Chapter 4

In my concern for the starving girl last night, I hadn't realized that the rolling pin had broken skin. When I wake up in the morning, I find a red stain on my pillow and register an ache on the side of my head, near my ear. I go to touch the area and I can feel a sticky scab beginning to form over the gash surrounded by my matted hair.

Great. I'm definitely going to be late for school today since I now have to wash the dried blood out of my hair and soak this pillow case before anyone in my family sees. It would only start an argument between my parents and my brothers would ask me what I had done to get such an injury. Not to mention, the whole district would gossip about my mother's abuse even more than they already do.

No, I'm not going to let any attention be drawn to myself. I don't want anyone's pity; I'm nearly 12 years old and getting stronger every day. I will not continue to be the poor young boy always beaten down by his bitter, old mother for the crime of being born a male.

Mother is nagging at me that morning as I rush down the stairs probably fifteen minutes after my brothers had already left. I'm sure they tried to wait for me, but could only stall so much before my mother lashed out at them. No matter; I don't need someone to walk me to school.

I've at least been able to comb my hair over the scab and wash out the evidence of the broken skin. I don't want to be questioned about it; not because I'm ashamed to admit my mom did it, but because I don't want to spread any stories – true or embellished – about Katniss.

I'm surprised when I see her in the schoolyard that day. I've developed a bruise on my cheek as well, but that's normal for me by now. No one questions my bruises anymore.

When our eyes meet I can tell from her expression that she knows why I have the bruise today. The confidence I'd felt this morning disintegrates and I'm now embarrassed of what I did – I could've done more. I could've made sure she was safe. I could've approached her weeks ago before her suffering had a chance to make it halfway through death's door. I could've tried to be friends with her despite my mother's banishment and threats. I would take being sent to the community home if it meant I could still have her in my life.

Katniss breaks her gaze, looking a bit embarrassed herself before she leans down and picks a bright yellow dandelion from the cold, muddy ground. There's actually a small smile on her lips as she looks at it, wheels turning in her mind, and then she turns and walks away confidently toward the meadow. I wonder pathetically if I had anything to do with that smile.

Over the months that follow, the color starts to return to Katniss' cheeks. I'm not sure what exactly the cause is, but I'm grateful to see her gaining some weight and energy.

She is different, though. She doesn't smile much anymore, certainly doesn't sing – I still listen for her beautiful voice among our classmates in music assembly. The lyrics may contain blind praises for the Capitol, but I'd happily listen to her melodic voice sing about anything. I don't hear it anymore.

She still sits with Madge at lunch. I'm staring at her across the lunchroom; she doesn't look up, only occasionally nods along with whatever Madge is saying. Neither of them are really talkers, so it isn't much.

I watch as she plays with the end of her braid, undoing it a bit and then braiding it again. Her hair's grown much longer now. At fourteen, most of the girl in our class are starting to shape into women, and though Katniss is smaller than most, she is no exception. It becomes nearly tortuous to try and forget about her now. Whether I want to or not, my mind – and body – is always acutely aware of when she's near. Even though it sends butterflies through me, it's also highly annoying.

I feel someone tap my shoulder and look away from my gawking to find my friends all looking at me from around the table.

"Who you staring at, Peeta?" my friend Jude asks. I blush and before I can come up with a lie he continues his teasing. "Madge? Mmm, she's getting quite the pair of knockers, if you know what I mean," he says crudely.

"Jude!" Delly scolds from beside me, flustered.

Jude winks at her, "Don't be jealous, Dell. You're on your way there too."

Delly makes a noise of disgust, but there is still a blush creeping into her cheeks. Huh, does Delly actually like the immature sack of eggs called Jude?

Conversation steers away from me after that, and I'm relieved that I haven't been caught in my unrequited longing.

At least, I thought I wasn't caught, but when I'm walking home from school that day Delly questions me as my eyes follow Katniss walking with Prim across the schoolyard.

"It's her, isn't it?" she says. I look at her dumbly and she continues, "The girl you casually stare at all the time?" She's got a playful smile on her face.

I look down at the ground, embarrassed and not trusting my eyes to resist focusing right back on the dark braid walking away from us. We walk in silence for a few moments before I look up again to see her watching my face carefully. I sense the unspoken question and nod shyly as I look down again, counting the cracks in the pavement. I may be a smooth liar, but Delly always sees right through me. This is also very annoying. Thankfully, she doesn't question me any more about it and goes right in to talking about something else. I can always count on Delly the chatterbox to fill an awkward silence.

As the Harvest Festival approaches, my mother is becoming insufferable. She lashes out at all of us on a daily basis, and my father practically begs her to run errands or spend time with her sister just to get her away from us while we work. She's been hitting us all frequently, but I'm used to it enough now that I hardly register the pain. I'm taller than her now, and getting stronger every day from the heavy lifting and wrestling practice.

Rye is going on about the two different girls he'd promised a free treat to tonight at the start of the festival, and we're all half-listening, half-smirking at each other. Rye thinks he's such a player, but you'd have to be blind not to see right through him. He's so full of crap. It's kind of endearing, though. Maybe that's why girls go along with it, to get to the goofy teddy bear behind the joking and acting macho.

"What about you, Peet? Got a special girl to spoil with pastries this evening?" he wiggles his eyebrows at me.

I shake my head, deflecting, but he doesn't give up. "Awe, come on! Not even a certain beauty whose name you've been moaning in your sleep?"

Rye is very much aware of my infatuation. After all, I've still got that turkey drawing hanging next to my pillow, and despite his endless teasing, I just can't bring myself to take it down.

My eyes snap to him, giving him a warning. Say any more and I'll rip that smirk right off your face.

"Oh, cut the bullshit, Rye," Graham says. "The only one moaning in his sleep is you waking us up every night." He then breaks into an embarrassing rendition of Rye's voice saying Laurel's name like a mantra. Thank goodness I have one good brother.

"Boys, enough," my father scolds, though the suppressed smile on his face betrays his tone. It's so much better when Mom isn't around. I feel guilty wishing it could be like that all the time.

Naturally our respite doesn't last for long. Soon enough, Mom's back and breathing fire down our backs. I'm trying to just grin and bear it until the festival begins and she'll be preoccupied trying to socialize with the wealthier families in the district.

There's a knock on the back door and I freeze. Every Sunday, Gale Hawthorne comes to trade with my father – fresh game in exchange for bread. I've heard people talk, I know he's frequently seen with Katniss making trades around the district, but she's never with him when he stops here. When I first realized she must be avoiding the bakery on purpose, I was hurt, but then I felt ridiculous – of course Katniss would avoid the bakery. She had every reason to, including blatant orders from my witch of a mother to stay away.

There's a moment of heavy silence after we all hear the knock. Gale trades here on Sundays because Mother is never around on Sundays. But tonight begins the Harvest festival, and Mom is definitely around.

"Who's that? Are you expecting someone, Levi?" my mother snaps. My father looks as scared as the rest of us, staring blankly back at her, unable to formulate a response.

Mom huffs impatiently and goes to answer the door herself. It's then that I'm able to move again and step forward clumsily to try and close the door before she can see who's on the otherside.

I'm half successful. I slam the door shut and stand in front of it, but this only annoys my mother and makes her more curious as to who our visitor is. She grabs for the handle but I block it with my own.

"Move out of my way, Peeta," she hisses at me lowly. I don't move until my father speaks up.

"Peeta, let her answer it. Go out front and start packing up the displays. I'll take care of this," he tries to sound calm but I can see the apprehension in his eyes.

Hesitantly, I do as he says, and cringe when I hear the door slam not a minute later. My mother's angry tirade begins and I try to block out the cruel insults she hurling both at people from the Seam and my father for trading our merchandise for nasty "rodent meat" when we need coins to acquire a suitable profit. She hardly takes a second to breathe, so I don't hear if my dad tries to rebuke anything she's saying.

After a little while, the yelling dies down. I've been taking my good old time on the task Dad assigned to avoid having to face the melee going on behind the kitchen door. I wait a few moments until I'm sure Mom has left and head back in.

The tension is palpable immediately; my brothers don't even look up as I walk by them towards the table I was icing cakes on earlier. I'm just picking up the bag of icing when Dad stops me with a gentle hand on my arm.

"Why don't you go upstairs and get ready son? I'll finish this before your mother returns," he says. A little confused, I slowly turn and head upstairs. It's rare that I get to be first to shower – I can count on one hand the number of times I've bathed in warm, let alone hot, water.

I try to relax and wash up quickly to save water for my brothers. I'm anxious to go back down and set up our stand in the square, just to taste a bit of freedom being out of my mother's dungeon for a few hours.

I'm alone in the kitchen – my dad and brothers are already in the square – carefully packing up the cakes we've prepared into boxes when Mom returns. You'd think she'd have calmed down by now – it's not like we brought a "seam brat" into the kitchen this time. Wrong.

"You!" she snaps at me, clearly still just as irritated as the last time I was in her presence. Even though I should see these things coming by now, I'm startled when she storms up to me and grabs me by the caller so she can get right in my face.

"You just can't stay away from that Seam trash, can you?" her arm pounds against my chest, harder than usual. It's not really painful, but I flinch nevertheless. She notices and I swear she grins knowing she still holds this kind of power over me. I make my expression impassive immediately and stare back into her cold eyes.

She makes a noise of disgust before she shoves me backwards, mumbling more insults. I don't hear them; my mind is suddenly flooded with the pain I can feel coming from my right forearm.

I hiss as I regain my balance. She's pushed my right up against the open oven. We just turned them off and left them open to cool off before heading to the square. That had only been minutes ago, and the opening is still glowing hot. My sleeves are rolled up passed my elbows from working all day, and the hot metal side of the oven has melted a long gash of skin where my arm made contact with it. I don't pay attention to see my mother's reaction before she walks out the door, wincing as I try to place a cool rag over the burn. It doesn't help, but I hold it there for a few minutes anyways until I can collect myself enough to head out to the square.

Already a lot of people are out and about, talking, dancing, eating, enjoying the evening off. It's challenging to hide the pain I'm in as my skin continues to melt, now a hot pink color and starting to blister. I try rolling my sleeves back down to cover it, but the contact with the cloth is even more excruciating than the burning sensation that's already prevalent.

Of course, she had to do this now. She couldn't have waited until after the festival to lash out on me, at least giving me the night to come up with a story and figure out a way to hide the ugly, seared flesh. I have absolutely no patience for this right now, so I decide to just act as if it isn't there; I ignore the questioning looks from my brothers and the customers that stop by. When Rye initially tries to ask, I give him my worst scowl and he shuts up.

It's nearly the end of the night, the pain in my arm is still excruciating, but at least soon I'll be able to go home, away from the pitiful looks everyone keeps giving me. I'm just telling my father I'm not feeling well and want to head home after the next order when a familiar voice interrupts my thoughts as its owner approaches the stand.

Primrose Everdeen is dragging her reluctant older sister up to the bakery stand, three coins in her hand and a wide smile on her face. She asks for one of the specially frosted cookies, but I'm frozen in place and my father takes care of it.

Katniss finally looks up to offer me a sad, embarrassed smile when her eyes dart to the large red mark on my arm and her expression goes from shocked to angry in seconds.

I can't take this. I can't deal with Katniss Everdeen's pity right now. These thoughts consume me and I turn and bolt away, at first unsure where I'm going until I find myself at the edge of the meadow. I clumsily sit down in the tall grass and groan, putting my head between my knees in utter humiliation. Great, now she knows I'm still just as weak as I was that day in the kitchen.

Despite my avid refusal to accept anyone else's pity, I sit there for a while throwing my own pity party in solitude. I don't know how much time has passed when I finally sit up and am suddenly aware of a presence next to me.

I look over, and even though I already know who it is, inhale sharply as my eyes meet the beautiful grey ones staring back at me. For the hundredth time today, I'm frozen and speechless.

"I'm-" she starts, and I begin to scowl expecting an apology to come from her mouth, but she stops, takes a deep breath, and starts again.

"I hate her," she whispers, even though there's no one else around to overhear. "I hate her," she repeats a little louder this time. She's staring angrily at my arm, and before I can draw it back to my lap in an attempt to hide it, her eyes dart back to meet mine and she speaks again.

"You're stronger than her," she declares. At first I think she's reprimanding me, but the fury in her eyes isn't aimed at me. "Don't you ever believe a word she says!" she commands. "You're so much stronger than her and every person in this district knows it," she says with more compassion. "Except you," she finishes softly.

I don't know what to say, so I just stare back at her in awe. Everyone knows it? Does that mean she believes it, too?

She surprises me even more than I could've thought possible then. She reaches for my hand, gently but firmly holding it in hers. "She doesn't have the right to make you feel inferior," she says with resolve. Less than a second later, she's leaning forward, and I just register her soft lips on my cheek when she drops my hand and stands in one swift movement, walking away and leaving me stunned – and strangely, comforted, inspired even – as I sit there in the grass where moments before I'd been wallowing in shame, convinced that I'm a complete coward.

Once again, Katniss' actions have an overwhelming effect on me. It's true… I am physically stronger than my mother. But I'm starting to think I hold strength in more ways than one.