This chapter ended up too long and was then scaled back. I think I caught all formatting stuff along the way but if you find anything that looks odd, don't hesitate to let me know =). Hope you'll enjoy! I know the story is slow-moving and I can only hope you'll want to stick around while it lasts. Right now it's really more about the project, with Everlark developing and growing in the background. I can only hope it isn't boring - either way, I'm glad that everyone reading this right now has stuck around this long.

I wake up on Monday morning with a strange feeling in the pit of my stomach. An odd mixture of trepidation and curiosity. Today is when we get the next part of the scenario, specifically the part dealing with the birth of our fictional child. Even though it's all completely fictitious I can't help but feel discomfort and apprehension about more or less pretending to give birth to a baby. It feels like an intrusion of my privacy. What gives our teachers the right to decide I will be having babies, and even which gender they will have? It's intimate and I don't like thinking about it, much less writing things about it that my teachers will then read – and grade me on, to boot. It's only the faintest bit intriguing to find out what baby Cookie Crisp – oh great, now I'm using that name too – will end up adding to the project. A whole lot of problems, no doubt. We get absolutely none of the good parts about parenthood, which from what I hear seems to have a lot to do with babies smelling great and feeling very soft. I don't think the babies I've met have smelled anything special, but I know better than telling that to a new parent.

Prim is still asleep curled up next to me in our bed, her fair hair fanning out on the pillow. I don't have to wake her for another twenty-five minutes. I woke up early, probably because of my mixed feelings about today. Whenever I dread something, and the few times I've really looked forward to something, I've woken up early for some reason.

Careful not to wake my sister I scoot down to the foot of the bed and quietly step down onto the ice cold floor, cringing at the touch. A floorboard creaks under my weight as I move quietly to the dresser and collect my underwear and a clean shirt from the bottom drawer. Picking up my pants from the back of the chair I press the clothes to my chest and tiptoe out of the room, keeping Buttercup from entering then bedroom with the help of my foot. I won't let him hop up on the bed with Prim and wake her up. He gives me a look full of contempt and parks his ass on the floor, unleashing a large, whiny meow before giving me a look that's dramatically forlorn.

"Oh quit the act," I hiss at him. He hisses back at me and then directs another pitiful meow at the bedroom door. Growling under my breath I put my clothes down on the nearest available surface and pick him up, carrying him under my armpit. "Suit yourself, you mangy thing. Ugh, how much do you weigh? Why do I let my sister waste money on food for you when clearly you're the second best hunter in the house." That earns me another hiss. "Yes, I said second best." Opening the back door with my free hand I feel Buttercup begin to squirm as he realizes where this is heading. "You brought this on yourself. If you had shut up I wouldn't have been forced to do this." Grabbing him with both hands I send him on a short flight into a large pile of snow next to the front porch, where he will land relatively softly. The icy porch is much colder under my bare feet than the bedroom floor was and the second the cat has left my grasp I'm retreating back inside as fast as possible. Once inside I turn to close the door, just in time to see Buttercup emerge from the pile of snow. He shudders to get as much snow off himself as possible, looks at me and gives me yet another hiss, then sticks his nose in the air and walks off with as much dignity as he can muster. "Yeah, whatever," I tell him. "Stay away for a long time, okay?"

I wash myself and get dressed, shivering in the chilly air. At least there was no hard wind blowing when I let the cat out. Hopefully it won't feel so cold today when walking to and from school, and I will be able to hunt and bring home something good to eat. I brush my hair, holding the comb in my mouth while I put my hair up in a backwards braid, mostly just to get a bit of change from my usual look. By the time I'm done I've still got fifteen minutes before I have to wake Prim up so I head into the kitchen and fill up the kettle with water. We have some tesserae grain bread and that will do for breakfast. While I'm settling the table I hear a door opening and my mother's footsteps approaching. I don't look up when she enters the kitchen, wondering to myself how come she doesn't get up in the morning and prepare breakfast for her youngest daughter. Why can't she take more responsibility for running the household? What would she do if I actually did get married next summer and left the house?

"Good morning, dear," she says to me.

"Good morning." The kettle boils and I walk over to take it off the stove, still without looking at her. "I let the cat out."

"I heard him before."

And yet she stayed in bed, running the risk of the stupid cat waking up Prim and robbing her of nearly half an hour of sleep. It's not like Mother needs to get that rest time. She can go back to bed the moment we leave for school. No doubt she took for granted that I would deal with it, and if it hadn't run the risk of disturbing Prim I should have just ignored it and left it for Mother to deal with. I reach up to grab the homemade teabags from the second highest shelf in the cabinet, noting to myself that I'm not getting any help preparing breakfast either.

"Do you mind giving me a hand?" I ask dryly, nodding at the cabinet where we keep the mugs. She springs to action, although 'springing' is not quite the right word since she slowly walks across the room, but at least it's something.

"Looks like we'll have decent weather today," she remarks. I hum something in the back of my throat in acknowledgement. "Would you bring me back some willow bark when you go out into the woods after school?"

"Sure," I say, keeping in a sigh. I hand her the teabags and she puts one in each mug before setting one mug by each plate. Grabbing the kettle I walk over to the table and fill the mugs up with hot water. "Do we have any sugar left? Or honey?"

"I'll check."

I look at my watch and determine that it's almost time to go wake Prim, and it's best if I do it myself. If I ask Mother she might very well decide this is a good time to sit beside Prim on the bed, talking quietly to her about what she dreamt this night and what her day will hold. Not that I begrudge my sister a gentle first few minutes of being awake, but we have to get ready for school and Prim has her goat to feed.

"I'll go get Prim," I say before Mother can think to volunteer for the job. I look her up and down, annoyed at seeing her in her old, worn, faded pink robe. "You should go get dressed. In your room, so Prim can have the bathroom."

"Yeah," she nods, looking upset for some reason. I try hard not to roll my eyes.

When I get to school I notice that Madge isn't there. She is home tucked into bed, ill with the flu. I take a seat at the back of the classroom and wonder how sick she is and if she will be gone the whole week – or possibly longer. The few times when Gale has been sick I've always gone over to his house with some herbal remedy my mother prepared, but the idea of me going over to the mayor's house with some medicine from the Seam – even if it was prepared by a woman merchant born – is ludicrous. If anyone in District 12, other than Haymitch Abernathy, has the means to get factory made medications it's the mayor. My presence at Madge's house would only be inappropriate and make her parents uncomfortable. It makes me feel bad to know that I'm completely useless when my only female friend is ill and right from the get-go my spirits are dampened. It doesn't get much better when the last thing our teacher does before letting us go off to lunch is to declare yet another team assignment for English class, which is right after lunch. We've always had to work in pairs for various projects and assignments but I feel like they're becoming more and more frequent these days, as if the school system is desperate to prepare us for working with others once we become employed somewhere. Typical though for this to happen when Madge is home sick.

I make a decision not to let this turn of events affect me. Instead of feeling displeasure at having to work with somebody other than Madge my eyes and my thoughts go towards Peeta. From where I'm sitting, far back in the room, I can tell he's still taking notes from class while smiling and joking with his merchant friends. Good. If he hasn't started packing up his books yet then he's not going to be done until most of our classmates have already left the room – including his friends. I don't bother with trying to create an excuse for why I'm staying behind while the others leave. I doubt anyone of them will even notice or care. I let my eyes drift towards Peeta over and over while I sit on my desk and wait. It would be just typical if he actually got his belongings in order fast this time and left before the room has cleared out.

Finally he seems to be about done, and we're actually the only two students left which is perfect. I hop down from the desk and walk over to him, actually feeling a bit excited. I have fun working together with him and I know for a fact that what he may lack in physics or chemistry he more than makes up for in English. I reach him just as he's putting his backpack on, doing so with ease even though it's full of books and probably very heavy.

"Hey you," I say. Apparently he didn't hear me coming because he startles to the point where he almost drops his backpack, and the wide-eyed look he gives me when he turns around is so cute it borders on comical. I only just barely manage to keep myself from breaking out into a smile.

"Oh! Hey!" he exclaims, taking a seat on his desk in what seems like an effort to calm a fast-beating heart. To his credit he doesn't do that annoying thing where people try to hide an absurdly obvious reaction. "I didn't hear you coming. Kind of scared me there, Katniss."

"I'm sorry."

"God, those deer and hogs and turkeys and whatnot must not stand a chance," he says, shaking his head lightly. "One moment everything's fine and dandy, the next they're grazing in the big forest up in the sky."

"I wouldn't be much of a hunter if my prey could hear me coming from several feet away."

"True, I suppose. So might I ask what casts me in the role of your prey today?"

I feel like I might be blushing, though I'm not sure. The way he said it just… affected me, giving me that delicious yet dangerous feeling that seems to run through my whole body like lightning. The fact that he's smiling at me doesn't make it much easier to form a coherent response that's not just getting my intentions out there but that keeps the banter going. I'm saved by our teacher, whose voice interrupts us and truthfully startles me a little. I had forgotten she was even here still.

"Alright, you two. You have an entire lunch hour to have whatever conversation you're having, so have it somewhere else. I want to close up and go eat."

"Absolutely, ma'am," says Peeta, getting down from the desk. "We'll be out the door in ten seconds, I promise." He smiles at me. "Want to talk over lunch?"

I mull it over for a second. This isn't the kind of conversation that takes a full hour to discuss, or even the length of time required to eat a meagre meal, or even the time it takes to get to the lunch room. I was just going to ask him the question and then head our separate ways. But while I certainly don't mind eating alone it would be nice having his company, and if we are to work together in English class right after lunch then why go our separate ways now just to meet back up later?

"Sure," I say, a small smile on my lips.

"Alright then."

We walk down the hallway towards the eating area, neither one of us speaking. There's a small smile on Peeta's lips and a couple of times he glances at me from the corner of his eye. Then I start to feel awkward and decide I would much rather have this conversation without the rest of the school listening in. It's not that I feel embarrassed asking him, or even that I'm worried he will say no, but asking the question still makes me feel a bit uncomfortable.

"So… What do you think about the teaming up thing we'll be doing in English class?" I not-too-gracefully ask him.

"Well, I-" Peeta begins before being cut off by Mallory Grey who comes up to us seemingly out of nowhere and throws an arm around his shoulders.

"He's taken," she informs me, her eyes locked on Peeta and a far too cutesy smile on her face, barely acknowledging me with so much as a glance. "You can go away now."

"Excuse me?" I scowl.

"You're discussing the thing for English class?" she says in a tone that suggests it's nothing short of hilarity that I would do something like that with Peeta. While she talks her hand begins to play with a lock of his hair, twirling it around her finger, and he visibly flinches. "Or just having lunch? Well isn't that special? Either way, like I said - he's taken, so shoo!"

"Mallory!" exclaims Peeta, shrugging off her arm and giving her an irate look. He moves away from her and closer to me but I'm really annoyed so I step aside further.

"Peeta I need you, and any girl from the Seam can't be worth that much of your time," she replies haughtily, her fingers touching his chin. "Love the late season beard, by the way."

"Mallory!" he snarls in response, stopping and crossing his arms while giving her a glare that's far more unpleasant than anything I ever think I've seen from him before. His strong jaw is clenched, his brow deeply furrowed and the blue of his eyes seems to have turned a shade darker. He then turns to me, softening his expression. "I'm sorry Katniss. Never mind her. Let's have lunch, like we said."

Feeling both humiliated and angry I eye them both, trying to understand what just happened and how it happened so out of nowhere. I want to tell Mallory Grey to make herself scarce, or perhaps go walk into the fence when it's electrified. But I don't. She's clearly got a huge interest in Peeta and what right to I have to stand in her way? I'm not single, I have no claims on him for my own part. And I certainly don't want to stand here and be involved in what is bound to turn into quite the scene if I don't leave. If Mallory wants to intimidate me I will be damned if I give her the satisfaction of playing along. So I cock my neck, give them both my most indifferent look and shrug my shoulders.

"I had nothing important to talk about. Just thought you looked lonely. That doesn't seem to be the case anymore. Enjoy your lunch. I'll see you during project hour, Peeta."

I try telling myself that it's actually a relief that I don't have to sit across from Peeta at one of the tables, possibly with his crowd of friends even, and unpack what passes for a lunch for me today while the merchant kids enjoy what is actually a meal. I try telling myself that it doesn't matter if I talk to Peeta anyway, or who I will work with in English. I've been paired up with a few the Seam kids in our class at one point or another, and occasionally with a merchant kid as well, and I've done fine enough those times. I don't need to be partnered with Peeta Mellark. It was just a thought, an idea, but not one I'm going to get into a fight with Mallory Grey over.

I hear Peeta call my name as I stride towards my usual table. I resist the strong urge to turn around and make sure he isn't following me. As I sit down and try to summon any interest in the lunch I packed I spot Peeta taking a seat at a table with his usual crowd of people – the last seat, meaning Mallory can't sit with them. His back is turned to me so I can't tell if he looks annoyed or upset. I scowl even more and try to see the positive – at least with my current state of mind I could care less that my lunch is practically non-existent. I begin to chew my meagre meal, not really feeling what it tastes like, and keep my eyes firmly glued to my lunch. I don't want to catch any glimpse of Mallory and I don't want to look at Peeta right now either. He didn't do anything wrong per se, but that doesn't make me feel any less belittled.

For the first time in a long time I begin to see what Gale has been talking about all these years. Town people don't see Seam people as equal in value. Mallory doesn't think it matters how she speaks to me or acts around me. For all I know she even thought she was saving Peeta from the social disgrace of sitting with me during lunch for all others to see. It's humiliating to think about and I desperately want to force myself not to. I reach for my bottle of water and take a few sips. The food seems to be growing in my mouth and I need something to wash it down with. I recall what Gale has been saying about the tesserae system, that it is designed to create mistrust between us and the merchants. Maybe there is something to it. Seam kids are forced to sign up for tesserae in much larger numbers than town kids. In a way, why shouldn't kids like Mallory feel that her Seam classmates are worth less than she is? The very system is telling merchant people from their early childhood that our lives don't matter as much as theirs do because the government designed it in a way that assures that the odds will be far more in their favour. Under such circumstances it's no wonder why merchants and Seams are rarely friends, and even more rarely lovers. It's true that my closest female friend is the mayor's daughter but Madge is the only girl in our class as withdrawn as I am, so that makes sense. Peeta, on the other hand, has no earthly reason to want to be friends with somebody like me.

And right this moment I hate him for it.

When we are dismissed from our last class before the project I don't wait for Peeta. I gather my things, walk straight past him without giving him as much as an acknowledging look and then I head to the bathroom. I don't really have to go but even though I don't feel like making pleasant chitchat with him for ten minutes I don't want to make it seem like what happened earlier is a much bigger deal than what it was. So I go to the bathroom, just as much to tell myself that I'm not avoiding him during break as to tell him.

Splashing water on my face I look up into the old, worse-for-wear mirror and sigh at the unpleasant reflection staring back at me. I'm no great beauty but I know I'm not terrible looking either. Sometimes I wonder though how much prettier I would be with a good – and regular – diet, and the additional kilos that would come with it. I don't know why, but lately I've been finding myself comparing my own looks to those of the merchant girls, who while not well enough fed to stand a chance at obesity still eat a lot more than I do. Mallory Grey, for instance, has a nice, decently-fed appearance. No protruding collarbones or ribs, no sunken in look about her. An actual figure with curves and a bosom that I imagine guys are attracted by. Some colour on her cheeks, unlike the pasty-faced person of my reflection.

With these unpleasant thoughts still on my mind I leave the bathroom and make my way to the assembly room. Peeta is there, at our usual table, writing in his notepad with a look on his face that's hard to read. With a scowl I pull out my chair and take a seat, tossing my backpack on the empty chair in-between us. As I unzip my backpack and begin getting the things I need I feel Peeta's eyes on me but I try to ignore it.

"Hey," he finally says.

"Hi," I respond without looking up at him. I wonder if he's going to ask where I went. It occurs to me that even though I have a perfectly legitimate excuse as to why I didn't spend the break chatting with him it is not unreasonable for him to question how come I didn't simply tell him I was going to the bathroom. But he doesn't say anything about it.

"I'm sorry about before," he says instead. I hum in acquiescence but go on getting my things ready without looking at him. "She was completely out of line and I told her so."

"Peeta I don't need you to fight any battles for me."

"I don't want her to think she can behave that way and that it's fine by me. Katniss would you look at me for a second?"

"I'm trying to find my pencil case," I say, which isn't really true. I meet his eyes for a second or two to placate him. "Vision helps."

"Borrow one of my pens." He finds one and hands it over.

"No thanks," I say. "I need other stuff in that case anyway."

"I'm sorry if she hurt your feelings."

My eyes shoot to him at that comment, the look cold and harsh enough that many a brave soul probably would have looked away. But not Peeta. His calm and steady look doesn't impress me so much as it irritates me. I will not have him, nor anyone else, sit here and think that Mallory Grey possesses the power to in any way affect my feelings, and certainly not to hurt them. I feel a very unpleasant burning sensation somewhere around my chest or stomach, I can't pinpoint it exactly, but it comes from knowing that Peeta is pitying me.

"I could care less what she says or does," I say sharply. I give up the fake search for my pencil case and give him a glare. "What makes you think she hurt my feelings?"

"Because she was rude and hurtful and behaved in a way that was wholly inappropriate," he answers without flinching. "Because you're human and anyone would be hurt and offended by what transpired."

I scoff and open my notebook, turning the pages until I find the first empty one. Why won't he stop looking at me? I want to tell him that he's being rude right now but doing so would only add to his suspicions.

"I think you overestimate how much I care what that girl says, thinks or does," I say instead, taking care to sound as indifferent to Mallory as I possibly can. "She's insignificant."

There's a moment's pause but it doesn't feel like the kind of natural, easy silence that can exist between us. I look up at him questioningly and find that the look he's now giving me isn't quite as approving as it normally is. He has crossed his arms and is leaned back in his chair, his eyes refusing to leave me.

"Just for the record, I'm not wildly enthusiastic about condescending behaviour on your part towards her, either. Even though she was being, frankly, a bitch."

Baffled I pause for a second before resuming my search for the pencil case, which I actually know roughly where in the backpack it is.

"I wasn't being condescending."

"No?"

"No," I say defensively.

"I don't know what you call it, then, but it wasn't nice."

Feeling more irritated now, but above all feeling bad about the implications he just made, I quickly do my best to divert the conversation from myself.

"I don't understand why you don't just go out with her."

"I beg your pardon?"

"You obviously don't dislike her as much as you claim since you just came to her defence," I point out. "And she obviously has a thing for you. So why not give her a chance and go out with her? You being so benevolent and all."

"What are you talking about?"

"You," I say, rolling my eyes. "Her. Going out together. Maybe it would lessen some of the drama, which couldn't hurt."

"Katniss, Mallory Grey is not looking to date me," says Peeta matter-of-factly.

"No?" I say, just barely resisting the urge to scoff. "Well she sure makes a very good impression of it."

"She has her sights set on Ryean," explains Peeta. "She's had a thing for him since twelfth grade but up until last spring he was dating Clara Carbone. Since he's not in school anymore and she thus doesn't come across him on a daily basis she's trying to go through me."

I stare blankly at him for almost a full minute. Could this really be true? If it is, why does it make me feel both oddly relieved and full of something resembling dread? In fact why should it matter to me at all? The love lives of the Mellark brothers should be too uninteresting to me to even register on my radar, let alone cause any feelings of any sort. Why do I keep having so much emotional confusion where Peeta is concerned?

"How does that make any sense?" I finally ask. "Why would she want to partner up for this project with you if the one she wanted to possibly do it with for real is your older brother? Isn't that kind of… icky? And why would she think it would work, anyway?"

"I guess she figured that working with me on this project might land her the opportunity of coming home with me and thus being near him. Or convincing me that I should be rooting to have her for a possible future sister-in-law, and telling my brother all about it. Look, I don't know what her thoughts or plans have been and it feels wrong to speculate about another person's heart. I don't even know why I'm telling you any of this. I mean it's not like it makes a difference in your life who I date or who wants to date me. But since you're curious about it, Ryean is the Mellark she wants to get cosy with. I find her a little frightening, or to tell the truth – obnoxious – so I'm reluctant to be her accomplice but at the end of the day it's my brother's life and up to him to reject her or date her." He finally breaks eye contact and turns his attention to the envelope lying in front of him on the table. "And for the record, I don't have to be especially fond of someone to feel they shouldn't be patronised."

I scowl at him, feeling embarrassed at his chastisement. I give him a pointed look before turning my eyes to my pencil case, which I've just managed to fish out of my backpack and place on the table.

"If you don't mind I'd rather you and she and your brother and whoever else might be involved in this little drama put the whole thing on hold while you and I are working. If I have to put in extra time because you and Mallory Grey are playing little games concerning your brother I'm going to be anything but pleased."

To my surprise he seems annoyed with that comment. It's not often that I manage to annoy him but once my initial surprise has faded I quickly realize that my comment was uncalled for and fairly rude. However I don't know how to apologize right now.

"So far we've had zero overtime due to Mallory so maybe that's not a thread to pull on," he says, giving me a scowl that could match one of my own.

"All I'm saying is keep the romance drama to a minimum while we're working," I reply, trying my best to sound indifferent. I flip the page in my biology textbook and study the first random part of text my eyes fall upon.

"And all I'm saying is that I haven't dragged any 'romance drama'," his fingers adding air quotes to the last two words, "during our project hour, so your complaints are completely out of the left field. Mallory interrupted us during lunch, you are the one who was three minutes late today and you've wasted another…" His eyes go to the clock on the wall. "Four minutes conjuring drama where there is none. If we have to work overtime this week, it's all on you." He snorts and looks at the envelope again. "You didn't even stay to get our new assignment. You just bolted out the door the minute class was over."

"I needed to go to the bathroom."

"Well I got our next scenario," says Peeta sourly, picking up the envelope by a corner and waving it about slightly. "So how about you put your accusations of wasting school time where they belong and we get some actual school work done?"

"Open it," I say, trying to hide how uncomfortable I am but knowing that I'm failing. I cross my arms on the table and lean forward, hating this day through and through. It was bad enough before this, now I've been petty and rude to Peeta with no real reason to be and I've made a fool of myself in the process. What is the matter with me these days?

"You shouldn't let her get to you like that," says Peeta, calm now, sounding like we're back on good terms with each other. My eyes go straight to him. He's just finishing opening the envelope and looks a bit solemn perhaps, but otherwise like himself. Not knowing what to say, except that I really need to apologise to him, I hark as discreetly as I can, look down at my textbook and mumble my reply.

"It's been a rough day. Has nothing to do with you, or Mallory Grey. I'm sorry I took it out on you. It was immature of me."

"That's alright," he says, looking at me as he pulls the papers from the envelope. "I know you don't like to talk about this kind of stuff, and that's fine, but for future reference I don't enjoy being a punching bag."

"I said I was sorry," I point out, meeting his eyes. I can't read the look in them and that irritates me. I still can't figure him out.

"And I accepted your apology. Want to move on? Actually get started on our work?"

"Yes," I say empathically, but instantly I think the better of it. "No. I mean, yeah, we need to get to work, but…" I look into his blue eyes and feel increasingly bad that I said those things to him. I don't know what kind of things he gets to hear at home but I'm fairly convinced that his mother doesn't exactly shower him with praise or let him off the hook when something's not to her liking. I can't shake what he just said about being a punching bag. I don't want to be a person who makes him feel bad, in any way at all. "Peeta I'm sorry about what I said. I mean it. I was unfair and I was…" I don't really know what I was, which is frustrating to no end. My eyes drift, as if I expect the answer to be lying around somewhere, and I shrug. "I'm just sorry. I won't take my problems out on you again."

"Don't sweat it," he says, smiling softly now. "Water under the bridge, right?"

"Yeah," I say, daring the hint of a smile, myself. Our eyes meet again and finally it feels right looking into his eyes. "Start over? Pretend we just got here?"

"Sure." He harks and turns his eyes to the scenario. "Ready to hear all about our new adulthood adventures?"

"The long awaited birth of Cookie Crisp," I say dryly. To my delight he chuckles.

"We're going to have to help each other out to make sure we don't accidentally it that in anything we hand in," he remarks.

"Oh, we could probably get away with calling it a pet name," I say.

"Maybe," he says, looking at the papers. "Oh, first page is just for you."

"Let me see," I say, scowling as he hands the paper to me. "Oh damn…"

"What?" he asks. "What does it say?"

"Well it says… Basically, it… Ugh."

He looks at me with wide eyes.

"What?"

I glare at the piece of paper in front of me. Standardized, written on a computer and printed out with only a few blank spaces in which they've handwritten my name, and Peeta's once or twice. It's about preparing for childbirth, which is why it's only for me, and I instinctively hate it and want it out of my sight. It makes my skin crawl just to think about having to birth a child – now I have to write something about it? Why is this even something that's necessary for the project? I should assume that any woman who is pregnant will have some form of conversation with her midwife-to-be, or her mother, or someone.

"They want me to write something about my… expectations and… my plan… for when I have the damn fictional baby," I finally say.

Peeta looks completely dumbfounded but to his credit he doesn't take the page back and read it for himself. I would be mortified if he did. It's just a standardized piece of paper, every girl in my class has gotten one and probably several girls for several years before me. But it feels so intimate. They are asking me – well, telling me – to give serious thought to how I would want my labour to happen. Where to give birth, who to be there with me, what my thoughts are about the pain. One thing I can cross over immediately – I definitely would not want, under any circumstances whatsoever, for Peeta's mother to be there. But I don't want to think about any of the rest of it, much less write about it. I'm never going to have a baby so I have no need to think about this stuff, but I know I can't get out of it. Not without damaging my grade, and thereby damaging Peeta's.

"I wonder why they didn't give you this assignment last week?" he says, his brow furrowed.

"Does it matter?" I ask in a sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose.

"I mean, I just kind of figured… we'd be moving past the whole pregnancy part now and get to the next stage." He shrugs slowly. "Maybe they figure that just goes along with the baby arriving and all that…"

"Yeah," I sigh. I look at the instructions again and my brow furrows. I study the questions closer, Peeta sitting quietly beside me, offering neither intrusion nor suggestions. What they want to know is what my expectations are of childbirth and how I want to arrange it. I don't have to write an entire essay about this. I just have to be honest, without divulging that I have no thoughts on the matter because I'm never having babies. "Give me a pencil," I say. I hold out my hand and he places one in my palm. "Give me five minutes and I'll be all done."

"For real? You know you can just do this at home, later."

Without listening I tear out a blank page from my notebook, put the date and my name on it and give it a headline that ties it to the assignment. Then I write that I have no expectations because I don't think anyone can know what it's like before they experience it, and it will all be worth it in the end anyway. With as much pith as possible I answer the questions in a way that feels logical but has little to nothing to do with my own personal thoughts or fears. All in all it takes up about half a page and I'm quite pleased with it once I'm done. It answers all of the questions without getting too graphic and without much discussion or analysis on my part, but I don't see the need for anything like that. I even feel a bit self-satisfied when I'm done, a slight smile on my face as I put the paper and the pencil down again. My eyes go to Peeta who is busy studying another part of the scenario with a very concentrated look on his face.

"Hey," I say teasingly. "Are you proceeding without me? That's cheating."

"Actually… this page is for me," he says.

"Yeah?" All of a sudden I'm curious. What could they possibly have the boys write about? They won't be giving birth and they won't even be present when it happens, since fathers usually don't attend births in District 12 unless something has gone wrong and they need to bring the mother to a healer. "What are they asking you to do?"

"Oh, just… You know…" He shrugs evasively and folds the paper, putting it away in his notebook. "Stuff about upcoming fatherhood. I'll do it at home, later. We should proceed, find out if we're having a boy or a girl or a… giant, baby-shaped cookie or something."

"Okay…" I say, giving him a look. I hate to admit I'm curious. "Have it your way."

He pauses to scratch his chin and I'm reminded of the earlier encounter with Mallory and her comment on his beard. I have noticed that he doesn't seem to have shaved since last week but I haven't known why. She referred to it as having to do with late season something and while I do admit to being slightly curious I can't bring myself to ask about it. I scowl, feeling the same unpleasant feeling in the pit of my stomach as I did during lunch, and I try hard to shake it. I don't want to feel that way, and I don't even know why I feel that way. Yes, it was degrading the way she treated me, but I know it was about more than that. It almost felt like jealousy, which is preposterous. There's nothing going on between Peeta and I.

Speaking of Peeta, his head is tilted to the side as he begins to read aloud. It turns out we end up with a boy child, and to my great relief they aren't asking us to write anything about the process of childbirth itself. Instead we have a week to decide what to name the baby and file everything we need to file for the birth to be considered official.

"What's that supposed to mean?" asks Peeta. "What, they want us to put up a sign on the door or something?"

"All live births have to be registered at the Justice Building," I explain. "It's so the kid will be an official citizen of Panem."

"And eligible for future Hunger Games in a dozen years' time…"

"Right."

"Okay… Okay, well… Time to ask our parents questions again? I mean, they've done the whole registering thing. Or do you think we can get away with simply saying that we've filed everything?"

I nod slowly, biting my fingernail absentmindedly.

"Maybe… But then again…" I grab my notebook, going back several pages to where we were a few weeks ago when we were looking into applying for extra money. "I was just thinking… Why don't we actually do it? Go down to the Justice Building and ask them what we need to fill out? Maybe there's a form they will allow us to copy?"

This gets his attention. His whole person seems to perk up, eyes lighting up, back straightening, his look more focused. In fact there's an intensity in his eyes for a moment that touches something inside of me, something strange yet pleasant.

"Katniss this is a fantastic idea!" he says. "What if we got to actually copy a real form, like you said? And, and we fill it out and hand it in? An official form for Cookie…" He catches himself, but not fast enough for me not to laugh. He makes a 'yeah, yeah' face and waves dismissively. "If we handed in a copy of an actual registration form, that would be amazing!"

"Then we're agreed," I smile, proud with myself for having come up with the idea.

"Come on!" says Peeta, rising to his feet so fast that his chair almost falls over.

"Huh?"

"I mean, what are we waiting for? Let's go right now!"

"We… can't," I point out, wishing he would sit back down. People are looking at us.

"Of course we can! We can argue over what we'll name the kid next week. Or heck, argue about it on the way there."

"Peeta class is over in thirty minutes," I point out, motioning for him to sit back down. He ignores me and starts to pack his things very quickly. "You have wrestling practice afterward. You can't be late for that. Remember?"

"It's just ten minutes from here to the Justice Building."

"And perhaps a forty minute wait before we can see anyone there," I point out.

"Only one way to find out, Katniss. Look, I'm going. If you want to stay here, or head home for that matter, that's up to you."

"Head home?" With a scowl I'm on my feet, packing up my things at a speed that matches his own. "No way you're doing this alone while I head home."

"Great, then," he grins.

My heart is pounding in my chest when we step inside the Justice Building, and nervously I look around, resisting the urge to take Peeta's hand for moral support. I hate this place. This building represents nothing but sorrow and despair, and somewhere deep down I think of all the District 12 people who work here as sell-outs. Yes, working administratively for the Capitol gives you a decent income and even a few benefits, but you're aiding our oppressors. I could never take a job here. I think I'd rather sell my body to Head Peacekeeper Cray than take a job that had me do the government's work for them. I don't mention this to Peeta, partially because it's none of his damn business in the first place and because it's not the sort of thing one can mention while inside the building, but also because I already know what kind of a reply he would offer. He would say something about how we are all people and struggling to get by and we should not judge our fellow man. More to the point, he would also say that most people in the various districts work for the Capitol – merchants excluded. And I would have to rebut that being, for all intents and purposes, forced to slave in the mines in exchange for a lousy pay and the risk of a traumatic death in the mines themselves or years of suffering from obstructive lung disease later on in life cannot be compared to a cushiony job in the Justice Building. And we would be arguing again, and my day would just get worse.

Peeta, who for once wore a hat today, removes his gloves, hat and scarf and tucks them into his jacket pockets. He stops for a brief moment to read the large sign at the entrance that shows which department is located where, and then he takes me by the arm and leads the way straight up a flight of stairs. I say nothing, and neither does he. I can tell though that he doesn't seem to appreciate the red carpet that lines the floor all the way up the stairs. Supposedly it's supposed to be something nice to walk on a red carpet but all I can think about is that it feels like walking on blood stained floors, and from Peeta's reaction I think he feels something similar.

"Alright, okay…" he mumbles when we reach the second floor. He stops and lets go of my arm, looking left and right to try and determine where we need to go. The place is actually quite deserted, only a handful of people around, which is good. No long lines to wait in, then. But it also means fewer people to ask for directions. "Okay I think it's to the right here."

"Okay," I shrug.

He takes a few steps in that direction, then hesitates. He pulls his bottom lip into his mouth and worries it between his teeth, eyes glancing at the ridiculously large clock on the wall. Then he reaches for my hand, grabs it tight and marches down the hall and right past a set of doors above which there's a sign that reads "FAMILY REGISTRATION". While I'm busy rolling my eyes at that Peeta pauses, runs his open hands over his jacket to smoothen it out, and runs a hand through his hair in a futile attempt at tidying it up. I then watch in fascination as he shakes his head as if to clear his mind and then adopts an expression that is practically glowing with a combination of propriety and charm.

"I can do the talking if you'd like," he says, and even his voice is different. It's lighter, somehow, and he enunciates more.

"Sure…" I say, too preoccupied with his sudden transformation to feel nervous.

"Come on, then," he says. With a smile he holds his arm out in offering, and I take it. Together we then walk up to an admittance desk that is, at least for the moment, abandoned. There's a small waiting area, complete with a couple of loveseats and a coffee machine, but nobody is here waiting so Peeta gives the bell a smack and after a minute or two a surly man comes up and pulls aside the glass window separating us. "Good afternoon," says Peeta.

"What do you kids want?" asks the man, studying us with a great deal of scepticism. "Applications for marriage licenses is down the other hall." He looks us up and down, scowl firmly in place. "And the pair of you definitely don't look nineteen to me. If the two of you are trying to pull a fast one on your parents I assure you-"

"Hear that, schnookums?" says Peeta, making my jaw drop a little. "This kind gentleman thinks you look young. What a lovely fellow!" He has a big, friendly grin firmly in place but as he turns to the surly man his tone changes. "Actually, we're not here for that. And you are correct, neither of us is old enough to get married."

"You don't say," says the man dryly.

"No, you see, we're still in school. Obviously. And we're working on a project that's designed to prepare us for adulthood and all the responsibilities that come with it. And part of that is preparing for having a baby."

His arm leaves mine and he rests them instead on the counter, leaning forward to talk to the man in a way that makes it seem like he's divulging personal information. Within a few minutes he's managed to explain how this particular part of the project works and why we're here, and simultaneously work his charm on this man by making it seem like he is in a special position to give us extra help with something that we want to take very seriously. He slyly butters him up and before it's even been five minutes I can tell he's got this man completely where he wants him. Without Peeta even having to ask the man hands me a copy of the forms you fill out when you've had a baby.

"This is so wonderful!" I hear myself saying in a voice that mimics Peeta's. I look at Peeta in my best doe-eyed fashion. "Now the teachers might finally see that we really feel this is important! Sweetie…" I feel awkward adding the last word but Peeta just grins. Turning to the man I smile sweetly. "Do you think it would be alright if we borrowed this for a minute?" I give Peeta a look on the sly, wondering if his drawing skills means he can copy this form accurately. "It would be so very helpful. We want to remember all the important parts."

"Oh, you two can keep it."

"What?" Peeta and I both say in unison.

"Nobody's going to miss it," shrugs the man.

"Yes, but… Can you actually hand out official paperwork?" I ask incredulously.

"The form won't do any harm," he points out. "Without being turned in and without an actual child it has no legal significance. There is no child, right?"

"Yeah but… Just out of my own curiosity, if we were to hand something like this in, or it got handed in by someone else, wouldn't that create a record of a child that doesn't actually exist?" asks Peeta.

"Not without the follow-up."

"What follow-up?"

The man reaches behind the counter and grabs a folder, handing it to me even though Peeta asked the question. It contains almost everything you need to know about registering a child into Panem's bureaucratic system. I didn't even know they had such folders.

"It's not enough to just fill in the form," the man says. "Parents have to bring their children in when they're a year old. That's when a person is officially registered as a Panem citizen, and a blood sample is collected. Then at age five the child needs to come back in for a confirmation."

"But why?" asks Peeta, looking at the folder with me. "Why that age?"

"Most who die in childhood die before age five," I tell him in an uncomfortable mumble.

"Yes that is correct," nods the man. He looks around and then leans in closer to us, lowering his voice and putting a hand on both folder and form. "The pair of you can walk out of here with both of these…" His eyes go to me. "If, maybe, you stop by my house next Sunday with, say… turkey?"

"Oh, I…" Momentarily I'm stunned. I had no idea he knew who I was. I thought he was willing to help us because Peeta wrapped him around his little finger but maybe that wasn't his main motivation. And now I'm not sure what to say, or do. Do I really want to bribe someone in order to do well on my assignment?

"You… can't guarantee anything when it comes to hunting," says Peeta once I've been silent for a bit too long. "Depends on which animals are out and about… you know."

"Well, bring me something…" says the man, now eyeing me with a little less warmth. "Something good. I've got four kids to feed."

I fight the urge to be snide and point out that he's got one of the best jobs in the entire district, a safe and stabile job that pays a steady and decent wage, but I hold my tongue. Instead I nod my head and agree to let him give me a piece of paper with his address on it. I then stop listening to his and Peeta's conversation as they wrap it all up. I take the folder and the form and move to stand behind Peeta so that I can unzip his backpack. He's got an A4 notepad, same size as the form, and I want to keep it as pristine as possible without folding it. If he's surprised or displeased with me rummaging through his backpack he doesn't let it on. I find the notepad easily, put our acquisitions away, close the backpack again and pat him on the shoulder.

"We need to hurry. You have wrestling practice in twenty minutes."

"Oh!" He turns and flashes me a grin before bidding farewell to the strange man. "Again, thank you. We are much obliged."

"Oh, my pleasure," grins the man, no doubt content now that he's looking at fresh game come Sunday. I manage a quick, awkward smile and then I take Peeta's hand and start moving towards the doors. Just as we reach them the man comes with a few final words of parting. "You make such a sweet couple. It's a shame it will never be more than a school romance. But, you already knew going in that people like you can never be together."

To my great surprise his words really hurt me, hitting me right in the chest. I see my parents before me, the most loving couple I have ever known. Hearing somebody stand here and essentially tell me that they should never have carried on with their romance is an insult. As a matter of fact it's an affront towards my very existence. And the way he says it, like he feels I don't deserve to be with a boy like Peeta. That I'm not good enough. That even though I'm the one he wants something from in return for his help he doesn't consider me worthy of loving the boy whose hand I'm holding. Rage bubbles up inside me and I'm just about to spin around, stride up to the counter and hand him back the form when Peeta speaks up.

"Love never really gave much of a damn about borders or social standing."

"Oh, to be young and idealistic again…" we hear him sigh just as the window slides shut. Then he walks away and I can't take my rage out on him. I can, however, leave the form and the folder right there on the counter, but logic tells me it would serve no purpose.

"Come on," says Peeta, his voice low, vibrating with emotion. "I need to get out of here."

"Right," I say through gritted teeth, squeezing his hand in my anger. "Your practice."

"Never mind the damn wrestling."

He opens the door and ushers me out, and together we hurry down the stairs and back out into the cold afternoon. We're both walking so fast we're practically trotting and I hardly even feel the cold winter air against my cheeks. We've gotten two blocks from the Justice Building before I even notice that Peeta's arm is wrapped protectively around my waist and he hasn't put his gloves, his scarf or his hat back on. His jaw is firmly set and there's raw emotion in his eyes that manages to shine through even though it's getting dark out and harder to see him clearly. I'm about to open my mouth and say something when another realization hits, making me stop in my tracks.

"Oh God."

The look on Peeta's face changes into something akin to worry.

"What?"

"That… That look on his face. When he first saw us. That's why he was looking at us like that. That's why he was talking to us like that."

"Yeah." His answer comes curtly and he clenches his jaw, taking a deep breath.

The level of insult, especially after the day I've had so far, almost makes my eyes fill up with tears. Then Peeta's eyes meet mine and what I find in them is affinity. I don't get the sense that he feels insulted on my behalf, I get the sense that he feels insulted on our behalf. Like he's ashamed that people of his social standing would view a relationship between him and a Seam girl as something that could be accepted only as a school romance. I don't know why he would feel that way and right now I need to know.

"He wasn't insulting you," I say. "He was insulting me."

"He was plain insulting."

"He insulted me by insinuating that I'm too lowly to be worthy of someone like you."

"He doesn't even know us," argues Peeta. "He has no idea what either one of us is worth."

"But he didn't insult you," I insist.

"Yes, Katniss. He did." He pauses, moving so that he stands directly opposite me. His arm leaves my waist while he puts his scarf back on and I notice he's shivering in the cold but he doesn't make a move to hurry up and get out of here. My waist feels cold without the warmth of his touch but I can't ask for him to put his arm back. So I just look into his eyes and listen. "He insulted me because… because he said what he said and did what he did even though he thought you and I were there as a real couple. He thought we were in love. And he insulted me by suggesting that my love wasn't good enough, or real enough. That it doesn't matter enough." He swallows and looks a bit nervous but his eyes don't falter one bit. His voice, however, indicates that he's beginning to get carried away. "If I ever were to love a girl from the Seam and be loved by her in return I could give a damn what anybody thinks. That love would be just as real and strong and wonderful as any other. And that man insulted me today by trying to make me feel like I would be wrong to love you. And he doesn't even know us! For all he knows I could be a failure and a screw-up and a lazy idiot, and you…" He pauses, his voice and his eyes softening. "You are beautiful and strong and compassionate and you work ten times as hard as many of the town kids in our class, and you care more than they do, and…" He finally falters, swallowing and looking a bit embarrassed at having just said all of that. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to sound… improper. I just think the guy's a sorry idiot who judges people through the eyes of a narrow-minded society."

Despite everything I can't help but feel a warm sensation in my chest. My hand finds Peeta's cheek, bristly in its unshaven state.

"Thank you," I say. I truly mean it. I don't know what it is with this boy, but he has a way of saying things like that without making me feel like it's wrong or making me uncomfortable. And his little soliloquy just now made me come to a decision. "But please, Peeta… Don't waste energy on this guy on my account. Neither of us should. He isn't worth it."

"You're probably right."

"And thank you for what you just said about me. Even though we both know I'm not at all as wonderful as you made me sound just then." I give him a smile, my thumb brushing his cheek. "I was upset with that man for finding me unworthy of you based on where in the district I was born. Truth is, though, I probably am unworthy of you. Even if you won't acknowledge your virtues." He opens his mouth, probably to protest, and I silence him with a finger to his lips. "Now run. You're going to be late if you don't. We'll start filling out the form next week."

"Yeah," he nods, fidgeting a little. "Okay. If you're sure."

"Of course I'm sure." I lean in and press a kiss to his cheek. It's strange to feel his stubble against my lips but not in a bad way. "Go! I can't be fake married to someone who's tardy!" He chuckles and backs away, keeping his eyes on me as he begins to turn. "Oh, and by the way!"

"Yeah?"

"I think I might just accidentally drop that note with that guy's address… Like, say, in my fireplace… Such a shame, don't you think?"

"That's my project wife," he laughs as he begins to run back to school. After about a hundred meters or so he calls out one last parting phrase. "And thank you for today, Katniss!"

I smile at his words but the only thing I feel inside is sadness. Regardless of my resolution not to let that man and his opinions bring me down I can't stop myself from feeling bad over it. It's not even so much the insult, but the knowledge that if this was more than just make believe, if we were doing this project together because we were sweethearts, nothing ever could come of it. Falling in love with the boy with the bread would be a futile endeavour. District 12 would never allow me to be with him.

And that, for whatever reason, makes me truly sad.