Divergent Candor or Dauntless

| c h a p t e r 12 |

The next morning, when I trudge into the training room, yawning, a large target stands at one end of the room, and next to the door is a table with knives strewn across it.

Eric stands in the middle of the room, his posture so rigid it looks like someone replaced his spine with a metal rod. The sight of him makes me feel like all the air in the room is heavier, bearing down on me. At least when he was slouched against a wall, I could pretend he wasn't here. Today I can't pretend.

Four stands to the side, his arms crossed and his eyes surveying me. I wish I could read his thoughts. To know if he made a mistake in liking me. To know if he really meant everything. His eyebrows furrow, and I don't know what he's thinking, but already my stomach is feeling queasy.

How could I ever be so stupid? It was just a kiss, it didn't mean anything. He's just my instructor.

"Tomorrow will be the last day of stage one," Eric says. "You will resume fighting then. Today, you'll be learning how to aim. Everyone pick up three knives." His voice is deeper than usual, which I take as a bad sign. He's mad at someone or something, and I don't like it.

"And pay attention while Four demonstrates the correct technique for throwing them." At first no one moves.

"Now!" We scramble for daggers. They aren't as heavy as guns, but they still feel strange in my hands, like I am not allowed to hold them.

"He's in a bad mood today," mumbles Christina.

"Is he ever in a good mood?" I murmur back. But I know what she means. I glance over at Four, who hasn't looked at me since I walked in.

Judging by the poisonous look Eric gives Four when he isn't paying attention, last night's loss must have bothered Eric more than he let on. Winning capture the flag is a matter of pride, and pride is important to the Dauntless. More important than reason or sense.

I watch Four's arm as he throws a knife. He stands tall and straight, his posture calm yet rigid. He's built for Dauntless. The knife lands on the bulls-eye. The next time he throws, I watch his stance closer. His feet are shoulder width apart, and when he throws, he puts his body into it. His arm follows through and he exhales each time he releases the knife. He hits the target each time.

Eric orders, "Line up!"

Haste, I think, will not help. My mother told me that when I was learning how to knit. I have to think of this as a mental exercise, not a physical exercise.

So I spend the first few minutes practicing without a knife, finding the right stance, learning the right arm motion, but almost everything that is on my mind right now is Four.

Eric paces behind us, like a predator that is stalking it's prey, always strategizing it's next move. I feel his presence in my gut, and it's not comfortable.

"I think the Stiff's taken too many hits to the head!" remarks Peter, a few people down. "Hey, Stiff! Remember what a knife is?"

Ignoring him, I practice the throw again with a knife in hand but don't release it. I shut out Eric's pacing, Peter's jeering, last night, and the nagging feeling that Four is staring at me. I throw the knife, exhaling as I do so, remembering Four's strategy. It spins end over end, slamming into the board. The blade sticks, and I'm the first person to hit the target.

I smirk as Peter misses again. I can't help myself.

"Hey, Peter," I say. "Remember what a target is?"

Next to me, Christina snorts, and her next knife hits the target. A half hour later, Al is the only initiate who hasn't hit the target yet. His knives clatter to the floor, or bounce off the wall. While the rest of us approach the board to collect our weapons, he hunts the floor for his.