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coochiequeens · 1 year ago

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This is why accurate information about sex and race is important. A study just gave a name to another way businesses pass over women for promotions and how women of color are impacted at greater rates.

Forget The Glass Ceiling, 'The Broken Rung' Is Why Women Are Denied Promotions

A new study finds Black women and Latinas in particular are the least likely to get that first promotion — and it’s not because they’re not asking for it.

by Monica Torres

Getting your first promotion into management is a huge achievement in your career. But a new study from consulting firm McKinsey & Co. and nonprofit Lean In shows it’s an opportunity that is not equally afforded to everyone.

According to the study, which used pipeline data from 276 companies in the private, public and social sectors, women ― and women of color, in particular ― are the least likely demographic to get promoted from entry-level to first-time manager.

For every 100 men promoted from entry-level contributor to manager in the survey, only 87 women got promoted. And this gap gets wider for women of color: This year, while 91 white women were promoted to manager for every 100 men, only 89 Asian women, 76 Latinas and 54 Black women would get that same opportunity.

“As a result of this broken rung, women fall behind and can’t catch up,” the study states.

It’s not because those women were not asking for it ― the study found that the women were asking for promotions at the same rate as their male peers. And it’s not because these women did not stick around long enough to be considered for the job ― the study found that they were no more likely to leave their company than their male peers.

The main culprit to this “broken rung” in the career ladder? It’s what known as a “performance bias.”

Why women deal with the “broken rung” phenomenon.

Under a performance bias, men get promoted more because of their future potential, while women get judged on their past accomplishments and have their leadership potential doubted.

“Because women early in their careers have shorter track records and similar work experiences relative to their men peers, performance bias can especially disadvantage them at the first promotion to manager,” according to the study.

This research aligns with the “prove-it-again bias” studies have found women face throughout their career: where they do more work in order to be seen as equally competent to their male peers.

As for why it’s hardest for women of color to make that first leap into management? Workplace consultant Minda Harts, author of “The Memo: What Women of Color Need to Know to Secure a Seat at the Table,” said it’s because systemic biases and stereotypes cause women of color to be less trusted for the job.

“This lack of trust can manifest in several ways, such as doubts about competence, commitment or ‘fit’ within a leadership role,” Harts told HuffPost. “When senior leadership is predominantly male and white, an unconscious bias might lead them to trust individuals who mirror their own experiences or backgrounds ... As a result, women of color may be disproportionately overlooked for promotions.”

The McKinsey study found that women of color surveyed this year were even less likely to become first-time managers in 2023 than they were in 2022.

Feminist career coach Cynthia Pong told HuffPost it’s because in tough financial times, companies often operate under a scarcity mindset and might see women of color as a bigger “risk” to promote when they are underrepresented in leadership.

“We just had to go through layoffs, and we only have three [manager roles]. You can easily see how in times like that, it would just end up replicating these systems where we only trust and only give the benefit of the doubt to certain folks,” Pong said. “And it’s not going to be women of color.”

That sends a dispiriting message to people who watch their peers advance while they get told they are still not ready.

“It’s even more frustrating and infuriating ... when you see that there is a pathway for others, but not for you. Because the injustice of it makes your blood boil,” Pong said.

This should not be on women and women of color to fix. Employers should proactively take steps to make a clear promotion path for all.

There is a lot of talk about the “glass ceiling” and the barrier women face that prevents them from becoming executives at the top. But this study illustrates that there is a more fundamental problem happening to women early in their career: the systemic bias that prevents women from being seen as a leader who can manage other people.

“Our success must be something other than a solo sport,” Harts said. “We can’t promote and advance ourselves.”

For companies to be part of the solution, employers should be more transparent about how managerial promotions happen.

“Trust is enhanced when employees understand what is expected of them and what they can expect from their leaders,” Harts said. “This transparency can help mitigate unconscious biases or misconceptions about capabilities or trustworthiness.”

To break down stereotypes and build trust between employees of color and leadership, Harts also recommended companies to implement programs where women of color are paired with sponsors in senior roles.

What you can do about this as an employee.

If you keep being told vague “no’s” after every promotion request, start asking more questions about what your peers are doing that you are not.

“They’re not going to admit to having a systemic problem. They’re going to say, ‘We just don’t have it in the budget,’” said Elaine Lou Cartas, a business and career coach for women of color.

“I’ve seen people that got promoted to this where they are also doing the same amount as I was, but I was doing A, B and C. Help me understand,” is the kind of assertive framing you can use to ask more questions, Cartas said.

And if you find the goalpost of promotion metrics keeps moving after your conversation with your manager, that might be the time to start job hunting.

“Once you already have that conversation, and nothing’s being done, or at least there’s no steps or actions for it to be done in the future, that’s when [you] could start looking,” Cartas said.

Ultimately, one missed promotion may not seem like a huge setback, but it adds up over time with lost wages and earning potential, Pong said.

“And then that also ripples out generationally to all the families and family units that each woman of color is supporting, and then those to come,” she said. “So it seems like it might be like no big deal to have this person promoted one or two years later. But ... these things really snowball.”

#Glass ceiling #Broken rung #Women in the workplace #Women of color in the workplace #For every 100 men promoted only 89 Asian women 76 Latinas and 54 Black women would get that same opportunity #Prove it again bias #The Memo: What Women of Color Need to Know to Secure a Seat at the Table #Minda Hart's

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mollywog · 9 months ago

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Not new, but Since we’re talking Everlark in Different Districts…

Read on Ao3

He’d been 5 the first time he’d heard it. They were in one of the fenced yards District 13 used for aboveground recreational time. He'd been holding his father’s hand, watching his brothers wrestle when the first bird had flown over. It wasn’t the usual chirps and chittering, but high and clear notes intoning an unmistakable melody.

The next bird that passed echoed the song but in a slight variation, taking up the harmony.

His father’s grip tightened as he inhaled sharply. His brothers stopped their tussling and craned their necks to see the source of the sound. Even his mother, though her mouth pinched in a frown, stared up at the sky. Peeta scanned the faces of the crowd: Everyone frozen as if under a trance, the entire yard falling silent as the flock of mockingjays passed.

The mountains reverberated a final somber echo and the spell was broken.

This wasn’t the first nor the last time this anomaly occurred.

The District’s official position was simple: a genetic defect in a Mockingjay allowing it to remember a single song and repeat it back at random, inspiring a whole flock's tune: a mutation.

They had all seen the maps. The closest district was hundreds of miles away: the mockingjays would have grown tired or forgetful of even their favorite melody on their journey and the space in between the districts was harsh and uninhabitable. Where else could the song originate? The District knew best and the citizens knew not to question, so the official opinion was adopted, but that didn’t stop the stories.

Everyone had a tale of fortune or sorrow connected to the tune. That very night, his father had spoken of a girl he had known: her disappearance on a rare day when the music had returned. For his father, the melody forever inexplicably linked to the lost girl.

Some swore it predicted a good gather, a fortuitous hunt, or clear skies. The older children whispered terrifying tales to the younger: a rite of passage before their time in the woods. With two older brothers, Peeta had heard them all.

By the age of 12 a rotating job assignment were added to their daily schedules. If in any other district a twelfth birthday meant a slip in the bowl for the annual reaping, 12 was old enough to contribute to the workforce in District 13. Peeta along with the other 12 year olds had spent weeks in training, preparing them for their shifts: in the kitchens, in the woods, in the laundry room.

Over the years, the leaders of the district had established hatcheries, green houses, and herds of animals all underground, but of course not everything thrived there, so they sent gathering parties and hunters to collect what they couldn’t support. He had been paired with his brother, but when in the woods Matti felt his time best spent in pursuit of the girl he admired: Too perturbed by their father’s tale to let her out of his sight above ground. Peeta didn’t mind: his fascination with the woods far exceeding his fear.

He was alone and lost in wonderment over the alternating patterns of light and dark that the sunlight falling through the leaves cast when he realized the woods were eerily silent; void of even the usual chirps, until he heard the faint echo of a song. Not any song but the Mockinjay’s song. It had been months since anyone had mentioned the birds or their melody.

His feet moved of their own accord. He wasn’t thinking straight enough to be scared as he approached the direction of the crescendoing sound. He crested the hill and that’s when he saw her.

She stood by the lake in the valley bellow, face towards the sky, eyes pinched shut as she sang the song the mockingjays mimicked. The sun at her back casting a glowing orb around her, wild strand’s escaping her single dark braid. He could almost believe he was dreaming; but his dreams were never this pleasant and so full of light.

Shifting his weight, a branch splintered under his foot.

The birds registered the sound first, letting out a bellow, wings in a frenzy of feathers, as they took flight. It was another moment before the chaos cleared and he could again see the girl. Frozen, eyes wide, she resembled the frightened rabbits he stumbled upon: terrified, trapped.

He opened his mouth to speak, not having the faintest idea what he would say, when she turned and ran; a flash of yellow released from her grasp as she took flight like the birds that now echoed her song. Disappearing into the woods, out of sight, seemingly forever.

The melody had disappeared with the birds and the sun slipped behind a cloud throwing the landscape into a dulled affect after just being so clearly golden. He cautiously approached the spot where she had stood. Reaching down he picked up the yellow flower the apparition had dropped. He held it delicately: a taraxacum officinale, the only tangible proof of what he had witnessed.

He pressed the remnants of the flower between his pocket field guide, taking one final look at the empty forest, before turning away, back towards home.

🩶🩶🩶

“Does anyone live in the woods?” All week he’d gathered his courage to ask the question.

“Of course not! What kind of fool are you? Have you not been paying attention in school?” His mother’s words came quickly with a bitter edge.

“Yes mam” he mumbled and dropped his eyes back to his book.

“Nothing can survive out there. The weather, the wild animals, the Capital hovercrafts, no government to provide: Imagine! A worse fate than the games, that’s what it’d be!” And with that the conversation was over.

Parents told stories, cautionary tales, some even incorporated the mockingjays song: Beautiful Capitol mutts, who lured children too far into the woods, devouring them whole. As they grew older the threats became more tangible: breaking a limb as you fumbled over uneven terrain, drowning in streams, real animals hunting for prey: dogs, and bores, and bears,

He knew it wasn’t impossible to survive out there. Refugees sometimes arrived from other districts. Brave souls that made the trek through the Wilds: Dalton from 10, a couple from 5, a handful from 11. He had waited for the day an announcement would be made of new refugees, but none came.

He hadn’t told a single person about the girl: he was meant to report any unusual occurrences to the guards at the end of his shift. He wasn’t completely sure she was human but whatever she was, was too precious to share.

He hadn’t heard the song since that day nor heard reports of it either. Still, he traveled to the valley with the lake every chance he could; it was just as he remembered it, but he had yet to see the girl again. He collected the items required of him, while pacing the water’s edge, searching for signs of the girl or her song. He’d almost convinced himself the whole thing was a daydream, until he opened his pocket guide once more to caress the faded yellow remnant; the only proof he had that she truly existed.

Each time before he returned home, he collected a fistful of yellow flowers to leave on the spot she had stood, a paltry offering to his mythical songbird. The tribute missing each time he returned - lost to weather, or animal, or simply time.

Several months after the occurrence, he still made his treks to the lake. Though plentiful in haul, his valley visit had begun to leave him feeling empty and alone.

It was a particularly hot day when he came across a bush of berries he hadn’t noticed before. Picking one, he rolled it between his fingers, lifting them towards his nose to sniff.

“Drop it”

Startled, he instinctively dropped the berry, swinging his head towards the voice.

There she stood several feet away, half hidden by the shadows of the woods: arms crossed, scowling, annoyed - but very real.

He raised his empty hand, unsure of his intent: a demonstration of compliance or a greeting

“That’s nightlock.”

He stared dumbly.

She shifted her scowl away from him to the bush, “You’d be dead before they reach your stomach.”

He dropped his hand wiping it on the cloth of his pants, removing the memory of the berry from his fingers.

She remained rigid, half hidden in the shadows of the woods.

“You’re real.” He finally whispered. Perhaps the dumbest thing he could have said.

She rolled her eyes “of course I’m real. Though I can’t believe you still are!” She scoffed “Not knowing about Nightlock.” She mumbled under her breath.

“I wasn’t gonna eat it.” His temper momentarily flaring before he dropped his head in embarrassment. He had been traveling to the lake week after week to get a glimpse of this specter and now he was liable to run her off.

He peered up at her through the too-long waves that fell in his face “Is that what it’s called? This is my first summer on gathering duty. I’d never seen it before.” He reached for his pocket, but stopped when he noticed the girl position her weapon? He was used to the sleek metallic guns of 13, not this delicate wood and string contraption.

“Sorry,” He raised his hands. “I wanted to show you something… it’s in my pocket.”

She lowered her bow enough to encourage him to proceed. He pulled out his pocket field guide, holding it out for her inspection. She hesitated before flitting towards him, plucking the book from his grasp, retreating a few steps out of reach. She frowned as she leafed through the pages.

Unobscured by the foliage, he took the opportunity to commit every detail of her to his memory. He estimated her to be about his age. She was tiny, though slightly taller than him: That wasn’t much of a feat, most the girls his age were. Her skin was olive, darker than most from his district, likely in part due to the summer sun. Her raven black hair was tied back in a long single braid.

But her eyes! Her eyes were the most beguiling shade of gray. His life in District 13 was full of grays: his clothes, his compartment, even the food somehow took on the hue. Color was purposeful: to distinguish rank, to identify routes, to call attention when necessary. He was sure he had encountered every shade of black mixed with white, but he was mistaken.

Peeta tried to imagine her face with a smile: he’d seen her frown and scowl, but imagined the way her mouth would upturn and eyes dance with the motion.

“There aren’t any colors”

He snapped back to present “The colors are listed” he furrowed his brow “can’t you read?”

She scowled, holding the book out to him abruptly “Of course I can, I just don’t know how you’re supposed to tell nightlock from an elderberry based on that. Or excuse me, a conium maculatum from a sambucus nigra.” She lifted her chin as she rattled off the names from his book with an air of superiority. “You really use those long names?”

He shrugged. He'd never pondered the printed titles.

She didn’t wait for a response as she began plucking berries from the bush, a perplexing move to the boy. “I won’t do it again. You don’t have to get rid of them on my account.”

“I’m not.”

He waited expectantly. But she didn’t speak, pulling a deer skin sack from her belt and filling it, before securing the parcel to her belt. She looked up at him, annoyance evident, “They’re useful, just not for food.”

“Oh.” the book contained no reference to use, simply: name, diagram, and physical description. Gatherers were under strict orders not to eat from their hoards; they were told what to collect, not why. He knew some things served purposes beyond food: dyes, medicines, polymers. He just didn’t know which ones were which.

“Are you the one that keeps leaving the dandelions.” He forrowed his brow in confusion. “The taraxacum officinale”

“Oh, yeah. I wanted to let you know I was here.”

“Didn’t need the flowers to know you’d been here.” She motioned in the direction he had come. “You’re very heavy footed. If I had thought you were an animal, I could have easily tracked you back to your den”

“I’m a gatherer, not a hunter, I don’t need to worry about scaring off the plants.”

Her lips twitched, an attempt to contain a smile and she turned her head away from him to school her features. She turned back abruptly “you didn’t tell anyone about me or the lake, right?”

He shook his head vigorously, blonde waves bouncing. “I don’t think anyone else knows about this place. I only came here because I had wondered too far and then heard your song.”

She didn’t look wholly convinced but didn’t argue the matter either. She turned to busy herself in her gathering.

He looked back towards 13, his time quickly coming to an end. “I have to go” she didn’t acknowledge him. “I can leave you alone” still no response “you can call me if you want. If I’m on duty and I hear your song, I’ll know to come.”

She looked up at him, sharp eyes narrowed, “So now I can’t even sing for fear of you coming?”

He took a step back, stricken by her words “nevermind”

She must have detected the hurt in his eyes; Her features softened and she turned her head back to her work.

He pivoted towards District 13, a heaviness enveloping his limbs.

“Fine.”

He snapped his head back in the direction of the voice.

“I don’t really sing anymore anyways, but if you hear the song you can come.”

He nodded dumbly, dashing away quickly, before she could change her mind.

🩶🩶🩶

It wasn’t until his journey back that he began recounting the meeting and realizing how little he knew of this girl. He hadn’t even gotten her name, let alone where she had come from, who she was with, why she was there. The questions formed a queue in his mind. He kept his word and stayed away. He knew she was real and she knew the same of him as well as how to summon him.

So he waited. It was nearly a month before he heard the song. His heart soaring as he crashed through the greenery to the lake.

She did not look surprised by his presence: She shouldn’t have been - She lured him in after all and he couldn’t resist the grin that crept across his face. She eyed him wearily as he approached and he made sure to stop with plenty of space between them.

“Your book. Can I see it?” She extended her hand.

He raised an eyebrow in curiosity, but receiving no further explanation, pulled it from his bag, tossing it to the girl.

Her scowl deepened as she thumbed through the pages reviewing a select few before leafing further in the book, closing it abruptly and handing it back.

She didn’t elaborate nor did he inquire, losing the nerve to ask his questions. She wandered a bit as he wordlessly followed, finally finding a patch of white flowers with sunny yellow centers. She didn’t protest when he knelt beside her to gather them with her.

It was another month before her song and his work assignment collided once more. She again requested the book: Wrinkling her nose in annoyance as she read. Finally exclaiming, “This book is useless.”

He smiled at the outburst “I guess that depends on what the use is. I’ve already learned the plants. It’s just for reference if I forget.”

“So you can identify them, big deal. You don’t know anything about them or what they do.”

He shrugged, “don’t need to. There are people at home that do.”

“You’re not even interested?”

“We’re all doing our part, no matter how small, working together to contribute to the District’s brighter future” at least that’s what they taught them in school.

He had never thought to question it until one day when Peeta had been in the kitchen. One of the large mixers had toppled to the ground, a panel had come open and parts sprang and spilled to the floor. He had watched the mechanic reassemble the machine, collect and inspect all the parts and meticulously rebuild. A few pieces were damaged, but the mechanic didn’t bat an eye, exchanging the deformed parts for new. The old parts would be melted down and made into something useful.

Peeta had been melancholy the whole weekend. It wasn’t until class on Monday morning as they recited the pledge that he realized he was an expendable piece in well oiled machine: important but replaceable.

She rolled her eyes, “And this is your contribution?”

“For now” he said simply. There were all kinds of jobs in District 13, all balanced to support the community. His oldest brother, Solly, looked forward to his upcoming testing and placement. His father baked and his mother was a mid-ranking Commander.

“We used to have one,” she held up the book. “But it was more detailed: with colors and uses. My parents added handwritten notes in the margins. I thought if I could see the pictures again…it might remind me.” Her words trailed off. She looked into the distance away from him, throat bobbing, before turning back towards him, voice again under control, “Why wouldn’t they want you to know their use? What if you were stuck out here? Wouldn’t they want you to survive?”

He’d puzzled over the book that night. He’d never thought about it much before. Most things in 13 were straight forward, no-nonsense, portioned and precise, black and white. The book was no different. If his job was to collect specimens, this book aided him.

He was reminded again of the mixer. All the pieces working together towards a common goal, though they didn’t know what the other pieces did… although they didn’t know anything because they were just bits of metal.

After that she began to call for him more regularly, though she had dropped the pretense of viewing the book all together.

At home he’d often been told he was charming. His charisma however, seemed to have very little effect on the girl at the lake. His conversation was met with scowls rather than smiles. She was fiercely private; it wasn’t until the fifth visit that she reluctantly gifted him her name: Katniss.

They didn’t speak of home: her because she was still weary and him because she was his escape.

He couldn’t hold back the laugh that escaped the first time he made her grin and the first time he heard her laugh he felt dizzy at the sound. Her song was mythical but her laughter was magic.

🩶🩶🩶

Everything in the district was made and maintained with military accuracy. The temperature, water consumption, nutrient intake, all perfectly calculated and dispatched for plant, animal, and human alike.

His schedule contained shifts in the kitchen where his father worked making the bread. Baking no exception, the recipe precise, no room for variation, the yield uniform: Not baked for flavor but substance.

At the lake she gathered and fished, hauling a heavy load home, wherever home was, in her bag and on her back. He marveled at the variation in her catches: different shapes, colors, sizes.

It was pure luck that his thirteenth birthday landed on a gathering day and that the mockingjays happened to sing. Birthdays had little significance in th District: his name listed on the screen in the dining hall in tiny print, an extra tight hug from his father, and added responsibilities.

When he mentioned the day's significance to Katniss she frowned at the lack of acknowledgement. She asked his favorite meal and when he described the grayish fish and okra stew that ‘wasn’t half bad when warm’, she wrinkled her nose in disgust. Then taught him to harvest Katniss roots, to fish, prepare and cook their catches on an open fire. Adding fresh Rosemary and wild scallions that stung his tongue with flavor and clung to his taste buds all day that he could revel in the memory.

She laughed as he described bite after bite in vivid detail, enthralled with each new flavor. Eating in the wild gave him a new appreciation for taste. She listened to him as he filled the smokey air with the recipes he could enhance, the bread that he could make with the wild spices.

The fish from the district were born, bred, and died in underground hatcheries, just large enough for them to fulfill these duties. Peeta had always been thankful for the food District 13 provided; in much of Panem children and adults went hungry or starved. He’d been hungry before, even craved but never feared the feelings. After his sunlight meal at the lake, he imagined he could taste the Distinct fish's despondency. The echo of flavors haunting his taste buds

After that she began to introduce him to forest delicacies: mushrooms, edible barks and leaves, wild berries, strips of dried meat she had saved him. He savored each bite, licking his fingers, delighting in every new flavor as she watched on with amusement. They added notes to the margin of his field book on taste descriptions, placing symbols next to favorites.

Working in the kitchen gave him access to the food waste. He began sneaking seeds from the compost pile, squirreling them away until he returned to the lake. Taking only things discarded: shriveled peas, okra and pumpkin seeds, squash remains, a half rotten tomato, a slice of a sprouted potato. They planted them together, the seeds quickly sprouting, stems with leaves reaching greedily for the sun. Their garden blossomed like their friendship, though the latter at a much slower pace.

One day she mentioned a sister, the next time a hunting partner, a neighbor’s baby she tended: brief fleeting words that began escaping unbidden, but she slowly allowed to flow freely.

🩶🩶🩶

At fourteen his teacher caught him doodling during lessons. She’d ripped the page from his pad, and he spent the remainder of class imagining the punishment the District, or worse still, his mother, would inflict for his idleness. Instead the teacher submitted his sketches to the resource department and his work assignments shifted so his newly identified artistic skills could be put to use. He was tasked with drawing diagrams: technical sketches for soldiers and hovercraft pilots. Black and white renderings of control panels. No room for imagination or colors unless strictly necessary.

This addition to his work schedule had him on outdoor duty inconsistently. When he finally heard their song Katniss had looked both relieved and annoyed to see him. She had scowled as he complained of the dullness of his new job, but the next time they met, she brought dried berries and pressed flowers in all colors. Crushing them between rocks, they made powders mixed with water and goose grease to create inks. They sharpened mockingjay feathers to points to make quills. She doodled patterns of repeating shapes while he mixed colors, painting fleeting images on rocks and trees, that faded slowly between visits.

Katniss was more disappointed by the loss of their pictures than he was until she suggested they shade the loathsome field guide. Visit after visit they searched the ground for colors to match and mix for each page, digging iron rich clay, mixing soot from past fires. He detailed and shaded while Katniss looked on, adding notes and providing names: chamomile for inflammation and sadness, wild carrots were edible but easily confused for deadly Hemlock.

When they worked on the page labeled oenothera she gave him the common name: Primrose. Her eyes shifted from the page to covertly glance at him as she added, “my sister’s named after these.”

He bit the inside of his cheek until he could contain the smile that threatened to overtake his face at the admission. He couldn’t imagine a sweeter gift than her trust.

Little by little she shared more: now calling her sister by name, she spoke of her often, along with a cat and goat, sometimes a mother, but rarely a father. Talk of her sister brought her joy, but her parents a sadness he couldn’t work up the courage to ask about. He told her about his brothers, about his father, rarely speaking of his mother. He didn’t think she avoided talk of her father for the same reason he avoided his mother.

🩶🩶🩶

At fifteen the District began strenuous workouts to gauge physical aptitude. His mother had shaved his head in a bid to demonstrate his eagerness to serve. As a Deputy-Commander herself, it was good optics to have children ready to take up the cause regardless of how unlikely the odds. Peeta had mourned the loss of his youth as the yellow waves fluttered to the ground. He wasn’t the only one; he was amused by the scowls Katniss directed at his head for months after the change.

But it had its perks. He no longer needed to fear explaining a head of wet waves. So he gladly accented when Katniss decided time had come to teach him to swim on a day when he bemoaned the pains from his long awaited growth spurt. The cool water, she reasoned, would soothe his aching body.

It was daunting at first; the water was foreign and freezing. It didn’t help that they were half naked and painfully aware of their own hormone riddled bodies. She had made him turn as she stripped to her undershirt, wading until only her head was visible above the water. She kept her distance as she barked commands that he couldn’t quite grasp. Their frustrations mounting until the lesson devolved into bickering, then splashing, then laughter. Lessons abandoned, they stumbled from the lake feeling happily refreshed.

The next time they met she came armed with a thermos of birch bark tea for his soreness and a less ambitious objective to teach him to float. She had him lay on his back, tethering him in place by small calloused hands at his lower back and neck. Her touches were purposeful and fleeting but they sparked an ache in his chest that distracted him from the ache in his bones.

They climbed from the lake, averting their eyes from the shirts and shorts that clung to their bodies. Then sunbathed like lizards on warm rocks, staring up at the sky, naming shapes in the clouds, listening to the rustle of the leaves as the branches overhead cast shadows until they were forced to pry themselves from the ground, redressing and returning each to their separate homes.

🩶🩶🩶

At sixteen his brother Matti turned 18. His viability confirmed and his preferred match approved, he took his permanent place in the kitchen with their father and eldest brother. He walked taller in his new distinction as adult, baker, and ‘breeder’ and the brothers, once childhood companions, drifted further apart; his wife and ‘duties’ taking precedence and Peeta only a little brother who could no longer relate to his more mature endeavors.

Fraternizing was not forbidden, however coupling was strictly forbidden before adulthood. The District couldn’t risk the complications associated with a high risk young mother and wouldn’t risk birth control sterilizing an otherwise healthy female. Every viable womb mattered to the growth of the District and the doctors determined 18 years was the earliest a woman could safely support life.

He had kissed a few girls, but the memory filled him with guilt rather than pride. It had been pleasant in the moment, but left him thinking of another girl. Imagining how her lips would feel against his, her petite body cradled in his arms, hands in his hair.

He’d gone to the lake unbidden that day in hopes of clearing his head of the estrangement at home. Being underground he was often unaware of the shifts in weather. The air smelled of rain, the ground was spongy, leaves and branches littering the ground as he made his way to the valley. Not expecting to find her there, he was surprised to see a massive charred tree had fallen victim to the evident storm with a weeping Katniss on top of it. They’d rarely touched, but he didn’t hesitate in gathering her in his arms. She clung to him sobbing.

When her tears subsided She rested her head on his shoulder, Her fist gripped tightly to his jumpsuit, dazedly staring off towards the lake as the words poured out. She spoke of her father: How he taught her to hunt and to swim and to sing. How he had died shortly before she and Peeta had met. How her mother’s spirit had died with him. How she had to begin providing for her family alone early on. How the lake was his place, their place - she and her father’s. She knew it wouldn’t go on being the same forever, but each season it had changed in such a small degree that it would still remain the same in her mind. But the fallen tree had forced her to come to terms with the change, with the loss.

Once she’d recovered, they sprung into action. She picked wildflowers as he mixed hues. She taught him to weave flowers so they could adorned the tree with flower garlands and painted designs - a makeshift memorial. They had a funeral of sorts for the tree and by unspoken extension her father; hands clasped in shared sorrow.

He’d left thinking of spirits and souls - The district taught of the body and mind, but the soul, at least as Katniss described it, was something intangible; The heart and the mind combined, but not just as organs, but ideas, feelings, beliefs! It was a concept he cherished. One which he kept safely to himself like the girl who had introduced it to him.

The event seemed to overcome the final restraints on conversation, they spoke freely of their homes and families.

She shared her history: The colony living in the wilderness outside the reach of Capital rule or District restrictions. How their great grandparents' generation had fled District 12 when the first rebellion was all but lost. How they traveled north until they were far enough away finding habitable ground to establish themselves.

In exchange he told her of 13: how children were as good as currency: healthy girls - the most valuable. Not everyone could have children so those that could weren’t given a choice: they were tested and matched or a mutual preference reviewed and approved at age 18. Pairs were directed to do their duty for the greater good of the District. In exchange they were given preferential treatment. His parents were matched based on genetics not personality and had produced three sons in quick succession: Peeta’s birth had been difficult, ending his mother’s chance at producing a daughter. His birth came with her final promotion, Deputy-Commander, a bitter victory as she became convinced had Peeta been a daughter, she would have been made a full Commander, been invited into Command as well as Coin’s confidences. He was a constant reminder of her stalled career.

Her grip tightened around their linked hands. Since their funeral for the tree, they had become more liberal with touches. Not in the ways his brothers talked about touching their wives, but in comforting gestures they were rarely untethered; they’d lay in the grass holding hands or wither head on his chest. No matter how innocent the actions, her touch set his skin ablaze, the lost connection leaving him starved in a way that had nothing to do with his food.

🩶🩶🩶

His seventeenth birthday came and went with little fanfare. While his classmates made predictions and plans for their future, his final year of school was filled him with dread. The months ahead filled with testing: for occupation, status, and compatibility. A few girls and even one of the District 13 widows had propositioned him to submit a match request with them; all which he’d solemnly denied.

Whispers of a second rebellion grew louder every day. They were all required to watch the Games, to remember the Capital’s cruelty. If he were destined to be a soldier in the fight against injustice he could bear his fate, but it would not be his future if he was deemed viable (and there was no reason to believe he wouldn’t be deemed viable). All the men in his family before him had been: brothers, uncles, cousins. All had paired and all so far fruitful.

He’d be a baker or a diagram illustrator and a husband and make some woman as miserable as his mother. Not on purpose of course, but because his soul surely couldn’t survive trapped underground without Katniss and their lake. Without the array of colors and the sunshine grown fish. Without the cool water of the lake and the feel of her hand in his. Without her song!

These thoughts left him feeling like wretched. He could barely eat or sleep; maybe his bodily neglect would make him unfit.

He continued his treks to the lake, even without the Mockingjay’s song to bid him. Just being close to where she had been and would be was a comfort. He put on an unaffected air on the days she was there, but she knew him too well, could sense the shift. She placed her cool hand on his forehead then his cheeks, inspecting his exposed skin for a physical cause for his malaise.

He couldn’t burden her with his fears; wouldn’t sacrifice a single moment of fleeting joy with her to the stifling images of the future, so he begged off with tales of nightmares. These weren’t complete fabrications, for when he did sleep he dreamed in gray monotony.

Their next rendezvous she brought a small cloth sack filled with lavender, catnip, and rosemary, made small enough to be sneaked past Distinct customs. She had him lay in the grass with the parcel close, his head in her lap. The scent, the breeze, and her nimble fingers rubbing circles in his velvety hair lulled him to sleep.

His reprieve was short lived. He soon received his packet confirming his viable designation with schedules, rules, and instructions.

🩶🩶🩶

His gathering day aligned with her birthday and promised himself this would be his last trip to the lake when he heard their song. One final golden day before he wished it all farewell.

He emerged from the woods, her smiling as she spied him, his worries momentarily vanishing as he jogged down to meet her. She seemed happier, lighter, today and for a moment he let himself imagine spending every possible minute of the rest of my life with her.

He laughed “I’ve never seen you so happy to see me”

She rolled her eyes but her smile didn’t falter as she opened her bag to share her elation: goat cheese. A gift from her sister. She had said it was her favorite, but he’d only tried it once.

Katniss set the lines while Peeta gathered: chives, Dandelions, violets, keeping her in sight all the while, dreading the moment he’d have to let her go for good.

Once the fish were placed on the fire, they stripped their clothes. Floating and swimming in their underclothes, laughing and talking of trivial things. Eventually crawling from the lake to lie in the grass and pick at their feast. She placed her head in his lap as he teased out the knots in her hair while she fed him bits of fish and cheese.

“I wish I could freeze this moment, right here, right now, and live in it forever,” He felt so warm and relaxed and beyond worrying about the future that the words slipped out.

She smiled up at him from her place on his lap. “We can do this again, you know? Next time.”

He hummed. A lump formed in his throat and he averted his gaze, unable to look at her knowing it would all spill out if he looked at her now. His eyes fell on the nightlock bush, the place of their first interaction. Where he discovered she was real.

He felt her hands on his face. She’d extracted herself from his lap and was kneeling across from him, forcing his head in her direction. He closed his eyes in a last defense until she spoke his name and he could no longer deny her.

At her pained expression it all tumbling out: the tests, the impending pairing, the placement, the end to his outdoor duties.

She was up and pacing, biting the nail of her thumb, listening intently. She paused her movement when he finished, “And that’s it! You weren’t going to tell me? You were going to leave here today and never come back? Leave me to wonder what happened to you? Never knowing if you were dead or if you hated me? Or if you’d found some other girl, some other lake?” Her eyes brimming with tears.

He sat stupefied, his legs pulled tightly to his chest. He hadn’t thought that far ahead. Or maybe he’d thought she meant more to him than he did to her: That she would move on quickly, never looking back to the friend of her youth. Maybe he had wanted to save her the pain, or maybe save himself? Maybe his plan was selfish, not selfless.

He stood, “that’s the problem: there could never be another valley, another lake, another song, another girl. You have Prim, your mother, the Hawthornes. I’m the one losing something. I’m losing the little freedom and choice I have, going on to take my place as a piece in the great District 13 machine, fulfilling my empty destiny. In a place that needs my body and mind, but cares nothing for my soul. That doesn’t want nor need it. No one does.” He paused breathing heavily. “I was blind and content before I met you. I didn’t need a soul to survive but now that I know, I can’t go back. Can't go back to the bliss of ignorance, back to the District to inflict my misery on someone else for the rest of my flavorless gray life. I’d be better off dead.” He stared at the nightlock bush longingly, only a half baked idea he could never follow through on.

“I do, Peeta.” It was spoken so softly he thought he’d imagined it. “I need you, all of you; Your soul most of all.” She paused before whispering “Stay with me”

Certain he had misheard her, but seeing that she required a response he croaked out, “What?”

She grasped onto his hand pulling him down to face her, shaking her head as she spoke, “don’t go back. Come with me. You could choose your life, retain your soul. You could paint in color or bake the recipes you used to talk about. You could grow your hair long and sleep in the breeze. There are so many things still for you to experience: sunsets, fireflies, the moon. You just have to stay with me.” She’s pleading. No longer attempting to hide her tears, her eyes darting across his face, searching his face for a hint at his decision, not realizing he has always been hers.

“Always.” The word escaped along with the breath he’d be holding, “Yes.” He began nodding, “Anything. Yeah. I’ll do it” The words come crashing out in a confusing jumble of syllables, but she seemed to understand them as she let out a choked laugh. Then he laughed and she began in earnest, pressing her forehead to his as he cupped her face in his hands, swiping away fresh tears, lips quickly meeting between relieved laughter. Too giddy and high on their mirth to feel bashful about the thin damp fabric separating their embrace or the gravity of their decision.

After a while, recollected themselves, they gathered their things, heading in the direction of her home, their home, hand in hand. But only after executing one small request: A song for the birds, a final farewell and a continuation of the lore.

To District 13 it would be the song of a boy lost to the woods. But for Peeta, it would be the song of his homecoming.

#sliding my own fic across the table #district 13!Peeta #colony in the wild!Katniss #districts apart #TWHHA #TWHHA summer 23 #everlark fanfiction #it could probably use a review and edit #but I quite like it #fairytale vibes #shameless self promotion #self promotion Saturday

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