Divergent Trilogy. Вероника Рот

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СКАЧАТЬ him? Al’s already dead. He can’t hear it and it’s too late.”

      “It’s not about Al,” I snap. “It’s about everyone watching! Everyone who now sees hurling themselves into the chasm as a viable option. I mean, why not do it if everyone calls you a hero afterward? Why not do it if everyone will remember your name? It’s…I can’t…”

      I shake my head. My face burns and my heart pounds, and I try to keep myself under control, but I can’t.

      “This would never have happened in Abnegation!” I almost shout. “None of it! Never. This place warped him and ruined him, and I don’t care if saying that makes me a Stiff, I don’t care, I don’t care!”

      Four’s eyes shift to the wall above the drinking fountain.

      “Careful, Tris,” he says, his eyes still on the wall.

      “Is that all you can say?” I demand, scowling at him. “That I should be careful? That’s it?”

      “You’re as bad as the Candor, you know that?” He grabs my arm and drags me away from the drinking fountain. His hand hurts my arm, but I’m not strong enough to pull away.

      His face is so close to mine that I can see a few freckles spotting his nose. “I’m not going to say this again, so listen carefully.” He sets his hands on my shoulders, his fingers pressing, squeezing. I feel small. “They are watching you. You, in particular.”

      “Let go of me,” I say weakly.

      His fingers spring apart, and he straightens. Some of the weight on my chest lifts now that he isn’t touching me. I fear his shifting moods. They show me something unstable inside of him, and instability is dangerous.

      “Are they watching you, too?” I say, so quietly he wouldn’t be able to hear me if he wasn’t standing so close.

      He doesn’t answer my question. “I keep trying to help you,” he says, “but you refuse to be helped.”

      “Oh, right. Your help,” I say. “Stabbing my ear with a knife and taunting me and yelling at me more than you yell at anyone else, it sure is helpful.”

      “Taunting you? You mean when I threw the knives? I wasn’t taunting you,” he snaps. “I was reminding you that if you failed, someone else would have to take your place.”

      I cup the back of my neck with my hand and think back to the knife incident. Every time he spoke, it was to remind me that if I gave up, Al would have to take my place in front of the target.

      “Why?” I say.

      “Because you’re from Abnegation,” he says, “and it’s when you’re acting selflessly that you are at your bravest.”

      I understand now. He wasn’t persuading me to give up. He was reminding me why I couldn’t—because I needed to protect Al. The thought makes me ache now. Protect Al. My friend. My attacker.

      I can’t hate Al as much as I want to.

      I can’t forgive him either.

      “If I were you, I would do a better job of pretending that selfless impulse is going away,” he says, “because if the wrong people discover it…well, it won’t be good for you.”

      “Why? Why do they care about my intentions?”

      “Intentions are the only thing they care about. They try to make you think they care about what you do, but they don’t. They don’t want you to act a certain way. They want you to think a certain way. So you’re easy to understand. So you won’t pose a threat to them.” He presses a hand to the wall next to my head and leans into it. His shirt is just tight enough that I can see his collarbone and the faint depression between his shoulder muscle and his bicep.

      I wish I was taller. If I was tall, my narrow build would be described as “willowy” instead of “childish,” and he might not see me as a little sister he needs to protect.

      I don’t want him to see me as his sister.

      “I don’t understand,” I say, “why they care what I think, as long as I’m acting how they want me to.”

      “You’re acting how they want you to now,” he says, “but what happens when your Abnegation-wired brain tells you to do something else, something they don’t want?”

      I don’t have an answer to that, and I don’t even know if he’s right about me. Am I wired like the Abnegation, or the Dauntless?

      Maybe the answer is neither. Maybe I am wired like the Divergent.

      “I might not need you to help me. Ever think about that?” I say. “I’m not weak, you know. I can do this on my own.”

      He shakes his head. “You think my first instinct is to protect you. Because you’re small, or a girl, or a Stiff. But you’re wrong.”

      He leans his face close to mine and wraps his fingers around my chin. His hand smells like metal. When was the last time he held a gun, or a knife? My skin tingles at the point of contact, like he’s transmitting electricity through his skin.

      “My first instinct is to push you until you break, just to see how hard I have to press,” he says, his fingers squeezing at the word “break.” My body tenses at the edge in his voice, so I am coiled as tight as a spring, and I forget to breathe.

      His dark eyes lifting to mine, he adds, “But I resist it.”

      “Why…” I swallow hard. “Why is that your first instinct?”

      “Fear doesn’t shut you down; it wakes you up. I’ve seen it. It’s fascinating.” He releases me but doesn’t pull away, his hand grazing my jaw, my neck. “Sometimes I just…want to see it again. Want to see you awake.”

      I set my hands on his waist. I can’t remember deciding to do that. But I also can’t move away. I pull myself against his chest, wrapping my arms around him. My fingers skim the muscles of his back.

      After a moment he touches the small of my back, pressing me closer, and smoothes his other hand over my hair. I feel small again, but this time, it doesn’t scare me. I squeeze my eyes shut. He doesn’t scare me anymore.

      “Should I be crying?” I ask, my voice muffled by his shirt. “Is there something wrong with me?”

      The simulations drove a crack through Al so wide he could not mend it. Why not me? Why am I not like him—and why does that thought make me feel so uneasy, like I’m teetering on a ledge myself?

      “You think I know anything about tears?” he says quietly.

      I close my eyes. I don’t expect Four to reassure me, and he makes no effort to, but I feel better standing here than I did out there among the people who are my friends, my faction. I press my forehead to his shoulder.

      “If I had forgiven him,” I say, “do you think he would be alive now?”

      “I don’t know,” he replies. He presses his hand to my cheek, and I turn my face into it, keeping my eyes closed.

      “I СКАЧАТЬ