textbook again but you did well. Go on, take it and get to work with your altered scenario. Enjoy." Peeta takes the envelope, thanks the teacher and grins. I scowl. I don't like the way he said the last word. Mr. Stoker just keeps laughing at the look on my face. "Relax, Miss Everdeen. At least you learned something. My, you are a creative pair, aren't you? To be honest, us faculty members working on this project are rather divided – those of us who look forward to seeing how you will handle the rest of your assignments and those who think you're a real irritating pair. But we can't very well criticize anyone for putting too much time and effort into their schoolwork, can we? Just don't go biting off more than you can chew – your assignments are going to get more demanding as the weeks go by. Now get out of my classroom and get to work."
"Thanks again, Mr. Stoker!" chirps Peeta.
"Thank you, Mr. Stoker," I mumble, pulling the corners of my mouth into a faint smile that probably looks more like a grimace. I follow Peeta out of the room and breathe a sigh of relief that at least that didn't take long.
"Told you it would work, didn't I?" grins Peeta once we're out in the hallway, zig-zagging through the crowd on our way to the assembly hall.
"I'd rather not make that call until we see what our adjusted scenario looks like," I reply with a scowl. "Though I am glad we did it. And it did seem to go well."
He looks at me and gives me a smile in a way that's almost conspiring. Then, without missing a beat, he launches into his standard array of questions about what I did during the weekend, how Buttercup is doing, how I'm doing with whatever other coursework we're currently dealing with. It's odd how he can ask me so many things and yet I rarely feel like he's prying. Maybe it's because he never prods if I don't elaborate. He just shrugs and moves on. He seems to have a never-ending arsenal of queries. I feel bad that I hardly ever ask him anything back, but I can't seem to figure out what to ask. Besides, Peeta volunteers information on his own volition, although it hasn't slipped my notice that he chooses his topics quite deliberately, never giving away anything that's really personal. For instance I still don't know who he spends his free time with on Friday and Saturday evenings. Friends – or a girl?
"Okay then, should we begin?" he asks as we arrive at our table, taking his seat and opening up his backpack to get all his stuff in order.
"I'll open the envelope," I offer as I sit, reaching over and grabbing it from the pile in front of him. It's a shorter distance for me to reach now than it would have been three months ago when we started this. Using Peeta's ruler I get the envelope open and take out the papers we handed in last Tuesday, along with our new instructions. I can see that a lengthy comment has been written in blue ink at the bottom, from the looks of it by Mrs. Lovett's dainty hand. Well at least it's not written in red, which must be a good sign.
"What does it say?" asks Peeta, and for a second I'm surprised – and suspicious – that he knew about the comment without even looking. Then I realize that he means the new scenario and I feel foolish.
"Hold your horses, impatient fake-husband of mine." He raises one eyebrow at me while getting to work sharpening his pencils. He seems to have an awful lot of pencils in constant need of sharpening. "There's a note at the bottom of the papers we handed in last week. Take a look."
I hold it out to him to see and he studies it with a concentrated frown. He smiles faintly and nods and I pull the papers back and read through it myself. There is both good and bad feedback, criticizing us for questioning part of our assignment while giving us props for having done so in a structured and eloquent fashion and for doing the work to support our case. In the end it's neither here nor there, having no effect on our grade, so I don't pay much heed to it. Peeta finishes with his pencil sharpening and I begin read aloud to him what our new scenario entails.
They do indeed allow me to work for the first eight months but there's a heads up included about how I will be unable to work for quite some time after the make believe baby has been make believe delivered. I shrug that part off. That part at least makes more sense to me, though I know plenty of women who haven't had the luxury to allow their bodies to heal and to bond with their new infants. There are even cases where starving new mothers leave their infant babies at a small nursery at the overseer's office, returning from the deep dens of the mines in order to breastfeed every few hours. This is naturally highly impractical, leaves the woman with a drastically reduced pay check since so much time is spent going up and down the mineshafts and nursing and since she has to pay for her baby to lie in a crib at the office with no one to keep constant watch over it. In the end those babies tend to be very susceptible to death in infancy due to being around so much coal dust. I know for my own part that if I ever were unfortunate enough to become pregnant I would at the very least go out hunting as soon and as often as possible after delivery. One more mouth to feed means that every able-bodied person in the household must do their share, no matter what.
Continuing on to the next paragraph I pause, finding I need a minute before I can read what it says next. We should have known something like this would be thrown at us. Our teachers may have been impressed at our gusto and the work we put in but of course they would insist upon coming out on top.
"What?" asks Peeta, his voice oddly soft and vulnerable. Almost as if this was about reality and something that could hurt us for real. I must have paused in an uncommonly dramatic fashion or something. "What is it, Katniss?"
"You've been laid off at the bakery," I tell him, letting the papers drop to the table. "Apparently our imaginary baby is getting an equally imaginary cousin and since Scotti's imaginary wife is so obviously able to work through the remainder of her pregnancy not only is there no further need for your services, but they can't afford to keep you on."
Peeta scowls as he reaches over and grabs the paper, studying them carefully. If he's aware of the reason why they threw this at us he doesn't comment on it. Why should he, anyway? It won't change anything.
"Well…" he finally says, putting the papers back down on the table along with his pencil. "It doesn't really present that much of a wrench into our plans, if you think about it. In fact, I think this is better than what we had last week."
"How do you figure that?" I ask. My fingers play with the end of my braid but I would really like to bite my nails instead.
"Well, last week we completely lost your income."
"Right. And now we're completely losing yours."
"Only temporarily. I just have to take another job. With you not working due to the baby we would have been one income short for months, a year perhaps even."
"A year?" I echo, giving him a look that implies he's out of his mind.
"Do you not think they will have the next leg of the project focus on being new parents, learning how to take care of a kid, and most definitely not letting you go back to earning a wage anytime soon?" He cranes his neck to see the clock on the wall through the stream of students walking around looking for seats, or just socializing. "Recess is almost up. As soon as it is, and Mrs. Saunders takes her seat over there at her station, I'm going over there to pick a new job from the list."
He seems so confident about it that I don't challenge his assumption, but I'm not so sure it will be that easy. Our original scenario never said anything about my employer laying me off, even though that might come along later, but we could at least assume I would have a job once they deem me ready to earn my keep again. I'm not so sure there will be any jobs available on that list at this stage. But I don't want to be negative all the time, and if my fears are founded we will know it in a few minutes anyway, so I refrain from saying anything. Not that I can keep entirely from saying something negative. The pregnancy part of this project has that effect on me.
"I just can't wait to see how dark and dreary our finances will look when they decide to settle us with another baby just as soon as I'm able to start working again," I say dryly, doodling on my notepad.
Peeta looks at me for a minute. He pulls his bottom lip into his mouth and worries it between his teeth for a bit, then slowly lets it slip back out. He makes a quick exhale, like a decisive huff, and picks his pencil back up.
"You know what? I'm tired of this."
"Peeta… I'm sorry. I didn't mean to complain that much. I just couldn't help myself. It was childish and I apologise."
"No but you're right. And I'm tired of all this, too. They want us to learn about the responsibilities that come with having kids, that's fine. But we only need to focus on that for one part of the scenario." He nods towards my notebook, asking to borrow it, and I oblige. He opens it and flips through the pages until he reaches the page where we're putting our new budget together. "We're adding condoms to our list of expenses in the budget."
"What?" I say, my eyes big as saucers.
"Yeah," he nods. "We're going to start buying condoms in this fictional life of ours…" He voices the words he's writing. "So that we can focus our time and money on the child we do have, make sure said child is well clothed and as well-fed as possible, before we bring any other children into the world. Which, when you think about it, is taking adult responsibility." He adds a punctuation mark and tosses the pencil on the table. "There. Done."
"I don't want our teachers reading about us buying condoms!" I protest in a hiss, feeling scandalized by the very idea. I look around, praying none of the other students in the room are listening.
"Why not? What difference does it make?" He shrugs and leans back on his chair, balancing it on its back legs. "It's all just make believe."
"So?"
"How is that any more intimate than our teachers planning our pregnancies? Either way sex is involved."
"Well not so explicitly," I argue.
"I would say more so with a baby."
"I wouldn't," I shoot back, my cheeks probably crimson by now.
"For all they know we'd buy condoms and use them only a few times a year, like for our anniversary and stuff. It usually takes more than just one go-around to successfully get pregnant, even if it doesn't it still implies that we have sex on a regular basis, and if they feel up to it they can make us parents of a dozen."
"Peeta you know what I mean," I say through gritted teeth. Adding another baby in the project is about how we deal with finances and with raising children. Adding condoms to our budget is about the sex that would otherwise lead to babies.
"Look, Katniss, it's not that scandalous. A lot of couples do it. Or else women in this district would be having new babies every other year or so. And the mere fact that condoms are available proves it."
"Mrs. Saunders is here," I say quickly, having heard her heavy feet and familiar voice somewhere behind me these past few minutes. "Not one more word about condoms. Go get a list of open jobs. Now. Wife's orders."
While he is away obtaining a list of available jobs I take my notebook back and then browse through the rest of the scenario. As soon as we have Peeta's new job and income settled we'll complete the tiresome task of drafting a budget, although this one at least has a new element that doesn't feel extremely forced. I can't argue with the good sense of making us aware of the costs involved with reproduction. Once we've completed the budget we have to write up something about the non-monetary preparations we need to make before we can welcome a new member into the family. It should be fairly simple; we all know people who have had babies, for instance our own parents, so we can just ask around. That's it for this leg of the scenario. It's due on Thursday, meaning we might have to put in some extra time this week too, and come Monday we'll have to deal with the project baby having actually arrived.
My mind goes back to the old textbook and the delivery pictures I saw there. I shudder involuntarily, trying to expel the images from my mind. It occurs to me that we haven't studied childbirth in biology yet and I'm wondering if that is where things are headed. The project work is built on problem-based learning, or so it was advertised. We haven't had much of that yet; so far it's mostly been budgets and essays about our own thoughts and feelings. No searching for facts. Maybe that is just around the corner.
"Okay, I have bad news."
I startle slightly when Peeta slumps down in his chair with a huff, his elbow landing on the table and his chin soon leaning against the back of his hand. With a confused scowl I turn and look over my shoulder, wondering if Mrs. Saunders has disappeared or something. But no, there she sits, discussing something with one of our classmates.
"What is it?" I ask, turning back to Peeta. "What's going on?"
He doesn't answer for a few seconds, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth and staring off into space. Then he draws a quick breath and his eyes meet mine.
"Yeah what Mr. Stoker said earlier was true – it's getting tougher as the weeks go on, with the project. That, or we managed to really piss them off and we're simply paying for it now. But I don't think that's it." He grimaces and his fingers begin to play with his pencil sharpener. "There was only one town job left. I didn't get it. She says I should come back in half an hour and see if anything has opened up. This week several of our classmates are getting laid off as well, mostly project pregnant girls I should assume, and some of those jobs become available."
"How could you not get it?" I ask. "It's supposed to be first come, first serve." I have a sneaking suspicion I know the answer already but I want to hear it from him. There's another moment's hesitation on his part but at least this time around he doesn't avoid looking into my eyes.
"Apparently the tanner is not comfortable hiring someone whose spouse is from the Seam."
He snorts and shakes his head. I sit quietly, not knowing what to say. The last town job left was at the tanner's and even that he didn't get? Not a lot of people like to work with tanning. It's incredibly smelly, a stench that gets into your hair and clothes and doesn't seem to wash off, and working with dead animals is off-putting to a great many people. I wouldn't care about that, but I'm used to skinning my prey and I would rather be well-fed than fair-smelling any day. I don't know how Peeta would feel about such a job in real life but for the project it's the same as any other job. Only he couldn't have it. Because his project partner is from the Seam. I make a mental note of having to tell Gale about this. It was only yesterday that he talked about this issue. I never expected it to actually show up in the project. I didn't think that is what the project is for.
I look at Peeta. He looks offended, a deep scowl on his face. I'm not sure how I should feel about that. Is he upset because of me? Or because of the project? I don't ask him, knowing I will find out the answer anyway, and sure enough, after a few minutes he lets me in on what's going on in his mind.
"I know this kind of thing goes on all the time in reality," he says. "Or would, if people had the guts to be with who they wanted to be with, regardless of where in the district they were born. I just think it's wrong and a little messed up that they would throw this into the mix when we're almost two thirds through." To my surprise I feel a strong surge of disappointment when he points out that we're that far in. It seems like we only just begun this and now it's closer to the end than the beginning? "It's supposed to be a stupid project," continues Peeta, "and it's supposed to be about learning how to handle the household aspects of adulthood. We're supposed to be preparing to get out there and live on our own, with all the important practical aspects taught to us. Who we partner with for the project ought to be utterly irrelevant and shouldn't affect our scenarios. Especially since it's not an even 50/50 split between the Seam kids and the townies."
"Peeta it's alright," I say. To be honest I'm feeling a lot more bothered by the thought of the project being over in just two months. "It's not worth getting upset over."
"I don't agree on either account." He snorts and shifts restlessly in his chair. Then he sighs and leans back, pulling both arms off the table. "I just think it's stupid. What's the point? And how come no one had a problem hiring you during the first week, but now all of a sudden I'm not desirable on the job market because of who I'm partnered with? It's stupid."
"Maybe they just have to make up excuses at this stage to ensure it's not easy to get a job," I say, refusing to let this new turn of events irritate me. I won't give anyone that satisfaction. "In real life people get turned down all the time because there are seven or eight applicants per job, if not more. First come, first serve doesn't apply to the actual world. So for the project they make up excuses instead."
"Do you really believe that's what it's all about? I mean, couldn't they just take the names of those interested, put them in a bowl and draw one?" he asks. He sounds sceptical but willing to accept my thoughts as reality.
"I don't know, Peeta. Maybe."
"Yeah," he sighs with a nod. "Maybe."
"Whatever the reason…" I say, leaning over the table and studying the early draft of our budget. "Whatever the reason, this leaves us in a crummy position."
"It does indeed," he sighs in response. He flashes a quick, joyless grin and leans over the table as well, clasping his hands in front of him. "We need more money coming in because real soon we're going to have a lot of money going out. Let's start by completing the list of things we have to spend money on and see where our expenses land. We can work our way backward from there."
"I am so tired of calculating budgets, I could vomit," I complain.
"That could just be the project pregnancy talking," he replies, but I'm in no mood for bad jokes, even though I give him a small smile. I see nothing funny about this particular scenario since it feels all too realistic. I wonder how many couples are faced with this exact problem. I wonder how many of those couples have older children in the household who need to be fed and looked after.
"This budget is going to suck real bad," I remark. "Anything, and I do mean anything that we don't need to survive is off the list. Plain and simple."
"My suggestion is that we set aside your earnings to get the things we still haven't pretended to buy for Cookie Crisp."
"You are not seriously calling it that?"
"What difference does it make what we call it?" he asks, pulling my budget draft closer so he can copy it and work from there while I review the original. "What can they do? Flunk us for giving our fake kids crappy names?"
"If so they should employ this project in District One," I blurt out. "Maybe we wouldn't see any more careers with names like Glimmer and Vanity and Luxury." Peeta chortles at my joke, gives me an amused look and shakes his head. My smile becomes more natural. "Well, anyway, we can't use my whole income on baby stuff. With your income gone we'll need mine to buy food and pay rent. Not to mention we need to save as much of it as we can."
"Save what?" he asks, exasperated. "I'm far from convinced we can make a budget work as it is."
"We need to set money aside," I insists.
"I'll get another income, don't worry."
"Peeta, we're running the risk of neither of us having an income," I point out, feeling both stressed and a little irritated. Not with him but with our school for putting us through this. Most of all, though, with Panem itself, for making us have to face problems like this when we grow up. This country has a far too low population, why does every aspect of having children seem to be designed to pull us under? "What if no other job becomes available? Then where will we be? We both know. Me home with a made up baby and you not getting employed by anyone because they all turned bigoted overnight."
"Katniss-"
"They denied you employment because you're paired with a Seam girl – who's to say the other potential employers won't do the same? There are more workers than jobs so they can afford to be picky."
"Well I'm not," he says firmly. "I don't care what job I have – in the project or in real life. I'll take what is available."
"But not even the tanner wants you," I point out, my voice beginning to sound a little harsh. "At this point I'm not afraid of limited options, Peeta – I'm worried you won't have options."
His eyes meet mine with calm determination for a second before his gaze returns to the problematic budget.
"If nothing else becomes available I'll get myself a job in the mines."
"No!" I say sharply.
He looks up, confused. I realize it's strange for me to protest that since I'm a miner's daughter, no doubt bound for a life of working in the mines myself. Even stranger since I've made it very clear we need an income from him, but I don't care.
"What's wrong with working in the mines?" he asks.
"No," I say again, just as sharply as the first time. "No one I care about is ever getting a job in the mines. I won't allow it."
"I'm impressed that you're getting into character like that," replies Peeta after a second's pause, sounding a bit hesitant. He lets out a brief laugh that seems both tentative and bashful. "But if I had to I would work there. It beats starving. Especially if there's a kid on the way. And there's always work to find down in the coalmines."
I won't budge. I ought to be horrified that I just implied that Peeta is somebody I care that much about but for some reason I don't care, nor do I care that this is all make believe and not reality. Keeping my eyes bearing into his I lean in and snatch the pencil away from him.
"I mean it, Peeta," I say sternly. "You are not going to work in the mines."
He looks like he's about to protest but then another look comes over his face. I wonder if he's thinking about what happened to my father, and I ought to feel uncomfortable being on the receiving end of his pity and understanding. But none of that seems to matter just now. He nods slowly.
"If you feel so strongly about it then I won't," he says.
"Good," I say. "You can't have the pencil back unless you promise."
He smiles faintly.
"I promise."
"Okay."
I hand him the pencil and his smile grows a little wider. I feel oddly reassured when our hands meet as the pencil passes from me to him.
"You are one pushy pretend-wife."
"It's not funny Peeta," I say, dead serious.
"Maybe not funny but... a little endearing." He keeps smiling at me and I find myself smiling back just the slightest bit. Our eyes seem locked together for several seconds, maybe a minute or two even, before he harks and looks down at the scenario. "So, what baby stuff do we think we can live without and what might we be able to borrow, or make?"
"Let's go over the list again and see what we can work out."
I lean closer, close enough that our heads almost brush against each other and I can almost feel the whiff of air when he exhales. We both look at the enclosed list of important baby paraphernalia but I'm having trouble focusing. Sitting so close to Peeta is distracting. He smells faintly of some kind of soap that has a fabricated yet pleasant scent, like a milder version of whatever it is government officials, peacekeepers and Hunger Games personnel seem to bathe in every morning. Unlike those people Peeta uses so little of it that it doesn't overtake his own natural scent – which seems to be cinnamon, vanilla and dill – and instead the two combine and work very well together. Whenever my eyes go to him I'm stricken by those eyes of his, so intense, so warm and so incredibly blue. I almost feel I ought to move a bit further away but I know I don't want to.
"Has it been half an hour, yet?" I ask, harking my voice before I speak.
"Hmm?"
"Half an hour," I repeat, my eyes again meeting with Peeta's. Why do I seem to be stumbling over my words? "You said Mrs. Saunders told you to wait half an hour and see if more jobs had come in."
"Right," he says, his voice sounding deeper than before. "Right, yeah, no… It's barely been fifteen."
"Oh." We keep looking at each other, as if we're both searching for answers in each other and not in the information in front of us. There's an intensity in the moment that I'm not familiar with, and it both scares me a little and makes me feel secure at the same time. Peeta's eyes leave mine for a split second, darting to my mouth before resuming eye contact. "Well, you, uhm… You think there will be more jobs available by then?" I say, starting to feel too confused by the intensity between us and my jumbled emotions and wanting the moment to end while at the same time wishing it could go on for just a little longer.
"Possibly." His voice is still deeper, and a touch hoarse.
"There ought to be. There are almost always jobs to get, only far too many people wanting to get them."
"It's slim pickings," he mumbles. His eyes make a quick dart to my mouth again. Do I have something on my lips? Then he breaks eye contact and pulls away, crossing his arms on the table and leaning forward over them. "Which doesn't make sense if you think about it," he continues. "How could there be a variety of jobs available when we pretend-graduated but a few years down the line it's down to the stuff nobody wanted back then? Logically there ought to be roughly the same amount of available jobs every year."
"Logically?" I give him a faint smile. "You're trying to apply logic to this?"
"Right. My bad."
I almost feel compelled to chuckle and I give him a playful nudge with my elbow, earning me a somewhat bashful grin in return. It's odd seeing something like that on his face when I'm only inches away from the face in question. I like it though. He has a nice smile, the kind that lights up his whole face.
"I meant what I said earlier – I would take any job. For the project and for real," he then says, sitting back on his chair. His tone has changed, sounding more like his normal voice. "For the project it's not like it matters. I won't actually be doing that work. And in real life anything is better than starving."
"Almost…" I mumble in a low voice. I can't bear thinking of him working in the mines but that's not all that's coming to my mind right now. For whatever reason the image of scrawny, freezing women knocking on head peacekeeper Cray's door comes to the forefront of my mind and it makes me shudder. I doubt Cray would be interested in any services Peeta could offer but I'm hit with the realization that I would have to be pretty close to starving to death before I gave myself to him. And if I were married I don't think I would be able to at all. To me being married means being monogamous. The strange thing is, I'm imagining how it would hurt Peeta if we were married and I went to Cray to put money on our table. I ought to be imagining Gale. I tell myself it's just the circumstances playing tricks on my mind but it's all quite confusing.
"You okay?" asks Peeta, picking up on the tone in my voice.
"Yeah," I claim, leaning back as well. "Fine. Pick whatever town job you want. I don't think any of them pays well but it's better than nothing."
"I just hope I can get one at all," he says, a concerned frown underlining his words. He leans in to take another look at the list of baby things we need to include in our budget and sighs. "And let us both hope we can get help from friends and family to get everything we need to get. Hey do you think it would be considered cheating to make pretend friends with Haymitch Abernathy and receive gifts from him? It would be unethical, but it's just a fantasy, not reality."
"If it were reality we'd have my game to help sustain us," I blurt out before remembering where I am and who I'm with. I realize what I just said and freeze up. While mine and Gale's hunting is something of a well-known secret everyone in town is in on it's not something I discuss openly, certainly not at school. Of course Peeta knows I venture out into the woods but I don't actually know what he genuinely thinks about it. A lot of people would probably disapprove. Even possibly people whose father buys my game.
I'm almost afraid to look at him, unsure of what he will think. When I do let my eyes drift back to him he seems completely unfazed, but when he sees the look on my face it seems to puzzle him.
"What?" he asks.
"I… I don't know… I don't know why I just said that. I mean…"
"Katniss my father is the guy who buys your squirrels," Peeta points out. He keeps his voice low, so no one can overhear. "I know you hunt. It's no big deal."
"Really?" I say, taken aback. Not because he knows I hunt but because he's neither intimidated by it nor disapproving of it.
"Really. Everyone knows that about you, and you know that too, so I don't know what your reaction right now is about. But I agree, we can't include your game in our budget. Everything we hand in goes into official filing and that's not good in this case." He doodles a little on his notebook, his eyes leaving mine, and harks. "Truth be told, if it was for real I don't know if we'd be including it anyway."
"Why not?" I ask.
"To be quite frank I wouldn't be comfortable with my wife going out into the woods all the time."
I frown and lean back, crossing my arms over my chest. Perhaps I was too hasty in my judgment a moment ago. Apparently he does disapprove. And it makes me feel disappointed in him.
"Why not? You don't think a woman can provide for her family that way?"
"Who said anything about men versus women?" asks Peeta. "I simply meant that... Well, you said you weren't comfortable with somebody you love working in the mines. I'm not sure if I'm comfortable with somebody I love going hunting in the woods. It's too dangerous. I'd be worried every single minute."
"I said someone I care about," I correct him, not sure why I feel the need. He raises an eyebrow at me and I make a face that's really an acquiescence that that point is moot. "But what's so bad about the woods? Have you ever been out there?"
His eyes widen.
"Me?" He shakes his head. "No."
"Why not?"
"Are you kidding? It's against the law. I'm not courageous, like you are. Besides, I don't know how to survive out in the wilderness. I'd probably get my ass kicked by a bunny within fifteen minutes."
His comment makes me laugh and I forget that I was annoyed with him mere seconds ago. He smiles and I have to admit to myself that I'm happy he does. I like seeing him smile. Especially when it's in response to something I've said or done.
"You would not," I chuckle. "You're a strong wrestler. You could take the bunny."
"Strong wrestler, huh?" he says with a grin.
The way he says it makes me feel a little funny, no doubt also making me blush, and I hark my voice and try to steer us back on topic again.
"So, we agree that we can't add my game to our income."
"Right," he says, still smiling. His eyes are fixed on me, but not in a way that makes me feel uncomfortable.
"That doesn't mean we can't find other things to eat that we don't buy from stores," I say. "My father taught me about edible plants and we have a book at home with more details on them." I've never spoken to someone I don't know all that well about my father's book before but I feel like I can trust Peeta with this. More than that, I feel like it's a favour I can do him –a meagre reciprocation of the bread he gave me that saved my life. If – when – he finds himself with little to nothing to eat this might be of use to him. "There are all sorts of edible plants around. Most in the forest but some within the fences."
"Really?" he says, his eyebrows raised a bit. "That's neat. Such as?"
I look back up at him and an odd feeling runs through me.
"Dandelions..."
"Dandelions. You can eat those?"
I nod slowly.
"Here I always thought they're weed."
"No..." I say slowly. "They're very useful flowers."
"Your father taught you all about this stuff, huh?"
I smile a little, thinking of my father, which is easier to do nowadays without the overwhelming sadness taking over. Talking about him is another thing I've never really done with a stranger since after he passed. Not that Peeta is a stranger anymore but he's not a close friend either. I've only spoken to Madge about my father once or twice and even with Gale and Prim I rarely talk about him. Now the words just seem to fall out of my mouth on their own accord.
"I have him to thank for not fearing the forest. He loved it there and he wanted me to feel the same. When I was little he took me out in the woods for the first time and he began to show me things."
"Like how to use the bow?"
"Yeah. He showed me things I could have use for to survive, in the woods and in general." My smile widens a bit. "I remember the day he taught me that as long as I can find myself I'll never have to starve."
Peeta looks confused.
"I'm... not sure what that means," he admits.
"Katniss is a plant," I tell him. "An edible one."
"It is?"
"Yeah."
"What does it look like?"
I begin to describe the katniss plant to him in as much detail as I can. At first I'm enthusiastic but then I start to feel a little irritated. He's barely listening. He's doodling on his notebook while I talk. I'm suddenly reminded that this is not a close friend I'm talking to. It's Peeta Mellark, the guy I'm doing a project with at school, and while he's polite enough to ask me questions about myself it's obvious he doesn't really care about the answers. I finish my description quickly and with a scowl on my face. He doesn't seem to notice. He finishes his doodles and pushes his notepad to me.
"Something like this?" he asks.
Confused I lean in and look at his notebook. He wasn't doodling – I realize that the second I lay eyes on the page of his notebook. He has been drawing a katniss plant based on my description. Not just a simple sketch but a really well done drawing. Some of the details are wrong but you can clearly see what it's supposed to be. My mouth opens a little and I pick the pad up to take a closer look.
"Peeta, this... this is really good."
I'm pleased to see him blush at the compliment.
"Thanks. So it looks right? You can tell what it's supposed to be?"
"Yeah, absolutely." I put the pad back down carefully. "I had no idea you knew how to draw so well."
His cheeks turn even redder and I can hardly keep a smile off my face. There's something so disarming and charming about his reaction and it touches some spot in my heart that I usually don't allow people to touch.
"Uh, thanks. It's not that big of a deal."
"Of course it is," I say. "This is really good. You have a talent."
"Not like you do," he objects and takes the notepad back. "It's a useless talent. I can't make a living out of drawing stuff."
"No, I suppose not," I say. "But still…"
"And it's an expensive hobby. Doodles in notepads are one thing but anything that involves real colours and good paper costs about as much as my whole family spends on food in a month."
"Well… if we ever find ourselves with excess money we'll be sure to put it in the budget," I hear myself saying.
He looks up at me again and gives me a smile with just the right touch of shyness, telling me he's touched by what I said even though it doesn't matter since it's all just hypothetical anyway. All the same I smile back at him. It feels good to have made him happy, even if only for a moment, even if only over a theoretical thing. Then suddenly he leans in and kisses me lightly on the cheek. I blush instantly and move my hand up to touch the spot but stop halfway there. I look at him and he smiles calmly.
"You are a really classy person, Katniss," he says.
"Thanks," I mumble, feeling more than a little bit confused. I understand perfectly that what he just did was simply a friendly gesture. I've seen him and his female friends exchange cheek kisses numerous times. I feel a little embarrassed for having visibly reacted, as if I'm not used to kisses of any kind, but he's polite enough to pretend not to notice.
"I promise if we are able to include paint supplies in the budget I'll paint you a katniss plant in watercolours," he says, his tone almost a touch too light and casual. Our eyes remain locked with each other for a few more moments, some sort of understand passing between us. I become the first to look away, my eyes fluttering to the katniss he's already drawn. I study it even more carefully than I already have and I try to imagine what he might be able to produce in watercolours.
I hear Peeta's chair pushing back and turn my head to see him stand up. It's been half an hour. I wish him luck and then try to focus on the budget, but my eyes seem to want to observe him instead. Does he look frustrated? Happy? Worried? He's got two people ahead of him in line, which frustrates me. They're not vying for any of the jobs, are they? If all that's left again is the tanner's then we're in trouble. My hand goes to my face again, the spot Peeta kissed feeling oddly tingly, almost like a burning sensation. At the last moment I stop my fingers from touching the skin. I'm not sure if the sensation is a discomfort or not but it's definitely unusual.
Peeta comes back and I look up at him expectantly.
"Well? How did it go?"
"I hope it doesn't bother you that your supposed better half is something of a weasel at times," he says, pulling out his chair and sitting back down.
"I don't follow."
"At first she tried to say no one would want to hire me due to my half-Seam wife, except for two out of the now seven available positions, and those two would require handing in an application and not finding out until Monday whether or not I got it."
"And? What happened?"
He smirks but holds up his fist to cover his mouth, trying to hide it.
"One of the jobs was at the Cartwright's shop. I simply told Mrs. Saunders that I know the family since childhood, grew up together with their kids, and they would hire me before anyone else. Regardless of who I was married to."
I feel a rush of excitement and, oddly, hope. That feeling shouldn't be associated with a school project but it's there nonetheless.
"So you got the job?"
"I did indeed! On a trial basis, apparently, but at least it gets us through this leg and probably the next."
"That's great!" I say, brimming with excitement, and I feel a sudden urge to lean in and hug him. It's only the fact that we're in the school assembly room, surrounded by gossipy students, that holds me back. But I think I can see in Peeta's smile that he's thinking what I'm thinking.
"We have a source of income now," he says, laughing lightly. "Come on, here's my salary." He writes it down on my notepad, then on his own. It's larger than what he had at the bakery, but that's only logical, since working within the family business as a younger sibling tends to be less profitable than taking an outside job. "Let's get to work."
With a dosage of new energy and for once rather bright spirits between us we get to work, spending the rest of the hour working through the budget and completing it with about ten minutes to spare. That gives us some time to work on the other assignment we have. Not enough to complete it though, and since it's due on Thursday we'll have to put in some extra hours out of school.
"It will have to be tomorrow," says Peeta as we're finishing up for the day. "Wednesday I have wrestling practice."
"You seem to have an awful lot of that," I remark.
"Yeah," he chuckles, "calendar-wise anyway. It's actually only ninety minutes on Mondays and Thursdays, and an hour on Wednesdays. Four hours a week is nothing. If you want to get really good at something like this you have to practice way more often than that."
"Yeah, I hear you," I nod. "I wouldn't have gotten good with the bow unless I practiced all the time."
"Good with the bow? You're great with the bow. My father says you hit the squirrels right in the eye, every time."
"I'm good enough," I shrug, feeling awkward at the compliment.
He crosses his arms on the table and leans forward, bringing his face close to mine. He lowers his voice, speaking to me in a conspiring tone.
"Where do you… get the arrows?" The way he says it almost sounds like we're talking about arrows meant to be used as weapons in a secret war against the peacekeepers or something. Not that making them for hunting purposes is legal either.
"I make them, silly," I answer, enjoying the teasing tone I never really use with anyone but him.
"Yeah?" He looks genuinely impressed. "That is so cool."
"Not really," I say with a light chuckle. "Unless you like getting splinters. It's a lot of work for something that, unfortunately, might only be useable once. And might not gain you anything if you miss and the arrow breaks."
"No, I mean it." He leans in even closer, though this part of the conversation doesn't really require any secrecy. "I admire that. People who create things. Not just bakery bread but actual, lasting things. I know I said once I've considered being a teacher but what I would really like to do is something that allows me to create. Cobblers, carpenters, tailors… People who make arrows… I think it's great. With your own bare hands you're making things exist that weren't there before."
"I've never thought of it that way. To me it's just something I have to do. Far from my favourite part of hunting." I take care to lower my voice for the last word, just in case someone overhears.
"I think it's great," says Peeta again. "You're self-reliant. You need arrows to hunt so you make them. I admire that."
I smile, pleased by his approval.
"Hey Peeta, you done playing house yet?" We both startle a bit and look up to see one of Peeta's friends walking up to us. He smacks Peeta lightly on the head, sending his curly hair into disarray. "Come on man, get moving. Coach will be pissed if you're late twice in two weeks. Your new girl can wait until after practice."
"Smooth as ever," says Peeta dryly. His whole demeanour changes in a heartbeat, his smile losing some of its warmth and turning more into a smirk, and his back straightening as he begins to gather his things. The biggest change though are his eyes, no longer warm but instead just kind of casual, and his tone of voice. "I'll be with you in five." He looks up at his friend and gives him a joyless smirk. "And Katniss is not my new girl. It's a project, stupid."
"Yeah, well you're looking awfully cosy to me," says the guy, whose name is Rusty. He leans back against a table, crosses his arms over his chest and eyes us both. I scowl and decide to ignore him as I pack up my things. In fact I'm also pretty much ignoring Peeta, or at least pretending to. "And now you're teaming up in physics, too?"
"Well she was pretty much the last person in class to realize how terrible I am at it," answers Peeta. "I'm running out of possible lab partners and she was duped. Once."
"Sure," chuckles Rusty. "And the holding hands in the library a while back, what was that about?"
"Jeez, Rust, how boring is your own life right now?" snorts Peeta. He begins to put his things in his backpack but I'm already finished so I pull my chair back to stand up. "If you're hoping for a new couple to be the first to spread the word about, I'm afraid you're going to have to look elsewhere." I feel his hand on mine as I'm about to leave. Startled I pause. Our eyes meet one more time, this time with none of the intensity from before. "Good work today, Katniss. Catch you tomorrow?"
"Yeah," I manage, my voice feeling hoarse.
"Right. Thanks for today."
And then he turns to his friend and begins to discuss wrestling, and I'm practically forgotten. I begin to leave the assembly room and head for my locker to leave some books, bring home some others, and of course get my outerwear. I'm relieved he kind of blew me off in front of his friend as the last thing I need is for rumours to begin to spread about Peeta and me. Gale will surely hear of any such gossips through his brothers and the last thing I need is to add more fuel to his merchant-disliking fire.
I put on my old coat and my hat, wrapping the scarf around my neck and grabbing my gloves. When I leave the building I'm struck by the bitter cold. It's gotten colder again during the day. But all the way home, and throughout the rest of the evening, the spot on my cheek where Peeta's lips touched burns in a not so unpleasant sensation.
Re: Peeta's comment about not wanting someone he loves (okay, Katniss) to go out into the woods, I hope no one takes that the wrong way. I don't recall him saying anything along those lines in canon but there's never much of a reason for him to do so. It's not about Katniss' capabilities but I wanted to allude to the fear of the woods that a lot of District 12 citizens seem to have. And also, I think one of the reasons he admires her so much is because she goes into the woods where he wouldn't dare set foot.
Thanks for reading!