“oh, let’s see. i guess the first day of school. we were five.
you had on a red plaid dress and your hair . . . it was in two
braids instead of one. my father pointed you out when we
were waiting to line up,” peeta says.
“your father? why?” i ask.
“he said, ‘see that little girl? i wanted to marry her mother,
but she ran off with a coal miner,’” peeta says.
“what? you’re making that up!” i exclaim.
“no, true story,” peeta says. “and i said, ‘a coal miner? why
did she want a coal miner if she could’ve had you?’ and he
said, ‘because when he sings . . . even the birds stop to listen.’”
“that’s true. they do. i mean, they did,” i say. i’m stunned
and surprisingly moved, thinking of the baker telling this to
peeta. it strikes me that my own reluctance to sing, my own
dismissal of music might not really be that i think it’s a waste
296
of time. it might be because it reminds me too much of my fa-
ther.
“so that day, in music assembly, the teacher asked who
knew the valley song. your hand shot right up in the air. she
stood you up on a stool and had you sing it for us. and i swear,
every bird outside the windows fell silent,” peeta says.
“oh, please,” i say, laughing.
“no, it happened. and right when your song ended, i knew
— just like your mother — i was a goner,” peeta says. “then
for the next eleven years, i tried to work up the nerve to talk
to you.”
“without success,” i add.
“without success. so, in a way, my name being drawn in the
reaping was a real piece of luck,” says peeta.
for a moment, i’m almost foolishly happy and then confu-
sion sweeps over me. because we’re supposed to be making
up this stuff, playing at being in love not actually being in love.
but peeta’s story has a ring of truth to it. that part about my
father and the birds. and i did sing the first day of school, al-
though i don’t remember the song. and that red plaid dress . . .
there was one, a hand-me-down to prim that got washed to
rags after my father’s death.
it would explain another thing, too. why peeta took a beat-
ing to give me the bread on that awful hollow day. so, if those
details are true . . . could it all be true?
“you have a . . . remarkable memory,” i say haltingly.
297
“i remember everything about you,” says peeta, tucking a
loose strand of hair behind my ear. “you’re the one who
wasn’t paying attention.”
“i am now,” i say.
“well, i don’t have much competition here,” he says.
i want to draw away, to close those shutters again, but i
know i can’t. it’s as if i can hear haymitch whispering in my
ear, “say it! say it!”
i swallow hard and get the words out. “you don’t have
much competition anywhere.” and this time, it’s me who leans
in.
our lips have just barely touched when the clunk outside
makes us jump. my bow comes up, the arrow ready to fly, but
there’s no other sound. peeta peers through the rocks and
then gives a whoop. before i can stop him, lie’s out in the rain,
then handing something in to me. a silver parachute attached
to a basket. i rip it open at once and inside there’s a feast —
fresh rolls, goat cheese, apples, and best of all, a tureen of that
incredible lamb stew on wild rice. the very dish i told caesar
flickerman was the most impressive thing the capitol had to
offer.
peeta wriggles back inside, his face lit up like the sun. “i
guess haymitch finally got tired of watching us starve.”
“i guess so,” i answer.
but in my head i can hear haymitch’s smug, if slightly exas-
perated, words, “yes, that’s what i’m looking lot, sweetheart.”
298
every cell in my body wants me to dig into the stew and
cram it, handful by handful into my mouth. but peeta’s voice
stops me. “we better take it slow on that stew. remember the
first night on the train?
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