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 is his 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