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“Will you get those taffy rolls restocked before we have to head out, dear?” Her Papa ushers by her, hands full with an unironed outfit. A pristine white button-up, chocolate brown pants. A set of threads only meant for a ceremony.
Maysilee sighs. “Yeah, Papa. I will.”
“You’re a blessing,” he says, and swings open the door that would reveal a stone staircase, that would then lead to the apartment they all share.
Now, she’s given no choice but to remove herself from the comfortable place behind the counter. Three boxes near the front of the store await her like a mouse trap, the bloody flag the Peacekeepers forced up into their window before the sun had even risen casts a tinted shadow over her eyes, and over the light brown shelves she would be working beside.
She glares at the taunting fabric blankly. The reaping commences at two-o-clock every year, so, she and Merrilee were working down at the shop until twelve-thirty tops. With it being ten, Maysilee could very well be spending her last hours in the place she despises most. Wonderful.
The entrance bell creaks.
Even on the worst day of the year for the districts, the Donner’s Sweetshop still has its doors wide open.
Maysilee tucks away from the oncoming customer, dipping into a crouch to select a box of taffy.
“Hi, welcome in. Let me know if you need any help finding anything!” Merrilee appears, but Maysilee can feel her presence atop of her seconds later. She smacks her arm. “Maysilee,” she hisses under her breath.
She gives her sister a pointed look, hand on her hip. “I’m not in the mood to be cheery today, alright?”
“No one is, but you’re at the front of the store. I’m supposed to be redoing the counter display.”
“To stock the shelves, not kiki with customers.”
Merrilee huffs a little. “Okay, I get it,” she tightens the knot of her apron, her grassy green dress scrunching beneath. “Just promise to not let anyone run off with anything. You know we’ll both get in trouble.”
Maysilee wouldn’t move a muscle if a whole sea of thieves came in here. But she agrees for her sister’s sake. “Fine, fine.”
“Thank you,” Merrilee smiles, slightly strained. “If it makes you feel any better, we get off early.”
It would, if it were for any other reason. Merrilee seems to regret it as soon as it comes out. Her once promising gaze flicks to dullness, to the floor, and she leaves Maysilee alone without saying anything else.
She lets her focus travel back to the boxes of taffy. Better to get them done quickly.
Maysilee pulls her cutter from a dip in her apron, dragging the blade across the transparent tape that held the box’s flaps closed. Synthetic banana and peanut waft up into her nostrils when they pop apart. Curling her lip, she starts to grab handfuls of it, tossing them into the empty containers that were positioned on the ledges in front of her. Once the bottom of the cardboard is no longer littered with the yellow, tube-like candies, she moves onto the next box. And repeats the same process, over and over.
She spares fast, careless glances to each customer that passes through, her tongue remaining still. Thankfully, it’s not so many, probably because of the day. Gumdrops and chocolate hearts can’t seem to wait for others. All of their eyes flicker up to the Panem flag, discomfort taking the shape of their bodies instantly. Can’t blame them for that. Maysilee would tear it to shreds if she could—but despite her rage with the world, she would prefer her stomach to not resemble a block of swiss cheese this morning, penetrated with bullets. Merrilee would never forget it.
At what Maysilee assumes is eleven-o-clock, the sun has begun to lift itself higher into the sky, its rays peering over the slope in the top of the flag. She angles her back to it, allowing the heat to blanket her nape rather than the side of her face. Just one box remains, then she can do whatever else her parents want her to do before they have to get ready for the reaping.
She heaves a drawn out groan, bringing down her box cutter in a more-like stabbing motion rather than slicing. Her patience was wearing thin.
“Hello,” a gravelly, quiet voice suddenly spoke up across Maysilee’s shoulder. Her brows strung together slowly at the closeness, trying to ignore them whilst she rewired her attention to restocking the taffies. “Excuse me.”
She exhaled, whipped around with a hard sway. “Yes?” Her arms crossed over her chest as her eyes met the wide, dark ones of another, the bridge of his nose was beaded with sweat, and so were the ends of his black hair. She doesn’t think she recognizes him. At his silence, she gave her head a shake. “What do you need me for?—”
“There’s a kitten in your gutter,”
Maysilee tongues her teeth, regretting the venom that’d just come out of her. She blinked. “A cat?”
“Yes. A cat.” He confirmed, brows gently twitching. Judging by his facial language, he didn’t seem all too offended by her outburst. “It’s been crying pretty loud since I walked up. Don’t think I can leave it without it weighing on me.” She watches him stick his fists into the pockets of his smoke gray jacket. “Will you help me out?”
In all genuineness, she doesn’t have to think about her decision for long. She always found cats to be brave. Resourceful. When she was little, her grandma used to give her pieces of raw ham to feed to the strays that crowded the Sweetshop’s back doors. Her grandma adored them, occasionally wearing an… interesting patterned nightgown covered in paw prints. She’d want Maysilee to help.
And, besides, she’s not above sneaking out of her shift.
“Well, I suppose I know the building better than you,” Maysilee shrugs, and shoves the box to the side. “Why not?”
Meow. Meow. Meow. Meow.
“How are we supposed to lure it out from here?” Maysilee Donner asked at his left.
Wyatt stared harshly at the pipes trailing across the Donner’s Sweetshop’s roof from the alleyway they were within, attempting to work a solution in his mind, thumbing a crumbled up piece of an old betting slip in between his fingers. “I’m not sure,” he cranes his neck, “I thought you said you knew the building.”
He’s only pointing it out, but Maysilee half-scoffs, half-laughs. “Okay, I did say that,” she says, “but I just live here! I’ve never been asked to get in the gutter before. I don’t even know where to start with this.”
“Oh, I didn’t assume you’d be getting in the gutter.”
She looks to the gutter that’s meant for washing out rain, to him, squinting like she’s trying to make something of him with her mouth leering into a shy grin. “I sure hope not.”
He presses his lips together.
Wyatt doesn’t really know her. She certainly doesn’t know him. Though, it was hard to miss Maysilee, what with her luminous dangling earrings and necklaces and other variations of jewelry. The exact same sculpture she shared with her sister. There’s not a soul in Twelve who isn’t aware of the Donner family. He’s never exactly had the money to come up to the Sweetshop regularly, however. So, he usually saw her at school in glimpses (and in voices—that she was snarky and backward and mean. He paid those no mind. People said things about him that weren’t true all the time).
As the oddsmaker, he only gets so much from his family’s betting nights, and he was raised to spend his cash on needed food and such. Not sweets. He was just passing through today to get a loaf of bread from the Mellark’s for dinner tonight, and he preferred to get his errands done in the morning. Even if they were before the reaping. But, the whining cat in the Sweetshop’s gutters interrupted his walk there. He’d caught the shimmer of blonde hair through the store’s windows, and thought it would be best to ask for a hand. Especially on her parents’ property.
“We can try using sound,” he suggests.
Maysilee’s head jolts up at another cry. “Like what? Meowing?”
He considers this. “I was thinking about shaking rocks so they’d sound like treats. But that’s better,” Wyatt’s feet carry over to the mouth of the gutter, “it’s a baby. It likely only knows it’s mom’s meows.”
“Poor little thing,” she coos, then yanks her cream dress closer to her torso as she bends her knees, settling next to the opposite gutter opening from him. She carefully leans over. “Meow!”
It cries back. Maysilee gives him a wide smile.
“A natural,” Wyatt says. “Wonder how it got up there.”
“Who knows. Maybe it was running from something,” one of her eyes flips shut as she tries to see up into the pipe. “It gets so rowdy before the reaping, those bootlickers in white helmets are at the Sweetshop right at dawn, making a ruckus with that hideous flag in our window. Probably scared it to death.”
He doesn’t dismiss this possibility at all. Peacekeepers litter the Seam too on reaping day, all in their yards, ensuring they’re showing up. Sometimes, they’re just as apparent near their shed—where folks come down to bet. A couple years back, Wyatt’s Pa got smacked in the nose by one with the barrel of a gun, just for striding by. He saw it happen through a crack in the wall. He grins at Maysilee’s term for them: bootlickers.
The two of them spend a good chunk of time doing the whole meowing thing. They switch places, take turns calling up the gutter. Wyatt notices an opening near the side. One of the Sweetshop customers peeked down the alley and gave them a sneer. To which Maysilee returned with: “Mind your business, will you?” The kitten would occasionally give a frail whine in response, but it didn’t sound like it was moving at all.
Wyatt briefly removes his hat to itch his hair, fingers coming away wet. Maysilee’s sweating as well, her whole neck glistens with it. In a foolish way, he feels captivated. The July sun seemed to be pouring on her specifically. Making her blonde strands look even brighter, nearing white. The sight that grasped Wyatt’s attention the most was her jewelry. A few of them were surely handmade, with see-through beads and other various charms, though one was catching the rays like a magnet. Golden, heart-shaped, its chain resting around the knot of her apron. An idea struck him.
“Cats like string, right?” He questions, gape still trained on the loop on Maysilee’s scruff.
Her chin lifts to connect with him before realizing he was eyeing something else entirely. Her hand shoots up, and tangles with her necklace. “Oh, nu-uh, mister—”
“Not your necklace,” Wyatt reassures her, and politely taps the apron’s red bow. “This.”
Now, he witnesses her twinged eyebrows of disapproval melt into understanding. “Oh. Gotcha.” He doesn’t even have to ask her to take it off, she actually seems to be glad to do so. Quickly, she unties the knot, and untucks the thick string from each loophole. She’s left with just the apron’s front by the time she’s done. She tosses it to the concrete like it means nothing to her. “Okay. It’s pretty long. But how do we get it up there?”
Wyatt outstretches his arm, end of his pointer finger directing Maysilee toward the split aluminum. “Look up there,” She hums, noticing. “I could weave the string through it if I had something to stand on. You got a trash can around?”
“We should. This way.” She motions for him to follow, eventually leading him around the corner. The biggest garbage bin he’s ever seen sits against the brick wall. Maysilee walks over and clenches her palms on the railing, then rolls it back-and-forth, heavy creaks echo. “It has wheels, see?”
For some reason, her tone made him smile. He joins her to help assist the push.
Upon propping the clunky metal container right beneath the bust in the gutter, Maysilee forces the string in his hands. “What’s the plan?”
“I’ll try my best to get its attention with this,” Wyatt says, wrapping the string around his knuckles as he thinks further. “If it comes, I’ll grab it. But if it jumps out and tries to escape, you get it.”
Maysilee nods along, but she’s also studying him. “Are you gonna keep it?”
Wyatt’s eyelids fluttered. “Oh, I don’t know. I just didn’t want it to run off and get stuck again,” he says, now the thought was on his mind, though. Not much hit him in the heart, but something about small, defenseless creatures softened him up. He remembers hearing stories of an old family friend throwing rocks at cats that tried to get in his trash. It made Wyatt think of him differently. In a world where their government starves its people, those animals were just trying to survive like the rest of them. “I guess I’ll think about it. Unless you want it.”
“Would if I could,” the edge of her lip lifts into a gentle smirk. “My apartment’s too small for a cat.”
Never in his life has he considered that. A merchant’s home being small. “Really?” He’s able to see a window that’s covered by lavender curtains from where he stands.
“It’s almost too small. I swear I can barely breathe sometimes,” Maysilee sighs, planting her touch on the bin’s railing again. “Come on. I’ll hold it still.”
Wyatt bows his head and does as she says, anchoring himself atop the lid and throwing his leg over. He pulled himself until both of his knees were pressing into the plastic, until his core began to burn with the exertion. He supposed that was for the best, to get a taste of the work he would be doing in the mines in two months time.
He hesitantly rises to his feet, the wheels only move slightly. He’s thankful for Maysilee. “Here I go,” he announces, then worms the string inside.
“I think your arms are too short,” Maysilee comments from below. The boy groans once more, doing his damndest to shove her apron string inside the gutter. He stumbles backward after another unsuccessful attempt. “Don’t break your neck, please.”
She watches him wipe at his face with his jacket sleeve. He must be boiling under it. His balled-up fists burrow on either side of his stomach as he glares upward, flesh of his cheek slightly being chewed. “Could you do the meowing again?” He asks her, “you were good at it. It might try to come to the string if it hears you.”
For a second or two, Maysilee freezes up at the expression he’s gifting her. Broad, dark eyebrows tightened together, the muscles under his eyes acting in sync. She ignored the flush that ran through her. “Sure.”
Maysilee imitates the cat a handful more times, timbre of her tune jumping up and down with each cry. She looks up at the gutter, but at the boy too. She wasn’t familiar with him before today, but with how determined he is to help this small animal, it made her wish she was. He must be a grade or two ahead of her—she doesn’t see the older kids much, certainly not Seam ones. She’d have to ask him for his name afterward.
At first, it seemed like another failure. A meow, but no sign of the actual cat. She gives it one last go.
Then a ginger paw pokes out. Claws stuck in the string. They share a fast look, Maysilee’s cheeks are warm with a little smile while his eyes brighten in excitement.
He ripped his focus back to the gutter. “Come on,” he whispered, scrupulously tugging at the fabric, revealing more and more of the kitten. “You can fit.”
She steps away from the trash bin, preparing herself.
In only a couple of seconds, there’s a wet head, an even more soaked body, and a holler from the boy as the cat catapults out of his hands like a grasshopper. “Damn it!”
But Maysilee’s right in its path. It’s trying to prance by her shoe buckle just as she scoops it up into her arms. “Caught you, little rascal.”
It meows in protest, squirming against her as she holds it close. The mixture of soaked fur and dirt on her skin makes her roll her shoulders in disgust, but she reminded herself it was just a baby. It may not know how to groom itself yet, at least not properly. And it was just stuck in their dirty gutter. She cuts the thing some slack.
The boy is now standing ahead of her. He pops the threaded hat off of his head and offers it to her. “For the cat,” he says, dropping the string in there as well.
Maysilee can’t help but grin at him, and she lightly places the kitten inside the scoop of the hat. Surprisingly, it doesn’t attempt to hop away, or even scratch at the boy’s fingers as he pets its belly. Instead, its teeth gnaw at her cherry red apron strand before yawning… and falling limp as soon as its eyes close.
“Probably wore itself out from crying,” he detaches his hand from its face and stretches out his palm beneath his hat, positioning it upright.
They silently take in the sleeping animal together. Maysilee can only hear the sounds of all of their breathing, colliding as one. For a long moment, she stares at the tiny, curled up orange kitten with a frown before leaning closer to him to hold it herself.
Her own hand crosses over the top of his, and he allows her to take the hat from him. “I wish I was a cat,” she mumbles, grazing its ear with her fingertip. “No Capitol, no Hunger Games, no reaping. Still have to survive in their own way, but,” her gaze meshes with his, and she almost giggles at the mess his hair is. It doesn’t particularly look bad. She would say so if it did. “For the better part, they’re free.”
He swallows, pupils dilating as he embraces her words. “But then you’d be small enough to get stuck in a gutter.”
Maysilee snickers. “Well, if someone with as big of a heart as you came across me, I’d be okay,” she retransfers the kitten to him, and feels something scratchy in her chest at the softness in his eyes. “Who are you?”
“Wyatt Callow,” he answers like there’s an uncomfortable breath trapped in his throat, but once she smiles at him, he deflates. The reasoning for this is invisible to her. “Thanks for helping me.”
Maysilee shakes it off. “Sure thing,” she scrapes her thumb up the kitten’s nose one more time. Though, she sees a flea inch under its fur and jerks back. Clearly, it’s not asleep, as it quietly whines to itself until she gives in and pets it again. “It was actually kind of fun.”
Wyatt’s gape falls on her. “You think so?”
“Uh-huh. Any amount of time away from that hellhole is fun to me,” Maysilee says, and he awkwardly chuckles. Perhaps he thought she was joking. “Good luck today, Wyatt.”
He blinks at her, obviously thrown at the switch in conversation. “Uh, thanks,” he then sheepishly rubs his neck, “you too. But you’ll be fine.”
“I will?” Her brows curiously wiggle at him. She can hear dozens of hard footsteps behind the alley, she assumes it’s people heading home to get ready. “Don’t go jinxing me now.”
“Yes. It’s statistically impossible.” He says, and cradles his hat in the crease of his elbow like a swaddled baby. “Please, don’t worry. You or your sister.”
Maysilee has no reason to take his promise as truth, however, there’s a strange sense of knowledge to what he’s saying that tells her heart to believe him. So, she does. “Okay,” she says, “what about you?”
“Seam kids are never not at risk, the odds will always be the same there,” Wyatt tells her, his fingers now being fought with. His cheekbones shine with the strength of his growing grin. “But I should make the cut.”
She feels relief at that, even though she knew that just meant someone else from home would die. “Good,” she responds with a pep in her tone, “because you have to tell me how the cat’s doing one way or another. You’re keeping it, right?”
“Yeah, alright,” Wyatt nods. By the looks of it, deciding right then and there. “I’ll come visit when I get the chance.”
Maysilee weakly beams in satisfaction, and it doesn’t quite fade away. Not quickly, anyhow. The twinkle in his irises has her pinned to the ground. No one’s ever looked at her like that before.
Footsteps return at her back, and it’s a deluge of them this time. Except, it doesn’t sound like multiple pairs, more like one person. “Maysilee!”
Merrilee. Uh-oh.
She spins on her heel, sight reaching her sister’s blood red features.
“What the hell are you doing out here?” Merrilee spat, “someone just snatched our whole row of candy apples!”
Maysilee winced, facing Wyatt and the cat with a troubled hand carding through her hair. Man, was she going to get chewed out.
Sorry, Wyatt mouths to her. The tip of the kitten’s big ears rise from the depths of his hat, observing her with those marble emerald eyes. Its whiskers twitch as it cocks its head at her. “Meow.”