I stay up most of the night agonizing over the perfect question to ask her, knowing that I have to start slow and easy so I won't scare her off right off the bat. After all, Katniss promised I could ask her questions, she never said anything about answering them.
As I'm folding dough during my morning bakery shift, I decide that the best place to approach her is casually in the crowded corridor so that we're hiding in plain sight as it were. It's highly unlikely that any prying eyes will notice our brief interaction with so much raucous around us. So after history I don't let her out of my sight as we braid our way into the crowd. Katniss is much more adept at moving quickly through the throngs of students, weaving her slender frame through the corridor like a needle through silk. I, on the other hand, end up apologetically stomping on at least three people's feet before clumsily falling in step with her.
"Hi," I pant, trying to control my uneven breathing.
"You walk loud," she says by way of greeting.
Typical Katniss.
"Er, yes, so I've been told. Dad says I've got two left feet, but I'd say I've got two left feet and one of them's a peg leg…" I laugh weakly and trail off because by the way her lips are pressed into an impossibly thin line I can tell she is not amused by my self-deprecating humor. "So…" I continue awkwardly. "How was your day?"
"Is that your question?" she demands
"Huh?"
"Your question. For today. Was that it?"
"Oh! Um, no. I was just making conversation." You know, like a normal human being…
Katniss glowers at me, but up close I can't help but notice the delicate flecks of gold in her left eye that make it almost a shade lighter than the right.
"Ok, so, what's your favorite season?" I ask.
It's an easy question, perfectly innocuous, but she gives me a funny look as if she's remembering something from long ago. "Spring," she says simply and I'm happy enough with a one-word response—it's all I was expecting. That's why it's a surprise when she elaborates. "I like…dandelions," says Katniss. Her scowl falters and she actually looks embarrassed as she stares resolutely at her shoes. I'm not quite sure what to make of this actually, but I decide to chalk it up as a point in my favor.
"Spring is nice," I agree. "But I like Autumn best."
"The colors, right?" My stomach does a flip-flop—she remembers my favorite color!
"Yeah, the colors and the cool crisp air. Memories of picking apples with dad when we were kids…"
Katniss frowns. "Autumn means winter is coming."
She doesn't say it, but I immediately understand the significance. Winter means scarcity, hunger, shivering on a woven mat in front of a fire that you're wondering how you'll keep stoked. I feel sick to my stomach.
"You're right, spring is better," I assure her.
Katniss has pressed her lips back together and I can tell she thinks she's said too much. This is enough for one day. If I push more at this point it could ruin everything.
"Well, I'll talk to you later Katniss, ok?"
She nods vaguely looking bemused as I veer off towards the gym and disappear into crowd.
The next two weeks pass in a sort of euphoric haze. The questions so far may be mundane, but slowly and surely the mystery that is Katniss Everdeen is unraveling before my eyes, making me more hopelessly in love with her than ever—if that is even possible. Because I know we cannot be seen repeatedly together, it takes a lot of creative maneuvering to come up with scenarios where our paths converge in mostly deserted or otherwise secure locations. On Wednesday during biology lab when we're dissecting flat worms I accidentally-on-purpose trip and spill a petri dish on the two of us as I pass by her station on the Seam side of class, and when we're excused to clean ourselves up, I learn that she prefers sunrise over sunset. On Thursday I catch up with her in the library and between the history and philosophy section she tells me that her least favorite chore is feeding Prim's satanic tomcat, Buttercup. Friday at track and field day I nearly pass out trying to catch up with her on the mile run to find out that if she could become any animal it would be an eagle, and I can imagine her soaring high above the soot, and pain, and injustice of the District. Graceful. Untouchable. Free.
The next week I feed a note through the grill in her locker: "What is you're biggest pet peeve?" and when she slips it to me secretly in the corridor with a big smirk on her face I see that her response reads: "When people misuse the word "your." She doesn't even balk when I jab her playfully in the ribs with my elbow, instead she quirks her lips up a bit further so that it's almost a devilish little grin. Is it possible for you heart to actually stop over a girl's smile?
It may just be me, but by the middle of the second week of our daily question and answer sessions it seems to be getting easier to seek Katniss out. Can it be a coincidence that she somehow manages to materialize at just the right moment over and over again? Do I dare let myself believe it?
I've also noticed that with Katniss, as puzzling and guarded as she may be, I never doubt the sincerity of her responses. She is frank almost to a fault. I dated Delly Cartwright for short time last year—a failed attempt to try to forget Katniss' wide set silver eyes and sun-kissed, freckled cheeks—and I could never tell if she actually meant what she said. With other girls it always feels like they're mincing their words, trying to figure out how I want them to respond. Katniss, on the other hand, does not beat around the bush.
Sometimes she is so brutally honest that her responses piece me to the core, like the end of this week when I asked her what her least favorite food was.
She had fixed me with a penetrating stare so powerful that I shivered involuntarily and said, "My least favorite food is no food, Mr. Mellark."
As the end of October grows nearer I can no longer ignore the fact Gran's Fall Formal is fast approaching. Mother has been ragging on me night and day, clucking over the state of my unruly hair and reminding me what a darling, eligible young lady Dorna Mills is. Today she has sent me and my father and brother to the tailor's for our suit fittings. It's always kind of comical to see dad and Bannock wearing formal wear because they look so terrible out of place.
"I hate these monkey suits," mutters dad under his breath, tugging at the starchy collar of his dress shirt uncomfortably.
"I hate them too," agrees Bannock. "I'm thinking of feigning tuberculosis the day before the Formal." He coughs dramatically. "How did that sound? Believable?"
Aldo makes an indistinguishable noise in the back of his throat.
"What's that, Al? Didn't quite catch it," I say, grinning at Bannock who is still practicing his coughing fits.
Aldo draws himself up in what he must think is a dignified manner. "It's just that you all would do well to appreciate and honor your social standing. We come from a long line of—"
Bannock cuts him off. "—A long line of snobbish, self-important aristocrats? Yes, I'm aware."
I snicker at the affronted look on Aldo's face. He puffs out his chest. "You are a disgrace to the family!" In his anger Aldo stumbles on the hem of his dress pants and careens into the startled Seam girl who is mopping up in the shop. Her bucket of dirty water splashes Aldo's new outfit. "Would you watch where you're going you little urchin! You've dirtied my suit!" he shouts at her. The girl shrinks back in terror, raising her hands to protect her face as if she's afraid he's going to strike her. I wonder how many times someone has raised a hand to her for her to have developed such an intense instinctual reaction.
"Now Aldo," begins father sternly. "That's no way to treat the little lady."
"Little lady?" scoffs Aldo. "Are you blind? She's Seam." He rounds on the little girl again. "You better hope I don't go to the Peacekeepers about this!"
The girl—she can't be more than seven or eight—begins to cry, her little olive face scrunched up and a curtain of greasy brown hair falling over one of her wide, gray eyes.
I can feel my blood boiling and I must look like I'm about ready to pummel Aldo because Bannock puts a warning hand on my shoulder and shakes his head. "You know it'll get back to mom if you punch his precious face in," he mutters.
I clench my fists in frustration, but I know Bannock is right. Instead I walk over to the girl and hand her a handkerchief.
"Don't cry sweetie," I say gently. "What's your name?"
"B-Bekkah," she chokes. "P-please don't call the Peacekeepers, Sir!"
"No way kiddo, it wasn't your fault. We Mellarks are all extremely clumsy. Dry your tears, ok?"
On the way home Also sidles up to me looking flushed and angry. There is a strange glint in his eyes. "You think you're so better than me, but I know what happens to guys like you. You better watch yourself Peeta, or you and your Seam rat friends are going to pay."
I stiffen at his comment. It's vague, but there's something about the tone of his voice that gives me pause. Does he know something about the friendship that I've struck up with Katniss? He can't. Can he? I decide to play dumb.
"I have no idea what you're going on about, Al. You know that I despise Seam brats just as much as the rest of us," I lie, trying to imitate the tone mother uses when talking about the Seam, but the phrase sounds forced coming out of my mouth, almost like I'm a bad actor reciting lines.
Aldo must recognize it because his smirk widens. The little hairs on the back of my neck are standing on end. What does he have on me? I wonder.
The day of the Fall Formal dawns bright and cool. Dad and I pull out the last few loaves of spiced pumpkin bread and then retreat upstairs to get ready for the event. I am dreading it with every fiber of my being.
As I change out of my bakery uniform and into my dress clothes I wonder what Katniss is doing today. It's Saturday, so she'll probably be out hunting, with him of course, I can't help but remembering with a jealous twinge. I wonder if someday when I ask her the question "will you take me into the forest?", she'll respond in the affirmative. Then I remember what she told me in the corridor about how loudly I walk and I realize that my presence would almost certainly cost her a whole day's worth of game. Sometimes I wonder if I'll ever be anything but a burden to Katniss and I find myself bitterly wishing I could be like Gale to her—a partner, someone she could count on. By the time I've finished dressing and flattening my hair this line of thinking has put me in a foul mood.
We line up for a final inspection in front of mother, and after tightening Bannock's tie so securely that he looks blue in the face and adding a copious amount of styling gel to my hair, she finally declares us fit to be seen in public. Gran has sent a fancy car to take us to the Formal.
The moment we arrive Gran swoops down on us and links her gnarled arm with mine. She is a tiny, angular woman with short, tightly wound gray ringlets and a pinched mouth that makes her look as if she's perpetually sucking on a sour hard candy. It doesn't seem fair that I have to be both Mother's least favorite son and Gran's favorite grandson. Gran mostly leaves Bannock and Aldo alone—to Bannock's delight and Aldo's chagrin.
"How's my darling boy?" she says, smacking her lips against my check. "Every time I see you you're looking taller. I heard about the big wresting win."
"Yes, pretty exciting. I'm still not as good as Bannock though," I say, trying to refocus her attention elsewhere.
"Nonsense," says Gran, patting my arm adoringly.
Mother scowls at this show of affection. She is a wearing a lurid pink gown with an enormous orchid at the bust. "Well mother, you know our Aldo was just elected student president of 'Merchants for a Purer Panem.'"
Gran isn't paying attention. "That's nice dear," she says absently, dragging me into the parlor where the Formal is in full swing.
I catch Bannock's eye and he gestures towards Aldo and Mother, who are looking mutinous, and gives me a thumbs up.
The parlor is teeming with so many colorful, oddly dressed people that it looks more like a menagerie than a ballroom, and when a man walks by me with his face tattooed to look like a reptile, my first impression is only fortified. How can they consider these outfits attractive?
Gran is introducing me to her friends and I go through the motions, but my mind has run off elsewhere, to a different ballroom with Katniss is a simple yet elegant silver gown…
"Peeta!" shrieks Gran and I come thumping back down to reality.
"Sorry Gran," I apologize. "I'm just so captivated by the absolutely stunning décor. Did you draw up these plans yourself?"
Gran looks mollified by my shameless flattery. "As a matter of fact I did, my dear boy. Now, as I was saying, this lovely young lady is Dorna Mills—heiress to Capitol Coal," she says significantly.
It's only then that I notice Dorna standing there looking like a meringue in an entirely too fluffy, feathered white dress.
"Peeta, so good to see you," she simpers. "Don't you look handsome tonight."
"Um, you too," I say dully. I know I'm obligated to at least three dances with her or I'll never hear the end of it from mother, so I suppose I might as well get it over with.
"Gran, would you excuse me? I've promised Miss Dorna here I'd dance with her," I say with as much charm as I can muster.
Gran looks elated. "Of course dear! You take good care of my grandson, Dorna," she says, winking at her. Dorna giggles maniacally.
This is going to be a long night.
After the third dance ends with a flourish from the orchestra, I pry Dorna's hands off my shoulders.
"Want a drink?" I say, dodging her arms, which are snaking back around my neck. "I'm absolutely parched."
"Aw, Peety, don't leave me now, this is my favorite song. It could be our song," she whines, her bright pink painted lips forming into a pout.
"Sorry, can't stay! Have to—er—use the little boys room." I start backing off the dance floor and notice a pimply kid from the 11th grade standing nearby. "Look Dorna, you can dance with…" I trail off, having no idea what the guys name is.
"Sims," says the kid in shock, looking like he can hardly believe his luck as I shove him towards Dorna.
"Sims," I repeat, making a beeline for the edge of the dancefloor. "You two have fun!"
I don't stop to see the furious look that Dorna is probably sending me, I just duck through the first door I see and find myself face to face with—
"Katniss!" I gasp, smacking into her and her tray full of champagne glasses.
"Oh!" she cries, startled. "Peet—Mr. Mellark, sir. I didn't see you there."
I hastily grab the tray she is carrying to help her steady the rattling glasses of champagne, but when our fingers accidently brush I nearly drop the whole thing again. I feel my cheeks flush.
"Katniss, what are you doing here?" I ask, still shaken up by this sudden apparition. It feels so surreal to see her standing here in Gran's spotless kitchen.
She doesn't say anything, just gestures to her pleated black dress and the too-frilly white apron tied over it. I recognize it immediately as servant's garb and my heart sinks.
"You're working for Gran?" I ask incredulously.
Her eyebrows knit together in confusion. "Gran?"
"Yeah, my grandmother. You know, pinched face, voice that could curdle milk, nine inch fangs…"
"I didn't know Mrs. Greer was your grandmother," replies Katniss softly.
"Yeah. A real piece of work, isn't she?"
"I don't know…"
"Oh, come on. You know it's true. Don't feel like you have to defend her on my behalf."
"Well…" says Katniss hesitantly. "I do think I saw a forked tail peaking out from under her ball gown…" A ghost of a smile plays across her lips.
I laugh heartily while Katniss looks around furtively as if she's sure someone will have heard her blasphemous remark.
"No, but seriously. You're working here?" I query.
"It's just temporary. Mrs. Greer needed extra help for the party." She pauses here and bites her lip as if she's considering her words carefully. "Prim's sick," she finally whispers.
My stomach clenches. Poor, sweet, little Prim. I know that Katniss' mother is a healer, so if Katniss is here trying to make extra money it must mean that Prim is in bad enough shape to need something special from the apothecary. Something expensive.
"Oh Katniss, I'm so sorry," I say, wishing I could fold her into my arms and comfort her. Unfortunately, I have a feeling that a move like that might earn me a black eye.
"Not your fault," says Katniss thickly.
We stand there in silence for a few seconds until she starts fidgeting with the hem of her apron.
"What are you doing in the kitchen anyway?" she says finally.
"Oh," I say with a sheepish smile. "Um, I was kind of hiding…from Dorna Mills."
"She's very pretty," says Katniss flatly. It's an odd thing for her to say, but I can't read the closed expression on her face.
"I guess so," I reply, grimacing. I want to make it clear to her that I am in no way interested in Dorna. "If you're into big heads."
This is the point where a normal girl might giggle, maybe lay a hand on my arm possessively. Katniss just continues to stare at me stonily. She's not worried about competition you idiot, I tell myself. She's probably not even interested in competing.
I clear my throat. Behind the kitchen door I hear the orchestra start up a new song and through the tiny window that looks out into the parlor I can see the garishly dressed couples lining up to dance.
"Do you dance?" I ask her on a whim, aware that I used up my one allotted question long ago.
"Is that dancing?" she says skeptically. And I get her point as I follow her disgusted stare out the window to where the Capitol guests are performing a stiff, boxy dance that makes them look like ostentatious chess pieces moving jerkily across a game board.
I snort at Katniss' remark. "You're funny, Katniss," I say with some surprise. "That's the second joke you've made tonight."
Katniss looks like she can hardly believe it either, but I also think she looks a bit self-satisfied. I realize suddenly that I'm standing so close to her that it would be so easy to just reach down and—
Just then the door to the kitchen slams open and a very inebriated Haymitch Abernathy stumbles in, an empty glass in each hand. Katniss and I jump away from each other like repelling magnets.
Haymitch Abernathy is last remaining heir of the oldest and most wealthy family in District 12. His constant boozing and generally vulgar disposition have caused him to fall from favor among the elites, but when it comes down to it, it's your family name and the size of your pocketbook that really matter in high society. I know that something terrible happened to Haymitch a long time ago before I was even born, but no one will ever tell me the full story. All I can gather from the whispered rumors and the disdainful stares he often receives is that it was something truly scandalous. I don't care about rumors and as crass as Haymitch may be, I've grown to like him. Considering our mutual social circles, my brothers and I have known Haymitch since birth, and Bannock and I have always called him Uncle Haymitch, a name that he pretends to despise but secretly relishes.
"Well, would you look at that," he slurs. "It's my favorite little Mellark."
"What are you doing here, Haymitch?" I say through gritted teeth, angry that he's ruined my moment with Katniss.
"Hiding from Effie Trinket. What are you doing here?" he retorts.
"Hiding from Dorna Mills."
"Atta boy," says Haymitch, patting my cheeks gruffly. "Dames like that only bring trouble. Speaking of dames," continues Haymitch looking over at Katniss with a sly grin on his face. "Who do we have here, Boy?"
Katniss blanches. "I'm the help, sir. Just the help, that's all." And with a considerably awkward curtsy for someone so naturally graceful, she bolts for the door looking absolutely mortified.
"Hey there, Sweetheart, no need to run off!" Haymitch calls after her. She doesn't turn around.
"Why did you do that!" I hiss at him, grabbing his coat sleeve roughly.
"Woah, boy, easy there! No need to get angry, I'm not judging you. You're a sixteen year old boy, we've all got needs—"
"It's not like that!" I roar before remembering where I am and lowering my voice. "I'm not taking…advantage of her. We were just talking. I—she—"
"All right, all right, don't get your saintly little undies in a bunch," says Haymitch, waving off my blustering remarks. "I'm just messing with you kid. Look, I've known you since before you could wipe your own bottom." I roll my eyes at Haymitch's choice of imagery. "And as hard as I've tried to corrupt you, I ain't never seen you do anything that wasn't respectful in your life."
"Just leave it alone then, ok?" I say defensively. "We were just talking. I know her from school."
"I know that girl, too. See her all the time in the Hobb when I go to get my liquor."
"In the Hob!" I practically shout. "With all those criminals? It's so dangerous."
Haymitch chuckles. "It's sweet that you care so much about your school acquaintances."
I shoot him a dirty look.
"So serious. Where's that sense of humor of yours? Is it hiding from Dorna Mills too?" Haymitch laughs uproariously at his own joke before continuing. "Look, before you get on your white horse and start riding to her rescue, you should probably know that the girl can handle herself. Tough as nails, that one."
"I know that," I say shamefacedly.
Haymitch gives me an appraising sideways look. "Oh boy, you've really got it bad for her don't you."
I groan and cover my face with my hands. "Bannock could tell, too. Is it that obvious?"
"It's written all over your face. Fancy a poker game?"
"Haymitch!" I moan. "This is serious! What am I supposed to do?"
"Let's put this down in the history books that you, Peeta Mellark, are asking drunken old Uncle Haymitch for advice. But listen kid," Haymitch's voice grows serious and he puts his hands bracingly on my shoulders. "I can't tell you what to do. I can only tell you this—as far as I'm concerned, that heart of yours is just about the only good and pure thing left in this hell hole of a district, so I'd say you should listen to it."
Haymitch claps me on the back and makes an unceremonious lurch towards the icebox. "Got any booze left?"
I'm so distracted after my run-ins with Katniss and Haymitch that I hardly remember the rest of the party and before I know it, I am home and tucked into my bed, still thinking about what he said. Listen to your heart? It sounds like a line from one of those silly romance novels that Delly is always reading. And yet as I lay there with open, sleepless eyes, there is something that is spurring me into action, whether it is my "heart" or not I cannot say. So while everyone is asleep I slip down into the bakery and spend the rest of the night working. At dawn I take the back roads into the Seam side of town and after asking a confused looking miner for directions, I find myself outside the Everdeen residence.
The house is hardly a house at all—it is more like a shack. But the yard is tidy and there is a tendril of smoke curling out of the stone chimney. I knock on the door reticently and after a moment she inches open the door. Her eyes grow large when she sees me and she tries to push the door shut, but I stop it with my hand.
"No! Katniss, wait." She hesitates and I see dark purple circles under her eyes. I guess I'm not the only one who didn't sleep tonight. "Please," I say softly.
She opens the door a little wider, distrust written all over her face.
"How's Prim?" I ask.
Katniss fidgets with the doorknob. "A little better," she finally says. "You shouldn't be here."
I choose to ignore that last comment and instead hold up a small white box marked "Mellark Family Bakery." "I made these for Prim," I say, pushing the box into her hands and backing off the front stoop before she can protest. "Take care of yourself, alright?"
I turn around and make my way quickly up the gravel path, knowing that she'll try to return the gift. But as I reach the gate, I hear a stifled gasp and I know she must have found the dozen cookies decorated as primroses.
Author's Note: I decided to make Haymitch Merchant rather than Seam because it works better for the story, and honestly, would you want to read a fic that didn't include our favorite inebriated mentor? Please let me know what you think of the story! Nothing makes my keys type faster than a couple of reviews...