I'm still reeling from the shock of hearing Madge's name being called, trying to comprehend that it is really my one female friend standing up there on stage with her petrified father behind her, when Effie walks over to the second Reaping Ball. Instead of feeling like the worst is over I'm almost sick to my stomach thinking that things might turn even worse. There's still a friend of mine in the crowd, one with his name on slips in that Reaping Ball, who might end up called up to stage as well. Could the universe be that cruel? Cruel enough to make me watch two of the only friends I've ever had face each other in the arena? And as if that wasn't bad enough, then there's Rory Hawthorne – and Vic, who has his name on one of the slips for the first time. No matter what has happened, or will happen, between Gale and myself, those boys are dear to me. I couldn't bear it if one of them had to go into the arena with Madge.
I'm not the only one who's currently stunned by the events of the past few minutes. When Madge's name was called the whole district seemed to go silent at once. It was a stunning experience in itself – hundreds of people around me, thousands of people in the streets nearby, all falling silent at once. Thousands of people who suddenly stopped shifting their stance, stopped mumbling to each other, stopped coughing and swallowing and clearing their throats, stopped moving their joints, stopped, just altogether stopped. Even the small children fell silent and stopped moving, not because they necessarily understood what was going on, but because every adult around them reacted this way. Everyone knows who Madge Undersee is. And everyone felt one hundred percent sure that she would never be participating in the Hunger Games. If anyone had been foolish enough to bet on her name being called by Effie, that person will walk away with a large amount of money. For a couple of seconds, seconds longer than eternity, everything was just dead silent. And then a wail, a loud, piercing sound of agony. Madge's mother. I closed my eyes hard and wished she would just shut the hell up, not just because the sound itself was unbearable to listen to, but because it damages Madge's chances. In all my years of life I have never heard a cry like that when a person has been reaped, and I fear I will never be able to stop hearing it.
When I opened my eyes again someone had reached Mrs. Undersee and quieted her somewhat, muffling her cries against, presumably, a sympathetic chest. Meanwhile I couldn't see Madge in the crowd, even though I knew she was somewhere near me, so instead I looked to the large screens flanking the estrade where the tributes will be standing for the district to get a good view of. At the sight of her my heart filled with pride and a sliver of hope. Despite her mother's wailing Madge appeared to be absolutely calm and collected, her fair face stoic as she filled her lungs with air and then began to move, the crowd parting around her to make way. She passed by with only one line of girls between us, and I reached out my hand and grazed her hair, knowing that the reason why she didn't spare me as much as a look was to not betray the act she had already begun to play for the cameras.
Now she's standing up there on the stage, her mother's wailings having turned into muffled sobs somewhere in the crowd and her father looking absolutely broken where he sits behind her. Haymitch Abernathy seems to have sobered up somehow, his eyes sharp and attentive. Typical. He never gives a damn when its some poor Seam kid up there on stage, but when the mayor's daughter is reaped he springs to attention. Effie Trinket is absolutely riveted by this turn of events, grinning like she's just won the best prize in all of Panem, and I hate her. Her excitement was palpable when she briefly interviewed Madge, in fact it looked like it was the happiest moment of her pathetic life. Now her thin, nimble fingers, garnished by nails painted like rainbows, reaches inside the Reaping Ball and closes around one of the slips.
I close my eyes hard, dig my nails into the palms of my hands and without reflecting on why I repeat another prayer to myself like a mantra.
"Please don't let it be him, please not him, please not him."
"Eric Riven," announces Effie.
I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding and open my eyes again, my shoulders slouching a little as I relax them. I don't know who Eric Riven is. Somebody younger. Somebody I have no connection to. It's a relief, even though it's clear to see that the boy is no older than fourteen and hasn't had a decent meal in months. His odds of survival are minuscule and the decent thing to feel in this moment is horror that such a young, poverty-stricken boy should be facing death this way, but the reality is that everyone here who doesn't know Eric Riven but knows some other boy whose name was in those Reaping Balls is feeling relief right now. It has to be somebody but at least it's not someone dear to me. It's a horrible way of thinking but it's a necessary one. Nobody could function if they felt as badly when a stranger gets reaped as if it had been a loved one.
As the boy walks up to the stage I look at Madge and find her looking back at me. I wonder if she noticed my reaction just now. Not that it matters if she did. All that's important right now is that she begins to prepare herself for what she will inevitably face. I have never been inside the Justice Building to say goodbye to a tribute but today I know I have to go. I have to see Madge before she's taken away and I have to give her whatever advice or support I can.
I try to read the look on her face. There's a calm acceptance there, either from shock or from some underlying strength I never perceived in her before. I can't bring myself to look at the mayor, her father, who has to stand up there on the stage and keep the show running. No doubt the Capitol audience is loving every second of this. Just like they always love it when a victor's child gets drawn. The sound of Madge's mother wordlessly moaning in pain and horror still fills the air despite several minutes having passed by since her daughter's name was called. I wish she would be quiet, wish I could snap at her to shut up, because she is damaging Madge more than helping her and she ought to know that. Her whimpers undo the strength her daughter is projecting. Eric Riven's mother isn't wailing, and his odds are decidedly worse.
"Isn't this a thrilling year?" chirps Effie. "I think we can all agree this Reaping has been a lot more exciting than usual. I just can't wait for the Games to start; don't you feel the same way? Oh, Mayor Undersee, this must be such a proud moment for you!"
I feel sick and have to avert my eyes. I stare down at the ground for as long as I dare to. Looking away for too long can get you into trouble if somebody pays notice. As Effie babbles on I lift my eyes and look at Eric, who is shaking with barely controlled sobs, his fists repeatedly clenching and unclenching. He knows he's dead. Any other year each District 12 tribute has at least been able to cling to some vain hope that maybe, just maybe, they might make it out. But everyone knows that if one of our tributes wins this year it's going to be Madge. She is older and a lot more likely to draw in help from sponsors thanks to her status as the mayor's daughter. When Effie said this was an exciting year she meant because of her, not the boy. Eric is likely to be no more than an afterthought, someone people expect to die at the initial cornucopia bloodbath. No one will care much what happens to him.
And I can't deny that I'm a little bit relieved. Only one of them can come back – and even that is highly unlikely. If District 12 is to finally have another victor I want it to be my friend.
I go to the Meadow.
It's the only place I can think of to go. Right now it's secluded and calm and allows me some time to think.
We were supposed to be safe. This was our final eligible year and while that does mean more slips in the Reaping Balls than any other year it's still so very close to making it out of the Reapings unscathed. Many years have tributes younger than eighteen. In fact it's been three years since it last happened that an eighteen-year-old was reaped in Twelve. Maybe that means it was time for it to happen again. But I still wasn't ready for this.
Not for Madge to be reaped.
The mayor's daughter. A girl with only seven slips in the Reaping Ball, in contrast to my own twenty-eight. It shouldn't be possible, and yet it has happened.
Madge. My only friend now that things have turned sour with Gale. The only female friend I've ever had. I tried my best to encourage her during my brief visit, but the truth is I don't hold her survival for likely and she knows it. By District 12 standards she's pampered and hasn't had to fight for survival already like so many of the rest of us. She's also a very sweet and gentle person. How is she going to be able to make it through the Hunger Games? I can't think of a single victor who never killed anybody. Not even Annie Cresta from District 4, who won her games by managing to stay afloat the longest after the gamemakers flooded the arena. She was a career at the start and killed two tributes at the cornucopia. Madge will never be able to do that. I don't think Madge would be able to kill a butterfly if it came to that. And if she ends up being one of the last two tributes standing, she will almost certainly have to kill the other person in order to claim victory. The gamemakers aren't likely to step in and help her out by arranging for a trap to take her competitor out. They would never want a victor with no blood on her hands.
My arms are wrapped around my legs and I lean forward, resting my cheek on my knees. I feel like I want to cry but no tears are coming. The worst part is that I can't help but feel a tiny sliver of relief that it's not me, it's not Prim. And it will never be me. I don't want to reflect on what that says about me. Right now I feel so helpless, knowing that there is nothing I can do to help Madge. I can't even send her any sponsor money. Her family will probably be able to provide some of that for her but even the mayor isn't rich in District 12. The only thing I can do is accept the fact that one of the only real friends I have ever had is going to die, only guaranteed one more week in life. After that it can all be over at any time. The Games have been sickening to me every year, but this year is far worse than ever before.
I don't know how long I've been sitting there when I notice the sound of footsteps approaching. Quickly I straighten my back and try to arrange my face in a casual expression. I turn my head and I'm surprised to see Peeta walking up to me.
He looks equally surprised to see me. He's got a bag under his arm and has changed out of his reaping clothes, though his hair is still slicked and combed back. After everything that has happened this day he is a sight for sore eyes, even though I'm afraid he's going to ask me questions about how I'm doing and how feel and I'm going to suddenly find those tears easily coming.
"I didn't know you would be here," he says, stopping a few feet away from me. "Do you want me to go?"
I shake my head firmly.
"No. Please. Stay." I clear my throat and try to keep my voice steady, my fingers grazing stands of the grass beneath me. "What are you doing out here?"
"It's... going to sound stupid in light of everything."
"I could use the distraction," I sigh and run a hand through my hair.
"Mind if I sit?"
"I guess not..."
He walks over and sits down, keeping about two feet of distance between us. He sets the bag down by his feet and reaches over to open it.
"Every year I come out here when the cherry trees first start to bloom, and I try to accurately capture how the flowers look."
"They started to bloom three weeks ago."
"Yeah I know, but I haven't had much spare time to go out here." He rests his sketchbook against his thighs and hesitates for a moment. "Thing is, I don't have much paper or that great a supply of colours and good pencils. I don't want to waste any of it on something that doesn't turn out right. It's been years and I still can't capture those flowers properly, but I think I get better at it each year."
"Can I see?" Sketches of cherry blossoms seem so trite in the light of Madge being reaped but somehow it feels nice, necessary even, to spend a moment thinking about something insignificant.
"It's not ready yet," hesitates Peeta. "Maybe some other time."
I nod slightly. He puts the pad down next to him and then just sits there beside me. The silence is as comfortable as ever between us, but I don't want silence right now. Peeta being here means I can be distracted for a short while, and I need that.
"Why aren't you at home, getting ready for the party?"
He shrugs a shoulder, looking out over the Meadow.
"Didn't feel like it."
"Will your girlfriend be going?"
The corner of his mouth turns upward in a lopsided smile that doesn't look happy in the slightest, but I can't tell if the lack of happiness is related to the question or just due to the events of the day.
"I don't have a girlfriend. I went on a few dates. Nothing more."
"Oh… Sorry I asked."
"No, it's alright," he shrugs. He sighs heavily. "At least I still have the chance to find a girlfriend. To live my life."
I tremble at his words, my heart and my whole body feeling ice cold for a second.
"Did you know Madge well?"
He shoots me a look and with horror I realize that I just spoke of her as if she's already dead. Or at least it must have sounded like it. What I meant is if he knows her well from childhood, since they're both from the town and I should imagine that after the peacekeepers Mayor Undersee is the bakery's finest customer. The family can afford to be. Perhaps I ought to know already if Peeta and Madge are closely acquainted but I can't seem to remember if they are.
"I wish I could tell you she will be fine," he says compassionately.
"Yeah," I mumble, looking away to gather my composure. A light breeze catches a loose strand of my hair and blows it over my eyes. I brush it aside and bite my bottom lip gently, wishing too that Peeta could promise that she'll survive.
"We don't know each other all that well," he then answers my question. "All the same, it's someone our age. Someone I went to school with. Someone I think we all considered as good as safe from the reaping." His face shifts into a look of almost disgust. "Though there was of course one 'lucky fellow who had bet on her being reaped and went home today a fairly affluent man.'" His fingers make the air quotes with so much aggressiveness, and his jaw clenches quite hard, that there's no need to ask how he feels about the betting that goes on every year at the Reapings.
"Goes to show no one is ever safe," I mutter.
"Except us now."
We fall silent again and I can't have that, so I go back to my earlier question.
"So why aren't you going to the party?"
"I'm not in the mood for it. I was looking forward to it earlier but now it just seems... macabre. Celebrating how fourteen other kids died in the years we were eligible, thereby sparing us."
"Twelve," I correct him.
"Thirteen," he retorts. "Only one tribute can make it out, remember? At best it will be thirteen others from Twelve who died so that we could live." He pauses and then looks at me with a kindness in his eyes that I wish he would replace with something much colder. If he's going to be kind and sweet I know I won't be able to keep my emotions under control. And I don't want to fall apart, don't want to cry. Not here. Not in front of him. "So why are you out here, Katniss?"
"Doesn't matter," I mumble. My fingers begin to grip straws of grass, pulling them up and letting them drop again.
"I really am sorry," he then says, in the softest, gentlest tone I think I've ever heard him use. "I know she matters to you."
That does me in. I can't stop the tears that well up in my eyes and when I open my mouth to say something in reply all that comes out is a sob. The next thing I know Peeta is right beside me, though I can't tell you if he moved closer or if I did or if it was the both of us. His arm lands around my shoulder and it feels strong and comforting. I lean in and rest my head on his shoulder, allowing him to console me, letting him be privy to a vulnerability I hate showing anyone, especially people who aren't in my family. I can't take back the tears that have already fallen, nor the sobs that have already left my throat, and despite the dreadful feeling of humiliation that I always feel when someone other than Mother or Prim sees such vulnerability and weakness in me, I feel a kind of relief at not having to fight to hold the tears and the sorrow back. I have to try and keep it in check, but not entirely behind lock and key, and it feels a bit like coming up to the surface and filling your lungs with air after swimming under water for too long.
"I can't believe it's her," I say through my tears.
"I know," he says.
"It's not fair! She had so few slips. She never did anything to hurt anyone. She's warm and kind and gentle. She's good."
"Yes she is."
I cry helplessly against his shoulder, feeling so scared and shocked and alone. If I'm to be honest with myself I already think of Madge as dead. Mayor's daughter or no, her odds are so unfavourable that it's not worth hoping that she might come back home. In fact all she might get from being a mayor's daughter is a big bullseye on her back from tributes who want to take her out as soon as they can. I don't think I can stand watching her die in the Games if I haven't already accepted the inevitability of it. I've been so careful opening my heart to anyone and now one of the few people I've allowed myself to care about is almost certainly going to become yet another dead tribute.
"I don't have any friends now," I sob. As I hear the words spoken I cringe inwardly at how sound self-involved they sound, but that's not how I meant them.
"Yes you do," Peeta objects. "Gale-"
"Gale and I aren't friends anymore."
"I don't think that's true. He'll be there for you. He knows you need him now."
"You don't understand," I blubber. "We can't be friends. He said so. We broke up."
"That doesn't matter. I wouldn't want to stop being friends with you because you couldn't be my girlfriend."
"He's not like you," I say, wiping my eyes with the back of my hand. "I hurt his feelings and he thinks I let him down. And he's right."
"That doesn't mean he won't come through for you now. And, if you don't have Gale as a friend you have me," says Peeta. "If you'll have me as a friend."
There's something so innocently sweet about his offer that it makes me cry harder, overwhelmed by the mixed emotions. I feel a strange longing to wrap my arms around him and cry into his chest but that seems way too intimate and I don't want to scare him off or make him uncomfortable. I'm vaguely aware that his hand isn't resting still on my shoulder; it's rubbing me gently in a comforting motion. I'm getting his shirt all wet with my tears, but he doesn't seem to notice. He lets me cry and doesn't say anything for a while, leaving it up to me to decide when I'm ready to talk again.
Once my tears begin to subside I start to become aware of how close I'm actually sitting to him and how we're touching one another. It's perfectly innocent in itself but if someone were to see us they'd probably assume we were more than friends from school. I'm not used to being this close to somebody outside my family and I start to feel strangely aware of his thumb gently brushing my shoulder and the feel of his chest moving beneath his shirt with every breath. I actually don't mind his closeness, in fact it feels quite nice, but all the same this is not somebody I should be sitting this close to.
I pull away and straighten my back, trying as best I can to regain some of the dignity I feel like I lost when I broke down crying. I wipe my cheeks and adjust my slightly wrinkled shirt. Peeta's arm drops from my shoulder and my skin feels cold at the loss of his touch. I don't know why that always happens with him.
Clearing my throat I give him what I hope is a composed and casual look.
"I'm sorry," I say. "I don't know what came over me. I feel so embarrassed."
"You shouldn't," replies Peeta. "There's nothing shameful about grieving someone you care about being reaped."
I quickly have to draw a deep breath and look away to fight back more tears that threaten to come when he says that. I don't trust my voice for the next few seconds, so I busy my hands with the hem of my shirt, studying it as if it is extremely interesting, hoping Peeta will say something else about something that has nothing to do with Madge. Anything that means he's talking and we're moving away from the topic of my friend who will surely be dead within a week or two.
"So... How was it? Saying goodbye to her, I mean."
I look at him with a frown, annoyed that he chose to stay on the subject of Madge and confused as to how he even knew I was there visiting her. What, is he keeping tabs on me now?
"I didn't say I went to see her," I say coldly. Immediately after I snivel, undermining the tone in my voice.
"I know," he says quickly. "I just assumed you did."
"Why?" I shoot back just as quickly.
He holds up his hands in a disarming gesture.
"Because she's your friend and because you're the kind of person who would go see a friend if he or she were reaped." He takes his hands down and stretches his left leg out. "But if you didn't go see her then there's nothing wrong with that. Most people probably wouldn't. I know if I had been reaped it would most likely only have been my family saying goodbye."
"Then why are you so sure I would say goodbye to Madge?" The coldness is gone from my voice and I feel a little bad for having spoken to him like that. He looks at me for a second before he answers my question.
"Because that's just who you are."
It's a compliment, I get that much. I look away from him, focusing my eyes on a random spot in the grass a few feet away. I don't want to talk about Madge or the last meeting I ever will have had with her. Instead I latch on to something else he said.
"You're always surrounded by friends when I see you at school. How come you think they wouldn't have come see you?"
"Maybe some of them might have," he shrugs evasively. "I don't know. It's one thing to be pals and play sports together and sit together at lunch and stuff like that. There aren't a lot of people I have deep, meaningful friendships with." He pauses, furrows his brow, then smiles slightly. "Delly. Delly Cartwright. I think she would have come to see me off; we've been friends since we were little. But that's about it." He leans over and while continuing to speak he puts his sketchpad back into his bag. "To be completely honest I sometimes envy people like you, who have few friends but all the more valuable friendships with those people. It's like I have quantity and others have quality, you know?"
"You mean you think your friends don't really care about you?"
"No I'm sure they do. I care about them, too. It's just... not quite the same."
"I don't understand," I say truthfully.
"I have a lot of fun with my friends but very few of them I actually talk to about, you know, the difficult stuff." He pulls up a few strains of grass with one hand, then immediately wipes his hand on hits pants. "There are definitely some friends I would have gone to see if they had been reaped but many of them I would have felt like I was interfering, you know? If all you have is one more hour to say goodbye to those who matter the most to you then you don't want to squander that hour on that guy you kick a football around with every once in a while or one of the five guys you hang out with at school but rarely on your spare time."
"Madge and I didn't hang out all that much on our spare time," I mutter, feeling strangely guilty about that now that we'll never get the chance to.
"But there is still something deeper between you as friends than there is between me and Timmy Beck, or any of those guys."
"How would you know?" I ask curiously, wrapping my arms around my legs and resting my cheek against my knees, facing him with a new interest.
He doesn't answer for a few seconds, as if mulling it over.
"I don't know," he then says. "Because you went to see her. Because I saw the look on your face when she walked up there."
"You saw the look on my face?"
"Yeah, I..." He pulls up another fistful of grass with a pensive look on his face. "When she got called I looked over at her and then I looked over at you. I've been lucky. No one I know directly has ever been reaped. I don't know how I would feel if that happened. So I guess I looked over at you to see if you were alright."
Except he knows Madge directly, even if he doesn't know her as well as I do. Yet he only looked at her for a moment and then looked at me. To make sure I was alright. Not Madge, not the girl just essentially sentenced to death, but me.
I feel a sudden shiver run through me and I sit up straighter and rub my arms for a moment. Then I lean back, putting my hands behind me to support my weight on my arms. I don't know what the real meaning is of what Peeta just said. All I know is that strangely it doesn't make me uncomfortable that he was more concerned about me in that moment than about her. In fact it feels nice and comforting. For the first five years when I was in the reaping I had Gale there in the crowds with me, someone whose name might still be drawn but who I knew was relieved when the girl's name was not mine. There was a comfort and strength in that, knowing that I wasn't alone. To think that I had something similar to that today with Peeta makes me feel comforted, no matter how horrible it is that the name called was my only friend's.
No, not my only friend. Peeta just offered to be one. And we were friends of a kind even before today. Our eyes meet and for the first time I feel very strongly that I do want us to be friends, real friends, friends like I've been with Madge and Gale. For months now I've known that I want him around, but I haven't really dared to reach for more than to be acquaintances. But really, what do I have to lose by daring to have him for a real friend? I want the boy with the bread to care about me and to like me. I want him to feel that I was someone worthy of what he did for me all those years ago. I want to play some role in his life in compensation for the enormous role he's played in mine.
"I'm glad I have you as a friend," I tell him, looking steadily into his eyes, and the faintest hint of a smile appears on his face. "Like I said before, I don't have all that many. And the friendships I do have matter a great deal to me."
"I'm really glad we can be friends, too," he says gently. "True friends. Not just in name, but in practice."
I smile slightly and avert my eyes, focusing on his hand that keeps pulling up strains of grass, pausing every now and then to wipe it clean against his pants. The veins on his hands are easy to see from where I'm sitting, almost like they're lying on top of the rest of his tissue, and for some strange reason I feel compelled to reach out a finger and trace one of those veins all the way up his arm. I notice for the first time that he's got almost as much hair on his arms as Gale does, only Peeta's is so blonde you can barely see it. I don't know why all of this catches my interest right now. I imagine that hand kneading dough or painting a cherry blossom. It's strange how his hands seem fit for two such different activities, one requiring a bit of strength and the other requiring much delicacy.
"Katniss?"
I know I'm staring at him but since my eyes are on his hand and not some much less appropriate part of him I don't care. I look up at him and feel a sudden confusion as to where we go from here. I've only been friends with one boy before and that was Gale. We hunted together, that's what we did. That's how our bond formed. While we hunted and fought for survival we talked and grew closer. Peeta and I can't go hunting together. What are we supposed to do as friends?
"I don't play football," I hear myself blurting out.
Peeta looks flabbergasted. My comment was more than a little bit out of the left field and I feel my cheeks turning red while I look away and try to find something else to focus my eyes on.
"Oh, um..." stumbles Peeta, trying his best to find a suitable reply to what I just said. "I... Well, I guess I knew that about you already."
"Sorry," I mutter, still not wanting to meet his eyes. "I'm not very good at this whole friend thing. Or at making conversation."
"No, it's... It's interesting."
"It's just... All I meant was... I don't really know what we would do together, you know? As friends."
He laughs a little.
"We definitely don't have to play football. Unless you want me to teach you how to play." He rocks slightly against me, giving me a nudge with his shoulder. "We could do whatever we want. Whatever comes naturally. That's the beauty of friendship, I think. We just… spend time together doing whatever."
"I don't really get how that works," I mumble, feeling a little stupid. "I mean… What if you can't think of anything to do? Or talk about?"
"I find the best friendships are the ones where things like that don't matter," he says in a pensive tone and his words really hit home.
Madge and I probably spent the majority of our friendship not talking or doing anything in particular. For that matter Gale and I were silent for long stretches of time out in the woods and could sit in silence together for an hour or more while huddled in a tree, waiting for the electricity to go out again. Does that mean that Madge and I have had a deeper friendship than I've realized? Does that make the loss of Gale even greater? I almost well up with tears again and I bite my lip hard to prevent that from happening but my mind then goes to another implication of what Peeta just said. Peeta Mellark, the boy who always seems to be doing something, whether it be play sports with his friends or work in the bakery or draw. The boy who always seems to find the right words to say. I guess that's exactly what he did now too because it pleasantly surprises me that he is fine with something like that and it also dawns on me that for the majority of the time we spent working together on the project we didn't talk, and the silences were very comfortable. How could I have forgotten that? It's one of the things I've appreciated about his company right from the beginning.
"How do you know when you get to that stage when you can do that?" I ask, curious to hear what he has to say about it. "What do you do before then? You can't just become good friends with someone by sitting around not talking."
"So far we seem to be doing okay," he says, smiling slightly, and I realize he's right. At least today we haven't had any trouble passing the time in each other's company. And come to think of it, conversation has seemed to come easy for us in the months we've worked together on our school project.
"Yeah I guess…" I say. A cool breeze makes me shiver a little even though it's a warm day but maybe that's just the events of the day taking their toll. That makes me wonder about Madge and the kind of toll the day has taken on her. All at once I feel both guilty for having been sitting here talking casually to Peeta, even with something resembling feeling good for a moment, so shortly after she was put on the train and taken out of the district, and feeling thankful to him for having distracted me. "Oh God Peeta, can you even imagine what Madge must be going through right now?"
"No," he says, showing no confused reaction to my sudden change of conversational topic. "No I don't think anyone can who hasn't been in that situation."
"And all of those from this district are dead," I say gloomily. "Except Haymitch Abernathy, and he's probably passed out drunk by now."
Peeta nods slowly, then bows his head in a dejected manner. We sit there for a minute in complete silence, the only sounds being that of the early summer breeze sweeping through the Meadow, and a handful of mockingbirds chirping in a nearby tree.
"I'm sorry," Peeta then says. His jaw is firmly set, and he's got a look in his eyes that is somehow both resignation and determination at once. "I wish I knew something to say to make you feel better. I just can't think of anything."
"You don't have to say anything…" I assure him gently. I reach out my hand to touch him but pause the movement before I reach the sleeve of his shirt.
"I would like to, though," he says, his jaw clenching in the pause when he speaks. "But I guess there is nothing to say. Nothing but… but platitudes and banalities and words that don't mean anything and are of no earthly help to anyone."
His frustrated words surprise me. I had never imagined that he of all people would have such thoughts. Now it's my turn to feel like I should say something, and so I do, not convinced I believe the things I'm saying.
"Perhaps it's as Prim says. That some platitudes became such because there is truth to them. So I guess they're not all bad, even though I agree with you, I don't know if I'd feel any better by someone telling me that after rain comes sunshine and everything will be just fine at the end of the day."
Did that even make sense? I'm not sure. It feels like I contradicted myself. But Peeta smiles crookedly at me and leans back to lie down, stretching his legs out and resting the left calf on top of the right. His hands form a makeshift pillow underneath his head and he looks up at the clouds sailing by above, beginning to speak slowly. While he speaks I lie down beside him, lying on my side facing him, propping myself up on my elbow.
"I don't think that's the case," he says. "No offense to your sister. But I don't think it's an element of truth that makes those kinds of phrases oft-repeated and, well, clichés. I think perhaps we repeat them because we want them to be true, but deep down we all know it's crap." He snorts, shrugging lightly. "Or at least they seem like crap to me. None seem to hold up to closer inspection. Which is why I'd feel like an asshole if I were to offer them up to you as some form of solace, when I know they are empty and meaningless."
"How do you mean, exactly?" I ask, a form of breathless curiosity coming over me. It's probably just hearing him speak about anything other than Madge and the Hunger Games directly, but I want to know what he's saying, and find myself hanging on his every word. The longer he speaks about something not directly related to the day's events, the longer I can get some respite from it.
"Well…" he begins slowly, his eyes occasionally darting to meet mine while he speaks. "Take the sky, for instance. Those clouds up there… How many times have you heard people say, when trying to comfort someone in a bleak situation, that above the clouds the sky is always blue?"
"Yeah," I nod, well familiar with the phrase – one I myself have always secretly rolled my eyes at.
"That's rather hard to believe when you can't see that blue sky. Who knows if it's even true? It feels a bit like that thing about whether or not a tree makes any noise if it falls where no one is around to hear it. And how is it supposed to be any help?" He wiggles a little where he lies, trying to get more comfortable. He's probably getting grass stains on his clothes, but he doesn't seem to notice, or mind. "And they say that after rain, the sun comes out again… but that rarely helps those who have gotten soaked."
"I suppose not."
"And I know I'm talkative and all… But sometimes words are no use, and I'd rather say nothing than to regurgitate some pointless cliché that won't help anyone anyway."
Watching him as he talks I think to myself that he doesn't know how much his words do help – even when he's talking the way he is right now. It's helpful to talk about anything that isn't Madge or the Hunger Games or death, tributes, arenas, soulless Capitol people cheering for the events that unfold. It's helpful to talk about anything other than what's going to happen if she doesn't come back home. And it's helpful just to hear his voice – steady, warm, pleasant. I shift to lie on my back, watching the clouds up above, ones that at least right now do seem to have blue skies above them, but which doesn't help me anyway. But surprisingly something has helped me, if only for a brief, precious moment, and that is my new good friend lying next to me.
We end up lying there for quite some time, until the heat in the air somewhat fades and the breeze could almost pass for being chilly. The sun has moved far across the sky, and it occurs to me that Prim and Mother must be worrying about me. Not too worried, or Prim would have come to see if she could find me here, but I should still probably head back home. And Peeta's family must be wondering where he took off to, unless it's commonplace for him to be out sketching cherry blossoms for hours on end. I almost don't want to go, don't want to leave the small sanctuary that is lying beside this boy in the grass, speaking occasionally but for the most part enjoying the comfortable silence that comes so natural to us. It's with some reluctance that I sit up and brush strands of grass off my clothes.
"It's getting late in the day," I say.
"Yeah," says Peeta, sitting back up. He rises to his feet almost instantly and picks his bag up from the ground. "Time kind of just flew, didn't it?"
"Oh, I completely ruined your drawing!" I exclaim, the penny finally dropping on that score. "Gosh, Peeta, I'm sorry."
"No, don't think about it," he says, waving his hand dismissively. "I can come back tomorrow. Or any other time in the next week or so." He holds out his hand to me and I let him help pull me to my feet. Together we walk towards the road up ahead. "Listen, you know I mean what I said about wanting to be there for you. Do you want to come over in a few days and watch the interviews together? Might be easier to watch it together with a friend. Not, not that your family wouldn't be good company, too, I just thought…"
"I would like to," I tell him, smiling faintly. "But… What about your family?"
"I'll drug them with sleep syrup," he says, so completely serious in his tone that I burst out laughing, if only for a few seconds. He smiles like he's pleased to see me laugh. "They won't be a problem, I promise you."
"Okay," I nod, after weighing my options in my head for a minute. Watching Madge's interview with Peeta, someone who knew her too, would make it easier to sit through. But watching it with his family? But maybe they will watch upstairs, and Peeta and I in the kitchen, or even in the store, where they are required to keep a television so that their customers can watch the Games as they eat their pastries.
"Okay," he nods as well, a faint smile on his lips.
We stop once we reach the road, and for a long moment we stand there looking at one another, his bag slipping down on the ground with a quiet thud. Suddenly my throat wells up with gratitude. I would tell him what his company and his words today mean to me, if I wasn't afraid I would start to cry again. In lieu of speaking I wrap my arms around him for a hug, letting his closeness comfort and strengthen me, finding solace in his steadiness and warmth. He smells so good, he feels so good. And he hugs me back with such affection, allowing me to stay in his arms for as long as I need to, which turns out to be several minutes. When I finally pull back he's still smiling that faint, warm smile.
"Thank you," I say, so quietly it's barely more than a whisper. That's all I can afford without risking tears. "For everything. Today and… and before."
"You're welcome," he mouths.
He lets me be the one to leave first, and somehow his hand has found mine – or is it the other way around? – when I pull back to walk away. My hand stays in his until we're far enough apart that we have to let go, and before we do he gives a comforting squeeze. I manage a half-hearted smile for a second, and then our hands part and I feel that familiar coldness that comes when he's been touching me and then no longer is. He remains standing in place as I begin to walk towards home, and a few times I look over my shoulder and meet his eyes. He's not smiling now, but he looks steady and reassuring. And I know that he won't move from where he's standing until I'm out of sight.
I'm guessing a little when it comes to Rory's and Vic's ages. I'm fairly sure Vic was ten in the first book, so he would be twelve now, but all I remember about Rory's age is that he's somewhere in-between his brothers. Therefore I cleverly don't specify his exact age. ;)
What Peeta says about platitudes, specifically about the sky being blue above the clouds and that after rain follows sunshine, is paraphrasing the song "Tusen Bitar" by Björn Afzelius (actually I don't think he wrote it, but his version is the only one I know, so...). It's one of my favourite songs, as it happens, and it's about how we handle bad things in life.
On a sort-of-different note, I guess you could say I've got a surprise coming up this weekend. I wish I could make it come about sooner, but I'm working nights pretty much every day except Saturday throughout Easter, so I'm aiming for the weekend.