The clearing of a throat startles me. Looking up I see a woman I don't recognize, which seems nearly impossible. Though the population of District Twelve has slowly risen, our population is nowhere near what it used to be. While some have returned, very few new faces ever show up. Unlike some of the other districts, Twelve doesn't have much to offer now that the mines have shut down and we have little in the way of commerce. The new medical plant is still on schedule to open, but it will be next spring at the earliest.

The unfamiliar face breaks me out of the trance I've been sitting in. "Hi," I start, having no idea which way the conversation will steer. She's my age, maybe a few years old. So skinny her clothes hang off her body and arms like a bag. Plain looking, but beautiful in her own way. I know, immediately in the moment, that if she breaks into questions about Peeta, I will snap. I've been working on my jealously, but it hasn't gone well so far.

She seems too nervous to speak, and I'm not in the mood to strike up a conversation myself. I've had enough of the girls who come in to interview with Peeta to work in the bakery. Most of them know less about baking than I do, and that's saying something. They sit, they gawk, and they giggle at every word he says. Then they have the nerve to come over and try to chat me up, as if I'll put in a good word for them if they play nice. It hasn't worked once yet. I wish they'd take a hint.

"Right then," I mumble under my breath, returning to my cheesy bun. The rain outside forced me to seek shelter, and the combination of a day wasted mixed with the high humidity brought on by the afternoon showers has left me in a foul mood. If she wants to sit there and stare, so be it.

"S…sorry," she stammers. Glancing up again, I see the way her fingers nervously toy with the run on the hem of her shirt. Her brown hair and dark eyes mimic my own, and I know she grew up in the Seam, even if I don't recognize her.

"Sorry about what?" I ask, my impatience getting the better of me.

I catch Peeta's eye from behind the counter. He's giving me a pointed look, clear as day. 'Be nice', it warns. I level my eyes into a glare at him, savagely biting a chunk out of my bun. Then I remember that he's the one who feeds me my endless supply of cheesy buns, and I try to crank up the civility the best I can. "Is there something I can help you with?" I ask when she still seems incapable of speech.

"We're looking for a music teacher for the younger children," she says in a rush, the words tripping over each other as they stumble out of her mouth. "The school opens in the fall and we're having difficulty filling some of the positions. Music, in particular."

Well this is certainly a turn of events. She's barely managed to say a word so far, and now she's a gusher of over sharing information. "I'm afraid I don't have any recommendations," I tell her. Anyone who knows me, or knows of me, knows I'm not the socialite of the town. I go out of my way to avoid the gatherings. I get stared at and whispered about enough as it is without volunteering for the attention.

"Um…" the shyness returns as quickly as it escaped. Her eyes dart down at her feet, her worn leather boots knocking together nervously. Her hands tremble. I almost feel bad except she's the one pestering me. "We… we, uh, we were actually hoping you might consider it." The words are mumbled through lips as her eyes stare holes into the ground.

Equal parts surprised and shocked, I laugh. Thinking it's a joke someone put her up to, I look up towards Peeta to see if he's chuckling as well. But he looks confused and slightly concerned at my outburst, so I turn back to the girl. "I'm sorry," I apologize. Her hair covers a majority of her face, but the part I can see is burning scarlet. "Are you serious?" I ask, still stunned.

"We knew it was a long shot," she admits to the floor, "but I promised we would at least ask. Everyone heard you sing in the Games and in the Propos. And the kids you went to school with say you sound even better in person."

I can't help but laugh again. I'd rather get shot with one of my own arrows than willingly sing in public and this girl is asking me to do it as a job? I almost ask her what the job pays, but then I decide I don't need to be a complete ass about it. "I'm afraid I'm about the last person you'd want," I tell her honestly.

"That may be true," she admits, "but as of right now, you're the only option we have left if we wish to have a music program at all for the school."

"I don't know anything about instruments," I protest.

"Even if we only teach them to sing." She must see a kink in my armor, the smallest chance that I might change my mind. With each sentence she speaks, she seems to grow surer of herself and her request. "Anything is better than nothing. It's going to take a lot of work the first year, but I promise it'll be worth it. Most of the kids already see you as an idol," I grimace, "and we think you might be able to get them to pay attention when they otherwise wouldn't care at all."

I don't want to be an idol. I'm certainly not a role model. Kids shouldn't look up to me or want to be me. Peeta, maybe. Prim, yes. Gale, definitely not. And I happen to fall into the same category with him in this instance. But she looks so desperate, clinging to the last shred of hope she's holding. It makes it awfully difficult to turn her down. "Can I think about it?" I ask, plucking at my cheesy bun though I've lost all signs of appetite.

"Yes!" she exclaims, her voice high pitched and shrill. "Take all the time you need. And even if you can't do it on a regular basis and only want to come in when it fits into your schedule. We'll take whatever you can offer."

"I'll think about it," I repeat. As her eyes begin to shine, I feel the need to clarify, "But I'm not making any promises."

"Of course," she says. But her grin is so wide that I think, somehow, I've already lost this argument to the girl who couldn't even speak in the first place.