Work Text:
“Katniss, you dropped your key,” Madge hisses across the aisle.
Flustered, I look down and grab the paper off the classroom floor. I smooth the crinkles out before carefully folding it in half and slipping it into the front cover of my math textbook. The paper is important to all of us in seventh grade. It’s the cipher for every secret note passed in the hallways. All the messages between friends and potential boyfriends and girlfriends are written in code so none of our teachers or parents can read them. Without my paper, I won’t be able to translate any messages I receive.
Not that I get too many messages. Madge writes to me, but her energy is far better spent engaging with the boys who are charmed by her blonde curls and sparling blue eyes. My only other real friend is Gale Hawthorne, an eighth grader who is tall and brooding and not really one for words, whether spoken or by hand. I’m sure he’d refuse to write in code anyway. He’d just say what he has to say.
When the bell rings at the end of the class, I join the rush of students in the hall and make my way to my locker to pick up my bag. I only have a few minutes to gather my belongings and walk the two blocks to the elementary school to pick up my sister. A thick square of paper falls on my foot as I pull my bag free. Frowning, I lean down and shove it into my pocket. I’ll take a look at it later when I’m home and not surrounded by my nosy classmates.
It's after eight o’clock before I’m able to do so. It’s my responsibility to help Prim finish her homework before cooking dinner and getting her to bed. It doesn’t leave me much time for my own studies, but it’s the least I can do to help out Mom when she’s worked so hard get back on her feet.
I empty my pockets onto my desk and consider the ominous note. Who would write to me and put it in my locker? My gut clenches, so I change into my pajamas before opening it. The green flannel feels good against my legs, and the cotton of my t-shirt is soothing. By the time I’ve washed my face and re-braided my hair, I’ve worked up enough courage to open it and am faced with a coded message.
My cheeks flush, and my heart skips a beat at the mystery. I’m so unused to this I can’t even venture a guess as to who wrote it. The individual images are works of art, much more detailed and creative than the scratches I make when I write this way. Pulling the key from my math book, I settle in to work out the message.
“Thumbs down is a D. Swoopy M is an E,” I muse and glance at the rest of the top line. I’ve seen the second word enough to know it’s my name, so I move on.
It takes several more minutes, but soon enough I’ve worked out the message to read:
Dear Katniss,
I know yesterday was a bad day. I’m sorry things are hard, but you are an inspiration to me and so many others. You’re as strong and delicate as a dandelion.
Your Secret Admirer
I suck in a few disconcerted breaths before grabbing my phone and calling Madge. When she answers, I’m so worked up, I can barely talk.
“What do you think it means, Madge?” I’m close to hyperventilating. No guy besides Gale and his brothers has ever paid any attention to me. Now, someone in school is watching me, studying me closely enough to know that I struggled to get through the third anniversary of my father’s death. “I barely interact with anyone, so how is that possible?”
“It means someone likes you. That’s what it means. It’s not rocket science, Katniss.”
“But—”
“Kat, I have to go. My mom needs me. Can we talk more at lunch tomorrow? Maybe we can figure it out by the handwriting or something.”
“Yeah, fine,” I grumble and heave a sigh. I spend the next hour staring at the note, but it does no good. Disgruntled and surprisingly flattered, I slip into bed and into a fretful sleep.
The next morning seems to last forever, and I bolt to the cafeteria when the bell after fourth hour rings. I fidget as I survey the room and wait for my friend to find me so we can figure out what to think of my secret admirer.
The art teacher, Mrs. Trinket, tuts at me as she passes. “Manners, Katniss. Don’t lean on the drawings. Your classmates worked hard on their projects and deserve your respect.”
Embarrassed, I realize the wall is covered with student artwork. In order to avoid having to make small talk or eye contact with anyone else, I turn to study them. A three-paneled sketch of dandelions catches my eye, and I move over so I can examine the charcoal strokes.
The first of the three drawings shows a closed dandelion before it blooms. The stem and bud are proud and strong, much as they are in the second when the flower is opened. The images are black and white, but they’re so lifelike, I can almost see the bright yellow of the blossom.
As my eyes shift right to the third sketch, I gasp at the evolution of the dandelion. The stem is still solid, jutting upward proudly, but the head is dandelion fluff. It’s gone to seed, and a few of the detached parachutes float on the page so delicately that I can almost feel the wind blowing them into the sky.
“You’re as strong and delicate as the dandelion,” I murmur and glance at the card hanging next to the sketches.
The artist is Peeta Mellark.
I swivel and scour the tables until I find him. His blue eyes catch mine for just a moment before he drops his gaze.
“There you are!” Madge exclaims, and I startle. “Sorry I’m late. Mr. Abernathy held me after class. What’s going on?”
I grab her and pull her to the closest empty table in spite of her protests that I’m squeezing her wrist too tightly.
“Shhhh,” I snap. “Stop making a scene.”
“What? Why? What’s going on?”
In a whisper, I explain, “I think I know who sent the note.”