suzanna-kollinz-acliq-oyunlari-1-hisse-eng

of time. It might be because it reminds me too much of my father.
“So that day, in music assembly, the teacher asked who
knew the valley song. Your hand shot right up in the air. She
stood you up on a stool and had you sing it for us. And I swear,
every bird outside the windows fell silent,” Peeta says.
“Oh, please,” I say, laughing.
“No, it happened. And right when your song ended, I knew
— just like your mother — I was a goner,” Peeta says. “Then
for the next eleven years, I tried to work up the nerve to talk
to you.”
“Without success,” I add.
“Without success. So, in a way, my name being drawn in the
reaping was a real piece of luck,” says Peeta.
For a moment, I’m almost foolishly happy and then confusion
sweeps over me. Because we’re supposed to be making
up this stuff, playing at being in love not actually being in love.
But Peeta’s story has a ring of truth to it. That part about my
father and the birds. And I did sing the first day of school, although
I don’t remember the song. And that red plaid dress . . .
there was one, a hand-me-down to Prim that got washed to
rags after my father’s death.
It would explain another thing, too. Why Peeta took a beating
to give me the bread on that awful hollow day. So, if those
details are true . . . could it all be true?
“You have a . . . remarkable memory,” I say haltingly.
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