Music: "Autumn Tree" by Milo Green.

Bad Boy

The older Amish guys working on the farm keep glancing my way. Their long beards and quiet attitude freak me out. I haven't seen a moment of fury or annoyance from any of them. Don't they ever want to explode? Do they ever feel tension?

Does she?

Katniss and I continue our truce over the next weeks. We become pros at staying away from each other. Every morning and night, she set my food by the cabin door and then scrambles away, her braid bouncing, the skirt of her dress flopping around her legs.

One time, as I took the food, I saw movement in the distance, a flash of her apron disappearing behind a tree. The idea of her spying made me grin.

Time doesn't exist. I harvest corn and wheat, tie and haul bales onto a wagon, keep cleaning up the horse's stall, chop and pile wood. It's harder work than at my family's bakery, back when I willingly helped out. I think the young guys around here are expecting me to tuck my city tail between my legs, so I make sure to show them that I can hold my own. It might be a tougher grind in this place, but bread-baking is hypnotic, uncomplicated work that requires stamina, too. I can take farm labor.

In fact, it reminds me of those days with my dad, when he was the center of the business and taught his sons how to run everything. I liked it. I listened and did what was asked of me.

Then he died. Then I changed.

"What's happened to you?" Rye had asked at around the four-month anniversary of Dad's death, when my anger peaked at critical mass. "This isn't you, Peeta."

Sometimes I remember. Most times, I don't want to. I'm not that nice guy any more. Our mother is not that nice woman anymore, either. She calls me despicable and useless. Maybe I deserve what she gives me. Maybe I want it. Maybe I ask for the beatings.

Mr. Everdeen had said the loudest men are the weakest. I'd felt that statement like a dozen blows. I don't know what to make of it. Or him. Or his oldest daughter.

Today, Katniss joins us in the wheat field. Apparently, kids stop going to school here after eighth grade, so she's around all the time. She's working by herself at the moment, pressing her hands into her back and arching while bulkier bodies shift through the stalks in the background. It looks like a Millet painting.

This place is too slow and peaceful. It forces me to think of easier times, memories I don't want to remember. There's no way in hell I want to dwell there.

I run my hand through my uncombed hair. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch her watching me. My mouth rises in a half-grin. I'm about to break our unspoken rule, but who cares? I'm bored. I'm rapidly going berserk as it is. And she's stretching her body so nicely.

Once I'm at her heels, my dark shadow tenting over hers, she tenses. I get the feeling she wants to run away, and I wonder if our first encounter in the cabin is still fully loaded in her mind.

I yank on a wheat stalk and tickle the back of her neck. She whips around, smelling like soil and soap. A teardrop of sweat slides behind her ear, and her lips are chapped. The freckles across her nose are even more prominent than usual.

"Hey," I say.

She lifts her chin and nods. So formal. What is she? A Duchess?

While we move through the field, I openly concentrate on her, and she pretends to concentrate on everything but me. It's easy to antagonize her. All I have to do is stay close.

Reaching out for the same stalk, our fingers brush. Her skin is warm despite that chronically cold scowl of hers. I have to admit, I kind of dig the scowl.

Alright, so she's not bad company.

Her fingers tremble as she pulls away and mutters, "Excuse me."

I swing my arm toward the stalks. "No, excuse me. After you. You get dibs."

She scans the area, but everyone is too busy to pay attention to what we're doing. Who gives a shit if they see us together anyway? This isn't the Vatican, and I'm not a leper or a libertine who's going wolf down her virginity in one-two-three. And it's not like our proximity will cause some kind of cross-contamination.

"Come on," I tell her, aware that she's tossing around a new thought. "Say what you want. It's just us. I dare you. Talk to the English boy."

"I was going to say, you could be a charming soul if you wanted to, Peeta Mellark."

I used to be like that with everyone. Now, I'm selective about who matters.

I beat the stalk against my hip. Her eyes linger there, watching the movement. Nothing else happens for a few thick seconds. And then I tell her, "My dad used to say I could charm the skin off a snake."

"And the habit off a nun, I imagine."

"Wow." My brows leap into my forehead. "You have a twisted imagination."

Katniss looks horrified. "I do not…that was only…"

I flick her braid with the wheat stem. "A joke?"

She narrows her eyes but manages to laugh at herself. I laugh with her. As we work, she shuffles through the field fast, and I ask where the fire is, and she slows down.

"Sorry. I get ahead of myself," she says.

"Imagine that."

"I love gathering, and I..." She bites her lip.

"Keep going," I say, wiggling my ringed fingers. "You're not done yet by a long shot."

"You will mock me."

"Why? 'Cause I'm a delinquent? Or 'cause you get made fun of all the time?"

Katniss hesitates, but I've spotted a glint of desire there. She wants to talk to me. Maybe I'm the only one in this place who won't judge her because I have no limits.

"If you must know," she begins.

"Oh, there are lots of things I must."

"The night you gave me the drawing, I said that you speak through art."

"Art is infinite. Everyone has a match to their mood. Music. Dancing. Reading. Sex—"

She makes a hiccupping noise and then gives me a look that could flatten a monster truck. Evidently, she thinks I'm not being serious, so I let my gaze tell her otherwise.

She clears her throat. "And then you told me to find out how I speak."

That's not all I said to her. I notice now that the strings of her kapp are double-knotted. I would make a comment, something blush-worthy, but what she's saying seems to matter to her. It's like she's starved to be heard. I know what that's like.

Also, I'm stuck on the fact that she actually spent time thinking about what I said. I wonder if she thought about it in bed, in a nightgown, with her braid undone.

She admits, "When I was little I made this bow and arrow out of twigs and yarn and used to pretend I was huntress. It was the happiest I think I've ever been. The skill and concentration. The silence and patience. Archery is how I'd like to speak. Show myself to the world." Her voice has become weightless, but then it hits a sour note. "But I'm not a man."

"So what?" I ask.

"So this is the closest thing I can do to feed my family."

"Archery suits you. Do it if you want."

"We don't do whatever we want here."

Obviously, she doesn't remember who she's talking to. I'm incapable of accepting that kind of statement. "You're not a we, Katniss. You're a you. Ever think about that?"

She's quiet for a moment. "I enjoy the harvest. It's enough."

"If you say so."

She rips out a wheat stalk. I bet she wants to hit me with it. I'd love it if she did, but I compromise instead of goad.

"I get the whole harvest thing," I say. "My dad owned a bakery. My oldest brother, Sam, runs it now. I used to work there. I like feeding people, too. Or...I did." I run my hand over the wheat. It tickles my palms. "Guess this is where it starts."

"It is," she agrees.

"But is that really enough? Is this field everything?" I challenge, getting irritated for no good reason. "Is it who you are?"

My question throws her. We share a long and disturbingly sincere look.

"Katniss," a male voice calls out.

A super tall, clean-shaven guy our age strides toward us. I give him a once-over. His body is so solid, he looks bulletproof.

Christ. What do they put in the milk here?

Katniss makes a hasty introduction. "This is Peeta Mellark. And this is Gale. My…"

Tall Gale pulls her close to him and aims his frigid gaze at me. "I'm her beau."

Beau. Amish for boyfriend. This highly unanticipated information causes my fingers to curl. I don't know what staggers me more: that a guy has succeeded in wooing her, or that it actually bothers me.

I camouflage my reaction with amusement. "Ahhh. What's up, Boyfriend? Checking in on her?"

"Do I need to?" he questions sternly.

I have to fight from chuckling. I don't care if he's Amish—this dude's so bluntly marking his territory that it's making his girl uncomfortable. It's clear she doesn't care for flaunting their relationship. I like that about her. It means she's doesn't bullshit.

I wasn't planning on trespassing, but suddenly I'm second guessing that decision. Flirting with Katniss might do Gale's tallness some good.

I can't resist my next words. "Hell, I'm just a juvie veteran-turned-servant. I do whatever she wants, whenever she wants." I twirl the stalk between my fingers. "It's fun."

Katniss flushes. I've gone too far, too fast, but that's never stopped me before.

Tall Gale's fingers lock onto her waist. I shove my free fist into my pocket. "Don't worry, Boyfriend. I'll keep an eye on her to make sure she doesn't misbehave."

From the looks of it, he's not certain if I'm kidding. Some people have zero sense of humor. He's about to respond, and I bat up for another inning when Katniss whispers something to him. He relents, smooths her hair—aww—and scrutinizes me before retreating back to his section of the field.

That's when I notice how many people have been spying on us, as if expecting our conversation to cause mutiny any second. I give them my best What are you looking at? glare. They turn away.

Katniss is oblivious. "You were smug," she lectures.

"I was kidding," I correct. "Your boyfriend wasn't."

She sighs. "He's protective."

"Well, tell the wooly mammoth he needs to chill out or he'll start shedding in no time."

Wryly, she shakes her head at me. "You are terrible."

I smile. "Whatever."

We continue working, but Gale's ghost lingers, and she resumes her normal pace, racking up the distance between us. I let her go for now.

kpkpkpkpkp

That night, Mr. Everdeen gives me a second invite to dinner. I shrug. Why the hell not?

I've noticed during my excursions to use their bathroom that the place is plain, but I get a more thorough look now. Unfussy wood furniture. Straight lines. Drab colors, except for the light brimming from the fireplace. Lots of baskets.

No art. No family pictures. I remember once pouring through a photography book and reading a brief mention about the Amish not allowing themselves to be photographed. A glance around this house tells me nothing about the Everdeens.

I'm not crazy about the praying part of dinner, but it's nice the way no one feels the need to flip the table in a fit of rage here. There's laughter. There are moments of easy silence. Mr. Everdeen treats both girls like gems without showing favoritism. He listens to them but doesn't coddle. He makes sure they know they're worth something to him.

He glances at me in approval. I find myself wanting his respect, which sets me on edge since the other half of my brain knows how to define a lost cause. My mother never had any problem reminding me I'm a screw-up, but Mr. Everdeen keeps telling me the opposite, minus pity or doubt. Seriously, I don't know who to believe.

Prim throttles me with questions about the city, which Katniss tries to hush, which Prim ignores.

"Katniss is prissy," Prim declares. "She's not interested in adventure."

"Young lady, that's enough teasing," Mr. Everdeen scolds. "We have a guest."

My gaze darts over to Katniss. She eats like a conveyer belt, mechanical and steady. Though she's not fooling me. I see how her gray eyes reflect hurt.

I feel the inexplicable need to strike back. "I don't know," I say to Prim while digging into my zucchini. "The quiet ones are the most interesting where I come from. It means they have nothing to prove. They're real. Being real is cool. Adventure can be overrated."

I don't believe that last part for a second, but it does the trick. Prim blinks. Mr. Everdeen studies me. Katniss, however, appears baffled by my chivalry, her brows drawn together.

Mr. Everdeen insists his eldest daughter walk me home. I feel like I'm ten.

As we migrate through the darkness, she breaks the silence. "You didn't have to do that with Prim."

"I know," I say.

I guess the fact that I don't explain further makes her relax, because she offers me a grateful smile wrapped with a bow.

When we reach the cabin, I decide to detour her evening. "Come in for a sec," I say in a low voice, then step inside without giving her time to refuse. As I kneel in front of the wood stove and light a fire, I sense her hovering in the doorway. "What's wrong?" I bait. "Think I'll bite?"

She steps inside. I grin to myself. Weirdly, I have no clue what I'm doing or why. Maybe I want to annoy her boyfriend. Maybe I want to send him a message that trying to arm-wrestle me out of his romantic turf only attracts me more. Maybe I'm interested in seeing that fiery girl from the first night.

Katniss keeps the door open. I pass her and close it with a deliberate click.

"It needs to warm up in here," I say, enjoying the pink tinting her cheeks. I flip through my iPod. "How long have you been with Tall Gale?"

She uncrosses her arms. "Six months, but I've known him all my life."

"You can come further into the room, you know."

"That's perfectly alright. I know what the cabin looks like. I see you cleaned the wall."

"You didn't leave me much of a painting when you threw water at it. Does Tall Gale like archery?"

"I don't know."

"Huh." I chose a song I think she'll like.

"Gale is intrigued by hunting," she goes on. "But with snares as a method."

"Have you told him about your plans to be an archer?"

"I have no plans," she declares. "Gale is fond of the harvest like me—" she ends with a squeak when I stand and face her. An acoustic guitar vibrates through the cabin. A band of earthy voices begins to sing.

"What kind of music do you like?" I ask.

"We sing in church. And some kids in our Order hide radios in their rooms. I've heard stuff before, but my father doesn't permit it at home."

"That's tragic," I murmur and curl a finger at her. "Come here."

Katniss blinks. I lose patience and close the gap. Her body heat is a magnet to my own.

My fingers toy with the sleeve of her dress. "Dance with me."

Her throat bobs. "I'm not allowed to unless I'm with a group."

"Dance with me."

"I have the distinct feeling you mean sway with you. Without steps. Dancing without steps is just an excuse to touch."

"Dance with me."

She gulps. "Why?"

"Because you're allowed to here. Because the music's beautiful. Because it's powerful. Because it speaks when you can't. And because you want to."

"Y-you flatter yourself," she stutters as I take her hand. When she doesn't object, I flatten my other hand on the small of her back and press her against me. Beneath the thick cotton, her skin yields under the pressure.

We begin to "sway." The melody is a current that pushes us in a lazy circle. Katniss's palm sweats into mine, creating a humid little pocket. She keeps her head down, shy and demure and not at all what I want.

I tip my gaze until it catches hers. "Don't break eye contact with me."

After that, she doesn't. Her face becomes the only source of light and air in the room. Those steel-cut eyes unwillingly land on my mouth.

We fall silent. Slowly, I graze my thumb over her hand, and she catches her breath. The sound rolls through my chest, cracking it open and forming a chasm. I want to fill it with cement before she dives in and stays there.

This is a mistake, I realize. This whole fucking thing is a mistake. My blood is howling, and I'm about this close to—

The song ends. We switch gears as if our senses have been hijacked and we've just recognized the violation. I jerk back. Katniss wipes the residue of our dance from her hands, curtly wishes me a good night, and bails.

I'm an idiot. I've been telling myself it's a stupid idea to let her in, but I blew off that rule today. I dug my own grave. The old Peeta asked her to dance and got high off the Katniss drug, sucked up a bong's worth of it, and annihilated the new Peeta who normally likes his girls quick and loud.

It hits me why I invited her inside. It had nothing to do with messing with Gale or the challenge, the rush, of testing Katniss's boundaries.

Shit. I have a thing for her.

I'm at: andshewaits (d0t) tumblr (d0t) com.