my eye, I see a clear path to the door. If I can duck under Peter’s arm and sprint toward it, I might be able to make it.
“Look at her,” says Molly, crossing her arms. She smirks at me. “She’s practically a child.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” says Drew. “She could be hiding something under that towel. Why don’t we look and see?”
Now. I duck under Peter’s arm and dart toward the door. Something pinches and pulls at my towel as I walk away and then yanks sharply—Peter’s hand, gathering the fabric into his fist. The towel slips from my hand and the air is cold on my naked body, making the hair on the back of my neck stand on end.
Laughter erupts, and I run as fast as I can toward the door, holding the dress against my body to hide it. I sprint down the hallway and into the bathroom and lean against the door, breathing hard. I close my eyes.
It doesn’t matter. I don’t care.
A sob bursts from my mouth, and I slap my hand over my lips to contain it. It doesn’t matter what they saw. I shake my head like the motion is supposed to make it true.
With shaking hands, I get dressed. The dress is plain black, with a V-neck that shows the tattoos on my collarbone, and goes down to my knees.
Once I’m dressed and the urge to cry is gone, I feel something hot and violent writhing in my stomach. I want to hurt them.
I stare at my eyes in the mirror. I want to, so I will.
I can’t fight in a dress, so I get myself some new clothes from the Pit before I walk to the training room for my last fight. I hope it’s with Peter.
“Hey, where were you this morning?” Christina asks when I walk in. I squint to see the blackboard across the room. The space next to my name is blank—I haven’t gotten an opponent yet.
“I got held up,” I say.
Four stands in front of the board and writes a name next to mine. Please let it be Peter, please, please….
“You okay, Tris? You look a little…,” says Al.
“A little what?”
Four moves away from the board. The name written next to mine is Molly. Not Peter, but good enough.
“On edge,” says Al.
My fight is last on the list, which means I have to wait through three matches before I face her. Edward and Peter fight second to last—good. Edward is the only one who can beat Peter. Christina will fight Al, which means that Al will lose quickly, like he’s been doing all week.
“Go easy on me, okay?” Al asks Christina.
“I make no promises,” she replies.
The first pair—Will and Myra—stand across from each other in the arena. For a second they both shuffle back and forth, one jerking an arm forward and then retracting it, the other kicking and missing. Across the room, Four leans against the wall and yawns.
I stare at the board and try to predict the outcome of each match. It doesn’t take long. Then I bite my fingernails and think about Molly. Christina lost to her, which means she’s good. She has a powerful punch, but she doesn’t move her feet. If she can’t hit me, she can’t hurt me.
As expected, the next fight between Christina and Al is quick and painless. Al falls after a few hard hits to the face and doesn’t get back up, which makes Eric shake his head.
Edward and Peter take longer. Though they are the two best fighters, the disparity between them is noticeable. Edward’s fist slams into Peter’s jaw, and I remember what Will said about him—that he has been studying combat since he was ten. It’s obvious. He is faster and smarter than even Peter.
By the time the three matches are done, my nails are bitten to the beds and I’m hungry for lunch. I walk to the arena without looking at anyone or anything but the center of the room. Some of my anger has faded, but it isn’t hard to call back. All I have to do is think about how cold the air was and how loud the laughter was. Look at her. She’s a child.
Molly stands across from me.
“Was that a birthmark I saw on your left butt cheek?” she says, smirking. “God, you’re pale, Stiff.”
She’ll make the first move. She always does.
Molly starts toward me and throws her weight into a punch. As her body shifts forward, I duck and drive my fist into her stomach, right over her bellybutton. Before she can get her hands on me, I slip past her, my hands up, ready for her next attempt.
She’s not smirking anymore. She runs at me like she’s about to tackle me, and I dart out of the way. I hear Four’s voice in my head, telling me that the most powerful weapon at my disposal is my elbow. I just have to find a way to use it.
I block her next punch with my forearm. The blow stings, but I barely notice it. She grits her teeth and lets out a frustrated groan, more animal-sounding than human. She tries a sloppy kick at my side, which I dodge, and while her balance is off, I rush forward and force my elbow up at her face. She pulls her head back just in time, and my elbow grazes her chin.
She punches me in the ribs and I stumble to the side, recovering my breath. There’s something she’s not protecting, I know it. I want to hit her face, but maybe that’s not a smart move. I watch her for a few seconds. Her hands are too high; they guard her nose and cheeks, leaving her stomach and ribs exposed. Molly and I have the same flaw in combat.
Our eyes meet for just a second.
I aim an uppercut low, below her bellybutton. My fist sinks into her flesh, forcing a heavy breath from her mouth that I feel against my ear. As she gasps, I sweep-kick her legs out from under her, and she falls hard on the ground, sending dust into the air. I pull my foot back and kick as hard as I can at her ribs.
My mother and father would not approve of my kicking someone when she’s down.
I don’t care.
She curls into a ball to protect her side, and I kick again, this time hitting her in the stomach. Like a child. I kick again, this time hitting her in the face. Blood springs from her nose and spreads over her face. Look at her. Another kick hits her in the chest.
I pull my foot back again, but Four’s hands clamp around my arms, and he pulls me away from her with irresistible force. I breathe through gritted teeth, staring at Molly’s blood-covered face, the color deep and rich and beautiful, in a way.
She groans, and I hear a gurgling in her throat, watch blood trickle from her lips.
“You won,” Four mutters. “Stop.”
I wipe the sweat from my forehead. He stares at me. His eyes are too wide; they look alarmed.
“I think you should leave,” he says. “Take a walk.”
“I’m fine,” I say. “I’m fine now,” I say again, this time for myself.
I wish I could say I felt guilty for what I did.
I
