This can't be real.
I'm sitting on a pallet of bricks in the centre of town; construction is happening all around me, people wander everywhere. That is real. The sun is brilliant and already I can tell it's going to be hot today. That's real too.
But this? This can't be real.
I look again at the packet of papers Thom handed me half an hour ago. On top is a deed for the land that my parents' bakery once stood on, the empty plot of land directly across from me right now. A deed with my name on it in bold letters. Under that are pamphlets detailing the Capitol's reconstruction grant program, and grant approval forms with my name on them too. And at the very bottom of the pile: blueprints. Blueprints for a bakery.
My bakery.
When Thom approached me after Katniss's birthday dinner with the idea of building and running a bakery to serve district 12 I was interested of course, even excited by the idea. But I'm not sure I truly believed it would happen. And certainly I had no idea I'd be sitting here just 4 weeks later with all of the documentation needed to begin. An architect from District 6 is going to meet with me this afternoon to help me modify the standard bakery blueprint I'm clutching into something specific to my needs.
My needs. My bakery. This can't be real.
Once the plans are finalized Thom will order the building materials and assemble the work crew. If everything goes as planned, construction could start in early September and be done about 10 weeks later. My bakery could be in business before the end of the year.
My bakery.
I can't stop staring at the blueprints. The front elevation looks so much like the original bakery, my parents' bakery; two large windows flanking a heavy windowed door. I loved those windows in my parents' bakery; they let in so much light, and had let me see the world outside. My mother hated the windows, between the persistent coal dust that always blanketed the District 12 of my youth, and the hand and nose prints of young passersby who would stop to look in the display cases, the glass was always in need of cleaning. It was a job I volunteered for frequently, washing the bakery windows. It got me out of the bakery and away from my mother at least once a day, let me chat with the townspeople even when I was stuck with an all day shift, which happened nearly every Saturday. Even though my father promised each of us boys one whole Saturday off every month it never seemed to work out that way for me. Rye and Brann were always convincing me to cover their shifts.
The peaked roof over the windows and door was just wide enough for a sign. On my parents' bakery the sign read "Mellark's" in a swirly blue script, outlined in a buttery yellow that stood out from the dingy grey-white of the building. Repainting that sign when the peeling got too bad for it to be easily read was also my job; once my mother figured out that I liked to paint she found every excuse to mock me about it. I repainted that sign every year, repainted the door and the window sashes every other. Truthfully I liked repainting the sign, carefully filling in the letters that had been sketched out three generations earlier. My father was always so pleased when the sign was redone, the twinkle of pride in his eyes as he looked at his name above the door. I felt that pride too; though I knew the bakery would never be mine it was still my name and I always felt invested in its success. After repainting that sign so many times I feel like I could replicate it from memory. Maybe I will, it's only fitting to call my new bakery 'Mellark's', and it'll need a sign anyway.
I still have a couple of hours before I'm due to meet with the architect but today's routine was pretty much erased the moment Thom put this package of papers into my hands, and now I'm a little bit at a loss as to what I should do with my time. The garden always needs weeding, but tending to it would leave me dirty and sweaty for my meeting, probably not the first impression I'd like to leave. Katniss is hunting, and Haymitch is sleeping, so visiting with either of them is out. I find myself wandering to the marketplace, which is a number of stalls set up in a nondescript warehouse structure that was among the first buildings erected in town after the war. Katniss calls it a cleaner, brighter version of the Hob, but I never saw the inside of the Hob before it was burned to the ground by Thread and his Peacekeepers, in what feels like another lifetime.
I wander from stall to stall, visiting with everyone, collecting the stories and gossip of the town to share with Katniss over dinner tonight. In the back corner of the building is an empty stall where a counter and stools are being installed. Sae's voice rises over the din with a strength that belies her tiny, bent body. She's directing a pair of teens who are trying to set up a stove in the stall. I catch her eye to wave, she's obviously busy and I don't want to disturb her, but when she sees me she walks right over and envelopes me in a hug, which I return wholeheartedly. Sae has become a mother figure to both me and Katniss, caring for us in the absence of our own mothers. Caring for me more tenderly than my own mother ever did, even when she was alive.
"Sae, your stall looks almost finished!" I say by way of greeting. She smiles brightly.
"Reckon I'll be ready to go in a couple of weeks," she says. "The boys are installin' the stove and counter today, just waitin' on a refrigerator now." She gestures to the rolled up blueprint in my hand. "What've you got there now?"
I'm bouncing with excitement as I unroll the paper on the counter top. Sae recognizes what I'm showing her right away and her hand flies up to cover her mouth even as her eyes crinkle in pleasure. "You're buildin' a new bakery?" I nod and she pats my arm. "I'm so proud of you," she says. I feel a flush creeping up my neck and heating my cheeks as I return her smile.
"I'm meeting with an architect this afternoon to make a few changes to the layout, and then once everything is finalized I'll get added to the construction schedule and building will begin in the fall." Even as I say it out loud it feels unreal.
Sae gestures to one of the new stools. "Sit a bit and tell me about what you're plannin'," she says with a smile. I flip over one of the papers in my stack and quickly sketch out some of the ideas I've been mulling over in my head since I first looked at the blueprints this morning. We chat while I sketch, and then when she turns her attention back to the young men who are helping set up her booth I continue sketching, until I've filled the backs of several sheets of paper and have a fairly good idea of what I want the inside of the building to look like.
I meet Thom at the site of the old bakery, of what will soon be the site of my new bakery (is that real?) and he directs me to a small trailer a couple of blocks away. Or what would be a couple of blocks if we had blocks. Inside there is a large desk and a handful of chairs. Corkboard covers two of the walls and dozens of blueprints are pinned there. A small, balding man is rifling through them, and he turns as we enter, flashing a warm, genuine smile. He looks to be in the early part of his 30s, dressed in suit pants and a white dress shirt rolled up at the sleeves.
"Edwin," Thom greets the man, "This is Peeta Mellark, and we're goin' to be buildin' him a bakery. Peeta, this is Edwin Racine, architect." I shake the older man's hand and take the seat he gestures towards. Thom claps me on the shoulder. "Headin' out to check on the other crews," he says, walking towards the door. "If you need me, just holler!" I wave at Thom, but when I turn back to face Edwin he has set a small holographic projector on the table.
I freeze. It's exactly like the projectors they used in the Capitol to feed me increasingly distorted images of Katniss, of death and burning and terror. My heart rate speeds up immediately. I close my eyes tightly and press my nails into the palms of my hands as the shiny images swim in my mind. I can feel the needle stick, the burning of the venom in my veins. I know I'm shaking, he's going to clamp my eyes open any second now and begin the torture. No, this isn't the Capitol, I'm safe here I think urgently to myself. My breathing is ragged; I try desperately to clear my mind, trying some of the tricks Dr. Aurelius taught me. I envision myself rolling out fondant, the exact amount of pressure I need to use to make a perfect ¼ inch sheet. Over and over I roll the fondant in my mind, careful to keep the edges from getting too thin and tearing.
"Mr. Mellark? Mr. Mellark?" The voice gets gradually louder and clearer. Mr. Mellark, are you all right? Should uh… should I get someone?" I'm not sure how long Edwin has been calling me, but I can hear the note of fear in his voice.
I take another couple of deep breaths, and keeping my eyes closed manage to choke out a request. "Could you please put the projector away, Mr. Racine?" I imagine I've confused him terribly, but I can hear him shuffling and the sound of a drawer opening and closing.
When finally I chance to open my eyes the projector is gone and he is looking at me cautiously. Graph paper, tracing paper, pencils and three sided rulers are placed neatly between us. I feel my cheeks burning with embarrassment, but before I can apologize and try to explain he smiles at me and says in a conspiratorial tone "I really prefer working on paper. The Capitol folks love their gadgets, but I think that's because they lack imagination." He gives me a wink and I can feel the tension drain from my body as gratitude floods through me. I thank him softly and he nods just slightly, smiling warmly.
"I, uhm, made a couple of preliminary sketches," I tell him, sliding the pages and blueprints across the desk. His eyebrows shoot up as he peruses them.
"These are excellent, you're quite talented. Ever consider a career change Mr. Mellark?" he says.
I laugh lightly. "My family have been bakers for generations. I was pretty much born to be a baker I think. And please, call me Peeta."
"And you must call me Edwin," he replies. "Now let's see about making those drawing into plans, shall we?"
Edwin and I work together for a couple of hours. He redesigns the building, pushing out the front wall by 8 feet, which will give me enough room to put tables and chairs in the front of the bakery, a place where people can sit and eat their treats, visit and talk with each other. Though I wanted to get rid of the apartment above the bakery entirely he convinces me to keep it, insisting that I'll have to hire employees eventually and that being able to offer housing as a job benefit will go a long way to attracting a good worker. He completely changes the floor plan though, so it will look nothing like the dingy, cramped space I grew up in. The original bakery's apartment had two small, dark bedrooms tucked under the eaves, one on either side of the main room that functioned as kitchen, living room and dining room. A tiny windowless bath completed the space. It was, at best, a challenging atmosphere in which to raise 3 rambunctious boys, and one that left nowhere to hide from our volatile mother. Edwin adds dormers and extends the main room to take advantage of the larger footprint of the building, creating a cozy 2 bedroom flat with a completely separate entrance, so that any future tenant won't have to traipse through the bakery's kitchen to get home. The longer we work together the more excited I get, the more real it all seems.
When we are wrapping up I thank Edwin profusely for his assistance. He generously insists that I did most of the work and he simply wrote out the measurements. Of course that's not true; he did virtually everything and transformed my clumsy ideas into what will become a truly perfect building for me. As I gather up my papers and forms he clears his throat.
"Peeta," he says tentatively. I look up at him. "I know it's not very professional for me to say this, but thank you." I'm sure my confusion must register on my face. He continues. "My daughter just turned twelve last month. She would have stood for her first reaping in a few weeks' time if not for you and the Mockingjay. I can't thank you enough for what you and your wife did for us. For all of us." I cringe a little when he says 'wife', most of the people in Districts 12 and 13 know Katniss and I were never married but apparently not elsewhere. Still, I don't correct him.
"We were just two desperate kids Edwin. The districts were ready to revolt, we were only the spark." He shakes his head.
"You were so much more. You are so much more! My brother-in-law was a rebel soldier, he and his comrades tried for years to organize the others in our district to fight, but it was only after your Games that large numbers of people joined the revolution. People saw your bravery, your unwillingness to bend to the Capitol's whims. In all of those years, all of those generations, you were the first to stand up and refuse."
I shake my head sadly. "We paid so terribly for it Edwin. We were tortured. My family and Katniss's both were destroyed. Our home destroyed, our friends murdered. We are trying to put the pieces of our lives back together, but every day is a struggle. I'm grateful for peace and for the end of the Games, but it was at a tremendous cost." It's difficult to be so honest about the toll that our involvement in the revolution took on us, especially when my innate nature is generally optimistic, but I don't want to hide the pain anymore. People need to know. He pats my shoulder.
"Please know that we all are so very grateful Peeta. You are a true hero. You and Katniss both. If there is ever anything I can do…"
"Live well Edwin," I tell him. "Live well to make their deaths count."
We shake hands and I tuck my papers under my arm and turn to leave the little trailer. I see him wiping a tear away as I retreat.
I walk home in a strange haze, my earlier giddiness has dissipated. I'm still happy, so very happy, but it's a happiness that's tinged with melancholy as I think of the people who aren't here to share in my happiness. I promise myself that I'll follow my own advice, that I'll make a good life here, to honour them all.