Happy New Year to everyone!
Peeta
After Katniss leaves, I run my fingers through my mussed hair—she had pulled it a few times. Even before she attacked me, the words had sounded wrong. They slipped out because I was cornered between Madge's voice and Katniss's very existence, and because Madge wanted to know who I was talking to, and the only neutral, acceptable, uncomplicated and girlfriend-friendly answer was "host sister."
It hadn't felt like I was wrestling a sister. The paper air raid and pillow fight unleashed the beast in me, and when Katniss's groin bucked against mine, the thoughts eating away at my mind weren't sibling thoughts. Thankfully, she pushed me off her, preventing other hidden parts of me from waking up from hibernation.
When Madge calls back, I worry that she can see through the phone and figure out what happened. But then I notice that the tiny vial with the dandelion seed Katniss gave me is missing. As an innocent bystander, it had become a victim to our wrestling match and fallen off the bed.
I crawl on all fours across the room, hunting for it with the phone wedged between my ear and shoulder. Buttercup appears in the doorway, his bright marble eyes watching me paw at the floor boards. I monologue my girlfriend to death about the things I plan to draw in the sketchbook she sent me, until I find the vial hiding in the shadow of Katniss's overturned sandal.
I slump against the wall in relief. "I really love it," I say while rolling the glass-encased seed between my fingertips.
Madge sighs happily, and I realize that she thinks I meant the sketchbook. She's proud of her consistent ability to pick out the right ones—this is the fourth one she's given me (last Christmas when we were still just friends, my birthday, my going-away present, and today). My praise pleases her and effectively detours potential pouting over having to call back in the first place.
She says she misses me. She says that I sound different. She cries a little. I feel slightly panicky and profoundly responsible, so I renew my boyfriend vows.
She says she loves me. I say, "Me, too," but when we hang up, I do a mental recap of the semantics and know I've come up short. Madge deserves better than "Me, too," but I won't get the chance to do it over until my next letter or one-hour bus trip to the Internet café. A rare phone call with my girlfriend after a four-month drought has been ruined.
I deserve better than Katniss's island-infused tantrums. But the dandelion seed stands in my way of holding a grudge.
That and her chronically doleful mood. It possesses her right up to New Year's Eve, as the family sits out on the porch, waiting for the clock to strike twelve and listening to Old Man Sae strum his guitar—he and his wife are celebrating with us.
Katniss is luminescent in her long, clingy, cottony dress, with that slim braided lock hanging among her loose hair. It would be nice if she'd pass me the shortbread cookies that she keeps hogging. My parents sent me a boxful, and it's not that I want to eat one—it gives me a happy thrill seeing her gobble them up. It's just that I want her to remember I'm here. Pass me just one cookie.
But it's still a nice night. We all sing songs—well, Katniss claps—mostly old Panemian tunes from a century ago. We drink fruity concoctions that fizz in my stomach. I tell everyone about my country's tradition of New Year's resolutions, but I take a little too long with my explanation because eventually the group bursts into a collective but playful arggg and tosses napkins at me. It makes me laugh.
I catch Katniss biting her fingernail and watching me, the cookies forgotten in her lap but the hunger still on her face. In the true spirit of cowardice, I pretend I don't notice.
She hands me the cookie box. Our fingers brush. God.
Greasy Sae criticizes Haymitch in an amusing, motherly way about how many drinks he's had, but he denies it. Violet plays with Buttercup, stroking the cat's back and scrunching his face. Katniss grins fondly at them.
As Old Man Sae begins to sing, his wife waves her hand in the air. "Aye, stick to playing, my love."
The group chuckles. I like it right here. For the first time, I feel at home with these people. A boulder forms in my throat as I realize that I'm a part of them. I belong. On this lazy, delighted night, I'm perfectly content.
And then Haymitch belches into my ear.
"Gross!" I shove him away. "What the hell?"
Old Man Sae and Katniss crack up. Katniss has her hand over her mouth—it's an adorably sad sight.
"Aye, Haymitch." Greasy Sae slaps him upside the head. "You're supposed to set an example for Peeta. What's the matter with you? Be romantic."
Haymitch sets his heels up on the porch rail. "My niece should sing."
Sae gives him another reproachful look. Her husband stops playing. Katniss glowers at her uncle.
"You can sing?" I ask, mesmerized by her for the thousandth time.
She blushes. No, I can't.
"Katniss has the prettiest voice I've ever heard," Haymitch announces. "She wanted to be a singer."
Her eyes widen in mortification. My mom used to put me on the spotlight too, also not in a good way.
Haymitch's glazed eyes signal that he's having too much fun with his bottle. "Is this New Year's or not? Come on, girl. Sing."
Katniss shakes her head, openly hating him.
"Haymitch, if she doesn't want to—" Sae begins.
"She should want to," he argues. "Start the new year right by making herself useful."
"Hey," I snap. "Cut it out."
"What's it to you, Peeta? Don't you want to hear her? We all do. This silence crap has gone on long enough. Sing something, girl. You might actually realize you miss it."
"That's enough." I reach out to steal his glass, but his foot presses into my chest and pushes me back onto the front stoop.
He grunts. "You almost made me spill my drink. On my brand new pants." He slaps his thigh. "Violet, tell them. Tell them about Katniss's voice."
Violet had been spacing out and enjoying Buttercup's company, but now she blinks, picking up on the conversation. She comprehends the magnitude of the moment and glances between everyone like a little kid who's been asked to choose between Santa and the Easter Bunny.
Katniss stares at her, tense but hopeful.
"I...well...her father used to sing. It was magical," Violet says. "And Primrose was only a toddler, but she used to imitate him." She gets that far-off look again. "I think we've had enough singing tonight."
Katniss's face falls. The sight of it tempts me to break the porch in half.
She takes it out on her uncle by snatching his glass and pouring the contents into a bush. He lurches to his feet, doing an angry dance and cursing up a storm while the rest of us watch in shock. Katniss tosses the glass to the ground and stalks barefoot down the road. I've lost count of how many times she has taken off to avoid stuff.
She wants to be alone. Probably. Definitely.
Or maybe she'll go to Jo and Tigris. Or maybe she'll go to Finnick. Either way, I'm the last person she wants to see after that. I'll just end up with a handful of sand flung in my face. That's the best I can hope for. She'll be fine. She can take care of herself. She was doing it long before she met me...actually no, she hadn't been taking care of herself that well, from what I've seen and been told. But she's a tough girl...isn't she?
I should make myself useful. I should look up the definition of tough.
I unstaple myself from the porch and leave the house. I leave despicable Haymitch and impossible Violet and the innocent Saes behind.
I go after Katniss.
It's instinctive, the direction my feet take me. I almost expect to see her footprints ahead, a permanent trail of them embedded in the ground and showing the way. Not that I'd need it. I've taken this walk enough times that the darkness is a sidekick instead of a hindrance. The air is its usual salty self while the surf pounds out its rhythm, giving the sand a thorough beating. She's huddled by the dunes, the spot that we'd unspokenly christened as our own during that narrow window when we were friends. I lower myself next to her and wait for a sign that she wants me to back off, but it doesn't come.
She's so small, hugging her legs against the breeze. It's cool at night, though not uncomfortable, much tamer than what District Twelve has to deal with in January. Snowfall and flurries and frostbite are myths here. Still, the chill makes me wish I were a blanket, a soft one that would fit around her shoulders.
I take off my cotton sweater and cover her with it. She flinches but accepts the warmth, then twists her face and nuzzles her nose against the fabric. Each time I think she can't burrow any further into my chest, she does something uncensored like that to prove me wrong. It's crazy how much access she has to these parts of me. Sometimes I can't take it. Most times I wish she'd stop.
She's about to say something when we hear a commotion, the high-pitched, squeaky-toy whine of little kids fighting. It's then that I notice the shadows of people—couples and families—scattered throughout the beach, choosing to celebrate the New Year by the water. The clashing voices belong to two little girls fighting while their father—I guess they're sisters, and I guess it's their father—tries to play the mediator. One girl points to the other and declares, "She pushed me!"
I can't see the father, but I imagine he looks like my dad, of the pink-nosed, silvery-blond-haired variety, even though those traits are virtually non-existent in Panem, except for the tourists who come to marvel at the island's pristine and wild beaches, and the handful of citizens who live up in the north shore. In a tired voice, the father asks, "Why did she push you?"
"Because I hit her," the girl answers.
Watching them, I chuckle and catch Katniss silently doing the same. Her shoulders ripple, and her teeth show whenever she laughs. She gazes at the trio wistfully until they stroll away from us. She could have escaped here to think about her sister, to miss her in private, and maybe try to communicate with her in some way. I forgot to consider that.
"Am I an intruder?" I ask.
She shakes her head.
"Good. It might be easy for you to walk away all the time, but I can't do that. I don't want to leave you."
She stares at the ocean. I go off on a tangent. "I expected to go numb or immune or something to the sound of the waves, like at one point I would get so used to them that I would stop hearing them. But my dad swore that the sound would always be in the back of my mind, no matter what I was doing here, but I'd doubted him. The idea seemed pretty hectic anyway. But Dad was right. I still hear the waves. It's reassuring."
I inhale, and then keep going. "Compared to a lake, I also thought the ocean was a monster, you know? That it didn't let anyone actually swim because it knocked people around like punching bags. But the ocean is actually a different kind of peace. It's an exciting one that lives out loud. The lakes in District Twelve are like sleep. The ocean is like waking up."
Do I ever shut up?
She sniffles and wipes her nose with her arm. I'm scared that she's going to cry, because I can't endure the idea of Katniss crying, how the tears might smother her face yet make her look even more gorgeous. The possibility is mildly terrifying.
"Just tell me that you're all right. Let me in," I say.
She swipes sand off her leg in frustration, implying that of course she's not okay. If I really want to be a friend, I need to show that I'm willing to hear the ugly truth.
Her notebook is at home. If I persist, how will she answer? With her hands? With looks? Which one am I hoping for?
Her head dips, a sheet of dark hair blocking her profile. I reach out and cup her chin, forcing her to face me, my thumb skimming her cheek and causing her to squeeze her eyes shut as if pained. Her brows crinkle together. A milky-gray sheen illuminates her features, exposing lovely flaws like the pimple in the crook of her nostril, the oval chicken pox scar on her chin, and the bra strap peeking out of her dress, threatening to slide down her arm. I can discover all I want about her, but these details all pale in comparison to the one thing she holds back.
"You can talk to me," I promise.
Her eyes squeeze tighter.
"I want to hear your voice," I plead.
I'm being unfair. I wish she'd hold it against me and bite the hand that's touching her.
"Please say something," I whisper.
She pulls away. I should have known better and am about to apologize when she gives me a wry smile and writes in the flat of sand between us. I squint to decipher her response in the dark, using the waning moon for light.
No one needs me.
The words grab onto my stomach and yank. There's no self-pity in her words, only resignation and acceptance. It's like she believes that if she's ever really going to get noticed, or valued, she'll have to use her voice. Even I've stooped so low as to request it.
It's more than that. She's more than that. She has to know it.
"I do," I insist, leaning closer. "I need you."
Katniss looks upset, her face crumbling with doubt.
"Look at me," I command.
Struck by my tone, she does. I've learned that I have to be firm if I want her cooperation.
"Now listen to me," I say. "I miss our friendship. I miss it all the time. I didn't like you at first, but I like you now. I'm sorry that I punched Finnick...actually I'm not sorry about that, but I'm sorry that it screwed everything up between us. I'm sorry I let the kiss get in the way and then avoided you. Yeah, you've been ignoring me too, or scowling at me, but I don't care. I'm still sorry I didn't own up to my half of it and just confront you, talk it out. I didn't face the music."
She frowns.
"Facing the music is when you…it means…it doesn't matter," I amend. "Katniss, you're wrong. I'm desperate to hear your voice, but not for the reason you think. Yeah, I want to know if it sounds as beautiful as I think it does, but I care about you. I don't want you to lose that part of yourself. You have a right to speak. You have a right to that."
I take her hand. "But still, we agreed to protect each other. So I'm here. I want to be here with you. You can be quiet for the rest of your life. You can speak with flags or maracas or smoke signals or airplane banners or in Morse code, and I'll listen no matter what." I scoot closer. "You think no one needs you? Your friends need you to share stories with them. Haymitch needs you to keep him from being lonely, to keep your family together. He can't do it on his own. Your mother needs you to brush her hair and be her daughter."
Her chin wobbles.
"And I...this year isn't the same for me without you. It doesn't measure up. I need you in it. I need the girl who taught me to swim without making me feel like a loser. I need the girl who convinced me to take an Evil-Knievel leap off a lagoon cliff. I need the girl who helped me invent different lives for myself around a fire. I need the girl who dances and plays with waterlilies in the forest and stages protests. That girl is brave and caring. She has the strongest will I've ever seen, and I want to know her like I did before. I want her to know me…" My breath dies a million deaths as she presses her pinky against my mouth.
"Please," I say against her skin. "Be my friend."
Her sad gaze ventures down to my chest. She wipes away her last words and writes in the sand. A single letter.
K
She points to it, then presses her fingertip against the M charm I'm wearing, then looks at me imploringly. And it breaks my heart.
"Oh, Katniss," I whisper.
This is the one possibility that I've avoided since our incredible kiss. That she doesn't want to be friends. What she wants is more.
At first, I thought she'd kissed me for the same reason she kisses Finnick, as some deluded form of comfort, nothing beyond that. Which had stung. But after receiving the dandelion seed for Christmas, after seeing her face fall when Madge called, after witnessing the outrage and hurt when I referred to her as my host sister, and after being throttled by the yearning in her eyes and the blush on her cheeks when I landed on top of her, it dawns on me now. That kiss had been sincere. It had been real.
I've replayed that moment over and over again in my head. We hadn't gotten very far, but that kiss affected me more than any other kiss has. I felt it in my knees and in my blood, the sensations bursting like firecrackers. Since then, I've been wondering what the rest of her mouth would taste like, how it would feel to mold my lips to hers. And if things were different, I would grab her face, right now, and find out.
But I can't. How do I explain that? How do I even begin to hurt her? How do I do it without hurting myself?
Katniss closes the distance, and it's the stray lock of hair curling across her parted mouth like a warning that alerts me. Her hand curves around my neck, her lids on the verge of fluttering shut as she slants her face toward me. Her lips nearly swipe mine by the time I think to lean away from her, ignoring the tremor that races up my body from the near contact. I brace my hands on her shoulders, keeping her in place. "I just...I just love my girlfriend."
Don't I? It's not like how I think of Madge has changed. Doesn't that mean I love her?
Disappointment and mortification contort Katniss's features. As she turns away, her bra strap chooses that moment to slip and land on my thumb. I'm tempted to draw it back up, secure it place, take care of her—but also to find out if the material is soft.
Of course, I won't. I feel like a giant asshole when I should be feeling noble for refusing to be one of those guys, a two-timing alpha hound that nails a willing girl in spite of the fact that he's taken. Yet I want to wipe that look from Katniss's face and fix it, fix her, make everything better between us. Something about my choices feel wrong, but I can't figure out which one I regret: what I just did or what I chose not to do.
Is there a choice at all? Madge is steady. She'll be there when this year is up. She's enduring and solid like a charm made of silver.
Katniss is not steady. She's this whole island, water and fire and wind and earth. She's special and can't be duplicated or molded, but she's as temporary as that initial in the sand. I'll be without her someday. I'll be far from here. Even if I weren't already with someone, it couldn't work. This would never happen anyway.
I'm so fucking confused.
There's a horrible pause in which I can barely meet Katniss's wounded gaze. People always rely on the eyes to determine emotion. On her, it shows up everywhere. The worst part is her mouth. That's what scares me the most. The quiver, the teeth and tongue working in tandem to substitute for her voice.
Cheers erupt from the people on the beach. They sing and celebrate with bottles of alcohol and sparkling wands that look like handheld comets or dandelions receiving electric shock therapy.
It's midnight. Katniss turns away from me, but I can't stand it.
"Katniss," I whisper, "I don't want to be with anyone else on this night. Just you. I meant it when I said I need you. I do. I've missed you so much."
For an instant, Katniss resists my words. Then, with a sigh, she scrambles on top of me, straddling my thighs and crushing me in a tight hug. She hides her head in the side of my neck. Not to get something out of me, but to give something to me. To share the moment.
I'm too stunned to object, and I'm not sure I will—not right away—once I get over the high of having her this close. I let it happen. Wrapping my arms around her, I hug her back. If kissing is impossible, and if separating is intolerable, and if this is the best we can do, I'll take it. I'll spend the first seconds of this year holding her. Until it's time to let her go.
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