a problem, but that doesn’t make me feel safe. What if I let my guard down and something terrible happens?
“Oh, come on. You don’t remember me?” Christina asks Al as she makes a sandwich. “We were in Math together just a few days ago. And I am not a quiet person.”
“I slept through Math most of the time,” Al replies. “It was first hour!”
What if the danger doesn’t come soon—what if it strikes years from now and I never see it coming?
“Tris,” says Christina. She snaps her fingers in front of my face. “You in there?”
“What? What is it?”
“I asked if you remember ever taking a class with me,” she says. “I mean, no offense, but I probably wouldn’t remember if you did. All the Abnegation looked the same to me. I mean, they still do, but now you’re not one of them.”
I stare at her. As if I need her to remind me.
“Sorry, am I being rude?” she asks. “I’m used to just saying whatever is on my mind. Mom used to say that politeness is deception in pretty packaging.”
“I think that’s why our factions don’t usually associate with each other,” I say, with a short laugh. Candor and Abnegation don’t hate each other the way Erudite and Abnegation do, but they avoid each other. Candor’s real problem is with Amity. Those who seek peace above all else, they say, will always deceive to keep the water calm.
“Can I sit here?” says Will, tapping the table with his finger.
“What, you don’t want to hang out with your Erudite buddies?” says Christina.
“They aren’t my buddies,” says Will, setting his plate down. “Just because we were in the same faction doesn’t mean we get along. Plus, Edward and Myra are dating, and I would rather not be the third wheel.”
Edward and Myra, the other Erudite transfers, sit two tables away, so close they bump elbows as they cut their food. Myra pauses to kiss Edward. I watch them carefully. I’ve only seen a few kisses in my life.
Edward turns his head and presses his lips to Myra’s. Air hisses between my teeth, and I look away. Part of me waits for them to be scolded. Another part wonders, with a touch of desperation, what it would feel like to have someone’s lips against mine.
“Do they have to be so public?” I say.
“She just kissed him.” Al frowns at me. When he frowns, his thick eyebrows touch his eyelashes. “It’s not like they’re stripping naked.”
“A kiss is not something you do in public.”
Al, Will, and Christina all give me the same knowing smile.
“What?” I say.
“Your Abnegation is showing,” says Christina. “The rest of us are all right with a little affection in public.”
“Oh.” I shrug. “Well…I guess I’ll have to get over it, then.”
“Or you can stay frigid,” says Will, his green eyes glinting with mischief. “You know. If you want.”
Christina throws a roll at him. He catches it and bites it.
“Don’t be mean to her,” she says. “Frigidity is in her nature. Sort of like being a know-it-all is in yours.”
“I am not frigid!” I exclaim.
“Don’t worry about it,” says Will. “It’s endearing. Look, you’re all red.”
The comment only makes my face hotter. Everyone else chuckles. I force a laugh and, after a few seconds, it comes naturally.
It feels good to laugh again.
After lunch, Four leads us to a new room. It’s huge, with a wood floor that is cracked and creaky and has a large circle painted in the middle. On the left wall is a green board—a chalkboard. My Lower Levels teacher used one, but I haven’t seen one since then. Maybe it has something to do with Dauntless priorities: training comes first, technology comes second.
Our names are written on the board in alphabetical order. Hanging at three-foot intervals along one end of the room are faded black punching bags.
We line up behind them and Four stands in the middle, where we can all see him.
“As I said this morning,” says Four, “next you will learn how to fight. The purpose of this is to prepare you to act; to prepare your body to respond to threats and challenges—which you will need, if you intend to survive life as a Dauntless.”
I can’t even think of life as a Dauntless. All I can think about is making it through initiation.
“We will go over technique today, and tomorrow you will start to fight each other,” says Four. “So I recommend that you pay attention. Those who don’t learn fast will get hurt.”
Four names a few different punches, demonstrating each one as he does, first against the air and then against the punching bag.
I catch on as we practice. Like with the gun, I need a few tries to figure out how to hold myself and how to move my body to make it look like his. The kicks are more difficult, though he only teaches us the basics. The punching bag stings my hands and feet, turning my skin red, and barely moves no matter how hard I hit it. All around me is the sound of skin hitting tough fabric.
Four wanders through the crowd of initiates, watching us as we go through the movements again. When he stops in front of me, my insides twist like someone’s stirring them with a fork. He stares at me, his eyes following my body from my head to my feet, not lingering anywhere—a practical, scientific gaze.
“You don’t have much muscle,” he says, “which means you’re better off using your knees and elbows. You can put more power behind them.”
Suddenly he presses a hand to my stomach. His fingers are so long that, though the heel of his hand touches one side of my rib cage, his fingertips still touch the other side. My heart pounds so hard my chest hurts, and I stare at him, wide-eyed.
“Never forget to keep tension here,” he says in a quiet voice.
Four lifts his hand and keeps walking. I feel the pressure of his palm even after he’s gone. It’s strange, but I have to stop and breathe for a few seconds before I can keep practicing again.
When Four dismisses us for dinner, Christina nudges me with her elbow.
“I’m surprised he didn’t break you in half,” she says. She wrinkles her nose. “He scares the hell out of me. It’s that quiet voice he uses.”
“Yeah. He’s…” I look over my shoulder at him. He is quiet, and remarkably self-possessed. But I wasn’t afraid that he would hurt me. “…definitely intimidating,” I finally say.
Al, who was in front of us, turns around once we reach the Pit and announces, “I want to get a tattoo.”
From behind us, Will asks, “A tattoo of what?”
“I don’t know.” Al laughs. “I just want to feel like I’ve actually left the old faction. Stop crying about it.” When we don’t respond, he adds, “I know you’ve heard me.”
“Yeah, learn to quiet down, will you?” Christina pokes Al’s thick arm. “I think you’re right. We’re half in, half out right now. If we want all the way in, we should look the part.”
She gives me a look.
“No. I will not cut my hair,” I say, “or dye it a strange color. Or pierce my face.”
“How about your bellybutton?” she says.
“Or your nipple?” Will says with a snort.
I groan.
Now that training is done for the day, we can