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
“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
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