Disclaimer: I'm just playing with Suzanne Collins' characters and her world. They're hers. Not mine.
It's musty and dusty, but the smell of the fading pages of the past has always been something of a comfort to Madge. It reminds her that, in the past, people did more than work, suffer, and die.
Dewey Decimal
Madge wishes she were more useful sometimes.
She'd been trying to help her mother with baking cookies. It was one of her rare 'good' days, she wasn't confined to her bed, shades drawn and a cool rag over her eyes. Things had been going so well until they'd failed to hear the timer. The cookies had all burnt, filling the kitchen and the rest of the downstairs portion of the house with the invisible stench of burnt dough. The housekeeper, Mrs. Oberst, had a fit.
"You shouldn't be mucking about with the equipment," she'd scolded Madge. As if an eleven year old had more reason and sense than her adult mother, who'd simply dissolved into a ball of sobs and apologies.
"Don't you worry, Mrs. Undersee," Mrs. Oberst had patted Madge's mother on the back. "Shush now."
Then she'd given Madge instruction on how to correct the disaster she'd made and taken her mother back up to her room, giving Madge one last hateful glare before disappearing up stairs.
After cleaning the oven and scrubbing the bowls and baking sheets Madge decided to make herself scarce.
Out she went, into the soggy afternoon, to find another way to occupy her time.
At first she thought she might go visit her father, but he's been grumbling about the Capitol being unreasonable about some unstable mineshafts and she's thinks she remembers him saying something about a 'conference call', whatever that was. So that's off the table.
Mrs. Mellark is manning the front desk of the bakery, so no fresh baked cookies from there. She's already visited the dress shop the day before. Her shoes aren't in disrepair, so the cobbler isn't an option either really.
Finally she shuffles up and into the derelict building that homes District Twelve's library.
It's musty and dusty, but the smell of the fading pages of the past has always been something of a comfort to Madge. It reminds her that, in the past, people did more than work, suffer, and die.
She sneaks past the ancient librarian and into the back, snuggling down in the section housing the 820's.
Elizabeth had just told off Mr. Darcy for ruining the happiness of her most beloved sister when she hears whispering in the stacks to her left.
She frowns. Nobody ever comes in the library. Well, hardly anyone. The people of District Twelve have better things to do than to engross themselves in books. Madge had been an assistant in the school's joke of a library the year before and the only time she'd even heard of anyone venturing into the library was when a couple of older kids were caught doing 'unspeakable things' in the back most stacks by the old volunteer who monitored the room.
Curious, Madge creeps to the row behind where the voices are coming from and peers carefully between the upper and lower lines of books.
It's a man, tall and cheerful looking, with a scruffy looking beard and dark hair. With him is a boy, clearly his son judging by his look, similar dark hair and olive skin, he's a couple of years older than Madge, maybe. Her stomach does an odd little flip. They're having a whispered conversation, scouring the shelves for something.
The boy grabs a book from the shelf and gives it an annoyed glare.
"This is girly crap."
"Watch your mouth, Gale," his father tells him.
"Well it is," the boy, Gale, grumbles. "This doesn't have anything to do with plants."
Well of course not. Madge thinks. You're in the poetry section.
They've probably never been to the library before, she thinks. They're likely from the Seam, going off their looks, and so are the least likely people to be perusing the shelves of the library.
She watches them struggle for a minute, pulling books down, examining them, then sticking them back on the shelf in disappointment. Finally she takes pity.
Like a mouse, she pads softly to the end of the row and peeks down at them from around the corner.
"You're in the wrong section," she almost whispers.
She doesn't think they heard her at first, then the man looks around. He tilts his head and looks, searching for the source of the sound. When he spots her, her blue eyes and the topmost part of her blonde head just barely visible from his position, he smiles.
"Hello there," he says gently. "What was that?"
Her courage is leaving her, but she takes a deep breath and says it again.
"You-You're in the wrong section." She points over to the other side of the building, "You want section 630, agriculture."
The man nods.
Before she realizes what she's doing, she's stepped out from the shelf and held out her hand.
"I can show you. If you have the name."
What possessed her, she'll never know, but the man's smile widens and he turns to his son.
"Give her the paper, Gale."
Gale huffs, but hands her a slip of paper. The handwriting is atrocious. Madge examines the name before turning on her toes and heading to the catalog. She jumps up on the little step stool and begins picking through the cards until she finds the one she's looking for, snatching it up, and walking with Gale and Gale's father trailing behind her.
The book is just out of her reach and she stands on her tippy toes to try and reach it. Then a warm body brushes against her back and a ragged looking shirtsleeve stretches over her head and plucks it from above her.
Gale's stormy gray eyes flicker over the cover as he turns his long sought after book in his hands.
"So…we just take it?"
Madge frowns.
Well of course, they've never been here before. She reminds herself.
"No, well, you take it to the front and give it to Ms. Poteau and she'll check it out to you. Then you'll have two weeks to return it. If you don't bring it back on time they charge you a fee for each day it's late," she explains.
"Huh," Gale grunts.
She scampers back to her table and grabs her book, then walks with them to the front, to the desk where the old woman sits to check them out.
Ms. Poteau gives Gale and Gale's father a once over, critically eyeing their shabby clothes and the coal dust forever embedded in their nail beds, but makes no comment. She asks for their name and address and fills out a card for them before stamping the book with a return date and handing it back to them. Madge's check out goes much quicker.
When they step outside Mr. Hawthorne (she remembers hearing him tell old Ms. Poteau) frowns at her. His cheery eyes flicker from the top of her head to her shiny patent leather shoes and he frowns.
"You were here by yourself?"
She goes most places by herself, but she doesn't tell him that. She nods.
She's a rather short eleven, her dad assures her she'll have a growth spurt anytime, and she knows he thinks she's too young to be wandering the District alone. Which she might be, she's so used to her solitary life she isn't sure what is or isn't normal for a girl her age.
"Well," he nods back at her, "Gale and I will walk you home then. Least we can do for all your trouble."
Madge doesn't want them to walk her home. Home is the Mayoral 'Manor'. If they take her there they'll know she's just the Mayor's brat kid and it's been so nice having people speak to her.
"It was no trouble. I can get home on my own. I'm used to it."
Gale tugs at his dad's coat, "Let's go, dad."
Mr. Hawthorne gives his son a hard look, "Gale, you never let a lady walk home alone. Especially a very small lady."
Madge fixes her gaze on her shoes and mumbles, "I'm not a lady. I'm a little girl, sir."
He chuckles, it's warm and deep and Madge likes the way it tickles her ears.
"I know a lady when I see one." His eyes twinkle at her. "Besides, if I ever have a little girl I hope that if she's ever out on her own someone will take the time to make sure she makes it home safely."
Gale rolls his eyes and mutters something about never getting a sister.
She takes a deep breath, "I-I liveatthemayorhouse."
Mr. Hawthorne and Gale stare at her disbelieving for a moment and she looks back down at her shoes and prepares herself to swallow down bitter disappointment.
She expects them to take off, leave her standing under the cold, grey December sky at the topmost steps of the library, what she doesn't expect is for Mr. Hawthorne to pat her on the shoulder. Her eyes, wide and uncertain, look up and catch his. He's smiling.
"Well, then it'll be easy to find then, huh?"
He offers her his now gloved hand and she hesitantly takes it.
When the mine collapses over a month later and Madge sees the somber face of Gale Hawthorne along with his two younger brothers and his very pregnant mother, she remembers Mr. Hawthorne and his warm laugh and his willingness to walk a little girl home. She stands there, hands limply at her sides, her face in a careful, empty mask, and watches Gale accept the medal for his father's sacrifice and she wishes once more, that she were just a little more useful.