February gives way to March. The final month of the project, for all intents and purposes. We will be handing in the last material in the early days of April, and receive our final grades a few weeks later, but the bulk of the last work will be done this month. It feels strange, almost surreal. Five more weeks and then it's done. This project that has felt never-ending, these endless budgets and essays and idiotic events of our fictional lives… and these weeks and months working together with Peeta. I don't even bother lying to myself, I feel sad that our teamwork is nearing its end. It's become part of my routine, meeting up with him every Monday afternoon to work together. And we work so well together. I haven't worked this well with anyone since Gale and I grew into a well-oiled machinery out in the woods, and even that took several months. I'll never tell Gale this, but Peeta and I figured out how to best complete each other as a team far faster and easier than Gale and I did. Of course, we're both older than Gale and I were and we're only doing a school project together, not fighting for survival out in the forbidden woods, so matters aren't as tense. It's an entirely different kind of teamwork and partnership, though Gale would not be the least bit comforted by that thought. It's a partnership based on pretending to be married. That's what we're excelling at, Peeta and I.
The first Monday of April sees Madge and I sitting together in the back of the classroom during the last class before project hour, neither one of us paying much attention to Mr. Stoker as he drones on and on and on. Not until the last minutes of the lesson, when he brings up the project. That spikes our attention and we share a look, Madge and I. She looks just as nervous as I feel, perhaps even more so. I turn my head and search for Peeta's familiar blond curls, knowing I will find them in the middle of the room today. I realize I'm not surprised to find he's turned his head and is meeting my eyes with his own. He looks calm, smiling reassuringly at me. I smile back nervously and nod, and he returns the gesture before turning back to face the teacher.
"I know you all are working on your pair assignments and that they aren't due until next week," says Mr. Stoker, walking around his desk and leaning back against it. He sticks his thumbs in the belt that keeps his faded black pants up and lets his eyes trail over the room, seeming to look at every single one of us, one by one. "As you all know, the project wraps up in about a month. And as you also all know, in just about three months you will leave the walls of this school behind for good." One or two merchant kids make cheering noises at that statement, but most Seam kids lower their gazes, seeing no relief in school ending. What awaits us is mostly the hard work of the mines or, for the girls, the possibility of marrying for real and starting to birth babies, who will then be at risk of starving to death, or dying of some other malady that affects young kids in an impoverished society – if childbirth itself does not kill you. "Well, that is still three months away," continues Mr. Stoker, sounding a touch sterner than normal. "For some of you, a bit of a summer break will be waiting once the bell rings for the last time, but this… is no time to slouch." He reaches behind him and grabs an envelope at random. "You have all been given additional assignments to your projects, to be completed within a week." My jaw drops a little and I share a look of disbelief with Madge, who nervously bites her bottom lip. More project work to do this week? How are we supposed to find time for that? We only have the one hour this week, and in those sixty minutes most, if not all, of us have essays to write.
"We can't handle another assignment in just one week," whispers Madge, her eyes wide and worried. "We still have lots left to do on the assignment we already have." Under most circumstances she wouldn't talk at all, not even in whispers, while a teacher was doling out information by his desk, but at the moment there are a lot of worried and upset murmurs heard around the classroom. "Can you and Peeta manage it?"
I look at him again, this time seeing nothing but the back of his head as he appears to be one of the few not reacting by commenting to the persons sitting next to him.
"No," I state simply. Perhaps we can, if our assignment is simple enough and his grid idea goes much faster than writing a whole essay, but I wouldn't count on it.
"Alright, alright, be quiet," demands Mr. Stoker. He moves his arms, crossing them instead, envelope still in his hand. "Some of you will find instructions for your verbal exam, including the day and the time. The locale will be right here in this room." My mouth feels completely dry and my heart beats faster, beads of sweat even forming on my brow. I share another look with Madge, though she actually seems calm hearing this. I can't fully tell, though she is looking sternly at the teacher with no trace of the previous worry that was written all over her face. Once more I look towards Peeta, who again has turned his head to give me a reassuring look. "For the rest of you, your additional workload will be detailed in the usual manner." Mr. Stoker actually smiles as he says it, failing miserably at reading the atmosphere in the room. "I'll let you all run off a couple of minutes early; perhaps you can all use a few more minutes of recess to gear up for your additional work this afternoon. I want just one person from each pair to come up and get the envelopes, or it will be too big of a crowd up here. Whichever one in your pair whose name comes first in the alphabet, come up and get your project envelope. And I will see you all tomorrow."
Feeling more than a little bit nervous I pack up my things rather slowly, hoping to avoid the initial onslaught of classmates eager to get their envelopes so they can run off to recess. I never thought I'd see the day, but I'm praying for an additional essay, budget revision, new tragedy to befall our fictional family, anything but an oral exam.
"Harry's already at the desk," notes Madge as she packs her backpack. "You're not eager to get yours? And find out?"
"I won't be opening it here in the classroom, anyway," I reply, glad to note that my voice isn't trembling even though the rest of my body seems to be. I stuff the last of my things in my backpack and close it, turning around to put it on. "Peeta and I will open it once we sit down to work, I suppose." I swallow hard and look at my friend. "Madge, aren't you worried?"
"Yeah," she says after a moment's pause. "A little. But if we've been selected, we've been selected. Not much point in worrying about it before I know if I need to worry about it."
"I can't think like that." I draw a deep breath, hoping it will calm me. "Peeta thinks it depends on the quality of the work you handed in. That those who did poorly with the essays and rebuttals will be the ones chosen."
"Sounds reasonable," nods Madge. "What do you think?"
"I think they might do things more randomly than that," I say dryly. Truthfully I've been worrying all week that perhaps that creativity that Mr. Stoker spoke so highly of with regards to Peeta and myself might be something that causes them to select us, just to see what we would say if put on the spot. When I talked to Prim about it she carefully suggested that maybe I was giving us a bit too much credit and that the teachers don't think about things like that, and while I think she might be right, and that Peeta's theory is quite logical, I never underestimate my own bad fortune.
Together with Madge I leave our table and walk towards the front of the classroom. She gives my arm a gentle squeeze before leaving my side and walking up to Harry's. I watch them go, biting my lower lip and focusing on breathing deeply and steadily, a trick I use out in the woods to keep calm no matter what the situation. I get in line to get my envelope, three kids in front of me and a few more coming in behind. When Mr. Stoker hands me the envelope I try to read his face to figure out what might be inside it, but he doesn't give me so much as a glance. I hurry out of the classroom and find Peeta waiting right outside, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed and his backpack at his feet. He's talking with a group of his merchant friends but when he spots me he turns away from the conversation and begins speaking to me instead.
"Where do you want to sit today?" he asks. "Library? Assembly room?"
"I don't care," I snarl. "Whichever one is closest."
"That would be the assembly room," he says in the tone one usually reserves for morons. It's more than three times as far to the library and that's not exactly news to me. He pushes away from the wall and picks up his backpack, which by the looks of things is jam-packed with books and must weigh a ton. Not that you would tell from how he lifts it; it wouldn't surprise me at all if I was told Peeta was the strongest guy at school. "I have to stop at my locker before we go."
"Are you joking?" I ask, a very unbecoming hint of desperation in my voice. He's found the time to loiter outside the classroom and chat with his buddies – he couldn't have used that time to get his things?
"Was that… funny?" he asks, looking genuinely perplexed. He nods to his backpack. "I've got an entire day's worth of schoolbooks in here; I need to put all of them away and get the library books instead."
"Well… Hurry up about it, will you?" I say, fidgeting nervously. He gives me a confused look and walks over to his locker. I barely keep in a groan, feeling far more antsy than I ever recall having done out in the forest.
"I'll be with you in a minute," promises Peeta, opening his locker. I get a glimpse of what's inside and I'm surprised by how neat and tidy he keeps it. My own locker is a mess; I just throw in whatever I don't need for the moment and close the thing as soon as possible. Peeta keeps his books neatly stacked, his outerwear tidily hung up on coat hangers and not a single excessive item in sight. I suppose I oughtn't to be surprised – he seems like a tidy sort of person, although the state of his locker suggests something akin to a neat freak, and I know he's not that obsessive about it.
I step over to the other wall and lean against it while I wait. Peeta resumes his conversation with the other merchant kids, in particular with the girl he was dancing with at the Harvest Feast, the girl whose name keeps escaping me. I'm pretty sure it's Belle, the girl whose twin brother Beau died of influenza two years ago. Both twins were sick but when only one came back to school most people seemed at a loss for what to say to her and how to act around her. I remember thinking I was probably one of the few fellow students who could understand a loss like that but she and I were never friends before and I didn't know how to approach her once her twin had been taken from her. So, I didn't.
Right now, she's talking to her friends in general and Peeta in particular. I try not to eavesdrop, or whatever you call it in a situation like this, but it's hard not to overhear. From what I gather she apparently missed school on Friday and is trying to catch up on what happened in math class. I can't hear the entirety of the conversation since the noise level in the hallway is pretty high and their other merchant friends won't seem to shut up either but I do wonder why she's asking Peeta of all people.
"The exam on fractions is on Thursday," says Peeta, making me shudder at the reminder of the upcoming test.
"Will it just be fractions?"
"When have our math tests ever been just one thing? Count on them wanting to make sure we still remember all our previous years of math, just for the heck of it. Especially now that all teachers seem to have gone mad and want to make sure we remember everything from our collective years of schooling."
"Okay, what about history?" she asks. "What about our papers? Did Mr. Bates…"
"No," says Peeta, answering the question she didn't even ask. He closes his locker and makes sure it's locked. "Not for another two weeks. I'd get started on it right away though, if I were you."
"I know, I know."
This exchange causes one of the guys standing beside them to laugh.
"So, do the two of you know each other by any chance? Spend time together outside of class?"
I turn my face away, my scowl deepening. The implication is oddly bothering to me. It reminds me of myself and Gale, actually, and how well we understand one another. I had no idea Peeta had such a close relationship with some girl that he instinctively knows what she's asking. I know it's petty but I feel a bit like I begrudge them this. Gale and I are so close because we rely on each other to survive, hunting together as a team out in the woods, a relationship that's taken years and a lot of hard work to build. It seems that kind of a close link should be exclusive and not just occur at random between any two people.
I turn my eyes back to Peeta just in time to see him kiss the girl on the cheek and tell her they'll see each other later. He waves goodbye to the rest of the group and walks up to me, pressing his books to his chest.
"Sorry," he says. "I'm ready to go now. You all set?"
"Come on," I say sourly. "Let's get started already."
"Your partner keeping you on a short leash, there, Peete?" chuckles one of the guys in Peeta's group of friends.
"Lay off her, Stork," warns Peeta.
"How can you be friends with so many jerks?" I mutter as we walk, more to myself than to him, really.
"They're not jerks," he responds anyway. "But they don't know you any better than you know them, so you guys just misunderstand each other."
"Really?" I scoff, giving him a pointed look. "You just told your friend off, yourself. Now you want to tell me he was being nice?"
"And you just snarled at me in front of people I have been friends with for most of my life," he retorts. "Should I criticize them for not liking that?"
I stop for a second and look at him with a mixture of irritation, stemming from nervousness, and a bit of admiration of him backing his friend up. He meets my look with his usual steadiness, no dislike in his eyes but still a challenging resolve there. Not knowing quite what to say or do in response to that I simply begin walking again. I know I oughtn't to take my anxiety out on him – or his friends for that matter – but I'm not good at hiding emotions like that. Typical, really, that there are certain emotions that I'm able to keep very guarded yet ones that I would be better off concealing often seem impossible for me to hide. And for perhaps the first time I wonder what Peeta's friends really think of me. I don't care much about their opinion of me personally, but I don't want them to think I'm a bitch who treats him with meanness.
While I stride down the hallway, Peeta following half a step behind, I decide two things in short order. First of all, I don't want to wait any longer than absolutely necessary to find out if we're doing the verbal exam or not. Second of all, I don't want to find out where a lot of other people are around. In case I spew out a curse word or two. So when we turn a corner and find ourselves in a fairly empty corridor I stop, resulting in Peeta walking right into my left shoulder. I grimace but decide I don't care that it hurt, unceremoniously beginning to open the envelope.
"I didn't realize you were this concerned," says Peeta, voice brimming with the kind of compassion and care that would normally anger me and make me feel pitied.
His eyes dart quickly between my face and the envelope several times, so much worry in them that I feel a little bit bad for making him feel so concerned. Though only a little bit bad. I've been building this up in my head over the last few days, imagining how much I would embarrass myself if I had to sit there with him and perform during a verbal test, most definitely falling way short of his abilities to always say the right thing. Not only would it be terribly embarrassing, I would be letting him down, bringing his grade down along with my own. I haven't felt this disconcerted since the last reaping.
I manage to get the envelope open and pull out the papers inside, my hands thankfully not trembling. My eyes skim over the first few lines of text. Then, without any regard for the fact that we are in a public hallway and people are still around, I throw my arms around Peeta's neck, closing my eyes hard. I bury my face against the nape of his neck, finally breathing easy, inhaling his comforting scent of cinnamon and dill.
"You were right," I mumble against his neck. "I should have known that you'd be right. They must be going for those who didn't do so well on their essays."
He doesn't reject my hug, despite whatever he was concerned about a week ago. In fact, his arms warp around me, his hands finding their way under my backpack, rubbing my back comfortingly.
"You should have told me you were this worried," he says, keeping his voice low to prevent anyone around us from overhearing. "You should have talked to me. We could have… I don't know, but we could have… I would have found some way of helping you."
I find myself smiling.
"You did help me," I tell him, not even completely sure what I mean by it, so I don't elaborate. All I know at this moment is that I'm so relieved that we weren't chosen and that his arms feel so good, in truth far better than Gale's ever have, that I don't want to be the first one to let go.
But once the thought passes through my head it's instantly sobering, making me pull back – albeit gently. I shouldn't feel like that, regardless of the circumstances. No other boy's embrace should feel better than my own boyfriend's. What the hell is wrong with me?
"So… library?" says Peeta, a small, crooked smile on his lips.
"Library," I nod, returning the smile though I inwardly cringe at my own inability to be a normal girlfriend.
When we reach the library my eyes immediately go towards the table where we sat during our first session here, and it is indeed available today. I notice that Peeta, however, is looking in another direction – towards the row of tables where we sat last week. The ones that had a couch. I look over there and find two empty tables, and then I meet Peeta's eyes. The second he begins to grin I realize what he's thinking, and the next thing I know he's taken off running towards the tables in question. I barely get a volume-appropriate cry of protest out before I've set off after him, slaloming between bookshelves, tables and the occasional person as I try to reach the couch before he does. I'm fast but he got a second's head start on me, and he's surprisingly fast himself even with that heavy backpack of his. He throws himself down on the couch just an instant before I reach it and he's silently laughing when he looks up at me, clearly very pleased with himself. I give him a playful whack with the envelope but can barely contain my own laughter – a laughter that probably stems just as much from the release of tension earlier as it does from the actual situation at hand.
"You're a poor excuse for a gentleman, you know," I tease, taking off my backpack and pulling out a chair opposite him.
"Hey, no one says you can't sit on the couch beside me," he replies with a grin, unzipping his backpack. "Unless you're referring to how I just egged you on to partake in causing a scene in the library. In which case I do honestly apologize."
I turn my head and find several people eyeing us with either confusion, amusement or irritation. Luckily there are only students around, no teachers and no Miss Dunhill. I decide I don't care what they think. True, I behaved like a child and probably made a fool of myself, but so what? In a few short months I will be all but a step away from full adulthood, the only thing remaining before my childhood is completely over being my nineteenth birthday next year. I can afford to have a moment of childishness before all that comes to an end.
"Next week we're sitting in the assembly room," I say to Peeta, turning back to face him. "You don't deserve the couch spot one more week."
"Fair enough," he says with a crooked smirk, opening a textbook to the page he's got marked with what looks like a candy wrapper. "Anyway, new topic. I need about ten or fifteen more minutes to go over a chapter in this book, then I'm all ready to start working on our… presentation."
"Take whatever time you need." With a small smile on my lips I unpack the things I need from my own backpack. I'm glad we'll be finishing up with all these library books this week because they're starting to get heavy to lug around everywhere. Suddenly Peeta begins to laugh and I look over at him. "What?" I ask.
"I just realized – I know we didn't get picked to do the verbal test, and instead got served an extra slice of regular project crap…" He shakes his head and rolls his eyes, at the same time. "But I don't have a clue what we've been assigned, and have to find time for somehow. I totally forgot to ask you about that part."
"Here," I say, handing the envelope to him, too embarrassed to admit to him that I don't know either. All I read was enough to know there won't be a verbal exam coming our way, and then I stopped reading. "See for yourself."
He takes the envelope, pulls out the piece of paper inside, and begins to read. I watch his grin turn into a look of sheer surprise, his eyebrows shooting so far up that they almost disappear beneath his curly bangs. Then he begins to chuckle again, leaning back in his chair and tossing the piece of paper on the table.
"Well, we are busy bees, aren't we? Really, we ought to get our act together."
What does that mean? Scowling I pick the paper up and read it from start to finish. It doesn't contain a lot of text, but what it does say is indeed surprising. I fight back a groan of surprise and instead settle for a sigh, tossing the paper onto the table just like Peeta did a moment ago.
"Twins?" I say, my voice full of disbelief. "What sick, twisted, idiot teacher decided that we would, quite soon after having one baby and you not having a job, decide to go and have twins?"
"Strictly speaking I don't believe anyone outside the Capitol decides to go have twins," says Peeta dryly, though he's still got a smirk on his face. He searches through the pile of books on the table until he finds the old textbook we once committed a break-in to acquire. "But hey, at least we can probably consider our marital troubles overcome."
"How exactly are they overcome?" I ask grumpily, crossing my arms and scowling. "Twins, Peeta." I spell the word for him slowly. "T-w-i-n-s. As in twice the pain in the ass."
"Yeah, but at least we were on good terms to make them."
"That isn't funny!"
"Come on, it's just an exercise," he reminds me, sounding frustratingly cavalier. He grabs his pencil and begins to flip through the pages of the textbook. "I bet everyone got a real oddball of an extra assignment this week. At least our house didn't burn down. Again."
"Anyone ever tell you that too much optimism can be a bad thing?"
"I've cheerfully chosen to ignore such pessimistic nonsense."
"Why do I even like you?" I sigh, very nearly freezing up when I realize the words that just left my mouth. Struggling to remain causal I start turning the pages of my notebook to find the page I was last on. "My fictional self asks herself that question every minute of every hour of every day of this made up pregnancy."
"And probably even more often than that during childbirth," he says in a tone that's so utterly casual it makes me both a touch confused and even a little bit uncomfortable. He continues to flip through the pages of the textbook, though at a slower pace now, eyeing each page more closely, like he's searching for something in particular "Anyway, while I'm sure it's not so easy to be pregnant with twins, and even less easy to have a toddler and infant twins in the house, by way of added workload we got off easy this week. All they're asking for is that we do a bit of research into how having twins differs from having singletons, and what it entails on a practical level for the first few weeks after birth. Surely facts that are bound to come in handy for both of us one day. All things considered, though, it could have been a lot worse."
"Oh don't you worry," I mutter, brushing a strand of hair away from my face as I grab the instructions to read them over one more time, this time with more attention paid. "Next week we'll no doubt have some other calamity befall us, like you being fired from your job or something, and then get to do another fun and exciting budget!"
"Yeah, but it will be an easy one," he says, and I can hear from the tone of his voice that he's grinning. "Our income will be zero with me unemployed and you unable to work for the last part of your pregnancy. Easy-peasy."
"I don't get why you sound so upbeat when you say that," I comment, but I can't help a faint smile at the thought of the absurdity of it.
"On a more productive note," he continues, pushing the textbook a bit further from himself before reaching for his notebook, "how do you want to go about this? Get our grid project done first and then move on to tackling this new assignment? Or research the twin stuff and add it in with the rest?"
"I say we do all of the research first," I say. "Otherwise we're just doing the work twice over, aren't we? Might as well have everything compiled before we get to work on our anti-essay presentation."
He nods, the hint of a smile on his face. Then he begins to make suggestions as to how we should divide up this additional workload. I let him decide, figuring one way is as good as the other, and we get to work. But it soon becomes clear that we don't stand a chance at getting it all done by the end of the day. With dismay I begin to realize that it might in fact eat up most of our Sunday as well. Peeta, it seems, is one step ahead of me as we begin to pack up our things.
"You know, Tuesdays are usually the one day a week when I don't have anything after school," he says. "What do you say to staying late tomorrow, to get as much work done as possible?"
"Yeah," I say after a moment's pause. "Yeah, okay."
He flashes me a grin that seems oddly enthusiastic considering we're talking about staying late at school to essentially do homework, but he seems to be as prone to smiling as I am to scowling, so perhaps it's just his default face.
"Well, good, then," he says. "Then I will see you tomorrow after hours." He picks up his backpack, leaving one of the library books behind since he's done with it anyway. "I'm off to wrestling practice but I'll see you tomorrow." He makes a face. "I just said that twice, didn't I?"
"I believe you did."
"Then I'd better get going before I say it a third time." His hand reaches up and pats me on the shoulder as he walks past me. "See you tomorrow, Katniss. And thanks for today."
"Tomorrow," I confirm, watching him stroll out of the library as if he doesn't have a care in the world.
And so the following afternoon we meet up after our last class, deciding to go back to the assembly room this time around. Just like yesterday I stand by the wall waiting for Peeta to finish up at his locker, watching him with his crowd of friends. Mostly just guys today, the one girl apparently the girlfriend of one of Peeta's male friends. Said friend looks over at me, grins, and opens his mouth to no doubt make some clever yet asinine comment that probably pertains to the moronic notion that all Seam girls like to meet up with town boys at the slag heap to do things I cannot imagine are particularly fun to do outdoors. An ice-cold stare on my part stops him before he can say anything, though he does make wide eyes and form his lips in a silent whistle, giving his friends a side-eye. I wonder what these boys, each and every one of them appearing so idiotic to me, are like outside of school. They must be different when they're not all grouped together, or I can't see how Peeta would appreciate their company.
Eventually Peeta finishes up and says goodbye to the group at large, but to my dislike three of them – including the two that are dating – actually walk towards the assembly room with us. I suppose it shouldn't be surprising that others need to put in extra time to get the workload done but I shoot Peeta a look that implores him not to let them sit with us. I hope he knows me well enough to know I wouldn't be comfortable working on this along with a group of people who are his friends, not mine.
I'm caught by surprise when the girl in the group, Emelie, suddenly walks up next to me and gives me a smile which, I have to admit, my sullen scowl is not deserving of.
"So how are things going with you guys?" she asks kindly, pressing a book to her chest with both hands. "You think you'll be able to finish everything this afternoon?"
"What?" I say, slightly dumbfounded. Is she making small talk with me?
"We were actually perfectly in phase, you know?" she continues, still smiling despite my continued scowling. "Serves us right, I suppose, for getting so pleased with ourselves about it," she chuckles. "Did they saddle you guys with the ridiculous twin thing, too?"
"You mean… you guys got that assignment as well?" I ask, now actually a bit intrigued by the conversation.
"As far as I've been able to gather they only bothered to conjure up three different additional scenarios," she says, scoffing at the thought. "Either you're having twins, or your first child nearly dies – which I find is in rather poor taste as a school assignment – or you suddenly find yourself not wanting to be married anymore and have to look into the circumstances under which you can be granted a divorce." She raises a pointed eyebrow. "I'll give you a hint – there are no such circumstances. At least not if you've got kids, which means pretty much every team in this stupid project."
She keeps on talking, unbothered by my scarce replies, filling me in on the details of the process of divorce in outline districts, a subject she is well familiar with since, as she informs me, her sister was actually able to get one on account of not having had any children in her marriage. I don't personally know of anyone who's been divorced, though from what I gather it's not uncommon in the Capitol. It's a short walk to the assembly room so I don't get to hear the end of Emelie's story, but I make a mental note of one of the things she said, just in case our teachers decide that after getting through fires and firings and sickness and twins, Peeta and I would fictionally decide to throw in the towel and go our separate ways in the last few weeks of the project. Quite simply, we wouldn't be allowed to end our marriage. The government only seems to give that courtesy to childless couples, in the hopes that they might do a better job of procreating if wed to other people.
"Hey Katniss, look!" says Peeta once we've reached the assembly room, his hand landing on my shoulder blade for a brief second before pulling back again. "Our table is available." He chortles. "I wasn't expecting that."
"You guys have your own table?" questions Emelie's boyfriend.
"And it was Ryean's before us, and Scotti's before him, and our parents before him, going back a thousand years in the Mellark family," answers Peeta dramatically, eliciting scoffs, eye-rolls and chuckles from his group. "Come on, Katniss, let's hurry up and take it before somebody else beats us to it."
I bring a small smile to my face as we begin to walk towards said table and my eyes meet with Emelie's.
"Good luck," I tell her. "Hope you'll be able to finish everything today."
"Likewise," she smiles, and to my surprise gives her boyfriend a quick kiss before heading off with one of the other guys in the group, apparently not partnered with her significant other. That's got to be odd, I can't help but note. If Gale is uncomfortable with me doing this project with a guy he doesn't know, what must her boyfriend feel knowing that his girlfriend is partnered with a friend of his?
Pulling out my usual chair I turn my mind back to my own project and my own partner, who has already taken his seat and begun to unpack his backpack. It all feels so eerily familiar, being back here after a few short weeks of working in the library instead. We both seem to be going through the motions in getting everything in order and getting to work. It's almost surreal to think how accustomed I've gotten to these routines with Peeta… and how soon it will be over, and we'll have spent our last hour working together at this table.
About twenty minutes later we're fully emerged in the world of our fake marriage, and the work we have to do, and I've practically forgotten all about my earlier thoughts. I thank our lucky stars that we not only stole those textbooks a few weeks back, but that we also made the decision to spend some time in the library and got our hands on everything available from the meagre selection. For somewhat obvious reasons, there's not an abundance of literature on twins and twin pregnancies at this particular school library and it seems roughly one third of our classmates would love to get their hands on the same books as we've got. The division of work load Peeta crafted yesterday has been thrown out the window since about eighteen minutes ago, once we realized exactly how scarce the information on this topic actually is, and now we're rummaging through our books as fast as we can, calling out to the other when we find anything of note for me to scribble down in my notebook.
"According to this, the likelihood of twin girls is higher than that of twin boys," says Peeta, flipping the page of his book. His words are a touch garbled, as he's got his pencil between his teeth.
"Mm, yeah," I say without looking up from my own book. "Sounds about right. According to my mother, females are more viable than males, and since twin pregnancies are riskier…" I shrug. "Sounds like something worth mentioning, I suppose." Tearing my eyes from the book I jot the information down, adding it to the frustratingly short list.
"Really," says Peeta, leaning back in his chair with a slow nod and finally taking the pencil from his mouth. "Females more viable, huh? And to think that all my mother wanted was a daughter. My father too, but it was especially important to her. I should tell her that piece of trivia. Encourage her to feel proud that she was able to produce three whole boys with the odds against her like that."
I look up at him from under my bangs. I don't like the comment about odds, nor the tone in his voice. He's clearly going for jesting sarcasm but there's a bitterness underneath that he can't disguise.
"Actually, more boys are born than girls. There's just a higher survival rate with girls during the first year or so. So maybe more boy twins are conceived but fewer of them make it through all nine months."
"Huh." He taps his pencil against his lip with a pensive look on his face. "So, you're saying what I ought to commend her for is keeping all three of us alive past our infancy? I should be especially grateful, I suppose. Once she had gotten Scotti and Ryean past the cut-off age the odds were stacked against me."
"You're being silly," I say, turning my eyes back to my book, hoping he will stop talking about odds – and about himself in that way.
"Everything about this is silly," he sighs under his breath, but at least he leans back over his books and goes back to work.
Against what the mood calls for, and my own character really, I find myself suddenly curious and act upon that curiosity – and I blame Peeta for it in a way, since he's so good at creating a relaxed environment, without which I doubt I would have done this. I blurt out the question that popped into my brain, immediately feeling bad about it because it might very well be touching on a sore spot for him, but I can't take the words back once they're out there.
"So how come you are the youngest? If both your parents wanted a daughter, why not keep trying?" I cringe inwardly but since I've already put my foot in my mouth I might as well follow through. "A lot of families have five children or more; you and I both come from comparatively small sibling groups."
He doesn't answer for almost half a minute, very long seconds when the person asking the question is already feeling terrible about asking in the first place. He doesn't look mad or sad per se, but contemplative and very serious.
"They didn't want more mouths to feed than they could handle." The corner of his mouth turns upward for half a second. "Living in town really doesn't mean always leaving the table with your stomach full. My mother has told me how once I came along it became increasingly difficult to feed all three of us, so they made the decision not to have a fourth child." I'm not sure what to say, so I say nothing, waiting in silence while he stares out into nothing for what feels like ages. Suddenly he shrugs and leans forward again, hunching over his book. "Typical District 12 irony, being stranded with three unruly boys instead of getting at least one daughter."
He looks like he's thinking something much darker to himself, his jaw clenching and his eyes uncommonly cold. I don't want to imagine what self-deprecating things must be going through his mind and since I know I could never find any good words to say to make him feel better I simply stay silent. Nothing more is said between us for probably ten minutes, each of us turning the pages of our books and letting our eyes move quickly over the pages to try and spot anything useful. I end up being the first one to find anything interesting, alerting Peeta to the information I've stumbled across while trying to keep my voice as natural sounding as I can. He looks up at me, nods in acknowledgement and goes back to the book in front of him, closing it with a sigh as it apparently doesn't have anything else of interest in it. He grabs the next book and finds its back index, his finger tracing the word listing in search for anything that might be of interest.
"So…" I say, starting to feel a bit dizzy from looking over so much text. "How long do you figure we ought to keep looking? At some point we ought to have… I mean, the well's bound to run dry fairly soon anyway, right?"
"Let's give it another five," he says, casting a look at the large clock on the wall. "Then, we start compiling it. Sound good?"
"Alright," I nod. "Do you… I mean… For how long can you stay?"
He gives me a half-hearted, crooked smile that looks about as weary as I feel after staring at page after page after page in search of scant information.
"About another half-hour."
"A half-hour?" I echo sceptically. "We need a lot longer than that."
"Actually, we only need to compile what we've got and figure out which parts to put roughly where."
"Yeah, and make the actual grid thing and put everything in its intended place," I point out.
"I'll do that at home tonight," he assures me with a dismissive hand-wave.
"Excuse me? Peeta since when have I been on board with arrangements like that?"
"It's not a two-man job anyway," he insists. "I've given it thought, trust me. One of us would end up working and the other sitting around twiddling their thumbs – or worse, annoy the crap out of the person working. It's better and more coherent if one of us does the final composition and I think it should be me."
"Why?" I question. "Because you're a control freak who would lie awake all night worrying that I might not do it to your liking?"
"You think I lie awake all night thinking about the things you do?" he asks, the remark so light-hearted – even complete with a wink – that I find myself opening and closing my mouth several times in rapid succession, struggling to wrap my mind around it. Peeta merely shrugs it off and nods to my notebook. "Actually, I feel I should do it since it was my suggestion in the first place, and I think I'm the better one at artistic stuff like doing the layout. The rest, as I said, is just adding the stuff we already decided on together. But if you want to make yourself extra useful you could go ahead and start compiling what we've got so far on the twin issue, and of course your own part of the other work, and finding the best way to write it down. Pith would be the theme we're going for."
"Uhm…" I manage, before being interrupted.
"Oh and there's one other thing you could be in charge of, if you feel like it. Something you can do at home and have prepared for Monday."
"Okay?" I say warily.
He gives me a wide, teasing grin.
"Find names for our new little bundles of joy. We'll need two male and two female names – just in case."
I frown, feeling like I've somehow been led into a trap even though I'm not sure for what purpose, or how it even came about. But I can't very well protest either, I suppose, and he does have a point in that it's not really a two-man job to make the actual presentation. What I do disagree on is that it wouldn't take long to do it. But if he's so insistent, maybe I should just let him have things his way. The only other option, as I see it, is sacrificing a whole Sunday's worth of hunting time and this time of year that's really not a luxury I have. With that said, I feel I shouldn't let him have the last laugh, so to speak, so I turn the page in my notebook and make four dots, one for each baby name required.
"Katniss and Peeta Jr, it is," I say with a theatrical sigh. "Now what would the masculine form of Katniss be, and the feminine of Peeta?"
I see him doing a double-take in the corner of my eye and can't contain my smirk. He notices, and I hear him chuckle.
"Poor little Hunter is going to be so confused," he declares, which makes me chuckle as well, despite myself.
I busy myself trying to find ways to summarize our gathered information into short, to-the-point paragraphs which would fit into the grid once it's been drawn up. We have previously agreed on the topics we want for each column so I have that to go by, but it's harder than anticipated to present our research in just a few words per category. It's not long before my mind begins to wander, as if it needs a break from the task at hand.
My eyes travel from one end of the assembly room to the other, taking in our classmates struggling with their projects and the various other students working on their homework. There are a lot of people from our class who seem to be doing project work, like us, which is to be expected since they landed all this extra work on us. Our classmates are all paired up, a boy and a girl, but there are younger students as well sitting together that way. One pair of kids in the year beneath ours are sitting together at one of the smallest tables, their hands interlocked and resting on the table as they each have their eyes in their own books. It must be very difficult to study that way and I reckon they have either just very recently begun dating or they are eager to showcase their togetherness to anyone who might see, or this impracticality would have been dismissed long ago. Two of our classmates have found a spot on one of the small, uncomfortable benches along the south wall and are reading together from a textbook of some kind, the girl sitting on the boy's lap and leaning her head against his. I wonder if these two are planning on getting married for real once we have graduated and they turn nineteen, if they both survive our final reaping.
"Do you think couples who get together at our age are so prone to having a toasting as soon as possible after school is done because of the Reaping?" I ask Peeta.
"Why? How do you mean?" He is looking up at me through his curly bangs, not bothering to lift his head from the notebook in front of him.
"Well… Just, if we didn't have that fresh reminder of our mortality right at the same time as we graduate and head out into the adult world, do you think people would choose to wait longer? I mean, what's the rush, anyway?"
"Love can be a powerful motivator." Bless him for managing to say something so obvious-sounding without it seeming condescending. "Wanting to be together, live together… It's got to be tough being in love with each other yet having to live apart."
"But look at those two," I say, nodding discreetly at the pair on the bench. "Were they even officially dating when the project started? I wouldn't be surprised if they are intending to do all of this for real as soon as summer is here. Find jobs, plan a toasting, all of that… It's so early. Why not wait? How can they be sure?" I shake my head a bit. "It's a big thing not to be completely sure of."
I think of Gale and how I know he would like for us to be married as soon as I'm able to be, even though I know he will respect my need to wait longer. To wait forever, really, but we haven't talked much about that aspect lately. The two of us have known each other for years and have a very close and solid friendship and we know each other's quirks and habits and moods. All the things I imagine one ought to know about a person before committing to them for life. And yet I don't feel at all ready to have a toasting with Gale and live under one roof with him. Not just because I never want to be married – period – but because forever is a very long time. How can I be sure that we'll still want to be around each other that way a few years down the line?
"I don't know," answers Peeta after a moment, putting his pencil aside and lifting his head to focus on me and not the school work. "Maybe some of them get married too quickly and live to regret it… Then again there are many reasons to get married and love is only one factor. There might be other factors involved that make people to have a toasting at nineteen. Some don't even marry for love at all."
I look over at the young couple again, scowl in place as I observe them. Then I look back at Peeta. I can't help but wonder if he's thinking of his own parents. I haven't given much thought to why anyone would choose to marry if not for love, not in this district when you're better off unmarried and childless on Reaping Day, but if any couple fits the bill of marriage without love it is Mr. and Mrs. Mellark. I simply can't imagine any romance having ever gone on between the two of them. I don't even know if I believe her capable of those kinds of feelings. What I don't understand though is how come they still had children, especially since Peeta more or less said outright that they might have had more if they had had the resources to aptly provide for them. There are a few couples who never become parents and I have previously written them off as simply lucky enough to be barren – a sentiment that is proof of just how warped living with the Hunger Games truly is – but if Peeta is right and some don't marry for love at all I assume those are the couples who never have children. Peeta's parents, however, had three.
"You look contemplative," says Peeta, saying the last word with a Capitol accent. Sometimes he does that when using fancy words they teach us in English class, but nobody ever really uses. Most of the time it makes me smile but at the moment I'm too preoccupied with the questions buzzing through my mind.
"I just don't get it," I say. I lean in over the table and lower my voice and in response he leans in to hear me better. "Why get married at all if not for love? And no, it's not that I'm such a romantic. I just don't see why anyone would bother. Why risk marriage and babies and having your family torn apart by the Games?"
"For companionship, I guess," answers Peeta, leaning back and speaking in a normal tone, clearly not deeming my opinions potentially controversial. "To be able to move out from your parents' home. To have the opportunity for better employment – the Justice Building only employs married people. For any combination of the above. I don't know. Some might do it to please their parents. There are any number of reasons. Though I would personally want to love my wife. From the start, I mean. I know sometimes love develops between people who married for other reasons, but I wouldn't want to simply cross my fingers and hope for that to happen with my life partner." He makes a face and picks his pencil back up, drumming it against his fingertips. "I agree with you that whatever the reason it's better to wait a while. It's a huge decision to make. Even if you are madly in love you can't know for sure that that love will always be there. I want to believe love can last forever but I've been told that's a naïve notion."
"No it isn't," I say, slowly leaning back as well. "Love that lasts a lifetime is real. I've seen it." I think of my mother and how she still is, and probably always will be, a wreck after the loss of the man she loves. How she'll probably never fall out of love with him, despite him being nothing more than a ghost now. I snort and shake my head a little. "I don't want that. To have one person mean that much to you? The more you love the more you'll lose. Besides, it seems it takes away your independence, feeling that strong an attachment to somebody else."
"It's scary," agrees Peeta. "Loving someone completely and utterly. You're right, it is in a way about giving up independence and being absorbed by another person, but from what I can tell the rewards far outweigh the risks. Only, it's not a matter of choice. We can't choose not to love. If it hits us it hits us. It doesn't let go even if we really want it to but then sometimes it lets go even if we don't want it to. All in all it's a complicated thing and we're powerless to prevent it."
"No we're not," I say firmly.
"The heart wants what the heart wants," says Peeta with a contemplative shrug. "Whether or not we act on our feelings is within our power but the feelings themselves… You just can't control them."
"I'm not going to open up my heart like that," I say sullenly. "I won't risk it. And that's just that."
He nods slightly, seemingly not intending to argue the point any further. I don't say anything else either and after a moment of somewhat awkward silence we both go back to our work, spending the remaining time discussing only minor problems that pop up along the way. It's only as our time draws near its end that I realize that what I said about love and not wanting to fall into it that deeply is a very questionable thing to say for someone in a relationship, especially when saying it to a classmate I don't have a close friendship with. Peeta must have realized the unseemliness of what I was saying, he's far too perceptive not to have done so, but he didn't comment. He will probably just try and forget the whole conversation or at least keep my words to himself but it doesn't sit right with me to let him believe I'm unfeeling and unloving towards my boyfriend. So as he begins to pack up his things I speak up, wanting to clear the air before he can thank me for the day and be on his way.
"What I said before…" I say, fidgeting awkwardly in my chair. "About love and… not wanting it and all…"
"Yeah?" He casts me a quick glance, stuffing his books into his worn backpack.
I hark, stalling for time really, and my fingertips tug on the end of my braid. I kind of wish I hadn't opened my mouth just now but I need to do damage control. If the roles were reversed – well they never would be because Peeta wouldn't put his foot in his mouth like that to begin with – my project partner would know exactly what to say. I wish I could be more like him in that regard.
"Katniss if… if there's something you want to talk about I'm all ears," he now says, his tone calm and casual. "If there's something you don't want to talk about that's fine too."
"I just think I gave off the wrong impression before," I say hastily, anxious to get the conversation over with. "When I talked about love and… not wanting it. I mean, I'm with Gale. Dating."
"I know."
"And I wouldn't be with him if I didn't…" My voice trails off. I can't seem to bring myself to say out loud that I love him. Not because I don't but because I'm not entirely sure how much of that love is romantic and I feel terribly awkward discussing it openly.
"If you're worried that you sounded like you don't care for him then don't be," says Peeta. His usual friendly smile is not on his face but he doesn't look unkind either. He puts his backpack over his left shoulder and seems ready to leave.
"It must have sounded that way," I mutter miserably, averting my eyes. "It must have sounded kind of horrible."
"It sounded like… Don't be offended or anything but it sounded like fear." I look up and meet his blue eyes, looking into mine without any trace of hesitation even though he knows I might not like what he's saying. "You know, like as if you don't know what those feelings might lead to and as we said, love is a huge and powerful and somewhat frightening thing. I don't think there's anything wrong or bad with that. Don't feel bad. Please don't feel uncomfortable either. I, uh… I find it interesting that you tell me things like that and I swear I keep them to myself." His eyes finally falter, as if he's much more nervous to say these things to me than what he said right before it. "You are a very guarded person and… I'm glad you feel comfortable in my company and I… I hope I don't make you say things you wish you had kept to yourself."
"No…" I say softly. "No. Not at all."
"Good." He nods slightly. "Well, I've got to run. Already a bit late. Make sure to hand me your finished summaries no later than Friday. Thank you for today. See you tomorrow."
"Tomorrow," I murmur, still sitting in my chair as I watch him leave the room. Something tells me that when Peeta Mellark has his toasting he will be one hundred percent sure that he wants that commitment. And I can't help but sense that whoever the lucky girl will end up being, she will be just as sure as him.