I’M NOT SURE I remember what made me laugh, but
Zeke said it, and it was hilarious. Around me, the Pit sways like I’m standing
on a swing. I hold the railing to steady myself and tip the rest of whatever it
is I’m drinking down my throat.
Abnegation
attack? What Abnegation attack? I hardly remember.
Well,
that’s actually a lie, but it’s never too late to get comfortable with lying to
yourself.
I see a
blond head bobbing in the crowd and follow it down to Tris’s face. For once,
she’s not wearing multiple layers of clothing, and her shirt collar isn’t pressed
right up against the bottom of her throat. I can see her shape—Stop it, a voice in my head scolds me,
before the thought can go any further.
“Tris!” The
word is out of my mouth, no stopping it, don’t even care to try. I walk toward
her, ignoring the stares of Will, Al, and Christina. It’s easy to do—her eyes
seem brighter, more piercing than before.
“You look .
. . different,” I say. I mean to say “older,” but I don’t want to suggest that
she looked young before. She may not bend in all the places that older women
do, but no one could look at her face and see a child. No child has that
ferocity.
“So do
you,” she says. “What are you doing?”
Drinking, I think, but she’s probably
noticed that.
“Flirting
with death,” I say, laughing. “Drinking near the chasm. Probably not a good
idea.”
“No, it
isn’t.” She’s not laughing. She looks wary. Wary of what, of me?
“Didn’t
know you had a tattoo,” I say, scanning her collarbone. There are three black
birds there—simple, but they almost look like they’re flying across her skin.
“Right. The crows.”
I want to
ask her why she would get one of her worst fears tattooed on her body, why she
would want to wear the mark of her fear forever instead of burying it, ashamed.
Maybe she’s not ashamed of her fears the way I’m ashamed of mine.
I look back
at Zeke and Shauna, who are standing with shoulders touching at the railing.
“I’d ask
you to hang out with us,” I say, “but you’re not supposed to see me this way.”
“What way?”
she says. “Drunk?”
“Yeah . . .
well, no.” Suddenly it doesn’t seem that funny to me. “Real, I guess.”
“I’ll
pretend I didn’t.”
“Nice of
you.” I lean in, closer than I mean to, and I can smell her hair, feel the
cool, smooth, delicate skin of her cheek against mine. I would be embarrassed
that I’m acting so foolish, so forward, if she had, even for a second, pulled
away. But she doesn’t—if anything, she moves a little closer. “You look good,
Tris,” I say, because I’m not sure she knows it, and she should.
This time
she laughs.
“Do me a
favor and stay away from the chasm, okay?”
“Of
course.”
She smiles.
And I wonder, for the first time, if she likes me. If she can still grin at me
when I’m like this . . . well, she might.
One thing I
know: For helping me forget how awful the world is, I prefer her to alcohol.
