Текст книги " Divergent"
Автор книги: Veronica Roth
сообщить о нарушении
Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 19 страниц)
Marlene collapses in giggles. I wipe some of the paint from my face, slowly, and then smear it on his cheek. The scent of fish oil wafts through the train car.
“Ew!” He squeezes the ball at me again, but the opening is at the wrong angle, and the paint sprays into his mouth instead. He coughs and makes exaggerated gagging sounds.
I wipe my face with my sleeve, laughing so hard my stomach hurts.
If my entire life is like this, loud laughter and bold action and the kind of exhaustion you feel after a hard but satisfying day, I will be content. As Uriah scrapes his tongue with his fingertips, I realize that all I have to do is get through initiation, and that life will be mine.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
THE NEXT MORNING, when I trudge into the training room, yawning, a large target stands at one end of the room, and next to the door is a table with knives strewn across it. Target practice again. At least it won’t hurt.
Eric stands in the middle of the room, his posture so rigid it looks like someone replaced his spine with a metal rod. The sight of him makes me feel like all the air in the room is heavier, bearing down on me. At least when he was slouched against a wall, I could pretend he wasn’t here. Today I can’t pretend.
“Tomorrow will be the last day of stage one,” Eric says. “You will resume fighting then. Today, you’ll be learning how to aim. Everyone pick up three knives.” His voice is deeper than usual. “And pay attention while Four demonstrates the correct technique for throwing them.”
At first no one moves.
“Now!”
We scramble for daggers. They aren’t as heavy as guns, but they still feel strange in my hands, like I am not allowed to hold them.
“He’s in a bad mood today,” mumbles Christina.
“Is he ever in a good mood?” I murmur back.
But I know what she means. Judging by the poisonous look Eric gives Four when he isn’t paying attention, last night’s loss must have bothered Eric more than he let on. Winning capture the flag is a matter of pride, and pride is important to the Dauntless. More important than reason or sense.
I watch Four’s arm as he throws a knife. The next time he throws, I watch his stance. He hits the target each time, exhaling as he releases the knife.
Eric orders, “Line up!”
Haste, I think, will not help.My mother told me that when I was learning how to knit. I have to think of this as a mental exercise, not a physical exercise. So I spend the first few minutes practicing without a knife, finding the right stance, learning the right arm motion.
Eric paces too quickly behind us.
“I think the Stiff’s taken too many hits to the head!” remarks Peter, a few people down. “Hey, Stiff! Remember what a knifeis?”
Ignoring him, I practice the throw again with a knife in hand but don’t release it. I shut out Eric’s pacing, and Peter’s jeering, and the nagging feeling that Four is staring at me, and throw the knife. It spins end over end, slamming into the board. The blade doesn’t stick, but I’m the first person to hit the target.
I smirk as Peter misses again. I can’t help myself.
“Hey, Peter,” I say. “Remember what a targetis?”
Next to me, Christina snorts, and her next knife hits the target.
A half hour later, Al is the only initiate who hasn’t hit the target yet. His knives clatter to the floor, or bounce off the wall. While the rest of us approach the board to collect our weapons, he hunts the floor for his.
The next time he tries and misses, Eric marches toward him and demands, “How slow areyou, Candor? Do you need glasses? Should I move the target closer to you?”
Al’s face turns red. He throws another knife, and this one sails a few feet to the right of the target. It spins and hits the wall.
“What was that, initiate?” says Eric quietly, leaning closer to Al.
I bite my lip. This isn’t good.
“It – it slipped,” says Al.
“Well, I think you should go get it,” Eric says. He scans the other initiates’ faces – everyone has stopped throwing again – and says, “Did I tell you to stop?”
Knives start to hit the board. We have all seen Eric angry before, but this is different. The look in his eyes is almost rabid.
“Go get it?” Al’s eyes are wide. “But everyone’s still throwing.”
“And?”
“And I don’t want to get hit.”
“I think you can trust your fellow initiates to aim better than you.” Eric smiles a little, but his eyes stay cruel. “Go get your knife.”
Al doesn’t usually object to anything the Dauntless tell us to do. I don’t think he’s afraid to; he just knows that objecting is useless. This time Al sets his wide jaw. He’s reached the limits of his compliance.
“No,” he says.
“Why not?” Eric’s beady eyes fix on Al’s face. “Are you afraid?”
“Of getting stabbed by an airborne knife?” says Al. “Yes, I am!”
Honesty is his mistake. Not his refusal, which Eric might have accepted.
“Everyone stop!” Eric shouts.
The knives stop, and so does all conversation. I hold my small dagger tightly.
“Clear out of the ring.” Eric looks at Al. “All except you.”
I drop the dagger and it hits the dusty floor with a thud. I follow the other initiates to the edge of the room, and they inch in front of me, eager to see what makes my stomach turn: Al, facing Eric’s wrath.
“Stand in front of the target,” says Eric.
Al’s big hands shake. He walks back to the target.
“Hey, Four.” Eric looks over his shoulder. “Give me a hand here, huh?”
Four scratches one of his eyebrows with a knife point and approaches Eric. He has dark circles under his eyes and a tense set to his mouth – he’s as tired as we are.
“You’re going to stand there as he throws those knives,” Eric says to Al, “until you learn not to flinch.”
“Is this really necessary?” says Four. He sounds bored, but he doesn’t look bored. His face and body are tense, alert.
I squeeze my hands into fists. No matter how casual Four sounds, the question is a challenge. And Four doesn’t often challenge Eric directly.
At first Eric stares at Four in silence. Four stares back. Seconds pass and my fingernails bite my palms.
“I have the authority here, remember?” Eric says, so quietly I can barely hear him. “Here, and everywhere else.”
Color rushes into Four’s face, though his expression does not change. His grip on the knives tightens and his knuckles turn white as he turns to face Al.
I look from Al’s wide, dark eyes to his shaking hands to the determined set of Four’s jaw. Anger bubbles in my chest, and bursts from my mouth: “ Stopit.”
Four turns the knife in his hand, his fingers moving painstakingly over the metal edge. He gives me such a hard look that I feel like he’s turning me to stone. I know why. I am stupid for speaking up while Eric is here; I am stupid for speaking up at all.
“Any idiot can stand in front of a target,” I say. “It doesn’t prove anything except that you’re bullying us. Which, as I recall, is a sign of cowardice.”
“Then it should be easy for you,” Eric says. “If you’re willing to take his place.”
The last thing I want to do is stand in front of that target, but I can’t back down now. I didn’t leave myself the option. I weave through the crowd of initiates, and someone shoves my shoulder.
“There goes your pretty face,” hisses Peter. “Oh, wait. You don’t have one.”
I recover my balance and walk toward Al. He nods at me. I try to smile encouragingly, but I can’t manage it. I stand in front of the board, and my head doesn’t even reach the center of the target, but it doesn’t matter. I look at Four’s knives: one in his right hand, two in his left hand.
My throat is dry. I try to swallow, and then look at Four. He is never sloppy. He won’t hit me. I’ll be fine.
I tip my chin up. I will not flinch. If I flinch, I prove to Eric that this is not as easy as I said it was; I prove that I’m a coward.
“If you flinch,” Four says, slowly, carefully, “Al takes your place. Understand?”
I nod.
Four’s eyes are still on mine when he lifts his hand, pulls his elbow back, and throws the knife. It is just a flash in the air, and then I hear a thud. The knife is buried in the board, half a foot away from my cheek. I close my eyes. Thank God.
“You about done, Stiff?” asks Four.
I remember Al’s wide eyes and his quiet sobs at night and shake my head. “No.”
“Eyes open, then.” He taps the spot between his eyebrows.
I stare at him, pressing my hands to my sides so no one can see them shake. He passes a knife from his left hand to his right hand, and I see nothing but his eyes as the second knife hits the target above my head. This one is closer than the last one – I feel it hovering over my skull.
“Come on, Stiff,” he says. “Let someone else stand there and take it.”
Why is he trying to goad me into giving up? Does he want me to fail?
“Shut up, Four!”
I hold my breath as he turns the last knife in his hand. I see a glint in his eyes as he pulls his arm back and lets the knife fly. It comes straight at me, spinning, blade over handle. My body goes rigid. This time, when it hits the board, my ear stings, and blood tickles my skin. I touch my ear. He nicked it.
And judging by the look he gives me, he did it on purpose.
“I would love to stay and see if the rest of you are as daring as she is,” says Eric, his voice smooth, “but I think that’s enough for today.”
He squeezes my shoulder. His fingers feel dry and cold, and the look he gives me claims me, like he’s taking ownership of what I did. I don’t return Eric’s smile. What I did had nothing to do with him.
“I should keep my eye on you,” he adds.
Fear prickles inside me, in my chest and in my head and in my hands. I feel like the word “DIVERGENT” is branded on my forehead, and if he looks at me long enough, he’ll be able to read it. But he just lifts his hand from my shoulder and keeps walking.
Four and I stay behind. I wait until the room is empty and the door is shut before looking at him again. He walks toward me.
“Is your—” he begins.
“You did that on purpose!” I shout.
“Yes, I did,” he says quietly. “And you should thank me for helping you.”
I grit my teeth. “ Thankyou? You almost stabbed my ear, and you spent the entire time taunting me. Why should I thank you?”
“You know, I’m getting a little tired of waiting for you to catch on!”
He glares at me, and even when he glares, his eyes look thoughtful. Their shade of blue is peculiar, so dark it is almost black, with a small patch of lighter blue on the left iris, right next to the corner of his eye.
“Catch on? Catch on to what? That you wanted to prove to Eric how tough you are? That you’re sadistic, just like he is?”
“I am not sadistic.” He doesn’t yell. I wish he would yell. It would scare me less. He leans his face close to mine, which reminds me of lying inches away from the attack dog’s fangs in the aptitude test, and says, “If I wanted to hurt you, don’t you think I would have already?”
He crosses the room and slams the point of a knife so hard into the table that it sticks there, handle toward the ceiling.
“I—” I start to shout, but he’s already gone. I scream, frustrated, and wipe some of the blood from my ear.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
TODAY IS THE day before Visiting Day. I think of Visiting Day like I think of the world ending: Nothing after it matters. Everything I do builds up to it. I might see my parents again. I might not. Which is worse? I don’t know.
I try to pull a pant leg over my thigh and it sticks just above my knee. Frowning, I stare at my leg. A bulge of muscle is stopping the fabric. I let the pant leg fall and look over my shoulder at the back of my thigh. Another muscle stands out there.
I step to the side so I stand in front of the mirror. I see muscles that I couldn’t see before in my arms, legs, and stomach. I pinch my side, where a layer of fat used to hint at curves to come. Nothing. Dauntless initiation has stolen whatever softness my body had. Is that good, or bad?
At least I am stronger than I was. I wrap my towel around me again and leave the girls’ bathroom. I hope no one is in the dormitory to see me walking in my towel, but I can’t wear those pants.
When I open the dormitory door, a weight drops into my stomach. Peter, Molly, Drew, and some of the other initiates stand in the back corner, laughing. They look up when I walk in and start snickering. Molly’s snort-laugh is louder than everyone else’s.
I walk to my bunk, trying to pretend like they aren’t there, and fumble in the drawer under my bed for the dress Christina made me get. One hand clamped around the towel and one holding the dress, I stand up, and right behind me is Peter.
I jump back, almost hitting my head on Christina’s bunk. I try to slip past him, but he slams his hand against Christina’s bed frame, blocking my path. I should have known he wouldn’t let me get away that easily.
“Didn’t realize you were so skinny, Stiff.”
“Get away from me.” My voice is somehow steady.
“This isn’t the Hub, you know. No one has to follow a Stiff’s orders here.” His eyes travel down my body, not in the greedy way that a man looks at a woman, but cruelly, scrutinizing every flaw. I hear my heartbeat in my ears as the others inch closer, forming a pack behind Peter.
This will be bad.
I have to get out of here.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see a clear path to the door. If I can duck under Peter’s arm and sprint toward it, I might be able to make it.
“Look at her,” says Molly, crossing her arms. She smirks at me. “She’s practically a child.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” says Drew. “She could be hiding something under that towel. Why don’t we look and see?”
Now. I duck under Peter’s arm and dart toward the door. Something pinches and pulls at my towel as I walk away and then yanks sharply – Peter’s hand, gathering the fabric into his fist. The towel slips from my hand and the air is cold on my naked body, making the hair on the back of my neck stand on end.
Laughter erupts, and I run as fast as I can toward the door, holding the dress against my body to hide it. I sprint down the hallway and into the bathroom and lean against the door, breathing hard. I close my eyes.
It doesn’t matter. I don’t care.
A sob bursts from my mouth, and I slap my hand over my lips to contain it. It doesn’t matter what they saw. I shake my head like the motion is supposed to make it true.
With shaking hands, I get dressed. The dress is plain black, with a V-neck that shows the tattoos on my collarbone, and goes down to my knees.
Once I’m dressed and the urge to cry is gone, I feel something hot and violent writhing in my stomach. I want to hurt them.
I stare at my eyes in the mirror. I want to, so I will.
I can’t fight in a dress, so I get myself some new clothes from the Pit before I walk to the training room for my last fight. I hope it’s with Peter.
“Hey, where were you this morning?” Christina asks when I walk in. I squint to see the blackboard across the room. The space next to my name is blank – I haven’t gotten an opponent yet.
“I got held up,” I say.
Four stands in front of the board and writes a name next to mine. Please let it be Peter, please, please … .
“You okay, Tris? You look a little…,” says Al.
“A little what?”
Four moves away from the board. The name written next to mine is Molly. Not Peter, but good enough.
“On edge,” says Al.
My fight is last on the list, which means I have to wait through three matches before I face her. Edward and Peter fight second to last – good. Edward is the only one who can beat Peter. Christina will fight Al, which means that Al will lose quickly, like he’s been doing all week.
“Go easy on me, okay?” Al asks Christina.
“I make no promises,” she replies.
The first pair – Will and Myra – stand across from each other in the arena. For a second they both shuffle back and forth, one jerking an arm forward and then retracting it, the other kicking and missing. Across the room, Four leans against the wall and yawns.
I stare at the board and try to predict the outcome of each match. It doesn’t take long. Then I bite my fingernails and think about Molly. Christina lost to her, which means she’s good. She has a powerful punch, but she doesn’t move her feet. If she can’t hit me, she can’t hurt me.
As expected, the next fight between Christina and Al is quick and painless. Al falls after a few hard hits to the face and doesn’t get back up, which makes Eric shake his head.
Edward and Peter take longer. Though they are the two best fighters, the disparity between them is noticeable. Edward’s fist slams into Peter’s jaw, and I remember what Will said about him – that he has been studying combat since he was ten. It’s obvious. He is faster and smarter than even Peter.
By the time the three matches are done, my nails are bitten to the beds and I’m hungry for lunch. I walk to the arena without looking at anyone or anything but the center of the room. Some of my anger has faded, but it isn’t hard to call back. All I have to do is think about how cold the air was and how loud the laughter was. Look at her. She ’ s a child.
Molly stands across from me.
“Was that a birthmark I saw on your left butt cheek?” she says, smirking. “God, you’re pale, Stiff.”
She’ll make the first move. She always does.
Molly starts toward me and throws her weight into a punch. As her body shifts forward, I duck and drive my fist into her stomach, right over her bellybutton. Before she can get her hands on me, I slip past her, my hands up, ready for her next attempt.
She’s not smirking anymore. She runs at me like she’s about to tackle me, and I dart out of the way. I hear Four’s voice in my head, telling me that the most powerful weapon at my disposal is my elbow. I just have to find a way to use it.
I block her next punch with my forearm. The blow stings, but I barely notice it. She grits her teeth and lets out a frustrated groan, more animal-sounding than human. She tries a sloppy kick at my side, which I dodge, and while her balance is off, I rush forward and force my elbow up at her face. She pulls her head back just in time, and my elbow grazes her chin.
She punches me in the ribs and I stumble to the side, recovering my breath. There’s something she’s not protecting, I know it. I want to hit her face, but maybe that’s not a smart move. I watch her for a few seconds. Her hands are too high; they guard her nose and cheeks, leaving her stomach and ribs exposed. Molly and I have the same flaw in combat.
Our eyes meet for just a second.
I aim an uppercut low, below her bellybutton. My fist sinks into her flesh, forcing a heavy breath from her mouth that I feel against my ear. As she gasps, I sweep-kick her legs out from under her, and she falls hard on the ground, sending dust into the air. I pull my foot back and kick as hard as I can at her ribs.
My mother and father would not approve of my kicking someone when she’s down.
I don’t care.
She curls into a ball to protect her side, and I kick again, this time hitting her in the stomach. Like a child. I kick again, this time hitting her in the face. Blood springs from her nose and spreads over her face. Look at her.Another kick hits her in the chest.
I pull my foot back again, but Four’s hands clamp around my arms, and he pulls me away from her with irresistible force. I breathe through gritted teeth, staring at Molly’s blood-covered face, the color deep and rich and beautiful, in a way.
She groans, and I hear a gurgling in her throat, watch blood trickle from her lips.
“You won,” Four mutters. “Stop.”
I wipe the sweat from my forehead. He stares at me. His eyes are too wide; they look alarmed.
“I think you should leave,” he says. “Take a walk.”
“I’m fine,” I say. “I’m fine now,” I say again, this time for myself.
I wish I could say I felt guilty for what I did.
I don’t.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
VISITING DAY. The second I open my eyes, I remember. My heart leaps and then plummets when I see Molly hobble across the dormitory, her nose purple between strips of medical tape. Once I see her leave, I check for Peter and Drew. Neither of them is in the dormitory, so I change quickly. As long as they aren’t here, I don’t care who sees me in my underwear, not anymore.
Everyone else dresses in silence. Not even Christina smiles. We all know that we might go to the Pit floor and search every face and never find one that belongs to us.
I make my bed with the tight corners like my father taught me. As I pinch a stray hair from my pillow, Eric walks in.
“Attention!” he announces, flicking a lock of dark hair from his eyes. “I want to give you some advice about today. If by some miracle your families do come to visit you…” He scans our faces and smirks. “…which I doubt, it is best not to seem too attached. That will make it easier for you, and easier for them. We also take the phrase ‘faction before blood’ very seriously here. Attachment to your family suggests you aren’t entirely pleased with your faction, which would be shameful. Understand?”
I understand. I hear the threat in Eric’s sharp voice. The only part of that speech that Eric meant was the last part: We are Dauntless, and we need to act accordingly.
On my way out of the dormitory, Eric stops me.
“I may have underestimated you, Stiff,” he says. “You did well yesterday.”
I stare up at him. For the first time since I beat Molly, guilt pinches my gut.
If Eric thinks I did something right, I must have done it wrong.
“Thank you,” I say. I slip out of the dormitory.
Once my eyes adjust to the dim hallway light, I see Christina and Will ahead of me, Will laughing, probably at a joke Christina made. I don’t try to catch up. For some reason, I feel like it would be a mistake to interrupt them.
Al is missing. I didn’t see him in the dormitory, and he’s not walking toward the Pit now. Maybe he’s already there.
I run my fingers through my hair and smooth it into a bun. I check my clothes – am I covered up? My pants are tight and my collarbone is showing. They won’t approve.
Who cares if they approve? I set my jaw. This is my faction now. These are the clothes my faction wears. I stop just before the hallway ends.
Clusters of families stand on the Pit floor, most of them Dauntless families with Dauntless initiates. They still look strange to me – a mother with a pierced eyebrow, a father with a tattooed arm, an initiate with purple hair, a wholesome family unit. I spot Drew and Molly standing alone at one end of the room and suppress a smile. At least their families didn’t come.
But Peter’s did. He stands next to a tall man with bushy eyebrows and a short, meek-looking woman with red hair. Neither of his parents looks like him. They both wear black pants and white shirts, typical Candor outfits, and his father speaks so loudly I can almost hear him from where I stand. Do they know what kind of person their son is?
Then again…what kind of person am I?
Across the room, Will stands with a woman in a blue dress. She doesn’t look old enough to be his mother, but she has the same crease between her eyebrows as he does, and the same golden hair. He talked about having a sister once; maybe that’s her.
Next to him, Christina hugs a dark-skinned woman in Candor black and white. Standing behind Christina is a young girl, also a Candor. Her younger sister.
Should I even bother scanning the crowd for my parents? I could turn around and go back to the dormitory.
Then I see her. My mother stands alone near the railing with her hands clasped in front of her. She has never looked more out of place, with her gray slacks and gray jacket buttoned at the throat, her hair in its simple twist and her face placid. I start toward her, tears jumping into my eyes. She came. She came for me.
I walk faster. She sees me, and for a second her expression is blank, like she doesn’t know who I am. Then her eyes light up, and she opens her arms. She smells like soap and laundry detergent.
“Beatrice,” she whispers. She runs her hand over my hair.
Don’t cry, I tell myself. I hold her until I can blink the moisture from my eyes, and then pull back to look at her again. I smile with closed lips, just like she does. She touches my cheek.
“Well, look at you,” she says. “You’ve filled out.” She puts her arm across my shoulders. “Tell me how you are.”
“You first.” The old habits are back. I should let her speak first. I shouldn’t let the conversation stay focused on me for too long. I should make sure she doesn’t need anything.
“Today is a special occasion,” she says. “I came to see you, so let’s talk mostly about you. It is my gift to you.”
My selfless mother. She should not be giving me gifts, not after I left her and my father. I walk with her toward the railing that overlooks the chasm, glad to be close to her. The last week and a half has been more affectionless than I realized. At home we did not touch each other often, and the most I ever saw my parents do was hold hands at the dinner table, but it was more than this, more than here.
“Just one question.” I feel my pulse in my throat. “Where’s Dad? Is he visiting Caleb?”
“Ah.” She shakes her head. “Your father had to be at work.”
I look down. “You can tell me if he didn’t want to come.”
Her eyes travel over my face. “Your father has been selfish lately. That doesn’t mean he doesn’t love you, I promise.”
I stare at her, stunned. My father – selfish? More startling than the label is the fact that she assigned it to him. I can’t tell by looking at her if she’s angry. I don’t expect to be able to. But she must be; if she calls him selfish, she must be angry.
“What about Caleb?” I say. “Will you visit him later?”
“I wish I could,” she says, “but the Erudite have prohibited Abnegation visitors from entering their compound. If I tried, I would be removed from the premises.”
“What?” I demand. “That’s terrible. Why would they do that?”
“Tensions between our factions are higher than ever,” she says. “I wish it wasn’t that way, but there is little I can do about it.”
I think of Caleb standing among the Erudite initiates, scanning the crowd for our mother, and feel a pang in my stomach. Part of me is still angry with him for keeping so many secrets from me, but I don’t want him to hurt.
“That’s terrible,” I repeat. I look toward the chasm.
Standing alone at the railing is Four. Though he’s not an initiate anymore, most of the Dauntless use this day to come together with their families. Either his family doesn’t like to come together, or he wasn’t originally Dauntless. Which faction could he have come from?
“There’s one of my instructors.” I lean closer to her and say, “He’s kind of intimidating.”
“He’s handsome,” she says.
I find myself nodding without thinking. She laughs and lifts her arm from my shoulders. I want to steer her away from him, but just as I’m about to suggest that we go somewhere else, he looks over his shoulder.
His eyes widen at the sight of my mother. She offers him her hand.
“Hello. My name is Natalie,” she says. “I’m Beatrice’s mother.”
I have never seen my mother shake hands with someone. Four eases his hand into hers, looking stiff, and shakes it twice. The gesture looks unnatural for both of them. No, Four was not originally Dauntless if he doesn’t shake hands easily.
“Four,” he says. “It’s nice to meet you.”
“Four,” my mother repeats, smiling. “Is that a nickname?”
“Yes.” He doesn’t elaborate. What ishis real name? “Your daughter is doing well here. I’ve been overseeing her training.”
Since when does “overseeing” include throwing knives at me and scolding me at every opportunity?
“That’s good to hear,” she says. “I know a few things about Dauntless initiation, and I was worried about her.”
He looks at me, and his eyes move down my face, from nose to mouth to chin. Then he says, “You shouldn’t worry.”
I can’t keep the heat from rushing into my cheeks. I hope it isn’t noticeable.
Is he just reassuring her because she’s my mother, or does he really believe that I am capable? And what did that look mean?
She tilts her head. “You look familiar for some reason, Four.”
“I can’t imagine why,” he replies, his voice suddenly cold. “I don’t make a habit of associating with the Abnegation.”
My mother laughs. She has a light laugh, half air and half sound. “Few people do, these days. I don’t take it personally.”
He seems to relax a little. “Well, I’ll leave you to your reunion.”
My mother and I watch him leave. The roar of the river fills my ears. Maybe Four was one of the Erudite, which explains why he hates Abnegation. Or maybe he believes the articles the Erudite release about us– them, I remind myself. But it was kind of him to tell her that I’m doing well when I know he doesn’t believe it.
“Is he always like that?” she says.
“Worse.”
“Have you made friends?” she asks.
“A few,” I say. I look over my shoulder at Will and Christina and their families. When Christina catches my eye, she beckons to me, smiling, so my mother and I cross the Pit floor.
Before we can get to Will and Christina, though, a short, round woman with a black-and-white-striped shirt touches my arm. I twitch, resisting the urge to smack her hand away.
“Excuse me,” she says. “Do you know my son? Albert?”
“Albert?” I repeat. “Oh – you mean Al? Yes, I know him.”
“Do you know where we can find him?” she says, gesturing to a man behind her. He is tall and as thick as a boulder. Al’s father, obviously.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t see him this morning. Maybe you should look for him up there?” I point at the glass ceiling above us.
“Oh my,” Al’s mother says, fanning her face with her hand. “I would rather not attempt that climb again. I almost had a panic attack on the way down here. Why aren’t there any railings along those paths? Are you all insane?”
I smile a little. A few weeks ago I might have found that question offensive, but now I spend too much time with Candor transfers to be surprised by tactlessness.
“Insane, no,” I say. “Dauntless, yes. If I see him, I’ll tell him you’re looking for him.”
My mother, I see, wears the same smile I do. She isn’t reacting the way some of the other transfers’ parents are – her neck bent, looking around at the Pit walls, at the Pit ceiling, at the chasm. Of course she isn’t curious – she’s Abnegation. Curiosity is foreign to her.
I introduce my mother to Will and Christina, and Christina introduces me to her mother and her sister. But when Will introduces me to Cara, his older sister, she gives me the kind of look that would wither a plant and does not extend her hand for me to shake. She glares at my mother.
