Katniss is avoiding me. We were too close that night at Gran's formal, or she was too vulnerable, or I was too bold, or Haymitch was too crass—who knows? All I know is that she refuses to see me. I had just begun to feel that we were making some progress, too. She was talking to me—really talking—and smiling and joking. But I suppose the divide between us can't be bridged quite so easily.
I should let this play out on her terms—after all, if something goes sour here, if someone were to find out, well, Katniss would suffer worse from it than I would. Is it really fair for me to pursue her at all? Wouldn't she be safer if I hid away those few shards of herself that she's shared with me and treasured them until the day I die, never daring to seek out what might have been? It's these doubts that keep me from cornering her and forcing her to speak to me after a full week of being frozen out. Today, however, fate seems to have decided to be magnanimous.
As I am walking home from school thinking about the dozens of molasses cookies waiting to be baked this afternoon, I catch a glimpse of something golden glinting off to my left. It's Primrose Everdeen. My heart jumps into my throat because I know who must be by her side even before I even see those long, slender legs and that thick, glossy braid. She has Prim by the hand and is dragging her as quickly as possible towards the place where the cement Merchant's road gives way into the dirt path that runs into the Seam, but she isn't quite quick enough, because Prim has spotted me.
I see her pointing at me excitedly and pulling on Katniss' hand. Oh Prim, you darling little girl, what perfect timing you have. Katniss finally relents and allows Prim to guide her over to the place I'm standing and once again I'm struck by how different the sisters really are. Prim is much fairer than an average Seam girl, she has long neatly plaited golden hair and clear blue eyes. But more than that, it is her open, friendly disposition that distinguishes her from her sister.
Prim smiles at me shyly, and it's an easy smile, the smile of a girl who has been spared from the harsh reality of life in the Seam.
I crouch down so that we're at eye level and stick out my hand. "Miss Primrose Everdeen I presume," I say with an exaggerated gentlemanly air that makes the little girl giggle. "How do you do?"
"Very well, Mr. Mellark, sir!" she chirps, shaking my hand daintily. The she leans in conspiratorially. "And my friends call me Prim."
"Then by all means, Prim, please call me Peeta," I say, looking pointedly at Katniss. She breathes out through her nose huffily.
"Well, go on Prim," urges Katniss, chewing on the corner of her mouth and looking everywhere but my eyes. "Tell Mr. Mellark what you wanted to say."
Prim pulls herself up in a dignified manner and clasps her hands behind her back as if she is reciting poetry in class. "Thank you Mr. Mellark sir for the beautiful cookies. I've never tasted anything so wonderful in my whole entire life!" Prim gives me a look so serious that it is comical and then she seems to diverge from her script. "Honest, sir. Cross my heart and hope to die, I ain't never had anything so fine before ever!"
"Have never," corrects Katniss. "And I think we've taken up quite enough of Mr. Mellark's time."
"You're very welcome, Prim. I made that design specially for you," I say warmly.
Prim continues to peer up at me with a sunny smile. "Katniss liked them too. I shared with everyone," she says proudly. "But what Katniss really likes is those cheesy buns that—"
"That's enough, Prim!" snaps Katniss, looking alarmed. "It's time to go!"
Prim looks confused by her sister's sudden harsh tone, but she recovers in time to give me one last smile. I notice that she's recently lost a baby tooth on the upper right side.
"Well, it sure was nice meeting you sir," says Prim earnestly as Katniss puts a firm arm around her shoulders and begins steering her away.
"The pleasure was all mine, Prim. I'll see you again soon!"
Prim beams at me, and Katniss counters it with one of her signature scowls, but I don't care, because I may have just discovered my secret weapon. Cheese buns, eh? And I always thought chocolates were the way to a girl's heart.
When I get home there are sirens outside the bakery. Mother is screaming. I bound up the front steps and into the kitchen, and Bannock is there, telling me things that I don't understand, things that can't possibly be true. He's saying that dad is dead. Heart attack. It was sudden.
The room is spinning, revolving like a rickety old amusement park ride, and I'm clinging on for dear life, sure that any second I'll be catapulted into oblivion. I just saw dad this morning, rolling out a batch of sugar cookies, perfectly healthy. He was laughing, telling me some stupid story about how he and Haymitch used to sneak into Capitol parties wearing the most ridiculous get-ups imaginable and try to convince everyone it was the latest trend. I was hardly even listening! I was thinking about meeting up with Anselm to shoot hoops after school. And now dad is dead. Dead? It doesn't seem real. Nothing seems real.
Two days later I find myself standing in front of his casket on the back lawn of the bakery wearing one of those suits that he hated so much. Once mother got over the initial shock, she handled the whole tragedy with her usual level of unflinching callousness. I know father wasn't her first choice, but you would think she could at least show some modicum of remorse after 20 years of marriage to a good man. Today she stands by stoically as the presider reads a passage from the Panem Book of Prayer about the eternal life of the immortal soul. Bannock's eyes are red from crying and even Aldo has dropped his disdainful smirk in favor of a frown and downcast eyes. A few seats over I see Haymitch dabbing at his eyes with a filthy handkerchief and sneaking drinks of white liquor out of his hip flask.
There was a good turnout for the funeral; father was a well-respected man in District 12, known for his gentle manner and his humanity. On the left side of the open casket there are a considerable number of mourners from the Seam, something almost unheard of at Merchant funerals. I subconsciously scan the crowd for her face, but it is not there. Tears stinging in my eyes, I tear my gaze away from the huddled group of Seam feeling more wounded and angry with Katniss than I could have ever imagined possible. She knew my dad, he always gave her a good trade and a friendly word, so even if she didn't care about me (which she obviously doesn't, says a horrible voice within me), didn't she at least owe it to him to pay her respects?
After the casket has been lowered into the ground and we have all thrown a handful of dirt onto the grave, the guests begin to file out, many of them stopping to say what a great man my father was or to squeeze my arm consolingly—as if any of that could help. I find myself rooted to the spot even after Bannock has clapped me bracingly on the shoulder and set off towards home, his big shoulders heaving with silent tears. Memories of me and dad flash before my eyes like scenes on an old-fashioned film roll: I see us eating ice-cream on a hot summer's day, cracking jokes as we roll out sheet after sheet of Christmas cookies, sneaking away on mom's bad days to search for buried treasure by the creek. I can almost hear his booming laugh as he chases my seven-year-old self up and down the bank pretending to be the evil pirate captain Long John Mellark.
It's no longer clear to me how long I've been standing there staring at the place where my father will now rest forever. The wind has picked up and a sheet of menacing looking gray clouds has rolled in, but I hardly even notice the cold. I am numb. I am alone.
That's when I feel a hand slip gently into mine, small and impossibly warm. It is her hand. She squeezes softly and I cling to her callused fingers as if they are the only thing that is tethering me to this earth. I want to hear her voice. I want her to take away the crushing sadness that has settled on my chest. I want to lose myself in her.
"What was your father like?" I ask in a hoarse, trembling voice.
A gust of wind picks up a dusting of fresh earth off my father's grave and sends it dancing across the silent graveyard. A barn owl hoots at the margin of the forest.
Katniss does not utter a word.
"Katniss, please," I croak, feeling desperate. I want her beside me, not her shell, but her.
Maybe my grief has made me bold or maybe I am just so damn tired of speaking to a brick wall, but for whatever reason, I suddenly seize Katniss by her shoulders and spin her around so that she has no choice but to look at me. Her face is wooden, her eyes impassive. I let out an involuntary cry of frustration and give her a little shake. "God Katniss! Can't you be present for me just this once? Can't you just show me you're a actual human being! Scream! Cry! Punch me for God's sake! Just do something! Anything to show me I'm not alone here." I can feel the tears gathering in my eyes and I wipe them away angrily. "Look at me!" I shout at her, feeling an unfamiliar cocktail of passion, grief and anger swirling around inside me.
But as much as I thought I wanted to see a show of emotion from Katniss, I am not prepared for the display of raw anguish that I see when she finally looks up at me. Her eyes are dry, but in them is a look of such bottomless, agonizing sorrow that my heart clenches as if it is caught in a vice. She is despair personified. I release her from my grasp immediately, a wave of nauseating shame running over me, and before I can stutter out an apology, she is backing slowly away from me.
"I'm sorry, Peeta," she whispers, calling me by my name for the first time. "I'm so sorry."
Knock, knock, knock.
I am startled awake by the sound of something striking the window and I realize that it is raining hard outside. A low rumble of thunder sounds in the distance. It must have been a tree branch glancing across the windowpane, I tell myself, sinking back into the pillows, wanting nothing more than to slip back into the nothingness of dreamless sleep. But just as I settle back down, there it is again, urgent this time.
Knock, knock, knock!
My head feels heavy with unshed tears, but I sit up unsteadily, swing my legs over the edge of my bed, and shuffle over to the window to peer out into the raging storm. What on earth could be making that deliberate knocking sound? Outside everything is swirling darkness until I hear a resounding clap of thunder and a flash of lightening illuminates the outline of the scraggly apple tree that grows alongside my second story window. To my horror, I realize that there is someone in that tree… and it doesn't take long to surmise who.
I throw open the window and a blast of icy cold rain sweeps into the room. There she is, her knees clamped around a spindly upper branch of the tree, gripping on to the slippery bark with white, tired fingers as the whole tree sways precariously in the wind.
"Katniss!" I shout over the howling wind. "Oh my God! What are you doing!" I gesture wildly for her to enter. "Get in here!"
"I—I thought you wouldn't want to s—see me," she says through chattering teeth.
"I always want to see you," I tell her earnestly, reaching out my hand and helping her to jump down onto the window seat. The roaring of the storm outside subsides a little as I slam the window shut and bolt it.
Katniss is standing shivering in the middle of the room, her arms clutching her sides, a small puddle gathering around her feet. She is wearing a pair of soaking wet, threadbare pajamas tucked into hunting boots and her face looks deathly pale. I rush to grab a blanket and wrap it securely around her shoulders before pushing the curtain of wet hair back from her eyes and feeling her forehead. It is burning.
"What were you thinking running out into a storm dressed like that?" I chastise her, fussing at the state of her sodden nightclothes. "You're going to get sick!"
She doesn't respond, just looks up at me with wide, desperate eyes that make me stop fretting about her outerwear for a second and just stare, utterly unprepared for what she is about to say. "My father taught me to swim!" she finally gulps.
"Wh-what? Katniss, I –I don't understand—"
Her shoulders are shaking uncontrollably, beads of icy water still coursing down her cheeks, but she grits her teeth and plows ahead. "He always smelled of wood smoke, and mint and fresh air and sometimes when I wear his jacket I think I can still smell it."
I rub my hands up and down her arms, trying to warm her up and she doesn't protest. "He loved fresh maple syrup, but he hated sugar in his tea."
"Me too," I whisper, and this seems to embolden her.
"Once when I was ten I got scared by the howl of a wild dog and I climbed up so high in a tree that I couldn't get down, and Dad stayed there all day long coaxing me back to the ground… And he used to say that he'd only ever had three wishes in his whole life and they'd all come true: Mother, Prim, and me… And sometimes," Her voice gets so soft that it's like the fluttering of a butterfly's wings, and she tugs the blanket tighter around her shoulders with thin, shaking fingers. "Sometimes I miss him so much that it feels like there's a big black hole opening up inside me and I'm trying so hard not to fall in like mother. And I try to cry, but I—I can't." Her voice hitches, but still, her eyes are like steely gray deserts.
"Katniss…" I breathe, my heart breaking for her.
But she holds up her hand urgently to stop me from speaking.
"And I'm so sorry that I ran away today… because I wanted to be there for you!" she growls, actually stomping her foot in frustration. "I wanted to be there for you because there was no one there for me. But I don't know how!" she wails, gripping her hair and avoiding my eyes. "I don't know how, and I'm…I'm scared, ok? But you're good, Peeta. You can get through this, I know it! And—and if you still want me—I could—I could try to help you…" She bites her lip and when she finally meets my eyes she looks so small and vulnerable that all I can think of is five-year-old Katniss on the playground with her two dark braids and father bending down next to me and whispering, "See that little girl?". I don't hesitate any longer—I close the small distance between us and gather her into my arms.
At first she stiffens at the sudden intimacy of our embrace, but then I feel a pair of slender, quivering arms snaking around my waist and holding on tight. The sob that has been welling up at the back of my throat finally rips free from my body and I find myself wracked with a barrage of tears that never seem to run dry. I cry for father and his kind smile, and easy laugh, and warm comforting arms, and I cry for Katniss' father and his voice like a Mockingjay, and I cry for me and for Katniss and for my brothers and for my mother. I cry for the unbearable pain of losing someone you love and for the injustice of it all.
And finally, I cry myself out. My breathing slowly returns to normal and the room comes back into focus and I can suddenly hardly believe that she is in my arms. Her grip is unwavering, but I can feel her shaking like a leaf. Reluctantly, I pull away.
"I'm not letting you go back out in that storm tonight, Katniss," I say firmly, and a sharp crack of thunder punctuates my remark.
"But I—" she begins.
I cut her off. "Look, it's just not going to happen, ok? And you need to get out of those wet clothes before you get pneumonia," I say as evenly as possible, though I can tell by the burning in my cheeks that I am blushing profusely. "Here." I dig around in my dresser drawer and hand Katniss a pair of drawstring gym shorts and a t-shirt, trying not to smile at the look of horror on her face. She is so pure. "You can change over there. I won't look, I swear."
A moment later I turn around and Katniss is standing there awkwardly, shifting nervously from foot to foot and looking like she's been swallowed by my gym clothes. Despite the terrible circumstances, I can't stop my stomach from doing an Olympic level flip-flop at the sight of Katniss standing in my bedroom wearing my clothing.
"Perfect fit," I joke, giving her the best smile I can muster in my current state. Katniss is tugging on her braid self-consciously and doesn't laugh. "Um, you take the bed," I say nervously.
She continues to terrorize the end of her braid and then finally says, "No, you wouldn't be comfortable. I'll sleep here." She gestures to the green armchair next to the bed. "Come on, lie down."
My head is feeling so clouded by sleep and crying that I don't have the strength left to argue with her, so when she puts her warm hand on the small of my back and guides me towards the bed, I sink into it without further protest. With a gentle, practiced movement Katniss draws the covers up to my neck and tucks them in around me. It's a gesture so tender I can tell it must usually be reserved for Prim.
Through a sleepy haze I hear a grating noise and notice that Katniss has pulled the armchair closer to the side of the bed and settled down into the supple cushion. I can tell that she is not asleep though, it's like she watching over me, fending off the demons of grief that threaten to overwhelm me. My eyelids begin to feel heavy.
"Sing for me," I murmur, too exhausted to censor myself any longer.
Katniss stiffens. "I can't sing," she says quickly and then seeing the skeptical look in my eyes, she rephrases. "I mean I don't sing…not since father…"
"I can't think of any better way to honor your father's memory than with your voice," I say, allowing myself to admire the way the moonlight is glancing off her face, making her look younger, less weary.
There is a long silence and I have almost drifted off to sleep when I hear her low, haunting voice drift through the darkness like gossamer on the wind.
Deep in the meadow, under the willow
A bed of grass, a soft green pillow
Lay down your head, and close your sleepy eyes
And when again they open, the sun will rise.
Here it's safe, here it's warm
Here the daisies guard you from every harm
Here your dreams are sweet and tomorrow brings them true
Here is the place where I love you.
Katniss finishes the song and she must think that I'm asleep because she reaches out with one of her little hands and gently traces over my brow, my cheekbone, my jawline before curling up in the chair like a kitten and closing her eyes.
When I awake the morning after my father's funeral Katniss is already gone, and the pile of neatly folded clothes on the green armchair are the only evidence that the night before was not some sort of grief-induced hallucination. A week later when I return to school I expect her to avoid me like the plague-surely she is mortified by her show of vulnerability in the dark of my bedroom. That is why I am so surprised when she appears out of nowhere on my way to biology, gracing her fingers across my arm is a swift, feather-light motion.
"I'm ready for my next question," she says.
Author's Note: Poor Peeta! This was a hard chapter to write. Thanks to those of you who have left me such lovely and insightful reviews-please keep them coming!