Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Chicago, IL

I could just take it.

The thought slips into my head out of nowhere and just kind of bounces around in there for a while. No I can’t, I tell myself firmly, staring forlornly at the display sign that declares ‘Sterling Silver Jewelry: 25% Off Now Through Christmas.” Even at 25% off, everything on this table, everything inside this whole store, is more than I could possibly afford.

This past year it has been all we could do just to keep food in our bellies and the lights and heat turned on. We are a little better off than we were earlier this year, since we moved into our little run-down, one-bedroom apartment. Papa’s small monthly pension payment is enough to pay the rent and energy bill, and the food stamps we receive are enough to ensure that we don’t go hungry anymore. But that has only been the case for the past few months. After Papa’s funeral, Mama couldn’t even bring herself to get out of bed most days. But she did manage to get down to the government office to sign-up for food stamps after hearing Prim cry for several hours straight because her belly ached from being so hungry.

So no, we are not hungry anymore, but there is no extra for treats or toys or anything like that. I can’t remember the last time we bought something that was not absolutely necessary. Needless to say, I know that there will be no Christmas this year. But Prim, who still believes that Santa visits all the good boys and girls, will certainly expect to see something under the tree come Christmas morning. I haven’t been able to bring myself to dash her hopes, even though I know she is bound for disappointment… I guess maybe I haven’t given up the hope that somehow, someway, it will work out and my sweet, innocent little sister will have a small moment of happiness after this year full of sadness.

I am startled from my sad thoughts by the sound of a high pitched screech from nearby. I look over toward a jewelry case a few yards from where I stand where a girl a few years younger than me, probably about Prim’s age actually, is stamping her foot and pointing at what looks a display of very expensive bracelets. “I want one of these!” she screams so loudly that several of the other customers begin to take notice.

“My darling,” an older woman, who I guess must be her mother, says placatingly, “Santa comes tomorrow night and he will be bringing you all kinds of pretty things. You can wait until then can’t you?”

“I don’t want to wait! Santa won’t be bringing me one of these! Santa doesn’t bring gifts from Marshall Field’s, and I want one of these!” Her screaming has gotten so high that I am tempted to slam my hands over my ears.

“Oh, now, my darling, we don’t behave this way do we?” her mother says placatingly.

I am shocked to see the little girl throw herself to the floor and begin kicking her legs violently and thumping her head against the hard tile. “I WANT ONE! I WANT ONE! I WANT ONE!” she howls over and over, pretending to cry very unconvincingly.

He mother crouches down, tottering on her high heeled shoes, her expensive looking camel colored coat dragging the ground as she attempts to subdue the girl’s outrageous behavior. “Okay, okay. I will get you one. We will buy you a bracelet today. Please just get up, sweetie.”

Sweetie? A snort huffs out of my nose involuntarily. There is nothing sweet about that little brat. I could never imagine Prim acting that way. She is so gentle and sensitive and caring. Prim sees the good in everybody, loves to do little things to make others happy, and wants to take care of everybody and everything. Even with everything we have been through since Papa’s death almost a year ago, she has never once behaved as awfully as the spoiled girl currently picking out a piece of jewelry that is far more expensive than the simple lockets I have been looking at, knowing even they are far beyond anything Prim will ever own.

Suddenly I am very angry. It is just so unfair that this ungrateful little brat should have anything she could ever want and Prim will wake up on Christmas morning with absolutely nothing. I let myself imagine her beautiful little face lit with a smile as she unwraps one of these little square boxes containing a simple silver locket. If I could get one of these for Prim, I would even put a little picture of Papa inside it, so that she never forgets what he looks like.

I glance around quickly, noticing the spoiled girl and her mother retreating with a small red bag containing the little girl’s new bracelet that will probably be only one of the many expensive gifts she will receive this Christmas. I don’t think I even realize what I am doing when I grab one of the little sparkling silver boxes, clutching it firmly in my hand and then shoving it into my right coat pocket. And with the image of a silver locket containing Papa’s picture swimming through my mind, I snatch a second box off the display table, cramming it into my left pocket. Before I can think of anything else, before I can even consider what I have done, I turn on my heel and dart toward the door.

Although she is small and slight, I still think she must be about my age. Her clothes are neat and clean, but very shabby- the tread of her sneakers is worn thin, the elbows and hem of her jacket are thin and fraying, an her gloves, the cheap, stretchy knit kind to begin with, are so threadbare that I doubt they do much to keep her small hands warm. Despite this I think she might be the prettiest girl I have ever seen. Her dark hair looks like shiny silk in the thick braid down her back, and that, combined with her warm, dark skin tone, make her unique eyes standout. They almost look like they are glowing beneath her dark lashes.

She doesn’t appear to be here with any grown-ups but, then again, neither am I. I have been saving my allowance from helping my dad in the bakery for the last few months so that I would have money to buy Christmas gifts for my parents and two older brothers. Dad let me leave the bakery early tonight- making me promise that I wouldn’t tell Mom- because he knew I had my eye on a cashmere scarf and glove set for my mom that I had seen at Marshall Field’s when I came shopping with him a few weeks ago.

I duck behind a rack of earrings as the girl stops in front of a table loaded down with discounted silver jewelry. The look of longing on her face makes me think that, even at the sale price, these items are probably far beyond what she can afford. It’s weird, even though I don’t know this girl at all, I can tell that whatever thoughts are filtering through her mind at this moment are sad ones. I can’t seem to take my eyes off of her as chews her lip and leans her face closer to what appear to be necklaces- lockets, I think- inspecting them thoughtfully. For some reason, I am fascinated by this and the general clamor of the busy store fades as I focus intently on her little white teeth pinching into her bottom lip, worrying it back and forth.

She looks up suddenly and my foggy mind slowly registers that her attention has been drawn by some sort of commotion nearby. I follow her gaze and am shocked to see that a little girl is lying in the floor having a temper tantrum. I shake my head as the mother gives in to the girl’s fit; I wouldn’t be able to walk for a week if my mother witnessed me acting that way…

I look back to the dark haired girl when the fuss has died down and she has focused back on the lockets in front of her, but her expression has changed. Her brow is furrowed deeply as though she is troubled by something, her expression seems less sad and more angry now. She looks… determined.

I almost don’t believe what I am seeing as she reaches out her hand, in her little worn gloves, and pulls one box from the table, barely glancing at it before she shoves it into her coat pocket. She pauses for a second and I think she is reconsidering, but rather than taking the box out of her pocket and replacing it on the table, she reaches out her other hand to grab a second box and quickly stows it in her other pocket.

Before I can even attempt to make sense of what she has done, she turns and flees toward the front of the store. I watch as a security guard that I hadn’t noticed before darts after her, clearly having witnessed her indiscrete attempt to shoplift the two items. Just as I have been doing since I entered the store, I follow automatically without even considering my actions, chasing behind the girl and the security guard as they head toward the front of the store.

My wet sneakers skid on the tiles again as I round the corner of the next aisle. The girl is making a left onto the main aisle down the center of the store. She is really fast, and it looks like she is actually increasing the distance between herself and the security guard, even though his legs are twice as long as hers. She has almost made it to the front of the store and for a split second I am elated, thinking that she just might make it out the door of the store where she will surely be able to evade the guard in the bustle of holiday shoppers out on State Street.

The revolving door where she and I bumped into each other earlier is only about 15 feet from her as she reaches the intersection where this aisle and the main front aisle meet. The guard following her is at least the same distance from her, and I am certain she will easily make it out to blend into the crowd on the street before he catches up to her. But just as I think she is home free, a second security guard materializes seemingly out of nowhere. Extending a long muscular arm, his fingers are just close enough to snag her backpack, ripping the main zipper and pulling her up short with enough force that her entire body is snapped backwards, her feet and legs still scrambling forward. The only thing that keeps her from falling down is the guard’s quick arm around her torso which holds her struggling form easily as he brings his free arm up to press a button on the speaker on his shoulder and he leans his mouth over to speak into it.

I skid to a stop, not sure what I should do… not sure what I can do. The first guard has slowed to a walk but continues his progress, causing the second guard to spin to address him with his arm still locked around the girl’s torso. As she is turned to face me I see that her face is set in defiance, but she is crying and her silver eyes look like mercury with tears of fear and frustration welling in them. Suddenly, her glance lands on me, those remarkable eyes locking with mine. Neither of us looks away, our gazes fixed on each other intently, and, once again, my feet begin moving of their own accord.

My heart is pounding as I approach the small group. I am terrified and exhilarated and totally unable to believe what I am about to do. Screwing up every ounce of courage I possess, I walk directly to the girl where she stands flanked by the two guards and declare, “Lisa! There you are! You know mom told us to be home by six. I’ve been looking all over for you!”

She looks astonished and confused by my statement. “Wha… what?” she stutters, looking at me warily.

I shake my head and force a chuckle, giving the guards a look that I hope conveys exasperation with the wayward girl. Looking back at her and annunciating each word as though I think she is having trouble grasping basic English I repeat, “Mom - said - we have to be home - by - six!” And then, as though it’s an afterthought I look at the two men and say, “So guys, how’s your holiday been so far? Pretty busy around here I bet.”

Now the guards are looking at me as though I’m crazy. “This is your sister?” one finally speaks up passing a skeptical glance between us. I can’t say I blame him. We look nothing alike- her hair is inky black and mine is golden blonde, her skin dark and mine fair. Not to mention the difference between her old, worn clothing and my new, name brand attire.

“Yeah,” I say casually, “well… step sister, actually.” I roll my eyes for added emphasis, hoping I am not laying it on too thick.

“Well, you may want to call your parents. Your stepsister here was shoplifting, and the police will need to be in touch with a parent or guardian.”

“What?! No, that can’t be true,” I respond shifting my glance to the girl, trying to pass the silent message that she should just follow my lead. “What are they talking about, Lisa? You were supposed to be picking something out for mom and, um… Leslie.” Geez, am I incapable of thinking of a girl’s name that doesn’t start with ‘L’?

It takes her a moment to respond, but she finally speaks up in quiet, uncertain tones, “Um, yeah… I did… I, um, found these.” She wrests her arms from the guard’s grasp and produces the two boxes from her coat pockets. “I was, um, trying to find you… You said to meet at the entrance, right?” I hold a straight face, but I want to beam at her for adding this last touch.

I shake my head and roll my eyes again as though she is just too intolerably slow witted. “Nooo,” I drag out the word as though I am talking to a small child, “I said we should meet at the registers. You never listen to me!” The guards’ heads are volleying back and forth between us. “And now you see why. These guys probably saw you heading toward the exit and thought you were trying to steal! I swear, you can be so dense sometimes.”

Her eyes spark at me, as though she is annoyed by my superiority but she just hangs her head, not giving us away. “Sorry, officers,” I say. “She just doesn’t think things through.” I reach out and take the boxes from her hand. “We’ll just go pay for these now. I am holding on to her money for her. You can see why?” I look between the guards with a laugh, as though we are all in on some big joke together.

Her head snaps back up at this, “What?! No,” she says frantically. “I, um, decided against them. They are too expensive, I think… I, um, don’t think I’ll have enough.”

I look down at the necklaces and shrug- they really aren’t all that much, but my idea of ‘not much’ is probably a lot different than hers. When I look back at her I widen my eyes as to emphasize that she should shut up before she blows it. “No, you do. You have plenty.” I glance back at the guards. “Sorry, for the misunderstanding officers. Are we all set here?”

They glance between each other, clearly ready to be done with our antics. “We’ll just have to escort you to the register, and then out of the store. Just to keep you honest, kid.”

I give him my widest smile as though I have never heard a better idea in my life. “Just lead the way, gentlemen.”

Fifteen minutes later, I have used about half of my Christmas money to buy the two necklaces and the dark haired girl and I are walking north down State Street under the watchful eye of one of the security guards. As soon as we hit Randolph Street we take a right and both of us pause to breathe a sigh of relief. I am grinning like a fool, waiting for my heart rate too slow from the exhilaration, but somehow I don’t think it is going to as long as I am in this girl’s company.

Just as I turn to her to express my excitement over having outsmarted the grown-ups at the store I feel a very firm, very painful punch on my shoulder. “What did you do that for?!” The anger in her tone doesn’t seem to match her high, sweet voice.

“Ow!!” I exclaim rubbing my shoulder, my smile melting away instantly.

“Now what am I supposed to do? I don’t have any money to give you for those!” Despite her deeply furrowed brow and formidable scowl, her eyes are disturbingly wet and I am afraid she may be on the verge of crying again.

“I don’t expect you to pay me for them,” I assure her. “Consider them a gift.”

“I cannot consider them a gift! I don’t even know you, you can’t give me a gift. And I would never take anything from a complete stranger!” She crosses her arm and turns away from me. Oh no, she is definitely going to start crying again and I really don’t want that to happen. Something about the idea of this girl crying makes stomach twist unpleasantly.

“Okay, fine. My name is Peeta Mellark, I am 13 years old, my mom and dad own Mellark Family Bakery over on Grand and State, my favorite color is orange, and I really like drawing and painting. There now I’m not a stranger. You can accept them now,” I say, grinning at her when she darts a look at me out of the corner of her eye. It is hard to tell, but it almost looks as though she is trying hard to keep her lips from turning up into a smile. “What is your name?” I ask when it becomes clear she isn’t going to respond.

“Lisa,” she states, her tone oozing sarcasm.

I laugh bursts out of my throat. “Okay… Lisa… Who are the lockets for?”

“What makes you think they are for anyone? Maybe I was just taking them so that I can sell them,” she says defiantly.

“No you weren’t.” I catch myself before I say anymore. I don’t want her to know that I witnessed her actually contemplating the lockets, inspecting them and considering them, choosing them from a table full of jewelry despite the fact that they were nowhere near the most valuable items there.

“How do you know?”

I give her a cocky grin and simply say, “I just know.”

She looks at me warily for a few moments before she sniffs indignantly and proclaims, “Well, regardless. I will not be leaving here today with those lockets. You bought them, you keep them. I didn’t ask for your help, Peeta Mellark, and I will not be in your debt just because you decided to stick your nose in where it didn’t belong.” She speaks with such dignity and confidence you would think she was a queen demanding the allegiance of her subjects rather than a ratty little girl who narrowly avoided getting tossed out of Marshall Field’s by the scruff of her neck for shoplifting.

I scoff, “Yeah, well that’s some ‘thank you’! You’d be in a pretty big mess right now if I had just minded my own business.”

She huffs in a breath and turns her back to me again, declining to respond. I am struck with an idea as I notice her shabby old backpack gaping open where the zipper was ripped by the security guard earlier. “Look, it’s fine. I can just give them to my mom and sister,” I lie. I don’t even have a sister and a locket would be wasted on my mom- she’s not exactly the sentimental sort.

“Good,” she says quietly, seemingly mollified. She opens and closes her mouth a few times as though she wants to speak but isn’t quite sure what to say. When she finally does continue she simply says, “Well… I guess I should get home.”

I sigh in exasperation. She just might have too much pride for her own good. “Okay, I guess I’ll see you around…” She nods and turns to continue heading east on Randolph, but I call out to her before she even makes it a few feet. “Hey, ‘Lisa!’” She halts her progress, her back stiffening in annoyance, but doesn’t turn around.

“What?” she murmurs through gritted teeth.

“Your shoe is untied,” I respond, grateful that she cannot see my mischievous grin.

She huffs out another breath, losing her patience with me, but crouches to tie it just as I was hoping she would. With her attention focused on her shoe, I seize my opportunity and, pulling the two small boxes out of the red Marshall Field’s bag, I lean down and slip them silently into the gap in the ripped zipper of her backpack. She doesn’t seem to notice anything amiss as she straightens and begins walking away again without another word.

Unable to resist I laugh to myself and call out loudly after her, “Merry Christmas, ‘Lisa!’”