Page 94 of The Sixth Fraction

“Why didn’t it?”

I hesitate. I didn’t encounter any Divergent initiates last year, so I’ve never had to have this conversation before. My instinct is to warn him as fiercely as I can against revealing this to anyone, the way my father warned me. But I also know Al. I know he can’t keep a secret, and I know he can’t disguise his emotions from anyone. If I make him afraid of this, he’s more likely to give it away. And if he does that, we’re both screwed.

I can’t just delete this simulation from the records. I would draw attention to its absence, since I have all the initiates’ slots in the official schedule. I can only delete sessions that aren’t planned. So I just have to hope this simulation gets buried in the heap.

“It happens,” I say. “Next time, I want you to pretend that what you’re seeing makes perfect sense to you, no matter what it is. Don’t think about what would happen in reality—while you’re in the simulation, whatever you’re seeing is reality. Understand?”

He nods. “It’ll help with the simulation?”

“No, but it will ensure that your ranking doesn’t suffer.”

“Oh.” He pushes himself up and dusts off his jeans. “Okay.”

“Go ahead, you’re done for the day.”

Al gives me a small smile and makes his way for the door. I imagine him walking out of the room and talking to Will about what I told him, like it’s a piece of advice that applies to everyone, and I wince.

“And, Al?” I say. “I wouldn’t mention this to any of your fellow initiates. It could cause trouble for them. And for you.”

His brow furrows in confusion. But ever since I helped Christina, Will and Al seem to trust me. So he nods and then opens the door. I force my shoulders to relax, and walk out after him to see who’s next.

All the initiates who haven’t gone through their fear simulations yet are sitting along the edge of the room, staring at the cauldron with its synthetic flames. I look for Peter, as I always do, to make sure he’s staying put and not causing any trouble. His green eyes glint with firelight. He looks like a demon.

Closer to the door, Will hops to his feet. He’s smiling like he’s about to play a game instead of dig around in the darkest parts of his subconscious, his cheek dimpled and his hair flipping at the ends, boyish. I gesture for him to follow me, and he does. I close the door behind us.

“Did Al do okay?” he asks.

“Focus on yourself, not Al.” I cross the room to the bench set into the wall and sit.

“I heard you talking to him for a while. Just thought maybe something went wrong.”

He looks curious, but I’m sure it’s more than that. Al was just above the cut line; Will is probably wondering if he’s going to be down another friend by the time initiation is over.

“Al’s fine,” I say. “I just talked to him about what I saw. If I see something interesting in your brain, I’ll do the same with you. But I’m not counting on it.”

Will grins. My sharp comments have no effect on him. Never have. He always acts like I’m kidding. I wish I was kidding.

I lean my head back against the wall and cue the fear simulation. I’m betting Will is afraid of some kind of creature. Spiders, maybe. A lot of people are afraid of spiders.

Chapter 33

Tris

The morning I knocked on the door to the Fox meeting to present them with my banner, they all looked at me like they wanted to laugh. Then Gretchen, arms crossed, asked me if I had any special skills.

I fired a dart at a target. I hit the center.

It was probably just a formality. After Four and I saved Mae, the Mender’s recommendation carried more weight. To the Foxes, my loyalty was probably far more valuable than my good aim. But even though they let me in, they still haven’t exactly welcomed me—or anyone. It’s days later, and I’m still nervous to go to these meetings.

All my life, I’ve been too small and too plain and too Stiff to attract much attention. But here among the Foxes, surrounded by people who are experts at observation, I can’t seem to avoid notice. The hisses start when I’m two steps into the room—a gallery space next to the Museum’s grand lobby.

“Priss,” they say.

It’s my new nickname. Christina has one, too: Eye Patch. All the new Fox recruits have been subjected to mockery. Scarecrow, for Rory’s gangly limbs. Trip, for the boy who sometimes can’t get his words out. Sleepy, for the recruit who has nightmares. Foxes seem to have a knack for figuring out whatever bothers you the most and pressing right into it.

I search the faces of the established Foxes around me, as I do every morning, as if I can see which one of them might have shot Robert, might have stolen the gun that killed him, might be working with Evelyn to make ‘death to factions’ a reality. But you can’t see that kind of thing in a person’s face.

“I see a sliver of ankle, Priss, better cover up!” someone calls out.