To be perfectly honest, I was nervous. The more I thought about the things mom said to me the more I worried this would be awful. Or awkward. Or downright painful. I didn't know Peeta very well. Hardly at all, really. I'd said hello at the bakery when Gale and I stopped by to trade, and I had seen him in passing at school, but that was about it. We had a few classes together last year and this year, but that was the extent of my exposure to Peeta Mellark. He was popular; I'd heard girls talking about him in the halls while hiding giggles behind their hands when he smiled at them. I couldn't fit what little I did know about him in with what mom had told me.
I also didn't know what the hell I was going to talk to him about.
When I got home from school the next day I stood on the porch watching Prim continue on with Gale and his brothers while trying to figure out what to expect. She turned back and waved, and Gale shooed me toward my house. I just rolled my eyes, sighing before turning to go inside.
"Hi," I called out, dropping my books on the counter before taking off my coat. I paused as I turned to hang it on the wall, staring down at the empty wheelchair sitting there with what I could only assume to be Peeta's coat draped over the back. He had a hard time walking. Mom had mentioned that, but I didn't realize it meant something like this.
"Hello, Katniss," mom lifted her chin and smiled at me. Peeta looked up at me, his eyes dropping as soon as they met mine. I pulled off my shoes, watching him for a moment before looking at my mother. "Come sit. I'm going to make some tea." I nodded, crossing the room and sitting on the end of the couch, tucking my foot up under me to angle myself toward Peeta. He was slouched down on the couch, his shoulders hunched forward, and tensed up when I sat down. He tugged the sleeve of his sweater down, trying to cover the brace on his hand, nervously touching the back of the knit hat that covered nearly all of his hair. Mom got up, patting my shoulder and planting a kiss on my forehead, before moving past me into the kitchen. Peeta watched the exchange out of the corner of his eye.
"You probably don't want me to ask how you're doing, do you?" I said. He glanced over at me, the hint of a smirk tugging briefly at the corner of his mouth before he shook his head. I watched him for a moment, chewing the inside of my lip, trying to figure out what to say. "If it makes you feel any better, it's a pretty good time to be out of school. Mr. Capps has been an unbearable asshole." A brief look of confusion washed over his face as if he didn't know what I was talking about. We had both been stuck with Capps for math for two years in a row, and calling him an unbearable asshole was like calling rain wet. "Math is a shitty class anyway," I tried, hoping I was piecing that together for him without being too obvious. He frowned, looking over toward the fire. I glanced back at Mom, looking for help, and she made a small gesture with her hand to urge me on. I turned back to Peeta, drawing in a breath to speak again, and he cut me off.
"J-just ask," he said, turning to look directly at me for the first time since I'd sat down.
"What?" I shifted. The look he was giving me was unsettling. Angry and lifeless at the same time.
"Ask m-me," he said, taking a breath and blinking slowly. He spoke deliberately, as if every word were a massive effort. "What I know you—want to."
"What do I want to ask you?" I frowned.
"What she d-did to me," he said, holding my gaze. My heart jumped. I did want to know. I'd wondered since the words "head injury" left my mother's mouth. Could I just do that? Even with him telling me to? I looked over at mom. She had the tea kettle steaming on the stove behind her with the top open to silence the whistle. She was ignoring it and watching the two of us. Her expression didn't change. She offered no help at all.
"What did she do to you, Peeta?" I said quietly, chewing the inside of my lip. He reached for his hat, pulling it down off his head and wincing a little as he did. Peeta turned his face away from me. The hair was missing in an arc above and behind his left ear around a twisted mat of scabbing thick enough to be mistaken for rock.
"Rolling p-p-pin," he said, his voice flat and dead. He looked down at the hat in his hands for a moment before pulling it back on, gingerly smoothing it over the back of his head. "I d-dropped—a cake." I covered my mouth, trying to find something to say. The longer the silence stretched, the worse I felt.
"I'm sorry," I breathed. He looked over at me, studying me for a moment before nodding and looking away again.
"My b-brother," he paused, taking a breath and swallowing before continuing. "Told me what they say. At school. Will you tell th—tell them the truth."
"Why doesn't he do that?" I asked, trying to keep any hint of the usual venom I'd throw behind that question out of my voice. Peeta was struggling, and it was harder to watch than I could have prepared myself for.
"Rye's an asshole," he said, and it was the first thing that came out easily. The first thing he'd said without halting or tripping over the words. I couldn't stop myself from laughing, and I pressed my knuckles against my mouth to stifle it.
"I'm sorry," I managed, waving my hand in front of me as I got my laughter under control. Peeta cracked a smile, looking down at his hands.
Mom swooped in a moment later, handing me a mug of tea and putting another on the corner of the coffee table closest to Peeta. He craned his neck, eying it for a moment before sitting back. Mom sat in her chair across from us with her own mug, taking a cautious sip as she crossed her legs and balanced a notebook on her knee.
She explained that she'd asked for my help. As she spoke I watched Peeta. He hardly even seemed to be listening; just kept his eyes on the floor in front of her feet and nodded a few times. Most of what she had to say was for his benefit. I couldn't help but wonder if a word of it was getting through to him. The questions she asked him afterward seemed mostly for my benefit. He didn't give a straight answer to any of them, just a noncommittal noise or a nervous glance toward me.
Mr. Mellark arrived shortly afterward to take Peeta home. He handed my mother a hefty paper bag the moment he stepped through the door. I watched as Peeta carefully made his way to the door with one hand stretched out to help balance him against whatever was in reach. Mom set the bag down and followed the two of them outside while Mr. Mellark carried the wheelchair to the bottom of the stairs. I dropped back to lay on the couch and stare at the ceiling. I dangled my legs over the arm of the couch, jiggling my foot and trying to wrap my head around all of that.
Mom came back in a few minutes later. She sighed and I lifted my head, watching her peer into the paper bag on the counter, her eyebrows creeping up. She reached inside, lifting out an envelope and tugging it open. I caught a flash of the blue and grey notes inside before she folded it closed, blowing out a breath and slipping it beneath the bag. Paper money was reserved for the highest denominations—things that changed hands the least—and I'd only even seen it a handful of times. All the selling and trading I did was for coins. Mom reached into the bag again, this time pulling out a muffin. She looked over, holding it out toward me. I nodded and she returned to the living room, breaking a small piece off of the top for herself before handing it to me.
"What did you think?" she asked, sitting down in her chair and crossing her legs.
"I don't even know what to think," I frowned, picking at the muffin and licking the cinnamon and sugar from my fingers. "I mean, I didn't even really know him, but that's... not at all what he was like."
"Do you still want to help?" she asked.
"Yes," I answered without hesitation, looking over at her as I took a bite of the muffin. Mom smiled at me, sinking down in her chair and turning toward the fire.
"You probably want a better idea of what's coming your way, I'm sure." She rubbed her hands together and folded them across her chest, hunching up her shoulders against the cold.
"That would be nice." I drew my feet up onto the edge of the couch and rested my chin on my knees.
"I'm still learning about this too," Mom said, casting a pointed glance at the books on the table. "And being grossly overpaid considering I'm making a good portion of it up as I go along. I'll need your help with his speech, you heard how much of a struggle that is. The more he talks, the easier it will get, and I am not someone he wants to talk to."
"And you think I am?" I raised an eyebrow.
"You are," she chuckled. "His memory needs a lot of work. His motor skills, balance, all those cognitive abilities need to be redeveloped. That sounds a little more intimidating than it really is. I'll lay out the exercises for you two to do together. Honestly, it will mostly be card games, getting him to converse as much as you can, and the doctor in town is trying to get me some work books that will help guide all of this."
"He didn't seem very thrilled about any of it," I pointed out. A brief, humorless smile twitched across Mom's face.
"Would you be?" she asked. Her expression saddened as she turned her gaze toward the fire. I thought about the wound on the back of his head, what it really would have taken to inflict something like that. I've taken some hard hits; fallen from trees or hit my head on stones. I once skidded down a ravine a mile into the woods and landed head first at the bottom and only came up feeling dizzy once the initial pain passed. How hard did Mrs. Mellark hit him to turn him into the boy I met today? I hoped she would be held accountable for it.
The next few times I saw Peeta he didn't even speak to me. He came out to the Seam once a week. His father brought him to our house, sometimes before I got home from school, sometimes shortly after, and came back for him an hour or two later. Sometimes he stayed to talk to my mother on the front porch while Peeta sat in silence, ignoring anything I had to say to him.
His request to set the record straight at school never left my mind. I kept waiting for an opportunity, and it took a couple weeks for one to present itself. I was on my way to the cafeteria with a group of kids from town walking behind me. They were talking about him, and I cast a glance back over my shoulder to see who it was. Merx Miller, of course. The tax collector's son and class bully. He had his arm slung around his girlfriend Gilda's shoulders. Harvey Carrow, Manda Tate, the Whitaker twins. Delly Cartwright trailing behind them with her eyes on the floor. Peeta's friends, though how anyone could voluntarily spend time with Merx or Gilda was beyond me.
"She said he did it on purpose," Manda said. "And she just couldn't stand them all running her into the ground anymore so she left."
"And what, he's staying home crying about it?" Merx snorted, eliciting a few chuckles from the guys around him.
"Whatever, he still ruined my sisters wedding," Gilda snapped. Her voice cut right through me. I slowed my pace, letting them overtake me.
"She beat him for it," I said, looking over at Gilda. She just stared at me, blinking for a moment. "You were talking about Peeta's mom, right?"
"Yeah," Manda frowned at me.
"He dropped a cake," I said, glancing at her before looking back at Gilda. "And she beat him with a rolling pin. He still hasn't healed. And might not really get better than he is right now. Ever." They all stared at me.
"How the hell do you know," Merx said, his lip curling as he looked me over.
"Her mom's a healer," Delly said quietly from behind me. Merx snorted, rolling his eyes, and picked up his pace. The rest of the merchant kids followed suit, with one exception. Delly Cartwright grabbed my wrist and pulled me toward the wall just inside the cafeteria. She chewed her lip, nervously glancing after the rest of her group as they walked away. They didn't even look back. She took a breath, letting go of my hand and flashing a brief, faint smile. "You've seen him?"
"Yeah," I nodded, waving to Madge as she walked into the cafeteria. She cocked an eyebrow at Delly's back on her way past. "My mom's treating him."
"Um. How is he," she looked nervous.
"His mother almost killed him, how do you think he is?" I frowned. Delly looked down at her lunch bag, rolling it up in her hands.
"I'm just worried," her voice dropped to a near-whisper. "I mean. I've been to the bakery but I haven't seen him. He used to come visit me sometimes after they closed closed. He just. Stopped."
"Probably because he can barely walk." I cocked an eyebrow. If she was so worried why didn't she ask to see him? Delly pressed her lips together. I waited for her to say something, but she just frowned.
"Could you, um, tell him I was asking about him?" she said. I could barely contain my eye roll.
"Tell him yourself," I snapped. Delly shrunk back as if I'd slapped her, hesitating a moment before retreating from the cafeteria, her curls bouncing around her shoulders as she darted through the door and down the hall. I turned away from her, moving through the cafeteria to the table Madge and I shared toward the back.
"Have a nice chat with Miss Cartwright?" Madge smirked as I dropped my lunch bag on the table before sitting down.
"She was asking about Peeta," I shrugged, pulling a cheese bun out of my lunch bag. As soon as Mr Mellark caught on to my taste for them he started making sure they were in every bag of food he sent home with mom.
"She hasn't gone to see him?" Madge dropped her hand to the table, her voice incredulous. "They're like, best friends. They have been forever." I just shrugged. "That's pretty shitty."
"Yeah," I chewed my lip, wondering whether or not to share that with him later. He was at the house when Prim and I got home that afternoon, sitting at the kitchen table and playing a card game with my mother. She'd suggested I try playing it with him last week. He (correctly) accused me of letting him win and went right back to his indifferent silence.
"Hi Peeta," Prim chirped, beaming at him as she hung up her coat. He raised his fingers in response, glancing at me briefly before looking down at the cards spread over the table.
"Want to take my place?" Mom nodded toward the table, getting up and pushing me toward her seat before I could even respond. "I still haven't had a chance to do anything with the grouse you brought home this morning." She didn't need to do anything with it. The power hadn't been on since early September, but the weather was chilling enough for the old ice box on the porch to stand in perfectly well for the refrigerator, and that grouse was sitting out there. So were the squirrels I pulled out of the snares the night before. They'd keep for a few more days.
Peeta slouched back in his chair, fidgeting with the edge of that ever present hat. I looked over the cards, hesitantly taking a turn before leaning back to watch him frown at the edge of the table. More often than not, that was how things went. Mom insisted I was doing some good, that it was important, but I honestly didn't think he cared whether or not I was there.
"I overheard Manda Tate talking about your mother today," I said. He clenched his jaw, drawing in a slow breath and looking away. "She's telling people you dropped that cake on purpose. And that she decided to leave." His eyes dropped to the brace on his wrist, where it rested on the table. "I set them straight. Like you asked." Peeta glanced at me briefly before pulling his hand away from the table and dropping it in his lap. "Delly Cartwright asked how you're doing."
"None of them have come to see me," he said. I shifted in my chair, genuinely caught off guard by the sound of his voice. His speech was still halting and deliberate, though that might have owed as much to the anger I could see in him as much as anything else. "Not a s-single fucking one. I thought—they were my f-friends."
"I could have told you they were shitty people," I raised an eyebrow. He shook his head and sighed.
"Not D-Delly," he said quietly. I thought about the look on her face when I snapped at her, and the way she ran out of the cafeteria. If she wasn't a shitty person, why wouldn't she at least check on him? She'd always struck me as an idiot; maybe the thought didn't even occur to her. Peeta resumed his silence, the card game going unfinished between us.
When I went to the bakery with Mom things were even more awkward. Prim either went to the Hawthorne's or sat out Peeta's visits in our bedroom. At the bakery we had spectators. We spent most of our time in the kitchen, sitting at the edge of the table in the center of the room. Things were mostly tense and quiet, especially when Peeta started staring at that spot on the floor in front of the ovens. Rye quietly told me that it was where Peeta had fallen. After finding that out I began watching him when he stared, trying to figure out what was going through his head.
Peeta's oldest brother, Phyl, had been working a couple of evenings a week to pick up the extra work that fell on Rye and Mr. Mellark. He was perpetually surly and exhausted, and spent as much time bickering with Rye as he did actually working. Mr. Mellark apologized for him to my mother and me constantly. He and his wife had just had their first baby a couple of months earlier, and he was still working his job at the Justice Hall in addition to his shifts at the bakery. After three visits of sitting useless in that kitchen I offered to help, ignoring Mr. Mellark's half hearted protests and pitching in.
Most of the baking was done in the mornings. Afternoons and evenings, the times when I was actually there, were mostly cleanup, special orders, and preparing for the next day. Rye showed me how to blend the dry ingredients for the next day's bread, how to cover and store it to cut down on the work Mr. Mellark needed to do in the small hours of the morning, when he got out of bed to stoke the ovens and start his work day. More often than not, he excused himself to get to bed before my mother and I even left. From what I'd learned about the schedules they kept even that barely afforded him six hours of sleep.
One evening I noticed him leaning against the door frame between the kitchen and the storefront, watching Peeta and I. I had finally gotten him to play this damn memory game without glaring at me every time I missed a match, whether it was intentional or not. Mom went home an hour earlier, needing to run an errand in town for Hazelle, but I wasn't about to walk out when I'd finally gotten Peeta to do something other than look at everything in the room except me. He noticed me looking past him and turned to look over his shoulder. Peeta's expression glazed over instantly and he pushed himself up from the table.
"I'm t-tired," he announced, turning away from the table and starting for the stairs to the second floor, one hand brushing over the edge of the table for balance as he walked. Rye wiped the flour from his hands on his apron, moving to Peeta's side, his hand hovering at his brother's back. Peeta jerked away from him, the motion sending him stumbling a step. Rye caught him by the elbow, saving him from crashing to the floor. As soon as he had his footing Peeta yanked his arm out of Rye's grip, glaring at him. "I'm fine."
"Okay," Rye said quietly, holding his hands up and taking a step back. I tore my eyes away as he walked to the stairs and watched Mr. Mellark's expression instead. He frowned. The sorrow in his face coupled with his obvious exhaustion made him look years older than he did just a few months ago. Peeta climbed upstairs carefully, gripping the banister until his knuckles went white. When the sound of a door slamming reached us both Mr. Mellark and Rye let out a sigh, their shoulders sagging. Rye turned back to his work and Mr. Mellark disappeared into the storefront. He returned a moment later with a small white paper bag in his hand. He smiled at me and nodded toward the back door, leading me to the mudroom and taking my coat down from where it hung on the wall. He held it out for me, smoothing it over my shoulders after I slipped my arms into it and passed me the bag.
"Cookies," he said, opening the back door for me and smiling. "For you and Prim."
"Thank you, Mr. Mellark." I stepped out onto the back porch.
"It's Twain," he said, stepping out behind me and pulling the door closed. I gave him a questioning look. He smirked. "Call me Twain. Please."
"Okay," I returned the smirk before adding, "Twain."
"I just wanted to tell you-" he paused, glancing back toward the house for a moment. "Please don't give up on him. I know he's being an ass, and it's got to be frustrating."
"It's fine," I said, and he stopped me before I could say anything more.
"It's not, none of this is." Twain drew in a slow breath, looking out over the yard and blowing it out before continuing. "The only time I see any sign of my boy in there still is after he's spent time with you. It's the only time he ever smiles. Or even talks, really." I frowned, looking down at the bag of cookies in my hand. He didn't speak in front of me, and I could count the number of smiles I'd seen out of him on one hand. If that was an improvement, what was he like the rest of the time? "Don't give up. Please."
"I won't." I looked up at him, flashing him a brief smile.
"Thank you," he nodded. "Have a good night, Katniss."
"You too, Twain," I said, and he clapped me on the shoulder, smiling as he went back inside.
Thank you guys for your wonderful reviews and all the follows! And thanks to my husband for getting the details (and commas) in this chapter under control. Find us on tumblr! I'm alonglineofbread, he's yourpeetaisshowing.