What News? (Open)

The rain was still coming down heavily, and Weaver was as blind as he could be against it, but the voice gave him something to look for. He turned his head until he located the shape of a person, and he turned, rolling onto his hands and knees and then struggling to get up onto his feet. His right foot skittered, causing him to slip to the side, and his left foot shot out at an odd angle until he caught himself on his right hand and then pushed himself shakily onto both feet, spacing them so that he could get a good center of gravity and stay upright. Still, the ground beneath him was slippery, and Weaver had to take a careful step out of the muddy water that was soaking through his shoes and his socks, chilling him to the bone. His feet were freezing, each one of them feeling stiff in the toes, and he knew that he was going to have to take off his shoes and socks before long or he was going to wind up risking the loss of a toe or two. Cambric had been promising new shoes to both him and Cotton, but nobody really had any idea when it was going to happen. Money, as always, was tight, and want was a common thing in the Forsythe home as it was throughout District 8.

Once he had his balance, Weaver rubbed the weather out of his eyes, wiping it away so that he could blink up at the older girl. At first he was sure that the sun had come out, and he felt a wave of relief as, for just a moment, the rain stopped. It was long enough for Weaver to realize that it wasn't the sun, but a girl with a halo of red hair. In a way, that was even better, and he smiled a little bit, a slightly crooked smile that showed a chipped front tooth that had been broken when his head had been slammed against a rock when he was nine. He wiped at his nose with the back of his grimy sleeve, then nodded up at her. "Hi Memory. I'm Weaver," Weaver said to Memory. "I'm okay. Just slipped in the stupid mud." He tugged down on the sleeve of his muddy, tattered shirt self-consciously and stared up at Memory again for a moment before wiping at the rain on his brow, leaving a muddy smear on his flesh. "Sometimes I think this rain is never gonna stop. Just go on forever and drown us all. Papa says I'm being silly. That the Capitol would never allow that. It would be too easy."

Too late, Weaver caught what he'd said, and his cheeks grew warm, casting a reddish hue across his face as he turned his head to look away, trying to hide his embarrassment. There was one rule his father was very strict about; they were never to talk about the Capitol anywhere but in the confines and safety of their own shack. He'd done it now, and it was out there, but he bit his lower lip so hard that he could taste the sharp taste of blood, and he licked it away, then tucked his icy hands under his arms to make them warmer than what they were. It was too embarrassing to try to warm them with his breath and let Memory know just how cold and poor he really was. Both he and Cotton were heavier than most, a bit thicker in places where children were meant to have definition. Others weren't so lucky. He saw them every day, children who were skin and bones, whose parents couldn't find work or who weren't suitable for the mills or the shops. He knew that one day he'd wind up working in the mills like his father did. They didn't have the status that would get him working as a shoppe owner or even a teacher. Those who could find better work were the lucky ones.

It was a different world, perhaps, for Weaver. He stared up at Memory for a long moment, studying the curve of her jaw, the mysterious slope of her nose, the soft part of her lips. She fascinated him, but he couldn't quite explain why. Most of the time he was bullied by kids his own age and older. This was different. She was being kind to him. Maybe she had no experience with the strangeness of his brother or his father, or it could possibly be that she hadn't caught his last name. Had he given it? He couldn't even remember. Those who disliked Weaver often disliked him because of either his father or his brother, and it wouldn't have surprised him to discover that Memory had met neither of them at any point in time. If he had the chance at making a friend, older than him (and worse, a girl) or not, that would be fine by him. It was nice not to be ostracized, and he was freezing.

"Just don't tell my dad, okay?"

Was it different for other children of District 8? Did their parents not insist that they go to school? If Cotton found out that he hadn't attended, he'd be in for a beating, he was sure of that much. Cotton kept on him about it as much as his father did, but he couldn't quite tell why. After all, his father and his brother couldn't have been more different from one another. Cotton loved the Capitol, and Cambric wanted to be part of the uprising that finally brought them down to the level of the rest of everybody else. His father's attitude was that by going to school, he could learn as much about his enemy as possible, and the Capitol gave the students enough information that an intelligent boy or girl could get a good handle on how to work the system to the best of their ability. Hadn't Cotton? He was sure to become a peace keeper just the way that he wanted. Wasn't he?

Suddenly the gray skies overhead seemed appropriate. They reminded him of his brother's often foul mood, and he seemed as fickle as the weather sometimes as well. He could never tell what kind of a mood Cotton would be in when they got home from school. Sometimes he was angry and broody, his skin stretched over the fine bones of his face and the rage evident in his blue eyes. Other days, he was happy, and there was more color in his face. He never really spoke much, but Weaver had gotten good at reading his brother. A mis-read could be the difference between a cuff to the ear or a hug in the evenings. Knowing when to stay out of Cotton's way was pretty important, and Weaver was careful now.

Weaver was lost in thought when he realized that Memory was no longer standing next to him. For a moment, he panicked, his heart racing as he scanned the area. There were other children, some heading to school, others heading to work, he assumed. For a moment she was lost in the rain and the crowds, and then he caught sight of her red hair again through the haze and he realized that he'd been memorizing her earlier while he examined her features. He wanted to remember her, and remember the moment when someone had been kind to him, so that he would never forget Memory. He knew nothing about her other than her face, and yet he darted after her as quickly as his short legs would carry him in the mud. At one point, he skidded, his left foot almost going out as his right had when he'd fallen, but he caught his balance and simply slowed down, weaving amongst the others on the streets until he caught up with her. "Hey!" he called out. "Hey Memory!"

Then he'd caught up, and this time he didn't look up at her. He didn't have to. He knew her face, and wished fervently, if only for a moment, that he knew his own mother's face that well. The thought made him sigh and fight to brush off the feelings that he had about her death and his father and his brother and the Capitol. "Are you gonna get in trouble for being with me?" He wasn't sure why she would, but there was the reminder in the back of his head, his father's voice telling him that he needed to keep a low profile,t hat others would be suspicious if he wasn't careful about his speech. He was too young yet to realize that others talked openly about things that he believed should be confined to the private, though he did understand that his father had a very loud mouth when he had an audience, and some of the things Cambric said were dangerous not only to himself but to his family as well. And anyone who paid attention (including Weaver) knew that Cambric's family was the most important thing in his world.

"Where are we going?"

However hard his father attempted to make sure that Weaver and Cotton got as much of what they needed as they could possibly ask, they were a poor family. There was only one income, at least until Cotton could get a job, and there was nothing much that Weaver could do to pull his weight in their household. He'd done his best to learn to sew on his own, which was a benefit in terms of making their clothing last as long as they possibly could. He grew fast, but Cotton and Cambric were no longer growing, and he was able to stitch up any holes in their clothing and help to make them last a lot longer that way. His own clothes got less attention, since it was one way that Weaver tried to give back to his father and his brother, both of whom had done so very much for him. The holes embarrassed him, and were a source of trouble with his schoolmates at times, since he was an easy child to bully. Just like Cambric ate last, Weaver mended his own clothes last, and he worked on those belonging to his father and his brother in private, in the quiet when they were both out of the house and didn't know that he was doing it.

Embarrassed, even at the thought of having to mend their clothes so that they could patch up and make do with less, Weaver tugged down on his grimy left sleeve again. There was a tear near the cuff, and Weaver ran his hands over the edge of it where the knit fabric was beginning to unravel. His eyes focused on it for a moment, then he glanced up at Memory, cheeks growing hot once again when he realized that he hadn't quite heard what she'd said. He'd been too lost in thought. He cleared his throat, trying to remember exactly what she'd just said, and all he called to mind was "but it's enough that we could both get something sweet." Sweets were a luxury that the Forsythe family couldn't afford, not even occasionally, and the very thought made his stomach growl and his mouth water. It was only now that the cases came into focus in front of him, the glass covering trays of biscuits and sweet breads and small pies. He scanned immediately, his tongue darting out to lick his lips as he looked over everything that the bakery had to offer. It almost looked like it was too good to be true, and he wasn't sure that he dared to trust his ears with the information that they had just received.

Wanting to be sure, Weaver looked over and up at Memory, studying her face in profile. He bit down on his lower lip again, more gently this time, and then glanced at the clerk who seemed to be running the till. He was soaked to the bone, he was sure, and it would take some time for him to get completely dried out. His shoes would need to come off, and likely his socks too. A toe poked through the tip of one of his socks, and one shoe lace had come untied in the fall. Looking down, he'd been lucky not to trip, and Weaver crouched to fix the lace, tying it comfortably back up, even though reason told him that he should go ahead and take it off. But it was warm here, and comfortable, and the comfort brought a smile to his face as he stood up again and glanced around, looking for what, he wasn't sure. There was a nice little seating area in a corner of the bakery, and though it was relatively spartan, it struck him as being homey, and he wondered if this was what it was like to have a woman in the house. He'd never had that luxury.

"I'd like that," Weaver said without looking back at Memory. He fought the thought that maybe he should be embarrassed, and instead smiled broadly and finally turned to look up at her "Thank you Memory." Repeating her name would cement that, too, in his mind, and who didn't love to hear their own name as often as possible? He liked her, and there was the sense that there was some adventure that was going to happen. If they were both going to be in trouble for missing school, they might as well both work on finding a way to enjoy getting into trouble while they were at it.

Somewhere in the distant past, Weaver thought he could remember somebody telling him that smiles were contagious. Perhaps it was his grandmother, before she'd died. He closed his eyes, trying to remember a face to go along with the voice that played like a recording in his mind, but there was nothing to help him along, and he sighed, opening his eyes again and staring through the haze of his thoughts out and around the bakery. Memory's smile was soft, and it made her face lose some of the hardness that he'd seen there initially, and his own smile burst open, splitting his face in a toothy grin. Warmth spread, and even if the bakery had been freezing cold, Weaver would have felt a new warmth, a new sensation of comfort that he hadn't felt in as long as he could remember. Maybe he'd never had it, at least not since his mother had been gone. That may have been why he liked Memory so much. Not that she reminded him of his mother, of course, but that she gave him the feeling of warm companionship that was often missing at home. Oh, sure. Cambric and Cotton could be good companions, but they were... Well, they were cold people, and there was always an air of tension in the house when they were both at home. His family, Weaver thought, were typical. In his experience, Memory was not.

School was one way of escaping from the constant lectures of his father. It was true that Weaver adored Cambric with everything in him and he wanted nothing more than to make his father happy with him. But he also loved Cotton, and wanted to please his older brother, whose philosophies on life were completely in opposition to everything that Cambric believed. They didn't argue often, mostly because neither of the men spoke very much, but that didn't stop Weaver from sensing that their feelings for one another weren't exactly flattering at times. Even so, he wasn't sure exactly what Cambric knew about Cotton's determination to become a peace keeper and joint he Capitol in encouraging the misery of the people of Panem. It put Weaver in a miserable position that he knew he'd never escape as long as they remained living with his father, and it hurt him to know that one day their family would likely fall apart, unless Cotton changed his mind about his goals and his dreams.

Not that it was likely to happen, of course. They were in district 8, and a very poor family at that. The thought made him shiver and glance down at the tattered twill of his shirt. He stuck a finger through one of the holes, rubbing it over his skin underneath, leaving yet another smear of the dirt that was on his hands. He glanced to the back of the bakery, judging whether or not there was a bathroom, but he saw only one door, marked EMPLOYEES ONLY in big letters that made it clear that he wasn't welcome there, bathroom or not. He could hear the chatter going on around him from every which direction, and the smell of bread baking was intoxicating, leaving his stomach growling and wishing for the evening meal when, if they were lucky, Cambric would come home with a loaf of bread from this very bakery. Once a week, when he was paid, it was a feast. Every other day, they rationed, but on Fridays, they ate like kings, as far as Weaver was concerned. Wealthier residents might laugh at what he thought was a feast, but Weaver didn't really care. For him, there was nothing quite as wonderful as fresh-baked bread. They didn't get better in the Forsythe family, so that was always what he thought of when he thought of luxury. For all he was concerned, District 1 might as well just make fresh bread!

"Go ahead, pick out whatever you want." It sounded like something that a mother might say, something he never heard from his father. But the words were indulgent, and Weaver closed his eyes to better take in what she'd just said. He was feeling self-indulgent, and he'd never quite feasted on so much richness in a single day. And at that, he hadn't even bitten into one of the little gems in the bakery case! No, he didn't need to. If he could just remember this moment, he thought that he might escape the nightmares for a single night, and that made him pleased, sighing in pleasure as he opened his eyes and looked up at Memory to make sure that she was serious, and then looking back toward the case. The lights from above them flickered on the glass, one of them going out and leaving the case in relative dimness. He looked up at the hollow, empty bulb, and then turned his attention back, putting both hands on the curved case in front of him and leaning forward as though he could tell by smell which of the pastries would be the best. But the glass blocked out the scents, and Weaver sighed, his wide brown eyes scanning the display until they fell on a powdered doughnut in the case.

Weaver wasn't a stupid kid. He could read the prices on the menu overhead, and he knew that some of the pastries (such as the danishes and the bear claws) were particularly expensive. They looked delicious with their fillings, but they also looked much too rich for his poor stomach. He glanced up at Memory again and then pointed into the case. "One of those, please." He wasn't sure whether he was talking to the clerk or to Memory, but it didn't particularly matter, either. His cheeks grew warmer than they'd been even before, and he suddenly realized that he wasn't cold any more. Without thinking, he slid his hand into Memory's and gave hers a small squeeze.

It took a moment for Weaver to realize that he'd just muddied her, and he flushed, taking a quick step away and pulling his hand back. "Oh. Sorry. I made you dirty," he told the older girl as he looked down at the smear of dirt on her hand.

Warmth. The touch of skin on skin. A mild tingle running through his hands and up his arms at the softness of her fingers. Weaver closed his eyes, trying to remember something, perhaps the last time that he'd had this sensation of warmth that now enveloped him and wrapped him in its warm embrace, but it was too distant. Perhaps he had never felt it before at all, and it was some kind of biological memory, the kind of thing people experienced when their bodies told them that things were meant to be one way, even though they had never experienced it personally. He sucked in a deep breath, and she was close enough that he could smell not just the scent of her hair and the soft aroma of soap, but also the mud on their joined hands, and Weaver opened his eyes, looking down at them, transfixed for a moment by the sight of them. When was the last time that a woman had touched him? He couldn't remember. He'd never had a mother, of course. And Memory's hands were so different from his father's, rough from years working a spindle or the shuttles of the looms in the textile mills. Memory's hands were still young, soft and feminine. He'd never experienced anything like it, and the experience brought heat to his cheeks, though it wasn't embarrassment that made him blush; it was pleasure of a sort that he had never experienced before. "Thanks," he whispered when their hands finally parted. The nails still needed some work, but at least they weren't muddy any more.

"It's nice to see siblings get along so well." Weaver looked up at the clerk, cocking his head at her. He noticed a slight change in Memory's body language, and just as he was about to open his mouth to correct her, he thought better of it and closed his, another deep flush of pleasure rising to his cheeks. If this was what it was like to have a sister, then he liked the feeling. He and Cotton were close, at least when they got along, but it wasn't the same as this. His brother used his brawn to bully Weaver almost as much as the schoolyard children did in order to get what he wanted. It was rare, at least as Weaver saw it, for Cotton to use his brain, but that could have something to do with the fact that he rarely spoke, so his body was his only real asset. And he'd made a point of being as bulky as he could get on their limited means. Cotton would need it if he was ever to become a peacekeeper. Sometimes Weaver thought that brothers were meant to be at odds with one another. It kept things interesting at home anyway, didn't it?

Weaver didn't correct the woman when Memory didn't. Instead, the thought dangled in the air over their heads and he smiled just at the thought. For a moment he was frozen in the moment, thinking about what had passed between them and considering all that it implied. His young mind was unable to fully wrap around it, and he turned to look in the direction of the tables that lined the interior wall of the shop. There were several in a row, and only one of them was occupied. An elderly man sat there, sipping a brew that could only be coffee and eating a fresh roll. His clothes were in better shape than Weaver's were, but that wasn't saying anything. The man's back was hunched, and he ate noisily, making Weaver suppress a giggle as he led the way ahead of Memory to the back of the room. The stoves were in the back, and he was still wet. The closer they were to the fires, the better off he would be, and the sooner that he'd dry out and get warm again.

Weaver took the chair against the wall, allowing Memory to take the one opposite him. It was a natural, protective male instinct, and even though she had a good five years on him, it allowed him to keep an eye out in case somebody came in looking for them. He was most worried about his father or Cotton, though Cotton should be in school right now and certainly Cambric would be in the mill. It wouldn't take long before Cotton noticed his absence though, and he wasn't sure whether or not he would come looking for his younger brother. School as important to Cotton for a totally different reason than it was important to his father, and today he wasn't sure whether or not it was important to him at all. Sitting in the bakery eating donuts seemed preferable, and the thought made the corners of his mouth twitch as he settled into his seat, then tugged at his sleeves again, wishing that he had a jacket to keep out the cold. His father had promised him one, and he thought it might come fairly soon.

"My brother Cotton loves school. My father thinks that we need to go so that we can learn everything that we can." Weaver paused and cleared his throat. "About working with fabric, I mean. Making clothes and fabric and materials and all that? About looms, and how to service them, or about spinning. We're an important district." It was true, as well, at least to Cambric's mind. He'd impressed that upon Weaver. They got their materials from District 11, but it was here that they put them all together, spinning the cotton or wool into fibers that were then manipulated in the mills into knit or woven fabrics, then sewn into garments. District 8 did a lot of work, and it was important. It was in this that Weaver had a deep sense of pride. "I don't know whether or not I like school. It's boring. And I don't think I want to work in one of the mills. I would like to invent things. What about you?"

If the pair of malingerers knew just how similar their thoughts were, it might have made more sense that they were sitting together at a table in the bakery, content for the first time in what seemed like months. Eve the dreariness of the day outside seemed to fade into the background as the mud dried on Weaver's clothing. District Six, a land of promise where dreams might possibly come true. In another life, in another time, maybe Weaver could have been born in a district with colleges and hopes for the future and dreams that actually had a chance at coming true. Dreams weren't meant for the residents of the lower and lower middle districts. Even Weaver knew that, and he was only twelve. But even so, the smallest things could spark the imagination of a child, and he as, after all, just a child. Hope came in the form of a small pastry or a day off of school. It came when the sun lit the sky or on those rare occasions when his father really laughed. Hope came with warmth and with friendship. And hope was the foundation of dreams. No matter how fragile that hope was, it was the thing that made the mind fertile and gave way to the blossoming of dreams that would carry Weaver through a lifetime, as he sometimes thought.

Memory was easy. She was soft and thoughtful and she filled a place in Weaver's mind and his heart that had never been filled before. Velvet had been gone even before Weaver had come into the world and he'd never had an opportunity to miss his mother, but Memory was everything that Weaver thought a mother was supposed to be. Well, except young. Mothers weren't supposed to be that young, or at least they weren't in Weaver's experience. Or maybe not so pretty either. There was something about the red hair that haloed Memory's face and made her take on a softness even with the drizzle outside. For a moment he reflected that if there was such a thing as angels (and he didn't believe in angels at all), they must look like her, with just a bit of mystery about them.

Cotton would like Memory. The thought hit Weaver so suddenly that he put down his pastry on the small ceramic plate in front of him, his thumb just brushing over the edge of it where it had once been dropped or damaged, a small, rough chip missing from the edge and a crack going down the middle. It was something that he hadn't noticed before, and now he silently wondered at how he could have been so unobservant. And now that he was observing, the plate became all-encompassing, too important, a distraction from what was really going on in his mind. The subtle smell of sweet was overwhelming when mixed with the sharp aroma of warm yeast and rising bread, but for a long time Weaver didn't lift his head. He ran his fingers instead over the crack, feeling the glue where it had been patched back together. In the Forsythe house, many things were patched back together. Including, at times, the family itself. And that was why he didn't want to think about Cotton.

Cotton who wanted to go into the Hunger Games. Cotton whose love for the Capitol had to be hidden in a dark closet for fear of their father's reaction. Cotton who seemingly held nothing but disdain for their father, and who held their dead mother in such high regard that Weaver couldn't help but feel a pang of jealousy that he had gotten to know their mother while Weaver had not. And now? Now, for the first time (or so Weaver felt), he had something that was his own. Even if it never went anywhere beyond the moment, for right now it was him and Memory, and he had better than a mother; he had a friend. Cotton would like Memory. But for right now Weaver didn't want to share her with his older brother. Cotton might laugh at him and point out that there wasn't anything to share since he was just a little kid, after all. But he wasn't! He was twelve, and growing up. Every day childhood was further and further behind him, with the lost hope and the shattered dreams that came with adolescence following in their stead.

Weaver shook off the feeling inadequacy that he felt next to his brother and tugged at a stray strand of linen coming from his shirt. The color was an aged yellow, as though someone had rubbed spring pollen on the edges of his cuffs. He tugged the strand out, then bit down on his lip and looked up at Memory again. "Do you wish sometimes... Do you wish that things were different? Like maybe you'd been born in District One? Or... Or District Three," he added, thinking about himself. "Do you ever wish there weren't any Hunger Games?" On the verge of an outburst, Weaver sucked a breath in and dropped his hands into his lap, neatly folded, a trick that his father had taught him to control his temper when he was just a very little boy.

He was still thinking about Cotton. He was thinking about the Hunger Games and the Quell and as much as he sometimes didn't get along with Cotton, he loved his brother and he didn't want to see him go into the Games because of some stupid compulsion to volunteer and give his life to the Capitol. And Cotton wanted to be a peacekeeper. In District Eight! Who'd ever heard of such a thing. But Cotton hadn't given up, no matter how dumb Weaver or Cambric thought it was.

"Papa says school's important," Weaver said again. He wasn't sure whether he wanted to change the subject or not, but Cotton had made it very clear that not everyone agreed with their father's politics.