"How many times is your name gonna be in that bowl tomorrow, Seam slut?"
I keep my head ducked on the way out of school - for the safety of the townies jeering at me, not the other way around. I glare at the sparse grass and grit my teeth, pushing my way through the crowd gathered near the school entrance.
The answer is 25. That's how many times my name is in the reaping bowl. They know it, too, which is why they're asking.
"It would be just our luck to have Seam trash get reaped."
I take a deep breath and concentrate on one thing: Finding Prim. I push through the teenagers until I reach the little kids, the 12-year-olds coming out of the smaller schoolhouse. I see her right away, those shining blonde braids parted down the middle and her blue eyes sharp with worry.
She runs to me and presses her face to my chest. I hold her, hunching my shoulders around her so she can't hear the names I'm still being called. She notices anyway, though.
"Why do they say those things to you?" she asks.
I take her hand and lead her away from school, swinging her arm a bit. "What things?" I ask, playing dumb to keep up the mood. "I only heard them shouting about how pretty I am, and how rich we are."
Prim snorts. It's the first time I've heard her laugh in days.
Tomorrow is her first reaping, and she's been having nightmares about it for the past two or three months. I don't think she's slept through the night since April, and it's July now.
"I have an idea," I say, guiding her gently away from the path we usually take home - leading her, instead, towards the square.
"Where are we going?" she asks.
"You'll see," I say, then squeeze her fingers.
It only takes her a moment to realize what we're doing. When we stop outside the bakery, she kneels to the level of the expertly-decorated cakes and ogles them in the way she loves to do. Today, they're new. She hasn't seen these ones before, which means they're especially exciting.
"Look at this orange one, Katniss," Prim says, pressing the tip of her pointer finger to the window. "It's so beautiful. And this blue one! It looks just like the sky. I wonder how they do that." She cranes her neck to look up at me. "How do you think they do it?"
"I have no idea," I say, keeping one eye on her and the other on our surroundings, making sure none of the boys from school have followed us. So far, we're in the clear.
As Prim compliments the variety of cakes and cookies, I peer through the large, front window of the bakery and squint past my dusty reflection to see inside. Behind the counter is Mrs. Mellark, the wife the baker abandoned - who kept his last name even after he was gone. I suppose it made sense to do, given it's painted on the front of their shop.
But if I were betrayed like that, I'd deface my own store before wearing the name of the person who did me wrong.
As I continue to watch, someone comes around the corner with a big bag of flour in his arms - someone I recognize. Peeta Mellark, who's in my class at school, the youngest of the three Mellark brothers. The smallest, too, though not compared to me or Prim. He's short and stocky, but muscular. Healthy. Well-fed.
They have enough inside their warm little bakery to ensure that all three sons and their mother eat well. They have enough food to go around - and more on top of that. They have enough to throw a burnt loaf out in the rain, enough to get a starving girl home to renew hope for her family.
Me. The starving girl was me. And every time I see Peeta's face - whether that's in class, in town, or on the off chance I see him here when I trade his mother for squirrels - I think of that day. That day, how much I owe him, and how I'll never be able to repay him.
It's been five years and it still hovers over my head, that debt. And I resent him for it. I don't like owing people.
"We should get home," I say to Prim, more sternly than I intended. She looks up with hurt in her eyes, and I soften my tone as she straightens up. "Lady will be hungry."
…
In bed that night, Prim's hair is wet from the bath as I braid it back. She's sitting in front of me, completely silent, shoulders rounded by her ears. We're both in our pajamas, ready for sleep, but I sincerely doubt it will come easily tonight.
"I have something for you," I say softly, tapping her so she'll turn around.
I lean over to grab my satchel from school, then pull a cloth wrap out of it. Carefully untying it, I unearth four ruby-red strawberries and Prim lights up with surprise.
"How did you get these?!" she says, keeping her excited voice hushed. Mom doesn't wake like she used to, but it's still a habit.
"Traded Madge at lunch," I say, then set the little parcel down in front of us. "Go ahead."
Prim takes one and eats it slowly, savoring the sweet taste. I do the same, but I care about seeing her happy more than I care about the strawberries, so after she eats two and I've only eaten one, I offer her the last berry.
"Take it," I say.
"But it's yours," she says, her lips stained red.
"Have it," I insist, and it doesn't take more than that.
Once every last bit of the berries is gone, even the leafy greens on top, I fold up the cloth that I had packed them in and lie down on the hard mattress. Prim lies down beside me, tucking her head in the crook of my neck, and lets out a long, deep sigh. I close my eyes, settled to know that she might just sleep tonight, after all.
…
Prim's name is only in the bowl once, but her anxiety is putting me on edge. From the moment she wakes up, she's trembling. And, unlike my nerves that manifest in the form of silence, hers manifest in the form of constant chatter.
"When we get there, what's going to happen?" she asks, standing in front of the dirty mirror in the common area of our small house. She's clutching a blouse and a skirt to her chest, both of which used to belong to me, still dressed in her threadbare nightgown.
"We'll get in a line and they'll prick your finger," I say. "Then, you go stand with the little kids."
"You didn't say anything about blood before!" she insists, even though I have told her quite a few times.
"It's just a little bit of blood," I say, then smooth her hair. "Get dressed. We don't want to be late."
The first warning whistle blows after I speak, letting us know that we have thirty minutes to get to the Justice Building. I make quick eye contact with my mother and we both stand quietly until Prim comes out, fiddling with the buttons on her blouse. She can't close them up because her hands are shaking too badly, so I step in.
"Your name's only in there once," I say softly, kneeling so her head is above mine for once. "They're not gonna pick you." She nods, but there's not much conviction behind it. When I finish her buttons, I loop my arms around her waist and tuck in the back of her shirt. "Better tuck in that tail, little duck," I say, then nick her chin with my knuckles.
Afterwards, I take her place in our room to slip on the light blue dress that my mother laid out for me. Just like Prim's clothes were once mine, this dress was once hers.
I don't feel like myself when I put it on, but I stand in front of the mirror and let my mother pin up my braid anyway. She tells Prim and me that we look beautiful, and then I lead the way out of the house.
…
Standing and waiting for the two tributes' names to be called makes you feel like cattle headed for slaughter. I'm pressed shoulder-to-shoulder with girls who wouldn't get within spitting distance of me at school, and I can't stand it.
I stopped listening to Effie Trinket's speech years ago. In the back of my mind, the warble of her voice rings out as she prattles on about the power and glory of the Capitol, but I only tune in when I hear: "As usual, ladies first."
Time moves slow as her perfectly manicured hand dips inside the reaping bowl and pulls out a single slip with unneeded flourish.
She totters back to the microphone and speaks in a clear voice when she says, "Primrose Everdeen."
Everything inside my body stops, and the world outside seems to freeze just the same. My heart won't pump, my lungs can't expand, and my blood has gone ice cold. My mind is absolutely blank except for one singular thought: How could I have let this happen?
It feels like an hour passes before the crowd moves. The other girls that surround Prim - some Seam-thin and others plump and vibrant townies - part for her, and she steps out. One small foot, then the other. A repeated pattern until she makes it to the dirt path that separates the boys from the girls. Then, she tucks in the back of her shirt - her ducktail.
When I move, I move without thinking. I shove my way through the crowd until I reach the dirt path, about thirty paces behind my little sister who's making her walk to the gallows.
"I volunteer!" I shout, shoving peacekeepers out of my face. "I volunteer as tribute."
Prim screams. She cries harder than I've ever seen her cry. A man I don't recognize takes her to my mother and away from me.
I don't remember walking to the stage, nor do I remember what I said to Effie Trinket. When I check back in, I'm standing in front of everyone I've ever known, staring into their hollow eyes with hollow eyes of my own.
"And now, for the boys," Effie says, as jovial as ever. She pulls out a slip and announces: "Peeta Mellark."
My stomach drops to my feet as I think: Not him. The boy I owe my life to, Prim's life, my mother's life. The boy who saved me is being put in the arena to do what, kill me? And I'll be forced to kill him first, which is the worst repayment I can think of. But is there another option?
Before Peeta can take two steps, I hear a voice that I'd recognize anywhere.
"I volunteer," Gale says, and steps through the mass of people easily.
I think the word 'No' so loudly that I hear myself say it.
"I volunteer as tribute."
Effie is beside herself with glee. My knees feel so weak that it's a wonder I don't collapse right there on the stage. Now, with Gale as the male tribute from 12 and me as the female, there is no one left in the District to keep my family alive.
I don't know what he thinks he's doing, but he couldn't have made a worse choice. Inside, I begin to boil with rage - so hot, I'm sure steam must blow from my ears.
"Tell me, Gale," Effie says, putting on airs for him. Her voice is as smooth as silk now. "Were you inspired by Katniss?"
Gale looks at me but I don't return the favor. I continue to stare straight ahead, trying to hide the fact that I am quaking with anger.
I…" he begins, then breaks off. "I couldn't let you do it alone. I love you too much."
If I thought I was angry before, I'm seeing red now.
…
Soon after, we're ushered backstage. As soon as the doors shut behind us, I turn towards Gale and unleash my fury on him. "You idiot," I growl, teeth clenched. I end up landing two good punches on his jaw before I'm yanked backwards by unfamiliar arms.
"Hey, hey, hey, hey!" a voice scolds, and I realize it's Haymitch Abernathy, our mentor. "Save it for the arena, sweetheart." He hands me over to a peacekeeper. "Take her," Haymitch says, and the peacekeeper brushes me into a room where I'm left alone to seethe.
Stupid Gale. Stupid, stupid, stupid Gale. To make such a grand gesture like that and to follow it up with such farcical words - it makes no sense. There was no reason to create waves like that. He could've just let Peeta step forward. Killing Peeta wouldn't have been easy, but I could've let someone else do it. Now that Gale is in the arena with me, I don't just have to worry about who will feed my family, I also have to worry about which one of us will make it out alive.
If he does, I won't. Then, who would my sister have? She may have food for the rest of her life, but she'll spend that life lonely and afraid, like our mother before her. I don't want that.
No, it has to be me that comes out. For Prim, it has to be me. There's not another option.
Suddenly, the door bursts open and that same peacekeeper from before sweeps my mother and Prim inside. "You have three minutes," he barks, then slams the door shut again.
Prim is sobbing, speaking incoherently and burying her face in my chest. She doesn't seem 12 years old, she seems 2 - at most.
I can't believe I'm leaving her.
Her tears make me want to cry, too, but I don't. I won't. I keep a straight face and unpeel her arms from my body, kneeling to her level just like I had this morning. Less than an hour ago, really, but it feels like a lifetime has passed since we were together in our house.
"I'm coming home," I say, cupping her face in my hands to get her to look at me. I wipe her cheeks dry with my thumbs, but new tears quickly replace the old. "No matter what,"
Prim sniffles and her entire chest shakes. Her voice vibrates when she says, "You know that means Gale won't, right?"
I lock into her gaze with mine. "I'm coming home," I say.
And it's a promise.
…
On the train, which is silver and glistening with baubles and gadgets I've never seen before, I sit in silence two chairs away from Gale. He wants me to speak - the air is crackling with his need for it. It's been three hours and I haven't said a word, not to him, Effie, or Haymitch.
But now that he and I are alone, I have something to say.
"Why would you do that?" I say, turning slowly to face him head-on. "Who's supposed to take care of them now?"
I don't need to specify. I know he knows who I mean.
He gives me an incredulous look, like he can't believe what I'm asking. "Who was going to take care of you in the arena?" he spits back at me. "That baker boy?"
With my eyebrows set low, I don't break eye contact. "I don't need to be taken care of," I say.
"Say that again when you need someone to watch your back in there," he retorts.
"I can watch my own back," I say. "I've done it before."
"Alright, fine," he says, but he's amused and his tone shows it. I'm bristling and he's enjoying himself. "Maybe you should be the first one I hunt down, then."
He's joking. He wants me to laugh, but I won't. It's not funny.
"Maybe," I say, setting my jaw. I want to cross my arms, to close myself off from him, but I don't want to seem petulant. "See how that goes for you."
"Catnip, come on," he says, softening a bit. "We're a great team already, outside of the arena. In there, we'll be untouchable."
I don't say anything in response. He's making it sound like an exciting challenge, like when we work together to track a deer and take it down.
But this is not like that, not at all. I have a feeling that what's to come will be unlike anything I've ever known.
…
I don't bring up the fact that Gale professed his love for me until it's absolutely necessary, which is right before we go in. It's a tactic, Haymitch says, something that will keep us alive. Gale seems excited by the prospect, and I'm glad to have a strategy I suppose, but romantic love means next to nothing to me.
I've never felt it and I doubt I ever will. But Haymitch says it will give the sponsors something to root for, and I conclude that it's what will get me home to my sister. So, for all intents and purposes, I love Gale and I have for my whole life.
It's not wildly far from the truth. I have loved him for a long time - like a brother or a close cousin. The fact that we're playing into the romance angle is uncomfortable, but Gale promises that we can make it work. I stand there and I don't disagree, which is all that I can offer.
…
When the Games start, it's like I'm watching myself stand there on the pedestal as the timer counts down. I wonder if anyone has ever stepped right off and purposefully killed themselves, then I come to the conclusion that if you really didn't have a chance, it might not be the worst option.
As I'm contemplating this, the countdown ends and the bloodbath begins. Though everything within me is screaming to flee, I spot Gale by the mouth of the Cornucopia and know that I should stick by him. It looks like he's got a knife and, as I approach him, he sinks it into a bulky tribute's neck. I watch the boy fall to the ground and crumple bonelessly, and for a moment I'm in danger of throwing up.
"Let's go," Gale says, swiftly taking my arm to lead me out of the fray.
He takes one more down on the way out. Coming up behind her, he stabs the girl from 7 in the back and she falls to the ground, sputtering. Before moving on, Gale yanks the knife from her spine and wipes it clean on his pants.
Maybe I should be thankful he's my ally and not my adversary, after all.
…
The boy from District 3 slices my leg as I'm hunting for dinner two days later. In response, I shoot an arrow through his chest. He is my first kill. His face sticks in my mind. I never learned his name.
The cut on my leg all but immobilizes me, though. Gale has to carry me to a dense thicket, and when he lays me down I realize my entire body is convulsing. I don't feel cold - I actually feel very hot. I start to unzip my jacket, but Gale stops my hands.
"It's a fever," he says, and there's worry in his eyes. "A bad one. Keep your coat on."
I'm dripping with sweat, but I do as he says and keep it zipped as he inspects my leg. "I know it's bad," I say, thinking he might negate that and gloss over what it's actually like. It's the comfort I need and, really, the least he could do.
"It's really bad," he says bluntly. "He got you deep. You won't last 'til morning like this."
I blink hard. I know I should be scared, but the pain and exhaustion overrides those feelings. I'm not afraid, but I also know that dying isn't an option.
"I'll be fine," I say.
"Not without medicine, you won't," Gale replies, and I can see his mind working.
In an instant, he's on his hands and knees with his face close to mine, and it's lucky that I remember our act at the last second otherwise I might have instinctively pulled away. I'm not used to people in my space, not even him. But because there are cameras on us, wherever those cameras may be, I let him stay.
"We'll figure something out," he says softly, then kisses my cheek. I close my eyes in what I hope looks like contentment.
As soon as he pulls away, I hear the gentle dinging sounds that signify a parachute is coming. Gale is on his feet in seconds, pushing his way out of the thicket to grab it and bring it back inside.
He unclasps the container and bares what's inside, and I smell it before I see it. It's bread, and freshly baked by the scent of it.
"There's a note," Gale says, then shows it to me.
You call that a kiss? -H
I discard the slip of paper. Right now, I don't care what it says. Instead, I greedily take my half of the bread and chew it slowly just as rain starts to fall outside of our makeshift home.
Pouring rain and freshly baked bread.
I'm not quite conscious, but I'm not asleep either. In the hazy place between those two states, through my half-lidded eyes, I see him standing out there in the rain. Holding that burnt bread that tasted so much like what I'm eating right now, watching me with concerned, cautious eyes.
Even though I'm in the midst of the Games. Even though I'm freezing, in pain, and exhausted. Even though I might be dying, it's him. It's Peeta Mellark, the boy with the bread. The boy who, no matter what I do, will not leave my mind.