I don't know how to talk to girls. Especially not a Dauntless girl. Something tells me you can never know what to expect from a Dauntless girl.
"Eric's in the hospital," she says, and there's a grin on her face. "They think you broke his nose. You definitely knocked out one of his teeth."
I look down. I knocked out someone's tooth?
"I was wondering if you could help me," she says, nudging my shoe with her toe.
As I suspected: Dauntless girls are unpredictable. "Help you with what?"
"Fighting. I'm no good at it. I keep getting humiliated in the arena." She shakes her head. "I have to face off with this girl in two days, her name's Ashley but she makes everyone call her Ash." Shauna rolls her eyes. "You know, Dauntless flames, ash, whatever. Anyway, she's one of the best people in our group, and I'm afraid she's going to kill me. Like actually kill me."
"Why do you want my help?" I say, suddenly suspicious. "Because you know I'm a Stiff and we're supposed to help people?"
"What? No, of course not," she says. Her eyebrows furrow in confusion. "I want your help because you're the best in your group, obviously."
I laugh. "No, I'm not."
"You and Eric were the only undefeated ones and you just beat him, so yeah, you are. Listen, if you don't want to help me, all you have to do is--"
"I'll help," I say. "I just don't really know how."
"We'll figure it out," she says. "Tomorrow afternoon? Meet you in the arena?"
I nod. She grins, gets up, and starts to leave. But a few steps away and she turns around, moving backward down the hallway.
"Quit sulking, Four," she says. "Everyone's impressed with you. Embrace it."
I watch her silhouette turn the corner at the end of the hallway. I was so disturbed by the fight that I never thought about what beating Eric meant--that I am now first in my initiate class. I may have chosen Dauntless as a haven, but I'm not just surviving here, I'm excelling.
I stare at Eric's blood on my knuckles and smile.
The next morning I decide to take a risk. I sit with Zeke and Shauna at breakfast. Shauna mostly just slumps over her food and answers questions in grunts. Zeke yawns into his coffee, but he points out his family to me: his little brother, Uriah, sits at one of the other tables with Lynn, Shauna's little sister. His mother, Hana--the tamest Dauntless I've ever seen, her faction indicated only by the color of her clothing--is still in the breakfast line.
"Do you miss living at home?" I say.
The Dauntless have a proclivity for baked goods, I've noticed. There are always at least two different kinds of cake at dinner, and a mountain of muffins rests on a table near the end of the breakfast line. When I got there, all the good flavors were gone, so I was left with bran.
"Not really," he says. "I mean, they're right there. Dauntless-born initiates aren't really supposed to talk to family until Visiting Day, but I know if I really needed something, they'd be there."
I nod. Beside him, Shauna's eyes close, and she falls asleep with her chin resting on her hand.
"What about you?" he says. "Do you miss home?"
I am about to answer no, but right at that moment Shauna's chin slips off her hand and she smashes her chocolate muffin with her face. Zeke laughs so hard he cries, and I can't help but grin as I finish my juice.
Later that morning I meet Shauna in the training room. She has her short hair pulled back from her face, and her Dauntless boots, normally untied and flapping when she walks, laced up tight. She's punching at nothing, pausing between each hit to adjust her position, and for a moment I watch her, not sure how to start. I only just learned to throw a punch myself; I'm hardly qualified to teach her anything.
But as I watch her, I start to notice things. How she stands with her knees locked, how she doesn't hold up a hand to protect her jaw, how she punches from her elbow instead of throwing her body weight behind each hit. She stops, wiping her forehead with the back of her hand. When she notices me, she jumps like she just touched a live wire.
"Rule number one for not being creepy," she says. "Announce your presence in a room if another person doesn't see you come in."
"Sorry," I say. "I was coming up with some pointers for you."
"Oh." She chews on the inside of her cheek. "What are they?"
I tell her what I noticed, and then we face off in the fighting arena. We begin slowly, pulling back on each hit so we don't hurt each other. I have to keep tapping her elbow with my fist to remind her to keep her hand up by her face, but a half hour later, she's at least moving better than she was before.
"This girl you have to fight tomorrow," I say. "I'd get her right here, in the jaw." I touch the underside of my jaw. "A good uppercut should do it. Let's practice those."
She squares off, and I notice with satisfaction that her knees are bent, and there's a bounce in her stance that wasn't there before. We shuffle around each other for a few seconds, and then she punches up. As she does, her left hand drops from her face. I block the first punch, then start to attack the hole she left in her guard. At the last second, I stop my fist in the air and raise my eyebrows at her.
"You know, maybe I would learn my lesson if you actually hit me," she says, straightening. Her skin is flushed from exertion, and sweat shines along her hairline. Her eyes are bright and critical. It occurs to me, for the first time, that she's pretty. Not in the way I usually think of--she's not soft, delicate--but in a way that's strong, capable.
I say, "I would really rather not."
"What you think is some kind of lingering Abnegation chivalry is really kind of insulting," she says. "I can take care of myself. I can take a little pain."
"It's not that," I say. "It's not because you're a girl. I just . . . I'm not really into violence for no reason."
"Some kind of Stiff thing, huh?" she says.
"Not really. Stiffs aren't into violence, period. Put a Stiff in Dauntless and they just let themselves get punched a lot," I say, letting myself smile a little. I'm not used to using Dauntless slang, but it feels good to claim it as my own, to let myself relax into their rhythms of speech. "It just doesn't feel like a game to me, that's all."
It's the first time I've expressed that to anyone. I know why it doesn't feel like a game--because for so long, it was my reality, it was my waking and my sleeping. Here, I've learned to defend myself, I've learned to be stronger, but one thing I haven't learned, won't let myself learn, is how to enjoy causing someone else pain. If I'm going to become Dauntless, I'm going to do it on my terms, even if that means that a part of me will always be a Stiff.
"All right," she says. "Let's go again."
We spar until she's mastered the uppercut and we've a
lmost missed dinner. When we leave, she thanks me, and casually, she wraps an arm around me. It's just a quick embrace, but she laughs at how tense it makes me.
"How to Be Dauntless: An Introductory Course," she says. "Lesson one: It's okay to hug your friends here."
"We're friends?" I say, only halfway joking.
"Oh, shut up," she says, and she jogs down the hallway toward the dormitory.
The next morning, all the transfer initiates follow Amar past the training room to a grim hallway with a heavy door at the end of it. He tells us to sit against the wall, and then disappears behind the door without saying anything. I check my watch. Shauna will be fighting any minute now--it's taking the Dauntless-borns longer to get through the first phase of initiation than us, since there are more of them.
Eric sits as far away from me as he can, and I am glad for the distance. The night after I fought him, it occurred to me that he might tell everyone that I'm Marcus Eaton's son just to spite me for beating him, but he hasn't done it. I wonder if he's just waiting for the right opportunity to strike, or if he's holding back for another reason. No matter what, it's probably better for me to stay away from him as much as possible.
"What do you think is in there?" Mia, the Amity transfer, sounds nervous.
No one answers. For some reason I don't feel nervous. There's nothing behind that door that can hurt me. So when Amar steps into the hallway again and calls my name first, I don't cast desperate looks at my fellow initiates. I just follow him in.
The room is dim and grungy, with just a chair and a computer in it. The chair is reclined, like the one I sat in for my aptitude test. The computer screen is bright and running a program that amounts to lines of dark text on a white background. When I was younger, I used to volunteer at the school in the computer labs, maintaining the facilities, and sometimes even fixing the computers themselves when they failed. I worked under the supervision of an Erudite woman named Katherine, and she taught me far more than she had to, happy to share her knowledge with someone who was willing to listen. So I know, looking at that code, what kind of program I'm looking at, though I would never be able to do much with it.
"A simulation?" I say.
"The less you know, the better," he says. "Sit down."