Starting Off

I watch as her fingers fumble with the laces. Her tongue poking out between her lips, her blue eyes narrow at the thin pieces of fabric in a look of pure concentration. I sit patiently in front of her, watching as she carefully weaves them together. She's been practicing all week for this, ever since her father told her it was a tradition, and she's determined to get it right.

"Dawn," I call softly and smile as she looks warily up at me. "Do you want help?"

She scowls, a look that tells the world she is undoubtedly mine. "No," she answers shortly, stubbornly focusing on her laces again. "I can do it." I nod and sit back to watch her slowly, cautiously begin to tie her shoes. Five minutes later, she makes a sound of triumph. She wiggles her feet in front of her, leaning back on her hands to admire her handiwork.

"See?" Her blue eyes gleam up at me with an I-told-you-so smile.

"Perfect," I agree, poking her nose. It wrinkles cutely in protest and that smile is replaced with a pout.

"Mom," she whines and gives me an adorable scowl, "stop it."

I roll my eyes and do it again for good measure. Again, her face scrunches up as she bats away my hand. She grumbles under her breath at me, scowling, before her little pink tongue pokes out at me. I mirror her expression, showing her how a true expert does things. Soon though, we're both giggling at each other in our silliness.

"Dawn!" Peeta calls from the kitchen. "Your breakfast is ready!"

She's gone in a flash, skidding on the hardwood in her haste. I chuckle to myself and follow suit. We're in the age of favorites, and right now, breakfast is her favorite thing in the world. Especially when her father makes it.

Dawn sits on her chair, legs folded under her to give herself extra height over the table. Her brother sits next to her, his grey eyes barely peeking out over the table. He refused to sit in his chair or sit on a book or two. He's a big boy, he told us around his thumb. Which means sitting like his sister does at the table – without any help. He doesn't seem to mind that he can barely see his plate though.

Peeta practically glides over with the silent grace of an Avox, wielding a spatula and frying pan. Our children bounce excitedly in their seats. Thatch waves a hand in the air, silently asking for his food. Dawn simply watches with wide eyes as Peeta shovels a fluffy pancake on to her plate. His blue eyes meet mine before jumping to the pan and back to me. I shake my head to his question, but Thatch will have none of it.

"Mama," he calls quietly, the sound muffled by his hand. He points a small finger at Dawn's plate. "You eat."

"I'm not hungry, Thatcher," I try to say, but he won't have any of it.

Standing up in his chair, he leans across the table to grab his sister's pancake before flopping it down on the table in front of me. I blink at the sticky mass before catching Peeta's eye. He's biting the inside of his cheek and trying to keep that goofy grin of his in check. It's only when we hear the warning growls of our daughter that we begin to sober up.

"Thatch!" She explodes, pounding her fist on the table.

The little boy innocently looks up, clear grey meeting stormy blue, his mouth pulled into a confused frown. His thumb returns to it's hiding place between his lips as he watches his sister sputter and growl.

"Mama eat," he says simply, using logic as only a toddler can. And I have to laugh.

Peeta's there to rescue the situation, lightly scolding our son and giving Dawn another pancake. She just glares silently, leaning protectively over her food as eats. I clean up the sticky mess in front of me. Thatcher nibbles on his pancake, watching his sister with wide eyes. Soon, his cheeks and chin are covered in syrup and dotted with small crumbs. His fingers stick to the table and his shirt, successfully making himself and everything on his corner of the table a complete mess.

The clock in my study begins to chime. I watch as my daughter's eyes become as wide as her breakfast. She looks up in the direction of the hallway, as if she can see the clock from where she sits. And then she's gone, jumping out of her chair and taking off down the hallway.

"Dad!" She calls shrilly. "Dad, where's my bag?"

"It's in your room," Peeta calmly answers from the kitchen.

We hear her dash up the stairs. I cringe slightly at her heavy footfalls. We've been practicing hunting, but obviously not enough. A dramatic sigh reaches my ears and I look at my son. His grey eyes are glued to the ceiling, the small frown back on his sticky face.

"Too loud," he sighs again, heaving his shoulders comically.

I share a look with Peeta. He frowns before cocking an eyebrow at me. I raise mine back teasingly and hide my smile behind my teacup.

Dawn comes racing back in, her blue eyes wide as she gasps for breath. Her small backpack bounces on her back, hanging open in her forgetfulness and excitement. She stands at attention in the center of our kitchen, gazing at us expectantly and with a bit of panic.

"We're going to be late!" She tells us, pointing somewhere behind her. Peeta nods along good naturedly, fishing out a wet rag from the sink. He holds it up for her to see and she obediently sticks out her hands. Grumbling about how she already washed, she wipes her hands clean and practically throwing it back to him when she's done.

"Late!" She reminds us, chastising as we still take our time cleaning up.

Only Thatcher picks up on her haste. Chubby, sticky fingers wrap around my hand, giving it a hard tug to get my attention. His eyes dart between his sister and myself, puzzlement clear in his gaze. I simply wipe at his face with the wet rag.

Finally, we make it out the door, Peeta being practically dragged by his little girl. Jaw set and scowl in place, she marches down the street towards the new school building. Her brother toddles along behind her, keeping up as best as he can on his little legs. I'm at the end of our little parade, taking my time and enjoying the morning sun. Our march stops at the edge of the schoolyard. Silently, we watch as other children say good-bye to their parents for the next few hours before disappearing inside. Watching them, I remember my very first day of school. I glance at Peeta standing beside me and the look in his eye tells me he's thinking of the same thing.

"Mom," Dawn's quiet voice catches my attention. She peers up at me, suddenly nervous. I kneel down in front of her, putting my hands on her arms.

"You'll be fine," I say, soothing her the best I know how. "You like learning, remember?"

"I like learning your stuff," she mumbles, looking at her shoes. "I don't like letters."

"Letters aren't hard," Peeta says, kneeling down next to me. "And you like to read. You read all the time at home."

Dawn shakes her head, her braid swinging behind her. "I can't read," she insists. "I just know the stores you tell from The Book."

"Uncle Finnick!" Thatcher agrees.

I smile softly. "Then you'll learn new ones. And you can come home and tell them to me and Daddy."

She frowns, thinking this over, but still not convinced.

"You get to sing."

Her eyes light with excitement again at Peeta's simple fact. She loves singing even more than breakfast. There's never a quiet moment in our house between me and her and occasionally Thatcher. She looks to me, her eyes wide with question. I can't help but smile as I nod in confirmation. And that's all it takes.

With a quick hug to my middle and a kiss on her father's cheek, Dawn runs off to join her new classmates. Her shirt is untucked in the back as she runs and my heart gives a funny jump. She turns at the door to wave one last time and disappears into the school.

Suddenly, I'm worried. Will she like school? Will she make friends? She's so like Peeta that I can't believe she won't, but she is also my daughter. What will they tell her in this new school? What will she learn about the world? Will they teach her about our history? About the other districts? About the Games our society used to play? About me? She knows I've seen people die, but for now, that's all she knows. Will she think of me differently when she learns what I've done?

Peeta holds my hand and gives me one of those comforting smiles. "She'll be fine," he assures me. "Everything will be fine."

I nod and lean in to him, welcoming his warmth. Yes, I tell myself, she'll be fine. They won't scare her with my story. Not yet. She's just starting off. Just like us.

And with that, I'm off to press the "complete" button for this collection. I've had so much fun writing Katniss and Peeta and I'm a little sad I have to stop. Thank you to everyone who reviewed. Thank you to everyone who added this story to their Favorites and Alerts. And a big Thank you to everyone for reading and following me on this little project of mine. May the odds be ever in your favor!

~gracling42