As the days pass, again, I build a tentative theory.
It seems to me, that when I die, I will restart again. As if I am not just getting that second chance, but as many as I may need. I have a hard time deciding if this is blessing or a curse. It is also just a theory. One that I am afraid to test.
If I kill myself, what if it doesn't restart again and I die, for real? If I am brave enough to test it, how? What is the best way? A bow and arrow is hardly a practical way to commit suicide. Throwing myself from a tall tree may not lead to a quick death. Provoking the Peacekeepers in the hope they shoot or execute me could lead to being made a prisoner or being assigned to forced labor. It has too many unknowns. Trying to steal one of their guns, and doing it myself, may have the same uncertain results. I can think of no way quick and efficient enough to diminish my fear.
The sleeping pills had felt just like falling asleep. There was no pain. At least, not that I remember. The pain of drowning, the vividness of the cold, is the source of my fears. I have no wish to go out by drowning ever again.
At the same time, I have no real desire to die, at all. I am only contemplating it in the name of science. If I do not work up the courage to test my thoughts, there is always that chance I die in the arena. In that case, I will know I went out trying to survive, and if the theory is wrong, than no harm done. If it is right, then my theory is confirmed and I will also get another chance.
In the meantime, I now have even more time with my loved ones.
It is frustrating that I have to restart. With Prim, Gale, my mother, the Hawthornes, it is easy, since they are already solidly in my inner circle. It is Peeta – and even Haymitch – that causes problems. The last time I had not even approached Haymitch. If my theory is correct, than that would remove some of the consequences of approaching strangers, like I know them, or saying things that normally would mean I am crazy – but until that theory is proven true, I still stall myself from forgoing social norms or the natural flow of things. And even in the future, if the theory is correct, I would hesitate to, since I do not think it would be fun to keep restarting, and restarting, and each time I began anew, I would be hoping it will be the true, final reality; which would preferably involve me not being seen as crazy.
Those first few days of restarting, I maintain my usual routine, trying to think what my best course of action would be.
When I first see Peeta, I hope, maybe, just a tiny bit, he will remember. Not my Peeta, but the other one, the one I had kissed on the frozen lake, but I can tell immediately that he does not. He is just pure, untouched Peeta again.
He catches me staring, like last time, giving me those smiles. I try to smile back. Warm him up. As much as I remind myself that he is not the same Peeta I knew, it is hard to look at someone and distinguish those things. When I see him, I see my Peeta, and it brings up all of those feelings, and desires, and I am undoubtedly drawn to him.
I do not wait as long as I did last time. Drowning has emboldened me, I think.
I approach Peeta after school. He is just walking away from his friends, probably heading to the bakery to work.
He sees me walking towards him, and smiles. When I stop in front of him, I can see the surprise all over his face. He glances around. The schoolyard is full of other people. Prim is waiting for me under the oak tree.
"Hi," he says.
"I heard you decorate the cakes," I say to him.
Peeta's smile widens. Embarrassed, I think.
"I do, sometimes," he says. "Why?"
"I know normally you'd just place an order with Mr. Mellark, but…" I shrug. "My little sister's birthday is coming up. I was wondering maybe, you could show me, some time, how you decorate those cakes. She always loves to look at them. And I want to make her something special, since it's her twelfth."
Like last time, Peeta understands immediately the implications of a twelfth birthday. Everyone in Panem would.
"Uh," Peeta starts. He reaches up and rubs the back of his neck. "Yeah," he says. "I mean, I don't see why not. I'd be uh… happy to."
It is not typical of Peeta to stutter. I like to think it is because he is flustered. At being approached by the girl he has had a crush on since the first day of school. The one who has found the nerve to talk to him, when he has been trying to do so for years.
I smile.
"When can we start?" I ask him.
"When's her birthday?" he asks.
I frown. I had hoped he would not ask that. He had not last time. It is not exactly subtle that Prim's birthday is several months away. One might expect that it is right around the corner if I am asking for favors.
"Awhile away," I say. "But that just gives us more time to practice."
"My mother usually does the shopping Saturday around noon. You could come by then," he says.
"This next Saturday?" I clarify.
"Yes. You can meet me by the backdoor, and I'll let you into the kitchen."
I nod at him, and then go to Prim. We walk home. Prim asks me who that was. I want to tell her the truth. Someone important. Someone who would die for me. Who has died for me. Someone I love. But I simply tell her, "A friend."
The first practice session is much of the same. I watch him, as if from a distance. Meandering through his mundane life as a baker's son. I let him show me how to make the flowers. I am getting better. He compliments my skill. He did not expect me to take to it so quickly. If only he knew this is not truly my first time practicing.
When his mother comes back, I hurry out the door, but Peeta joins me on the back steps. I pull the door closed. His mother will likely not check to see where he is for a few minutes. I linger there. There is no frosting on his lip this time. No excuse to touch him.
"Maybe I can come back next Saturday?" I ask him.
"Sure," he says.
"Thanks, Peeta," I tell him, and it so easy to say those words. Words I had put off saying, for years and years, for the burnt bread and the hope those dandelions had given me. That one small act of kindness, even when facing punishment, that he had shown to a stranger. I feel the warmth of Peeta's body next to mine, and I imagine it like sunshine. Soaking into me, releasing the hold that the bitter cold of the frozen lake had left me feeling.
"Don't mention it," he says. He is smiling.
"Let me know," I tell him. "If there's any way that I can repay you."
"Oh, no, nothing," he says. "Your company is payment enough."
He looks startled for a moment, as if he had not meant to say that. I smile to myself, looking away from him and at the apple tree across the way. I can hear someone banging around in the kitchen. He will have to go. I cannot linger any longer.
The next few days at school, Peeta greets me. Prim notices. Gale notices. Gale gives me the same preliminary talk, warning me away from a Town boy. I wonder if he thinks he is subtle. As if I cannot detect the jealousy in his tone.
"And what if I do like him?" I suddenly say to Gale.
We are out in the woods. Winter is two weeks away. It is four weeks until we pass the day in which I drowned.
"What?" Gale says stupidly. No anger – just pure surprise.
I suppose it would be surprising. Completely unlike me. To like someone, that way. After telling Gale for years that I would not participate in any romantic relationship. Forever denying myself that kind of partnership.
"I said, what if I do like him?"
Gale's arms have gone slack, by his side. Bow pointing towards the ground. A stance of utter disbelief – but also, maybe a little bit of defeat.
"Well?" I say, when he does not find any words.
Gale finally finds one word: "Why?"
He looks completely mystified.
I laugh.
Of course, he would see no good in Peeta. Not just because he is from the Town, but that he is a baker's son, and he presents as a weak-willed kind of person, who avoids conflict. Something Gale could not understand. Something Gale would likely consider lacking masculinity.
If Gale sees himself as my true match – a hunter, a fighter, a survivor – he would consider Peeta the opposite. He simply fails to realize the power of words, of kindness, of collaboration. How just as easily, words and a hand extended in aid, could win a battle – a war – instead of a bow and some arrows.
It takes me back to District 2 and cracking the Nut. How Gale had so hastily suggested burying everyone alive. Failing to see the power behind a union between the rebels and the civilians trapped inside. Ignoring the cost of human life.
I reach out and grab his shoulder. As if I need to remind myself that he is there. He is not that man, yet. He is hardened, yes, but he has not yet let the hate consume him. I wonder if there is a way to prevent that, too.
"Tell me you're joking," he says. Clearly hoping my laugh was indicating I am merely having a go at him.
"I'm not," I say, shrugging. "But it's your fault, you know. You kept pestering me."
"I didn't think there was actually anything going on," he says.
"Then why ask about it?"
"I don't know," he says. "I just…"
"Well, we're friends. If you want to talk boys, we can talk boys."
Gale makes a look of disgust.
"I didn't think 'boys' were something you were interested in."
"As opposed to what?" I ask. "Girls?"
His eyes widen at my suggestion.
I laugh again. It is a real conversation, but at the same time, does not feel real. When, or if, I die next, what will it matter? I am either actually dead, or I restart and Gale will have no memory of it.
"What's gotten into you?" he asks. "You've been acting weirdly lately, Catnip."
I want to tell him. The same way I wanted to tell Peeta. But even Gale, my best friend, would not believe me. About knowing the future. About being stuck in a time loop. Doomed to repeat until who knows when or what. Or that I am constantly contemplating suicide, just to test the theory. He would be infinitely more concerned if I said any of that.
I let some of the humor fade from my face.
"Just stress," I tell him. "I worry about the Reaping. Prim will be in the pool this time."
"That's months away, and she'll only have one slip. She's –" He pauses in reassuring me, to reassess our conversation. He shakes his head, eyebrows pushed together. "What's that got to do with Peeta Mellark?"
"Nothing," I say. "Come on, we have to get back before school starts."
At school, feeling bold by the conversation I had with Gale, I walk up to Peeta in the cafeteria. I ask him if he will have lunch with me, sit with me, in front of all of his friends. Some of them smirk, or frown, or look over at him weirdly. He does not appear to notice. The grin on his face brightens the entire room. He hastily agrees.
We sit at my table. Next to each other. I brought some left over bone broth – and it is cold. Fat floats on the surface. I stir it. Peeta has a hearty sandwich. Good, soft bread, possibly sliced squirrel meat, cheese. He offers half of it to me.
Madge joins us, sitting across from Peeta and I. She raises an eyebrow. In all of the years that Madge and I had eaten lunch together, never have we had a guest. Peeta greets her. Madge is polite back. I can imagine what she is thinking. The same thing that Gale thought: Katniss has an interest in something other than surviving?
Days pass. Hunting with Gale. Lunch with Peeta. Walks home with Prim and Peeta. Chores with Prim. Sleeping with Prim in my arms. Weekends inside of the bakery, pretending to practice cake decorating, stealing every minute I can with Peeta. I have no reservations in pursuing Peeta this time around, and I am both surprised and also not by how eagerly Peeta responds to this more straightforward behavior.
Each day passes, the closer the Reaping gets. The closer to losing this peace. To facing President Snow, and the rebellion, and being forced again into being the Mockingjay. Having to tip toe. Having to fear every word I speak. Worrying about my family and if they will be killed. Having to try and change the future. An impossible feat.
The closer the Reaping gets, the more I think of killing myself.
I could start again, even if it means Peeta and Prim and Gale and everyone will not remember. I will remember. I will get more time. It is selfish, but I almost do not care. They will not suffer for it. They will only get more time. I will get more time.
Winter comes. Even as my family grows skinnier and hunting gets harder, I tell myself it does not matter. We will survive the winter. We have done so before. In the future, we may not lack for food or money, but I bet if I asked each and every one of them upfront which they would prefer: food and money or life without fear, I know what they would choose.
That fateful winter, I do not take Peeta to the lake. I still remember the cold. I refuse to let that happen again. If I do kill myself, I will never willingly choose drowning.
I take him, instead, the other way. Deep into the woods. Where the trees grow so closely together and tower so tall, you can barely see the sky. Sunlight barely reaches us here. The wind is cold, but I hold his hand. We have spent so much time together; he does not hesitate to follow me beyond the gate of District 12. He admires the woods as we walk.
"I could draw this," he says.
"I'd like to see that," I tell him. To see my woods, through his eyes.
We sit ourselves against the hollow of a giant tree. I show him how to make a fire. I have been practicing it, for the Games.
He is extremely impressed.
He even says, "Wow. You'd definitely have a fighting chance in the Games."
It reminds me of what his mother told him, after the Reaping. That District 12 would finally have a winner. Meaning me.
"Anyone can learn," I tell him. "If I can learn to decorate cakes, you can learn this."
He tries to brush it off, but I tell him to try. I give him tips and pointers. He hardly even gets a spark going. I tell him that is good enough. We throw the sticks he had been using into the flames of our original fire.
I watch them burn. Huddling towards it and sitting next to him for warmth.
We talk of unimportant things for a while. Like school, or work, or the chores.
As we are preparing to leave, dousing the tiny fire, Peeta says this: "I never thought you'd notice me."
The words hurt me. Not at the implications, but because I had heard them shortly before that first death. It makes me scared. Like a wild dog will show up out of nowhere and tear open my throat. As if these words are the catalyst to my death.
They aren't. But it does not stop my fear.
"I did," I tell him, softly. Hardly getting the words out. "Ever since that day, behind the bakery."
"The burnt bread," he says.
"Then the next day, in the school yard," I say.
"I remember," he whispers.
I close my eyes. As if I can stop him from asking his next question.
"What changed?"
"I did," I tell him.
I tense. Waiting for something to happen. Nothing, except Peeta reaches out and cups one of my cheeks. I open my eyes. His face is serious, solemn. He can sense my fear, I think. Except, I am not sure what he thinks I am afraid of.
"We should get back," I say. "It's late."
The walk back to District 12 is spent in comfortable silence. We hold hands.
"I'll see you at school on Monday?" he says to me in the Meadow.
It has begun to snow. Melted flakes cling to his eyelashes.
"I'll be there," I tell him.
He pulls our linked hands between us. He stares at them.
"I'm sorry I couldn't do more," he says. "Than just burnt bread."
"It was enough," I tell him.
"And now?" he asks me, looking into my eyes. "What can I do now?"
"You're already doing enough," I say.
He leans down and kisses me. The snow is falling all around us. I almost wish the cameras were here. A more perfect scene could not be created. Except, no. I do not want that. I grab Peeta by the front of his jacket and deepen the kiss. I wish I could preserve this Peeta, this timeline. I am not ready to face the nation and President Snow and the rebellion.
That is when inspiration hits me.
Nightlock.
I cannot find it now, in the winter. But come the spring, before the Reaping, I could take it. It'll be quick, efficient. Just what I have been looking for.
Eventually, Peeta ends the kiss. He is panting, and flushed, despite the cold. I stare up into his face, wishing he understood my desperation. I never feel as grounded into this new reality as I do when I am with him.
"See you Monday," he says, and then he is walking away.
That night I do not dream of my loved one's deaths or of being pulled into the freezing water.
I dream of the Meadow, in the spring, ladened with flowers. Peeta waits there for me, deep in the Meadow. I run to him, and he embraces me. I let the contentedness of the dream carry me through the rest of winter.