One-Shots (The Hunger Games)

One Shot 3

She stands outside leaning on the flimsy wooden walls of the tailor, her right foot propped up against it. Remnants of the soft blue paint on the wall are the only bright color in the area. Not a single ray of sunlight reflects on her olive skin or straight, dark black locks that are held back from her face with a intricate braid, but still sundry tresses are excluded from the weave.

Her mysterious, gray irises study her shabby boots, which are nearly fully covered by the length of her far too large, ragged old overall. The sleeves of her oversized gray sweater are rolled up to her elbows, and the hem is tucked in the overall. Her helmet hangs on a belt loop, tugging it down somewhat with the weight of it.

Coal dust has permanently found its place under her bitten nails, and some stains can't be taken rid off her sweater, judging by the way the amount of marks become more and more every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday that she stands outside, at the same spot every time, waiting for her mother and sister's shift to end at the pharmacy.

In exactly 11 days she will turns 20 years old, and she can finally stop worrying about her sister being reaped for the Games after this year. The odds are exceedingly small that she is reaped considering her sister never let her take tesserae.

"Peeta, boy, do you want your mother to get mad at you for burning the breads again?" My father asks, alarming me back to reality.

I swiftly draw the tray with the goods from the oven. The loaves are meagerly burnt, but we can still sell them for a lower price. I think about the time I purposely burnt the bread to give it to the girl who is now standing outside, covered in coal dust instead of cold rain drops. I'm certain she doesn't remember, but if she does, she wouldn't remember that it was I who had thrown it to her.

Nowadays, she is far not as short on food as she used to be. Both her mother and sister have jobs, however they are in a much safer environment when working. Unlike her family, she is many yards under ground nearly everyday, inhaling the toxic dust with every breath, and could be trapped there if only a small explosion happened.

"Your mother would bury me alive if I told you this, but why not talk to the girl. Staring isn't gonna make her like you." My father says, briefly pointing to her. My mother would berate me for even thinking of talking to someone from the Seam. The upper class can only love the upper class according to her. "Don't think I haven't noticed," He laughs. "People don't regularly stare at someone for minutes on end. I think she caught your attention when you were, uhm, I think 6 years old."

"She doesn't even know me," I explain, looking away from her and facing my father.

"And she won't ever if you don't go talk to her now." He nudges my shoulder and says, "Now go on, your mother won't be home from town for over an hour. And her mother's shift ends in half an hour."

It strikes me as odd that my father would know this about her, but I don't question it, because after all, the pharmacy is only three dwellings away from our bakery.

At first, I don't dare go, but my dad tells me that I'm not a man if I have had a crush on a girl for roughly fifteen years straight and haven't even talked to her once. Of course, this makes me want to prove myself to my father and I parade out the door.

But not a second after the door closes behind me, I regret just starting the conversation with my father. I look back through the window where I see my father grinning at me and nodding to the girl.

I let out a long, anxious sigh and pat away some flour from my apron in attempt to stall time, but I know that I would disappoint my father if I didn't have the courage to just walk up up to her.

So I do. I gawkily make my over the dusty alley, my nerves increasing with each step. As I get closer, I notice that her hair isn't all black, but that it has several lighter strands of brown in them.