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They scramble for knives like factionless kids over a spare piece of bread, too desperate. All except her, with her deliberate movements, her blond head slipping between the shoulders of taller initiates. She doesn’t try to look comfortable with the blades balancing on her palms, and that is what I like about her, that she knows these weapons are unnatural yet she finds a way to wield them.
I have to admit that Christina is good—though I don’t like giving credit to Candor smart-mouths—and so is Peter—though I don’t like giving credit to future psychopaths.
I try to act casual, scratching my eyebrow with a knife point, but I don’t feel casual. I feel like someone is pressing me into a mold that does not fit my body, forcing me into the wrong shape.
She tips her chin up and looks at me with that Abnegation stubbornness I know so well. She may have left them, but they are what’s making her strong.
She is small but strong, and her bright eyes demand attention. Looking at her is like waking up.
I don’t really need her eyes to be on mine, but I feel better when they are.
Of course she thinks I’m like Eric. I just threw knives at her head. I screwed it all up. Permanently.
Before she got here everything had stalled inside me, and every morning I was just moving toward nighttime. I’d thought about leaving—I’d decided to leave, to be factionless, after this class of initiates was done. But then she was here and she was just like me, putting aside her gray clothes but not really putting them aside, never really putting them aside because she knows the secret, that they are the strongest armor we can wear.
Eric’s eye is on her like it was on Amar last year, right before he turned up dead on the pavement near the railroad tracks. All the Divergent end up dead except me, because of my fluke aptitude test result, and if Eric is watching her, she’s probably one, too.
I can’t leave now. I like her too much. There, I said it. But I won’t say it again.
