Drawing my feet up underneath me on the couch I let my fingers gently graze over the stack of papers in my hands. My copy of Peeta's essay. The text has a somewhat faded touch to it due to having been run through one of the school's not-too-excellent copy machines but it's unmistakably Peeta's dainty handwriting staring back at me from the pages. I distantly wonder if he's picked up his copy of my essay from his backpack yet – if he's at home reading it this very moment. I'm guessing not. Mine wasn't nearly so long as his and doesn't include anything all that insightful or innovative. He'll be able to craft a response to it in a short amount of time. Plenty of time left over to do other things. To see other people.
Finally, with a heavy sigh, I stop just observing his essay and begin reading it.
"Heavy sighing…" Prim almost sing-songs from her spot on the floor.
"The sound of someone studying…" I reply, mocking her tone.
As I begin to read I let out a short exhale that's almost a laugh, allow myself the hint of a smile, shaking my head slightly. Of course Peeta would write something like this. I'm so impressed with this boy, that he could craft an essay like this – and yet I'm not the least bit surprised. What he's written is at once both mature and insightful and most of all constructive. The biggest fault I find with it is being overly idealistic. Real people in real tough spots probably wouldn't sit calmly down and have a constructive conversation in which each person analyses their own part in the problem. It reads almost like what he thinks our teachers want to hear rather than what he actually feels and believes. But I can't blame him for at least trying. I wonder where he learnt this stuff. Certainly not from his father and the witch.
There's a knock on the door and Prim goes to open, glad for an excuse to take a pause from her homework. My eyes leave the page when I hear Gale's voice. I turn my head and look over my shoulder, soon seeing him walking into the room with a grin on his face. He leans down and kisses me and I would protest that he shouldn't do that in front of my family but Prim doesn't seem to care. She sits right back down on the carpet and pulls Buttercup onto her lap, petting him as she works on her homework on something coal related. The cat begins to purr almost instantly. Gale walks around the couch and takes a seat on the other end of it, giving me a bit of space yet close enough that he could, if he wanted to, reach out and touch my legs.
"So what have you got there, Catnip?" he asks.
"It's, uh… it's an essay. For the project." I look down at the papers, then turn my head when I see Prim getting up from the floor again. "Where are you going?"
"To study in our room," she says casually, grabbing her book. "Give the two of you some privacy."
"You don't have to do that," offers Gale kindly. "Or if we're bothering you, Katniss and I could go sit in the kitchen."
"It's no problem," she smiles slyly, and then she's gone, cat in tow.
"She takes her studies seriously," Gale comments once we're alone, his voice serious but the twinkle in his eye jesting.
"Yeah," I reply. Not so much when it's about coal, or history, but otherwise she does really well at school. I'm on the verge of opening my mouth to add that it's such a frustrating shame that she'll never have the option of continuing her studies to become a doctor, or whatever else she might decide she wants to do. She'll stay out of the mines if I have anything to say about it but once she's graduated her studies will be over. Like the rest of us she'll be forced to conform to the limited options available to us living in an outline district. I have no doubt she'll continue to train with my mother, and probably surpass her at some point, but she will only be scratching the surface of the vast medical world.
What stops me from mentioning this is a reluctance to set Gale off on yet another rant. Peeta's words from the other day ring in my ears and the more I think about them the more sense they make. I do at the same time see Gale's point of view, which makes it exhausting to think about. I don't know how to marry the things I agree with Peeta about to the things I think Gale is right about – if we are to one day win our freedom from the Capitol's rule it's not going to happen without fighting. Peeta didn't propagate against doing so, but like his essay his words were a touch too idealistic. How exactly do you rise up against an oppressive regime without fighting, and how do you fight without it getting ugly? And if we do win our freedom by besting our oppressors at their own game, then are we actually any better than they are?
"So the project is still taking up much of your time?" says Gale. He sounds like he's in a good mood today, a sharp contrast from his aggravation on Sunday.
"Well, not that much time," I mumble. "Just this one essay thing right now, really. The rest can be done at school."
"What's the essay about?"
"It's, uh…" I look down on the pages. I gather them in the right order so I can set them aside. "It's about conflict within a marriage. How you solve things. The husband is out working around the clock to support the family while the wife is stuck at home trying not to go completely insane when the baby won't stop crying."
"I think this whole months-on-end approach is starting to turn all of you a bit loony," chuckles Gale. "You sound like the teachers when you talk about the husband and the wife rather than the guy and the girl."
"Well whatever," I shrug. "It's an interesting assignment, for once."
"I'll give you that," he nods. He sits up straighter and leans a bit closer. A spark of interest is in his eyes, which is definitely a first when it comes to this particular school project. "Can I read it?"
"No," I say timidly, surprised that he would ask. He hasn't asked to read any of my school work before. Although I suppose this particular topic would be of relevant interest to a boyfriend.
"No?"
"It's not mine," I explain. "The essay here. It's Peeta's."
"Peeta's? What in the world are you doing with his school work?"
"That's part of the assignment. We're to read each other's and then formulate a response to it."
"Oh." He looks somewhat perplexed but doesn't seem to have a problem with it per se. Not that he has the right to have a problem with it. Weird unfounded jealousy does not have the right to extend to schoolwork which I have no say in. "Well then… What did yours say?"
"Nothing much," I shrug.
"I'm sure that's not true," he says with a crooked smile. He leans back and settles against the armrest, lifting up his feet to put them on the couch but then thinking the better of it. He ends up stretching the outer leg in an angle that his foot ends up outside the couch and bends his other leg at the knee, crossing it over the opposite shin. "Do you have a copy of it?"
"No, Peeta obviously has it. And our teacher."
"I would like to have a look at it once you get it back, if you're not too uncomfortable with it."
"You've never taken that kind of interest in my school work before," I note with a raised eyebrow. I shift so that I can lean over and put Peeta's essay on the table, then spend a few seconds trying to figure out how to stretch my own legs out on the couch with Gale's in their current position. My right foot ends up by his pelvis, my left again tucked under me.
"Well this is different," he says.
"How is it different?"
"Because it's about you and your thoughts on relationships." He takes my foot in his hands and begins to rub it. I smile a little at the sensation. "There are some things I don't know a lot about when it comes to you, even after all these years as hunting partners and close friends. And come on, what boyfriend wouldn't want that kind of insight into things his girlfriend thinks are important when it comes to solving relationship issues?"
"Aren't you supposed to learn that stuff as you go along?" I ask. I let out a small moan as he rubs my foot and the glint in his eye in response is not lost on me.
"Mmm…" he sort of half-mumbles in a way that makes it sound like a disagreement. He looks down at my foot as he begins to work the base of my toes and my eyes follow his, studying those strong hands that are so sturdy and deft while tying a snare yet right now are so gentle. "It's just…"
"It's just what?" I smile at whatever it is that bugs him about not getting to read my essay – I can't think of any reason that isn't silly, honestly – and move my other foot out from underneath me so that I can poke him with it in a teasing fashion.
"Well, now Peeta Mellark knows more about what my girlfriend thinks is important to maintain a strong relationship than I do."
I freeze, only barely resisting the urge to pull my foot away from his massaging hands. Then I give in to that urge anyways and move further up against the armrest behind me, bending my legs in front of me and wrapping my arms around them.
"Gale, seriously. This is nonsense."
"It's not nonsense," he says. To my surprise he looks hurt by that accusation-of-sorts. "It bothers me a little, okay? And I think it's fairly reasonable. Some other guy who seems to carry a torch for you the size of a cornucopia gets all this inside access to your thoughts and feelings about this stuff." My scowl deepens and I open my mouth to start an argument but he keeps talking. "Would you like it if it was the other way around?"
I close my mouth. No, I probably wouldn't like it. Then again, I still don't think he's being fair to me, and I don't mind telling him so.
"Gale this is for school. It's not like I chose to write down all this stuff – and it isn't much that I did write, for the record – and just hand it off to Peeta instead of you."
"He still gets to read it."
"I can't do anything to change that."
"Doesn't mean I have to like it."
"No," I surly and reluctantly agree without much ado. "It doesn't."
"Thank you," he says with surprising softness.
"You're still utterly wrong, though," I say, prompting an oh-come-on look from him. "Peeta doesn't carry anything for me. Not even books, come to think of it."
"Is that supposed to be funny?"
"I'm trying to tell you that you don't have to feel uncomfortable about it. He's got a girlfriend."
Gale looks surprised, and a touch sceptical.
"Really? Good for him, I guess."
"Good for you, too, by the sound of things," I say dryly, which actually makes him chuckle a little.
"So who is she?"
"I… I don't know," I say, a bit taken aback.
"Then how do you know he's got a girlfriend?" Gale asks, looking confused.
"He told me."
"What, just in… casual conversation?"
"Yes, Gale Hawthorne. In casual conversation," I say in a tone that implies he's a huge idiot. My tone then softens and my foot reaches out again, the tips of my toes tapping lightly against his leg. "He told me he started dating someone recently and I didn't think to ask who it was."
Gale seems pleased with this, a smile appearing on his face. He reaches for one of the old, worn pillows that once used to be decorative on the couch but whose green corduroy fabric has long since become faded and marred by coal dust. He drums on the pillow lightly with his fingers for a second, then puts it behind his back.
"Okay, I'm sorry if I got a bit…"
"Acting like a jerk?"
"Come on Katniss, that's not fair."
"Neither is you having a hissy fit every time I spend a moment in Peeta's presence and don't utterly despise it," I point out. "I like him, Gale. I am capable of liking people, boys included, without wanting to have a kissing marathon with them."
"Okay," he says with reluctance, nodding his head and looking down. "Fair enough. But this whole thing hasn't been all that easy for me."
"You don't say," I reply dryly, resisting the desire to roll my eyes. "You've made that abundantly clear on an abundance of occasions. What I don't understand is why. We've been trading at the bakery forever, Peeta's been there several times, never once has it been a problem."
"How many of those times did you actually speak with him?"
"You mean you don't consider me allowed to have conversations with other boys anymore?"
"That's not at all what I'm saying; I'm saying it became a different animal altogether when we began dating yet somehow the guy who's kept in the loop about the things that matter to you in a relationship is the damn baker's boy, not me!"
"Gale come on, this is a school project!" I say, groaning with exasperation, sitting up straight and then leaning forward. My very limited patience is really running out. "You want to know more about what I think and feel regarding how to make a relationship work? Here's a bit of insight for you: Things are never going to work out between us if you keep getting jealous every time I have a good time in another guy's company, or spend time in another guy's company. It's not fair, I'm allowed to interact with other boys, and it's hurtful because I'm not the type of girl who would cheat on you or who even runs around falling for boys left, right and centre – much less a person who makes out with people left, right and centre – and you of all people should know that I would never do that to you!" There's a surprising amount of raw emotion in his eyes when they meet mine again and no matter how frustrated I am with him right now it pains me to see that he's really feeling hurt right now. I don't want him to feel that way. I want him to be happy. I want to be able to make him happy and it hurts me to feel that I am failing at it. It should be so easy after all. He loves me. I love him, too, even if not yet the way he loves me. We're partners. Why is there a problem like this one between us? I soften my tone but make sure there's no mistake in my voice about what I'm trying to convey. "If you keep reacting this way then I don't see how things are going to work out between us. And I want them to work out. I don't want to lose you, Gale."
He closes his eyes hard and leans his head back, exhaling in a long, drawn-out sigh. When he opens his eyes and tilts his head back down to meet my eyes there's a new kind of vulnerability and fragility in his voice.
"I just… I feel…" He laughs a little, shaking his head. "Gosh, I… I hate how this is going to sound, and you're probably going to hate it even more."
Hearing him say this, and especially hearing how he says it, washes away almost all my irritation and just leaves concern and affection. I lean forward and place my hand on his thigh.
"Do you want me to ask Prim to give us the room? She could study out here and we could talk in a more private setting. Or we could go for a walk."
"It's February," he says. As if the two of us are affected by cold weather. "Thanks sweetie, but talking in here is fine."
"Then what is it?" I ask gently. "What's going on with you?" I offer a smile, tilting my head. "You wanted to know all my thoughts on how to make relationships work; how about you share whatever is troubling you about ours?"
He picks dirt and coal dust from underneath his fingernails and keeps his eyes on his hands for almost half a minute of this, obviously either stalling for time or trying to figure out how to say what he wants, or needs, to say. I wonder to myself if it's a good or bad thing that we both tend to have trouble putting words to our thoughts, neither one of us possessing Peeta's gift for speaking freely. Eventually Gale sighs and begins to talk, keeping his eyes on his fingers but sending a glance or two my way.
"Katniss it's not been easy for me that… For six years you and I have been the perfect team. Great friends, natural hunting partners, two very likeminded people." He draws a deep breath. "I'm used to being your only real partner, only true teammate, and now that's not exactly true anymore."
"I don't understand," I say slowly, my brow furrowed, trying my best not to sound in any way demeaning or dismissive. "I've done tons of school projects before. Most of them with Madge, sure, but that's teamwork too."
"Except this isn't some math test you're studying for, or a chemistry lab. This is a project spanning almost the entire length of your final schoolyear. A project that's about how you make a marriage work. Stupid or not, the whole point is to simulate the rest of your life and focusing on doing it with a romantic partner." He looks at me with a crooked, mirthless smile, looking so weary and downtrodden. "And I know you like Mellark. I know you have a good time working with him. You've always had a different look on your face when he's been around at the bakery when we've come to trade with his father."
"Wait, wait, wait!" I say, holding up my hands. "Are you worried that I've got a thing for Peeta?"
"No I don't," he says, and I find myself exhaling with relief. "I cannot imagine you lusting after him while being my girlfriend. You're not the kind of person who would do that to anyone, let alone to me."
"Good," I say with emphasis, smiling encouragingly at him. I try to ignore what he said about me reacting to Peeta at the bakery. This is neither the time nor the place to go into the bread story. It will hardly make Gale feel better to hear about how a twelve-year-old Peeta took a beating from his mother in order to give me something to eat at a point in time where we hadn't even had a real conversation. "And the project is just a school assignment. You've done it yourself, even if it wasn't as extensive that year."
"Yeah I know," he says. His fingernails appear to be clean since he stops working on them. "It's just been more difficult than I anticipated to know you're a team with somebody else. Someone who gets to play house with you and gets to find out all about how you feel about issues pertaining to that. I know it's immature of me to be jealous of that, but-"
"No Gale," I interrupt, moving over so I am sitting much closer to him. He puts his legs down as I move, allowing me nearer. My hand finds the back of his neck and I try to fixate his eyes with my own, hoping that can take away some of his discomfort. I really, truly don't want him to feel upset about this, about anything really that isn't life-or-death. I care about him so much and I wish I was better at expressing it. "Gale I understand. Believe me, I do. When I saw you with other girls I used to worry that I would lose my hunting partner, the best one east of the Capitol!"
At last I get a smile from him again that seems genuine.
"Was that all you were jealous of when you saw me with other girls?"
I don't know what to say to that so I give him a kiss. He responds instantly and his tongue presses against the seam of my mouth. Just then I hear the front door open and I pull back, scooting about a foot back on the couch, smiling wryly as I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. We both shift so that we're sitting more properly on the couch, close to one another but keeping a little bit of space between us nonetheless. I lean over and grab Peeta's essay, using the papers as something to occupy my hands with. The smile is still on my lips and I know Gale is smiling too.
My mother comes walking in, unwrapping the long scarf that's around her neck. She's not wearing any other outerwear. She likes to sometimes keep her scarf on for a bit, or hanging loosely over her shoulders. She says it brings warmth, and who am I to argue?
"Good evening, you two," she says gently. One of her hands lands softly on my shoulder and she leans down to place a kiss on the crown of my head. Gale gets a soft pat on the shoulder. "Where is Prim?"
"Studying in the bedroom," I say.
Gale returns my mother's greeting, turning his upper body around and resting his arms on the back of the couch
"You've been out late this evening," he notes. "Who is sick?"
To be honest it looks like my mother is the sick one. She looks pale, bags under her eyes, and shoulders slumping. Her usually carefully styled hair has escaped its braided bun on several places and looks quite the mess. She slumps down on a chair and leans her head back, stretching her legs out as far as they can go, her fingers massage the bridge of her nose.
"Nobody," she answers Gale with exhaustion. "Not anymore. The Newsome baby has gone to a better place."
"Already?" I say meekly with a disturbed frown. I don't know the Newsome family more than by sight, really, but I remember Mother and Prim going over to check on the newly delivered mother and her brand-new baby just a few weeks ago.
"The poor little thing developed a stomach infection," Mother explains. She reaches behind her and begins to undo her hairdo, groaning slightly. "Never stood a chance. Only Capitol medicine could have made any difference."
Gale and I share a look, neither one of us smiling anymore. I feel an uncomfortable knot tighten in my stomach and I get up from the couch to try and do something to take my mind off that feeling.
"You look exhausted," I tell my mother. "I'll make you some tea."
"Thank you, darling," she sighs in response, closing her eyes and letting her arms drop to her sides.
"Great idea, Katniss," says Gale, rising as well. "I'll help you."
Together we leave for the kitchen, putting our previous conversation behind us as we help each other make tea and something for Mother to eat. We keep talking to each other, keeping our voices low so that we don't disturb her, and we don't say anything of particular importance. Soon my mind moves away from the things we were talking about before my mother came home, and it begins to feel like any other regular evening.
Yet an hour later, as I join Gale on his walk back home – ostensibly so that I can get some fresh air but truthfully because my mother began telling Prim the details of the Newsome baby's death and I didn't want to have to hear about it – I can't help but let my mind wander back to the thing Gale revealed to me earlier this evening. That he is having trouble accepting the idea of me being in a partnership with somebody else, much the same way I know I would be bothered if he had drifted away from me, from our hunting partnership, towards another girl.
Walking side by side with him in the cold winter's evening, our cheeks and noses red and our breaths coming in puffs of smoke, I can't help but wonder. Is part of Gale's motivation for wanting us to be together romantically actually about not wanting to lose our partnership in the woods? I mean, I believe him when he tells me he's in love with me, but did the initial thought of us being together as a couple stem from not wanting to lose me as a hunting partner?
Glancing up at Gale from the corner of my eye, and pretending to be listening to the story he's telling about something that happened in the mines this morning, I try to figure out if it would be a good thing or a bad thing if his romantic feelings for me grew from such a concern. On the one hand it seems like a bad thing – in effect creating this circumstance in which I fear I will lose him if I don't let our relationship evolve further down the romantic path. Despite our relationship's progression we still have a possible make-it-or-break-it point in our future if he can't wise up to the fact that I mean it when I say I never intend to marry him. Which could have been avoided entirely if in love never became a factor between us in the first place. On the other hand it seems like a good thing – a sign of hope that if that line of thinking could make Gale begin to eventually fall in love with me, then I will probably end up reciprocating his feelings completely somewhere down the line, since the fear of losing him is one of the reasons why I ventured into this relationship.
Walking beside him right now, holding his hand in mine, I wish that I dared ask him if the fear of losing my partnership in the woods played any part in this whole thing. I just can't bring myself to do so, not tonight. He's smiling again. I don't like it when I see him in pain, like I did earlier this evening. I don't like it as a friend and I don't like it as a girlfriend – in fact I believe that it is my job as his girlfriend to keep him from having to feel unhappy to whatever extent I can.
So I leave the question unasked.
Monday arrives. When Peeta and I converge after the second-to-last class of the day I lower my voice so that it's just about audible over the cacophony of noise our classmates produce on their way to their ten-minute recess. I lean in closer so that he will have a better chance hearing me, brushing against him in the process. It feels like he freezes up a bit when we touch, but that could be simply him bracing himself against the number of people trying to elbow their way past us.
"Library?" I say.
He nods. He has to stop by his locker first, and I lean against a nearby locker while I wait. I don't know whose locker it is but he or she is obviously enjoying recess before getting any necessities for the project hour. I bite my bottom lip and can't help but letting my eyes drift to our teacher, visible through the open classroom door at this angle. Merchant kids always seem to get the best lockers, the ones closest to homeroom. Us Seam brats have to settle for ones that are further down the hall, or even a corridor or two away. From where I'm standing now I can see Mr. Stoker collecting all the essay rebuttals he's received from us today. It makes me nervous. He will read them all and them he will select which pairs will have to do an oral exam as well. Thankfully said exams will take place with just the teacher and your partner, not the entire class, but all the same the prospect is terrifying. Peeta would no doubt breeze through it, but I wouldn't be able to rely on him since I would be forced to do my own fair share of speaking.
My attention is brought elsewhere when one of the town girls the class below ours walks by, hips swaying, her long blonde hair doing the same, and she raises one hand to give a little wave. Her smile is sweet in a way I'm sure mine has never been.
"Hi Peeta!" she chirps coquettishly.
He looks up from his locker, meeting her eyes.
"Oh, hi Aster."
The moment is over in a heartbeat, Aster continuing to her own locker and Peeta finishing up with his. He closes the door and locks it, adjusting his backpack. I'm frustratingly curious – is she his new sweetheart? She certainly seemed flirty in her behaviour, although Peeta didn't seem that way in return. I don't expect him to be– he's never been among those kids in class who flaunt their love affairs openly in the corridors.
"Katniss?"
"What?" I say stupidly, so wrapped up in my own mind that I barely heard Peeta say my name. He hasn't had to say it twice, has he?
"I'm done. All ready."
"Yeah, uh, that's, yeah, that's good."
"So," he says, smiling lightly and shrugging a shoulder. "Library?"
"Yes please," I say, hoping that I'm sounding relatively normal. "Let's move."
As we begin to walk I prepare myself for his usual questions about my weekend, how my sister is doing, how I feel about this or that test we have coming up, in my mind going over the answers I have thought to say to his most common questions. I hate stammering and stuttering when he's only asking me questions that should require little to no difficulty answering, so I've begun to make a habit out of giving some thought to what the answers to his questions will be. Prim is doing great, my mother is feeling tired these days but doing alright – as good as can be expected, anyway, when the time of year that holds the anniversary of my father's death approaches. My weekend was fine, nothing out of the ordinary.
Only the questions don't come. I give him a surprised look as we stop for a moment, caught in a bit of a bottleneck where several students in the grade under ours are trying to exit through the same narrow corridor all at once. He looks the same as usual, doesn't he? No warm smile on his lips, but no scowl either, just a neutral facial expression. He cranes his neck, trying to see over the crowd of people to determine how soon we can move. Then he catches me looking at him. The corners of his mouth move upward quickly, and just as quickly they go back down again, an incredibly brief smile. Is he waiting for the crowd to thin a bit so that we can hear each other better? Has he concerned himself with details like that before? My brow furrows. Why isn't he asking me his usual round of questions?
"So, uhm…" I begin, deciding to take matters into my own hands. I realize I have to raise my voice to make myself heard over the ruckus. "How is your family? Everyone doing okay?"
Good grief what an idiotic thing to say. I've never asked much about his family in the past. He must think it's weird that I suddenly appear to take an interest. Or perhaps, I realize, he thinks I'm rude since I've never asked much before when he courteously inquires about my family's well-being every week. I open my mouth to try and say something more, I'm not entirely sure what, when somebody elbows me in the back in their attempt to push through the crowd. I lose my balance and fall forward against another person in the crowd. Peeta's strong arm wraps around my waist and pulls me back so that I can stand soundly on both feet again. Then his arm disappears, as quickly as it appeared. This too surprises me. I half expected him to keep his arm there while we're in this thick crowd that bellows a bit as people move forward or, as Peeta and I mean to do, cross it to get to the corridor on the other side.
"My family is well, thank you for asking," Peeta says once I'm standing steadily and his arm has left my waist. "Biggest brother seems to be contemplating marriage, which is great for him, of course, but a bit sad for me to see him leave the house." I open my mouth, and close it again, spending several seconds trying to figure out how to respond to such a revelation. Peeta doesn't elaborate either. He cranes his neck again, then grabs me by the hand and begins to navigate through the crowd, turning left and right here and there as if he's charted out a map in his head for how to best get through the mass of people. "There's some fool blocking the entrance," he leans in to tell me. "Or rather, two fools. Two people playing tug-o-war over a football. Why they have to do it at that particular spot, I'll never know." The moment we get through the thickest crowd he lets go of my hand, running it instead through his curly hair, leaving it in a bit of a mess that looks a little bit funny but actually rather becoming. Then he turns to me and smiles faintly. "And what about your family? How is Prim doing? Still struggling with her history class?"
"Still hates it," I confirm. I almost can't remember the things I had thought out to say in answer to the questions he always asks me. He only asks me one more though, inquiring as to how my mother is doing. His third usual question, about how my weekend has been, never comes. Nor does he do what he does most weeks and ask a series of new questions. It confuses me. A few weeks ago, I found his questions a bit strange and oddly personal from someone who isn't a close friend. But now I've come to expect them, and their absence is noticeable.
We make our way through the packed hallway to the far less crowded part of the building where the library is located. None of our classmates have made it here yet but a handful of younger students are here studying after hours, perhaps preferring the calm and quiet here to the clutter and the multitude of conversations going on in the assembly room. As we step inside I stretch my neck and stand up on my tiptoes to see if our table from last week is free. It isn't and I scowl, realizing what a creature of habit I've apparently become.
"We'll have to sit somewhere else," I tell Peeta in soft tones. "The table from last week is occupied. Crap."
"We could go over and demand it," says Peeta, sounding unsure. Since we're seniors and we're the only ones whose school day isn't over yet we are allowed to order whoever's sitting there now to move. Those who are officially still on the clock always have first rights to a table, a book, etc.
"No," I tell him. "It's fine. There's a table over there by the wall. It looks good – even has a sofa to sit on."
"Dibs on the sofa."
"Hey!" I protest, a little too loudly. I get shushed at from Ms Dunhill who is right by us at the desk. My cheeks flush and I turn my eyes toward the floor. "Sorry, Ms Dunhill."
"Come along, let's get to work," Peeta says, heading for the table I spotted. I half expect him to chivalrously pull out one of the two chairs and sit down there, leaving the sofa for me, but he doesn't. He plops down on the sofa and wiggles out of his backpack, setting it down beside him and getting to work unpacking what he needs. I tell myself it's fine. The sofa doesn't look overly comfortable anyway, its fabric bleached from many years of usage and the filling in the cushions sticks out here and there from tears in the cloth. However, I can't fully quench the thought that a month or two ago he would have let me have the sofa – apparently merchant chivalry only stretches so far, fading little by little once you get to know each other.
"I saw Mr. Stoker collecting the rebuttals," I say as I sit down. Peeta hums in response, a notebook between his teeth while he rummages through the backpack using both hands. "How many do you figure will have to do the oral exam?"
"Depends," he says through the notebook.
"Yeah but on what?"
He finds the things he was looking for and set them down, some on the table and some next to himself on the couch. The notebook gets placed on the table and he opens it up and finds the right page while he answers my question.
"On how many people turn in substandard work." He leans in and moves some of his things out of the way so that I have more room for my books. "That's why they have the oral parts – I'll bet you anything on that. So that people who slack off or who aren't able to do a good job can get an approved leg of the project."
"Oh." That hadn't even occurred to me. "So you don't think we'll have to do it, then?"
He gives me a funny look.
"Was my work really that bad?"
I'm not even sure if he's joking or not. Stuttering I try to find the right words but he moves on to another topic, letting me off the hook, thankfully. He opens one of the books he picked out last week, turns to a page somewhere in the last third and holds it out for me to read.
"What do you think about this?" he asks.
"What… am I looking at?" I ask, feeling again like an utter idiot. The page isn't even about mental development. Instead it's got some form of grid underlying different types of food and their nutritional value. "Why are we interested in whether carrots are a rich source of Vitamin A?"
"We're not," he says. "Screw carrots and their Vitamin A, or lack thereof." The tone in his voice suggests he's trying to make me laugh and I chuckle slightly, despite what he said not being particularly funny. "No, it's the flow grid I'm interested in. I think it could be really good for merging together everything we find out. Like this." He opens his larger notebook at the back and takes out a paper, moving the notebook out of the way when he's done. With his ruler he then carefully makes a series of grids, and I roll my eyes when he takes the time to make some of the lines thicker and darker than the others. When he's done he writes various ages into the vertical boxes on the left. He then writes headers on the top row, pausing a few times to wrinkle his brow, drum the end of his pencil against his lip and give some thought to it before deciding what to write next. He ends up with things like "vocal development", "spatial perception" and "awareness of self".
"So, here's what I'm thinking," he says, showing his mock-up to me. "Obviously this is just a rough draft, but you get the idea, right? We gather all our information, decide what categories we want to use, make a grid like this and then present it to our teachers."
"Peeta wouldn't that be an awful lot of work? How are we going to find the time to do that while we're writing the essays about it?"
"No, this would be instead of an essay."
"What?" My eyes go between him and the mock-up a few times in quick succession. "Can… we do that? Won't they fail us?"
"Nowhere do the instructions say that we have to write essays about it," he points out. "Just that we have to show our findings to the teacher group."
I take a good few minutes to really look at the grid he's drawn up, and think closely about his suggestion. I like the idea of not writing another essay but I don't share his confidence that his proposal will be accepted instead. What if they don't consider it enough? I don't have the time to write up a whole new essay from scratch at that point; there will be a ton of other school work by then as well. It's our very last semester and it seems like every teacher is eager to give us as much work as they can in the short timespan they have left to do it in.
"Uhm…" I mutter, scepticism clear in my voice. "Uh…"
"If they don't accept this idea then I will write the essay, or whatever it is they'll stick us with. I promise you." He looks a bit uncomfortable, fidgeting in his seat, seemingly frustrated that I'm not immediately signing off on his suggestion. "I believe in this grid idea. I really do. I think it makes things much clearer, much easier to follow. It's not just a bunch of text, but something that is visually interesting. And it will have all the relevant information right there, plain to see, not muddled in a bunch of essay nonsense." When I still don't give him the answer he wants right away his brow furrows a bit and he looks dejected. "Like I said, if they flunk us over it, I will do whatever it is they want us to do to get the grade."
"Don't be an idiot," I say, keeping my eyes on the piece of paper rather than on him. It makes me uncomfortable to see him look disappointed, though I can tell he's trying to hide it. When I glance up at him he's got a smile on his face, though his eyes tell a different story. "If they give us some sort of extra assignment then we'll do it together."
"No," he insists, shaking his head. "It will have been my suggestion that landed us there, so my responsibility." He swallows. "Though I don't think they will disapprove… or I wouldn't be suggesting it in the first place."
"Doesn't matter if it's your suggestion or not," I argue. "I said yes to it, I will have done as much work on it as you, therefore any extra work we might end up with will be on both of us to do." I realize I just said I have agreed to go with his idea, even though I haven't really made up my mind yet. I look up at him, expecting a genuine smile on his face, but he doesn't look any less serious than he did a moment ago. In fact, the smile he did have is gone, replaced by him worrying his bottom lip between his teeth.
"You're sweet, Katniss," he says, his brow still furrowed. "But you don't have to say yes to it if you don't feel comfortable with it." He lets out a short laugh and one corner of his mouth turns upward. "Much like in an actual marriage, we have to compromise. You need to feel good about it, or neither one of us will feel alright with it." His brow furrows even more, then he grabs the piece of paper with the grid mock-up and unceremoniously balls it up. "Never mind. We have a week to decide how we want it done. Let's forget about it for now and just go back to work. Just… You know… It would make me happy if you just agree to think about it. Then if you decide against it, you at least didn't dismiss it without consideration."
"Peeta I would never just dismiss something you suggest without giving it proper consideration."
"No, I know…" he says, eyes fixated on some spot to his left, a faint smile on his lips. Then he looks at me, briefly. "Thanks, Katniss."
"Yeah okay…" I say hesitantly, eyeing him as he tosses the balled-up piece of paper in his backpack and opens his notebook again. Within seconds the back of his pencil is drumming at his bottom lip as his eyes move between the notebook and the page of one of the open books in front of him.
"I wonder how they know all this stuff about little babies," he comments, his tone suggesting it's a rhetorical statement. "Like, how do they know at what age you start dreaming? Or that kids at a certain age believe they and their mother are the same being?"
I turn my eyes to my own books and my own work so far, electing not to respond. He doesn't say anything else and we work silently for a while, but for the first time the silence between us doesn't feel entirely comfortable. I wonder initially if it's awkwardness stemming from me not agreeing to his grid pitch, but that can't be the whole story. There was something awkward in the air between us even before then, and Peeta never struck me as that kind of person. Still, I want to clear the air to whatever extent that I can, and so I reach out and tap the back of his hand lightly with my fingertips.
"You know… We should give the grid thing a try." He looks unsure when his eyes meet mine. I give him a small smile. "It's creative. Mr. Stoker says they like it when we're creative. And as long as we get all the important information in there, then what could they object to?"
He gives me a faint smile and shrugs his shoulder.
"No, Katniss, it's fine. It was just an idea… I don't want to make you go along with it if you don't think it's good. Give it some real thought and we'll make a decision next week. Don't worry about it."
"It is good," I insist. "I mean it. It's a little weird, I'll admit, but… That's kind of become our trade mark, hasn't it? We do things our own way."
"That we do," he agrees, chuckling slightly.
"We should give it a shot. If they like it then it's probably going to be a big help for our grade."
He sets his pencil down and shifts in his seat, leaning forward a bit.
"Are you sure? It's fine if you don't want to do it. You can tell me no, you know."
My smile becomes more genuine.
"I know, Peeta. And I think we should give it a try. It's something different, at least."
He smiles, but it seems uncertain and doesn't reach his eyes this time either. He nods though, slowly.
"Yeah okay. Thanks, Katniss."
He goes back to work, and so do I. I suppose the atmosphere between us is a little bit better now, but truth be told it still feels off. Peeta has spread his things out on the couch, on both sides of him, and he's got his books lined up on the table in front of him, almost like a barrier between us. He's being cordial with me, but not his usual warm, friendly and inviting self. It's miles away from the way things were a week ago, when he came and sat so close to me, touched my hand with his own, held on to my gaze for what felt like forever. I much preferred that to whatever is going on between us right now.
I recall what he said at the end of our class last week. That if somebody saw us they might get the wrong idea, that our intense discussion in hushed voices easily could give people the wrong impression. Maybe somebody did see us, and told his new girlfriend. Or maybe he's just worried that she might hear something and get needlessly jealous. Is that it? Is that why he's acting different this week? It seems far-fetched that he would be so concerned over my relationship that he lets it affect the mood between us this way. Truthfully, I do worry what Gale would say, and think, and feel, if he heard about the intense conversation we had last week. It would be easy for him to get the entirely wrong impression – especially since he already is prone to jealousy where Peeta is concerned. He wouldn't be pleased to know I held Peeta's hand and stared into his eyes, and he might not even care about the context. Is Peeta's odd mood today based on worry over having over-stepped his boundaries in the heat of the moment? I feel it would be in Peeta's nature to react that way, but it is for me to decide if any boundaries have been over-stepped, and unless I tell him that he's doing something wrong then he shouldn't feel that he has. Which leaves only the new girl he's dating.
I can't seem to concentrate on my work, my mind preoccupied with thoughts about this. I at least want to know who the girl is, so that I can keep in mind not to be too… friendly… with him when she's nearby. Innocent gestures such as brushing a strand of hair away or giving someone's hand a squeeze could easily be misinterpreted and the last thing I want to do is cause any problems for Peeta. I make up my mind to just plain ask him, get it out in the open. We can talk about the Gale side of things some other time, perhaps if we're working together outside of school. Only, even though I've made up my mind about it, it still feels daunting to ask. It shouldn't, it's not that personal a question, but a knot still forms in my belly.
"So, uhm…" My eyes stay glued to the textbook open in front of me. I feel much too embarrassed to be asking him about this, but if I don't ask my mind will just be preoccupied with it and I'll be far too unproductive. I remind myself that it is not an odd thing to ask. It's practically making small talk. "So, this new girl you're seeing… Uhm…" God, I feel so awkward asking about this; my face must be burning brightly red right about now. But I have to know. If nothing else, for the sake of our ability to work together efficiently. I can't risk my grade. Our love loves can't start needlessly complicating things, not this late in the game. We've come so far, just a few short weeks left. I hark, then immediately regret it as it might give the wrong impression. Oh geez, this hesitation is only making matters worse. He's looking at me, probably very puzzled. Better to just get it all out. "So, is it serious?"
I gather enough courage to glance up at him and find him eyeing me with a deep frown, pencil frozen somewhere in-between his face and his notebook.
"No, no it isn't. Not yet, anyway," he answers in a wary tone. "What… What makes you ask?"
God, I hope I'm not blushing as badly as I fear I might be. Why is he asking me that? Isn't it a normal thing for one friend to ask another? Isn't it? What do I say to that?
"Just curious," I manage. Then I thankfully figure out how to elaborate, and hurry to do so. "You know about my love life – better than almost everyone in our class, even. I'm curious about yours."
"Oh. Okay." He shrugs. His eyes turn back to his book. "It's very early, so, you know, hard to tell if it's going to become serious or not." He looks up at me, one eyebrow slightly raised. "Though I guess you and Gale were completely serious from the get-go, huh?"
I suppose we were, though we also were not. It depends what you mean by serious, I suppose. But I'm not interested in talking about me and Gale right now.
"Sure," I say evasively. "And this girl of yours… anyone I know?" I ask, hoping that I sound as chipper, casual and care-free as I attempt to.
"Uhm…" He chuckles briefly, not in a condescending way but in a surprised way, and he puts his pencil down beside the notebook. He turns the page of his textbook and lets out another brief chuckle. "I mean, I didn't know you cared at all…"
A flash of anger runs through me and I want to tell him that I don't care, per se, but I don't want my final grades in my final year of school to be less than they ought to be because he went and started dating some random girl and allowed our schoolwork to suffer. It's not fair to me if he puts distance between the two of us to accommodate some girl he doesn't even like enough to call his girlfriend, while I haven't let my quite serious relationship with Gale affect our work on the project. I, in fact, stand up to Gale whenever the project work leads to an issue between us.
Then a thought occurs to me. It's only my assumption that Peeta is lukewarm about this girl when in fact it might be she who wants to take it slow. Maybe he's acting more distant today because he doesn't want to risk scaring her off. I forget about my embarrassment and look at him, capturing his blue eyes with my own, intensely looking for clues of any kind. Is it possible that he finally started dating that girl he spoke about before? The girl he fell in love with, who, as far as he knows, doesn't return his affections?
If he's finally gotten to go out with her I can't very well be frustrated with him, or begrudge him the opportunity to try his luck with her. He seemed so genuinely besotted when he spoke of her a few weeks back, and so disheartened when he talked about how she didn't feel the same way back. I feel a strange lump forming in my throat, and a burning, uncomfortable sensation in my chest. It's no wonder that I feel dismayed. This grade is important to me and we've been working so well together all this time, but I can't ask Peeta to jeopardize the chance of being with that girl. It's my grade in one class – a big one, sure, but just the one – against what might be his whole future happiness.
"I was just wondering…" I say, my voice steadier now but not by much. "Is it… the girl?" His brow is still furrowed but now it looks more confused. I lower my voice to a whisper. "You know… The girl you told me about a few weeks back?"
Realization hits him but he still looks a bit uncertain. I wonder if he remembers even telling me about this, and if perhaps he would have rather not said anything. It was quite the thing to confide in someone.
"Look, Katniss, if you don't mind…" he says, awkwardly rubbing the back of his neck with one hand while grimacing. "You're sweet to ask, to care... I don't mean to be rude or anything, it's just… Well, I'd rather not talk about my personal life right now."
"Yeah," I say. "Of course. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to pry."
"No, I know."
How does he know? I was prying. Truth be told I'd like to pry even further, find out more about him and this girl. My mouth feels oddly dry and I shift in my seat, feeling strangely restless. I want to know if this is that special girl of his, and if not, if he cares enough about her to let her affect our work. But I can't very well ask him that. It irritates me a little that the status of Peeta Mellark's love life should concern me so much, but I remind myself that it is all about the project and my need of a good grade. And whoever this person is, and whatever his feelings for her, the fact that he's seeing her has already had a negative impact. I only just learned about it a week ago and already things are odd between us.
I turn my eyes back to my own work, but I still can't seem to focus. I read a page, two pages, three, then I have to go back a page and re-read the whole thing because I realized I missed something. I make a few notes, scowl even deeper, turn another page. I hear Peeta sigh heavily. I look up at him. He's writing something down on his notebook, looking about as happy as I feel. His brow is furrowed, his blue eyes look troubled, his teeth worrying the right side of his bottom lip. He sighs again, deepens his scowl and erases something. What the hell is going on with us? We've never had an awkward silence between us in the past, not like this. And I can't bear it a moment longer.
"Hey Peeta?"
He looks up at me, his bottom lip slowly sliding out from between his teeth.
"Yeah, Katniss?"
I hesitate for a moment. My heart seems to beat strangely hard in my chest.
"We're okay, though, right?" I finally say, my voice sounding oddly hoarse. "You and me?"
It's a strangely worded thing to say – like a suggestion that something else we just talked about isn't alright. But if Peeta notices he doesn't show it. Somehow it seems like he understands my question, oddly worded as it was. He smiles a little, though it doesn't reach his eyes this time either. But his hand reaches out and lands on top of mine, giving it a squeeze. The gesture feels very comforting.
"Of course we are."
I nod.
"Good."
Our eyes stay locked together for about a minute, or perhaps longer. Perhaps shorter. All I really know is that a smile forms on my lips while we're looking into each other's eyes, and just like that, Peeta's smile reaches his eyes as well. I chuckle briefly and my foot taps playfully against his under the table. He rolls his eyes but his smile is much warmer now, just like the skin where his hand is touching mine. It stays warm for several minutes after he's pulled his hand back.
And for the rest of the hour, the silence between us feels much more at ease. Much more like it's supposed to feel. We don't say much to one another, we only share a few glances, but the smiles we exchange are genuine. When Peeta thanks me for today, right before he leaves for wrestling practice, he leans in and presses his cheek to mine in a form of hug. His beard feels a bit scratchy but his cheek is warm, and the feel of it remains on my skin for a long while afterward.