Chapter Twelve
"When can we eat the cake?"
I remain perfectly still, squatting down low so that my eyes are level with the countertop and I can squint in detail at the slice of chocolate cake from the capitol - its slick surface of smooth, glossy icing; the perfectly geometric shape of the fine spun-sugar web that decorates the top - the precise white-and-brown checkerboard of the cake. Compared to my version - side by side - the capitol's is markedly more precise. But I'm improving. "Bakers don't eat cake; they make them and watch other people buy them."
"Then who would be a baker?" asks Ally, impatiently.
"Eating one's own cake," I respond, "is an act of violence. Why would I put this much work into something and then - tear it apart, grind it away?"
Ally rolls her eyes at me and I nearly grin at the expression so reminiscent of Ryan's. My younger relatives are becoming as impatient with me as the older ones always have been. Time was, she looked up to me, almost as you do an older brother. But she's growing up fast, and her life has been rough - it tells on her. Her face has that stamp of the world-weary. She's way, way too young, for the droop of her pale eyes.
"Food is food - cake is cake," she says.
I sigh. "And to think I thought to make you a baker. You could, you know - mom would take you in."
"I'm not a Mellark. The bakery is for Will and Ryan's kids."
"Like anyone is going to marry those two," I snort, straightening up. I look at her and anxiety pokes at me. "Anyway - when do you think you get to eat the cake? It's for your birthday, silly."
She pffts. "Oh, I thought it was for yours. Who cares about my birthday? Who wants to be 12?"
I smile at her. "I think I took the bullet for the family," I tell her, trying to sound completely sincere and not at all worried. "You'll be fine."
I just hope it helps her, because it doesn't really help me. And I thought I dreaded the Reaping before. There is no comfort - not in my own safety - not in the hopeful safety of my relatives and friends. I will have to take the stage on Reaping Day - complicit - and stand there while the children are selected. I will have to send them - prepare them - for the arena and I can't - I simply can't - visualize this. It's an impossibility.
Of course, I've thought that about a lot of things.
"You'd better head home," I say. "It's getting late."
"Just a bite - just off the Capitol piece. Please?"
"That thing has been in the freezer for weeks - it's probably disgusting." I firmly shepherd her to the front door, go out with her to the porch and watch as she ties her scarf around her neck.
No, I was in no state to take my cousins in a few months ago - nor would their father agree to it, anyway - but they get money from me, as long as Uncle Dana behaves himself. And I'll make sure they will be able to set themselves up in something. Dana has no particular industry - he inherited, and ignored into the ground, some second-hand shop from my grandparents. I'll figure something out for the kids. Something - anything - positive to come of my victory in the Games.
"Uh oh," she says, suddenly.
I come sharply out of my reverie and see it, too. A pair of Peacekeepers have just exited Katniss' house, and turn to look down the row toward mine. They descend from her porch and approach us, their white uniforms standing out against the dirty snow. They pass the empty house next to Katniss', they pass Haymitch's house.
"Ally," I say. "Ally, you'd better get home, now."
"But - Peeta -."
"Just go - don't worry about me. Just go home. I'll see you tomorrow."
She is hesitant, but also not a fool. She skips down the steps as if nothing was amiss, and walks lightly over the snow, passing the Peacekeepers with a nod. Once clear of them, she just glances backwards - once - at me, and then takes off running. I realize I have been holding my breath, and I let it go, now, painfully. It fogs all around me.
They are unfamiliar, as is the case nowdays. One is a female, one is a male - apart from that, there is no real distinguishing feature. Hard brown eyes, hardened faces. The usual. "Can I help you?"
"We're looking for Katniss Everdeen. Is she here?"
Oh, shit. Here we go. "No."
"Mind if we look around?" the female Peacekeeper asks me as she pushes me backward into my house.
"Not at all."
I'm held at gunpoint ny the other while she quickly searches upstairs and downstairs. It's by no means a thorough sweep of the house, though. Back in the kitchen, she ends by taking a large and ugly swipe out of the prettier of the two cakes - the sample I brought back from the Capitol - and I just hope it tastes as bad as I told Ally it did. Violence, indeed.
I'm dying to ask what is going on, but I know better. Instead I say, casually, "Have you checked her cousin's house?"
"Yes," is the terse reply. "Come along with us, Mr. Mellark."
My heart jumps into my throat. I'm not sure what I'm supposed to have done, but I'm pretty sure I'm about to be disappeared like Cray. They march me up the row and then up the steps to Katniss' house. Haymitch comes out of his house just as we're on the porch, and shouts over, "Problem?"
"Why don't you join us, Mr. Abernathy?"
"Think I will! Let me just get my shoes and I'll be right over." He ducks back into his house and I'm strangely comforted. He's got a phone, he can call … who? I don't know. Someone. Haymitch will get us out of this.
Prim and her mother are sitting together in the parlor, quiet, hands on laps. I see dinner finished, but unserved, on the stove. I try to smile at them as I'm sat down across from them. There's silence until Haymitch comes in, quietly, and joins us. He looks mildly puzzled.
"All right, now you're all going to tell us what you know about Miss Everdeen's movements. When was the last time she was at home?"
Haymitch and I look at the women. It's Prim who speaks. "At lunch. She was going to deliver some medicines and then - hang out with some friends."
"What friends?"
Prim wrinkles her nose. "She didn't say, but - it could be the Hawthornes or Leevy. She was going to be in the Seam most of the day. It could also be Madge Undersee, she goes there a lot."
No one nods, or writes anything down.
"How long does Miss Everdeen usually spend outside the District fence?"
"What are you talking about?" asks Mrs. Everdeen.
The female Peacekeeper gives a short laugh. "It's well known Miss Everdeen violates district and safety regulations by unlawfully venturing outside the District 12 boundaries. The question is, how long has she been out already - how long do you usually have to wait until she comes back?"
"We all don't know anything about that," says Haymitch suddenly. "And neither do you."
"We know she's out there today. We know she's been there since early this morning. What we don't know is whether or not she'll be coming back."
"We don't know that either," says Haymitch.
"Well, you all better hope she does."
I bite my lip. Could she - would she - have actually done it? She's been staying inside the fence line since the crackdown, knowing now there would be no escaping the penalty if she were caught. Perhaps it was the starvation in the district - perhaps she went to hunt. But I think she would only do that if it got desperate for her and her family. Any game distributed would be death to her and to anyone who received it.
Would she have really left Prim behind to face any punishment brought down because of her flight? Would she have even left me? It was her idea for me to go. She certainly seemed sincere. Would she have left Gale? He's suspiciously absent from this meeting.
Anxiety and jealousy twist at me, but I fight them. Surely, she would not leave without giving word. There has to be some other explanation.
"Peeta," Haymitch calls to me. "Do you play chess?"
"I know how to, yes," I answer.
I join him at a side table and pull a second rocking chair over. Haymitch sets up the board and I stare at my hands. If they are not expecting Katniss to come back, how long are they going to stand here before they take us in for - what? More questioning, the stocks, whipping - worse? Haymitch keeps glancing over at me, I know. Probably would like to ask what I know - or maybe there's information he wants to pass on, I don't know.
Haymitch is pretty good at chess, it turns out, and I'm distracted, so he dispatches me twice fairly quickly - which annoys rather than delights him. I make a more solid stand the third time, and that helps pass the time. Prim reads a textbook. Her mother starts knitting something. Darkness falls.
"OK," says the female Peacekeeper, finally, making us all jump. "You'll all be moving out with us to the square."
"On what grounds?" asks Haymitch.
"Thread will-." And at that there is a noise at the front door. Katniss' mom jumps up, and I want to - but Haymitch grasps my arm. With the Peacekeepers' attention swiveled away from us for the moment, he mouths, "Be cool."
The Peacekeepers go toward the front door and Katniss' mother goes behind them. Prim stands up and takes a position by the hearth, nervously straightening out her skirts.
"Hello," says Katniss.
Prim, Haymitch and I exchange looks of intense relief. For me, the relief is laced with a hot, sick feeling - and I realize that despite everything I told myself, some part of me was convinced that she had fled the district with Gale.
"Here she is, just in time for dinner!" says her mother. Though dinner's long cold.
"Can I help you with something?" asks Katniss.
"Head Peacekeeper Thread sent us with a message for you."
"They've been waiting for hours," adds her mother, which gets her an ugly look from the Peacekeepers.
"Must be an important message."
"May we ask where you've been, Miss Everdeen?"
"Easier to ask where I haven't been," she says, crossing through the kitchen and into view.
There's something - off about her, but I can't tell what it is. Maybe it's just that she's moving with caution, but she seems less graceful, more awkward, than usual.
She sees us and when she meets my eyes, there is both surprise and gratitude there.
"So, where haven't you been?" asks Haymitch.
"Well, I haven't been talking to the Goat Man about getting Prim's goat pregnant, because someone gave me completely inaccurate information as to where he lives," she says to Prim, emphatically.
"No, I didn't," says Prim, like Haymitch picking up and going along with her. We all know she knows exactly where the Goat Man lives. "I told you exactly."
"You said he lives beside the west entrance to the mine."
"The east entrance."
"You distinctly said the west, because then I said 'Next to the slag heap?' and you said 'Yeah.'"
"The slag heap next to the east entrance."
"No - when did you say that?"
"Last night," says Haymitch, chuckling.
"It was definitely the east," I add. Katniss glares at me - we are seasoned acting partners, now - and I smile at her. "I'm sorry, but it's what I've been saying. You don't listen when people talk to you."
"Bet people told you he didn't live there today and you didn't listen again."
"Shut up, Haymitch."
Haymitch and I laugh, but Katniss' eyes are still trained on mine. "Fine, somebody else can arrange to get the stupid goat knocked up."
"What's in the bag?" asks the female Peacekeeper, and we look back in their direction. Her partner is smiling.
Tension rises in me again as I notice that Katniss' game bag is on the table. But she goes to it without hesitation – though with a small hitch in her step - and empties it out. "See for yourself."
In a miraculous turn of events, her game bag is filled with – innocuous supplies. Bandages. Candy. Now that there is a good excuse to, I move toward the kitchen, toward the Peacekeepers, closer to Katniss. I pick up the candy bag. "Ooh, peppermints," I say, popping one in my mouth.
"They're mine!" says Katniss, making a grab for the bag. I laugh and toss it to Haymitch, who then passes it to Prim, who is also laughing now. It's a normal sound, at last.
"None of you deserve candy!" Katniss exclaims.
"Why, because we're right?" I walk up to her and wrap my arms around her. I feel a slight spasm, followed by a gasp, which she elongates into a groan of frustration. I look at her and can see the pain in her eyes. She's hurt. Something or someone hurt her. "OK," I tell her softly. "Prim said west, I distinctly heard west. And we're all idiots. How's that?"
"Better," she says. She parts her lips - part of the act, I warn myself, although it could also be a reflex, left over from the tour. Whatever it is, I kiss her, just long enough to feel the soft flesh of her lips harden as they press against mine. It's like the closing act of the play. She swallows and blinks at the Peacekeepers. "You have a message for me?"
"From Head Peacekeeper Thread. He wanted you to know that the fence surrounding District 12 will now have electricity twenty-four hours a day."
"Didn't it already?" Katniss asks, just this side of sarcastic. So - she already knows something about this.
"He thought you might be interested in passing this information on to your cousin."
"Thank you. I'll tell him. I'm sure we'll all sleep a little more soundly now that security has addressed that lapse."
Katniss. I want to squeeze her a warning. But there's admiration, too - always that, too.
The Peacekeepers leave. I'm not sure what their plan was for us if Katniss had not arrived - which they clearly expected. But the immediate threat is over. I sigh - Katniss slumps down and I hold her up. "What's wrong?" I say in a low voice.
"I banged up my left foot. The heel. And my tailbone's had a bad day, too."
Frowning, I help her over to the rocker I was sitting at earlier, and sit her down so her mother can conduct an examination.
"What happened?" she asks, slipping off Katniss' boots.
She bites her lip. "I slipped and fell." In the disbelieving pause that greets her words, she grunts and adds, "On some ice."
Katniss' mother diagnoses her with a broken heel and bruised tailbone. She's given a snowpack and has to put her foot up. She's served stew in the sitting room, while the rest of us eat, mostly in silence, at the kitchen table. Prim joins her and they talk quietly together for a while until their mother brings out some tea, to which she adds a dose of sleep syrup. I join them and assist her when she wraps Katniss' foot.
"I'll help you upstairs," I say to Katniss, as her eyes start to immediately droop.
I put her arm around my shoulder and help her up. But she's unsteady on her feet, so I just lift her up in my arms, and she nuzzles her face against my shoulder as I carry her upstairs. She's so small and light.
"Which room is yours?" I ask her, putting my lips on her hair.
She points, and I carry her in there, feeling weird about it. Even though we have spent nights together - sharing a sleeping bag, sharing a bed - this seems far more intrusive, like I'm invading her space, with all my warm and tender, hot and jealous, unchaste thoughts. Her room, like my own, is Capitol furnished, and there's not much in it besides the bed and dresser and a couple of chairs. I set her down, pull her covers on her and look at her frail face. This girl that President Snow is so afraid of. I wonder - what will come next? How long will we have to live under this oppression and this constant fear of reprisal?
"Good night," I say wearily. But she grabs my hand so that I can't leave and she looks at me with such a strange expression.
"Don't go yet. Not until I fall asleep."
It's a plea from the train - from my domain, crashing into hers, where it has no place, no future. But I can do nothing but obey. I sit down on the bed next to her and put my other hand on hers. She blinks at me - sleep is coming fast, but she's holding out on it. Holding off the nightmares that come when you sleep alone.
I smile at her. "Almost thought you'd changed your mind today. When you were late for dinner." Why I confess this, I don't know. Part of me is still angry, I guess, that she went outside the fence – clearly, she did - at the risk to everyone else. Part of me wants to remind her that I'm the one who agreed to leave with her.
"No," she says, her voice faint, but firm. "I'd have told you." She pulls my hand up to her cheek and holds it there, still just looking at me with her sleepy eyes. There are no cameras. There is only her and me, in the dim light of her bedside oil lamp. And this is why I can't keep my promises - to her or to myself. I can never just be friends with this girl. I don't want to - and she won't let me, anyway. Something, somewhere inside her belongs to me in just the same way that all of me belongs to her. Maybe it's not that big - maybe it's not big enough. But it's there.
"Stay with me," she commands, in a slurred voice.
She means now, in this last moment before she drops off to sleep. If she dared to, she'd ask for more - ask for me to stay with her the night so that the nightmares don't come. But in my head the command grows larger. It covers all nights, for all time - and the days, as well. Capitol or no Capitol. Gale or no Gale. Whenever she needs me.
"Always," I promise, as she closes her eyes.
When I go home, I root through some of the boxes that I brought to Victors' Village when I moved here from the bakery and never fully unpacked. Untouched since then are my childhood sketchbooks - three of them, spanning eight years of drawing.
Last summer, I bundled the sketchbooks together, hid them in my sock drawer, and wrote a note on top of them, in case I did not return home from the Reaping. It was an impulsive gesture, belonging to that 16-year-old boy who might as well have been 5, that's how much older I feel now. In my note, I left the sketchbooks to Katniss:
"In the event of my death, please give these to Katniss Everdeen."
That's the outside of the note. Inside, it gets even worse:
"Katniss, this might surprise you, but I want you to have these. You're my inspiration."
At first I laugh - what an ignorant little boy, I think. Then I feel ashamed.
That doesn't sound like you.
How cynical have I become to feel this superior to my own naive sincerity? Why do I despise the boy and his crush on the girl who doesn't love him? Does it make me somehow less hurt, less regretful, to dismiss him? I suppose - if things had gone the way they might have gone - it would have been an odd surprise for Katniss, to be handed this bequest. And, knowing her as I do now - slightly embarrassing. But haven't I been subduing it long enough? - this love for her, twisting around in me, twisted around all the rest of the trauma so that it is hard, sometimes, to tell the difference between the hurt the Capitol caused me and the hurt she did.
It doesn't need reciprocation to be real. It doesn't need reciprocation to be important.
It's simply - and in all complex ways, as well - a part of who I am, and has been, ever since she sang those first notes in school and a love of all things beautiful sprang up in me. This says as much about me as it does about her. I think it's high time I openly acknowledged this.
She did inspire me. To be bigger than myself, to be larger than my circumstances.
And - it's not just about how mysterious and magical, how frustrating and alluring, how Katniss she is. It's about me - about who I really am - about the very specific ways that I respond to her. The things that I value, have always valued, that have their fulfillment in her.
Burnt fingers. A broken heart. That's how it should have ended. But for the Games. And the Games - and my own particular game within them - has created a shift in the storyline. A way that my love for her means much more than a pitiable impulse. It has meant - fire for Panem, but not just in anger, not just in rebellion. At the core of it, the inspiration was love; and from love comes devotion - then loyalty and, finally, sacrifice. Something Panem needed to see, to feel, after all this time. And that comes from me. So, it has come to be that, at the end of the day, in whatever way we burn, now - burn to death or burn down the Capitol - it will be in part because I loved Katniss Everdeen.
And that is enough.