XVI

The rest of my day was spent studying. Or at least, struggling in a futile attempt to study.

Eventually I gave up and just went to the library to get a new album of music. In Abnegation, music was uncommon outside of church worship; in Candor, music was an essential study tool. I was slowly making my way through some of the digital albums available for public use in the library. I was particularly fond of an old, old artist named “Pink Floyd”.

I checked out a pair of headphones and the digital chip for an album called Wish You Were Here, then sat in front of a fireplace in a corner. All around the library, initiates and law students alike studied. As I slipped on my headphones, I saw some of the Candor-born boys at a table not far away.

Sherlock was the first to notice me, but he ducked his head quickly and pretended to be reading. Brighton waved. I waved back. A few seconds later, a message popped up in my chat app.

B. Cole: heyy its brighton!!

P. Prior: Yes, I can see.

B. Cole: sherlock waned me to ask you if you want o come to a party tonigh .

B. Cole: oops wanted to *tonight

B. Cole: my t key is kinda sticky sorry :/

P. Prior: Haha, that’s alright, but no thank you! I have to study.

B. Cole: cmon tomorrow’s saturday! And we won’t be out THAT lae.

B. Cole: *late

P. Prior: I thought transfers weren’t allowed at your parties?

B. Cole: usually but not this one, aletheia won’t be there. she’s getting a mani pedi with katie.

P. Prior: Is there a dress code?

B. Cole: anything but pajamas haha

P. Prior: Haha, alright.

B. Cole: k meet you at 8 on the front seps!

B. Cole: *steps

He left the chat. When I looked up, he was teasing Sherlock about something that made Sherlock bury his head in his arms. At that, Brighton reached across the table to mess up Sherlock’s hair. Then he waved at me again.

Now I had plans, I guess.

After dinner, I returned to my room to change the bandage on my wound and apply more healing gel. The gel worked wonders—the cut had already begun to knit itself together, and the temporary stitches were magically dissolving into the new skin. I would be good as new in a couple more days, besides a permanent scar. I had been asked if I eventually wanted the scar removed, too. I hadn’t decided yet. It wasn’t like I wore a lot of clothes that showed the skin below my neck.

Then I hesitated. Why didn’t I wear clothes that went below my neck? I had begun to wear pants, ties, and the typical Candor black and white. But subconsciously I always chose clothes that covered me wrist to neck to ankle, like I had in Abnegation.

I dug deeper into my closet and pulled out a white dress. I often saw Candor women and girls in these kinds of dresses, ones with plunging necklines, pencil skirts, and pinched waists. Aletheia and Katie wore them all the time. I didn’t want to imitate them, but now I wanted to know how it would feel. They always acted so confident. Maybe dressing the part could help. I squeezed into the dress and struggled to zip up the back, unable to move my left arm at risk of hurting my cut. I eventually gave up and let it be so that I could look in the mirror.

Instantly, I did not like what I saw. It wasn’t because I didn’t like my body, or that I was ashamed of my own skin. I had done more than a respectable share of staring at my naked body after a shower, just because I had never seen it before. I liked my shape and I was becoming more comfortable with my freckles. But the dress did something else. The V-neck exposed my bandage, which was okay, but the bodice pushed my breasts up strangely to peek out of the V, which was not okay. The pencil skirt forced me to shorten my strides and stand a certain way. When I sat down, the skirt went up, exposing half my thigh. Everything about the dress, it seemed, was designed to make me look older, more sexual, more like an object. It was as attention-grabbing as if I went out dressed in neon yellow.

And though I was growing comfortable with a little attention, this would not do.

I ripped off the dress and hastily slipped back into my long pants. I almost put on my long-sleeved button-down, but I was still curious about a new style, so I reached for a white short-sleeved shirt. Tie, then a suit vest, then a newsboy cap. I wondered, for a split second, how Ace would like it—she did seem to favor a more masculine style. Then I shook my head because that thought was shallow. I wasn’t sure why I was thinking about Ace at all. This was my night.

I was careful to sneak past Oona’s room as I left. I was pretty sure Brighton only meant to invite me, and I didn’t want to burden the Candor-born by inviting every transfer I was friends with. So I slipped out alone.

When I reached the front steps of the Institute, everyone was already waiting—all of the Candor-born initiates minus Aletheia and Katie, plus a few law students that I had seen around. When they saw me, they all grinned and waved.

“Great! Phoebe’s here.” Brighton clapped his hands, jumping to his feet.

“Hi,” I said shyly, waving back. “Where are we going?”

“No clue,” Brighton shrugged.

We set off with the group down the street.

“It’s some sort of initiation ritual, I think,” Sherlock said. “Usually, it’s just for those with older siblings in the Institute. But they’re making an exception after what happened at Beauregard’s house.”

My stomach knotted at that name, but I managed to hide my grimace. “Oh. Gotta love a pity party.”

“Not a pity party,” said a sunny-haired 2L. “An olive branch. We tend to treat transfers like crap—unworthy until proven worthy, you know. But honestly, you made a lot of us reconsider it.”

I still wasn’t sure how to feel about the compliments. All I had to do was not die. “Oh...thanks?”

The 2L nodded, then offered her hand. “I’m Amalka, by the way. Brighton’s sis.”

I shook her hand as we walked, but I didn’t grip hard enough and I let go too quickly. I doubted I would ever improve my handshake. It still felt unnatural to grasp hands with strangers.

“I’m—” I started, then stopped. She had literally just said that she knew who I was. I was too used to people not knowing.

“Phoebe, yeah,” Amalka laughed. “Not to brag, though, but I knew you before the incident. Ace mentioned you.”

My eyes widened. “She what?”

I was less surprised that Ace was talking about me with law students and more surprised that she talked to the law students at all. Which said something about how little I knew about her, but still.

“What did she say?” I asked.

Amalka smirked. “She said you were a Stiff. And that you’re nosy.”

My cheeks warmed. “Fair,” I said, “but—she talks to you?”

“She was hired when I began my first year. I guess we would’ve been in the same initiate class, had we been in the same faction. She had this whole stone-cold badass act up, even though she had no idea how the Institute worked, so I helped her around. We smoke in the yard after her shift’s over.”

The gears in my head started churning, working through the math. So that was two years ago, minus a few months—not three, like I’d heard. Ace was eighteen. Less intimidating than nineteen. I frowned, because I wasn’t sure why I was concerned about that. But it seemed like a good thing to know.

As a group, we kept walking east, down to Michigan Avenue and away from the Candor central square. We began passing through the common district, an area of administrative buildings, restaurants, and retail shops that formed the core of the city. On a Friday evening, the streets were alive with people. I couldn’t help but keep my eyes open as we passed government buildings, trying to catch a glimpse of someone I knew—old neighbors, maybe even my parents.

But before we could travel too deep into the common district, our group stopped at a café. The sign read Antigone’s Ambrosia .

When I stepped inside, I was hit by the strangest blend of scents I had ever smelled. Coffee, cake—and alcohol. Somehow it worked. It was one of those quirky little places that I had always wanted to go inside but never had the time or the occasion to indulge in. There were rows of cases heaped with pastries and an entire glass freezer showing off tubs of ice cream in every color. The walls were decorated in a thousand shapes of liquor bottles. The clientele seemed like mostly Candor, though one generous lawyer was buying tea for his embarrassed Abnegation coworker. The sight was nice to see. Even though Candor and Abnegation argued, they could both agree on one thing—a drink after a long day at work was a gift that even an Abnegation couldn’t turn down.

Amalka stepped up to the front and asked, “Reservation for thirteen, party room?”

“Amalie Cole?” asked the barista.

“Yup.”

“Follow me, please.”

We followed the barista through a door to a quieter room, with pool tables and a circular booth large enough for all of us. Thankfully, I managed to get on the end between Sherlock and Amalka, who sat in a chair.

The barista handed out menus and took our orders. I was going to have water since the law students were paying, but Amalka noticed and made me pick something else. I ordered a nonalcoholic drink called “blood of the golden ram”, which was almond milk with a bunch of spices and gold cake sprinkles. It came in a white mug and was so beautiful I didn’t want to drink it, but when I did sip, I didn’t want to stop.

About a half hour later, after a pleasant chat with the law students about classes, the barista came around with a new, curious tray—thirteen tiny glasses and a huge clear bottle. The law students all grinned as they passed out the glasses.

“What’s this?” I asked.

“Shot glass,” said Amalka. “We’re playing a classic Candor game called Never Have I Ever .”

One of the 3Ls stood up and clinked his spoon against his glass. The murmuring died down and we all looked to him. “Amalka is right,” he grinned. “For those of you who have never played, Never Have I Ever is a game about the truth. Think of it as a practice test for the Full Unveiling. Here’s how it works: we take turns counterclockwise. I say, ‘Never have I ever…’ and say something that I’ve never done. If you have done it, you take a shot. Clear?”

“Crystal,” said a few initiates.

“That’s alcohol?” I whispered to Amalka, suddenly nervous.

“Phoebe’s never drank alcohol before,” said Amalka loudly.

“Well, then you better keep your fingers crossed,” said the girl filling up our glasses. When I got my glass, I tentatively sniffed it. The crystalline clear liquid had a thick, pungent smell, like burnt apples. But it was also very enticing.

“Let’s begin,” said Amalka, raising her shot glass. “May the truth set you free.”

It turned out that I didn’t need luck to avoid taking a shot. We started with Amalka, so I’d be last. Her turn was: “Never have I ever gone to class hungover.”

Many of the law students took a shot. So did a few initiates.

“Thank you for your candor,” said Amalka, grinning.

I realized this might be a long night.

“Never have I ever smoked in the bathroom.” A lot of people took a shot. “Never have I ever had a one-night stand.” A few people took a shot. “Never have I ever skipped class without a legit reason.” Not surprisingly, everyone took a shot. After every person’s turn, they might tease other members of the table or ask about a particular thing, and always ended by saying, “Thank you for your candor.”

The whole time, I just stared at my forlorn, untouched shot glass. By the time it was Sherlock’s turn, about half the table looked a little sick, but otherwise eager for more dares. I also caught some glances towards me. I was the only one who hadn’t taken a shot yet.

“Never have I ever,” Sherlock hesitated, “kissed someone.”

Everyone groaned and took a shot. Except, of course, me. Sherlock mumbled an awkward “thank you for your candor” before averting his eyes.

Now everyone was really looking. “Um,” I said. “Never have I ever...had alcohol.”

A few people immediately drank their shots, but others looked at me with something that I could only assume was pity before following along.

But Amalka wasn’t having it. “That’s it,” she said, taking her shot. “Normally, we finish after going once ‘round the circle. We’re doing one extra turn. Never have I ever—solved a case that the pros couldn’t solve.”

The eyes were back on me. Tentatively, I brought the glass to my lips. Then, like taking medicine, I tipped it down my throat.

It burned. But in the cheering from the group and the grin that rose to my face, I barely noticed.

+ + +

Afterwards, we played pool and cards and drank a lot of water. Water would help prevent hangovers. I was told I wouldn’t have a hangover after a single shot, but I just wanted to make sure. I felt sleepy and slower than I normally did, which both frightened and soothed me. I didn’t want to be like the 1L boy who stumbled out the door and faceplanted on the sidewalk.

After a while, the party began to die down. The pool games became less riotous and more focused. Some people slipped out and presumably went home; some of the initiates and the law students sat in the booth and had intense philosophical debates over mugs of water and ice cream. I noticed Sherlock standing by an unmarked door for a while before glancing around the room and ducking through it. He didn’t return for a while.

Curious, I followed. I stepped out into the cool night air, overlooking a dark alley. Sherlock sat there at the top of the wooden stairs, nursing an herbal tea.

“Hey,” I said.

He looked up. “Oh. Hey, Phoebe.”

“Can I sit?”

“Sure.”

He scooted over on the stairs and I sat. We stared out at the city alley, at the cracked pavement and puddles from last night’s rain showers.

“So that’s a Candor party,” I exhaled.

Sherlock nodded.

“Somehow, more alcohol than I was expecting,” I added.

“We think of it as a more fun form of truth serum,” he said.

“Fair.”

He finished his tea. His leg bounced, like it always seemed to do, and he folded his hands.

“I know I shouldn’t be nervous for the Full Unveiling,” he admitted, “but getting closer to it, it’s harder than I thought it would be.”

I had tried not to think about it. Thankfully, I’d been sort of distracted in the past few days, what with how I had almost died. But my stomach curled into a dense knot at the mention of it. The test that might reveal to the whole faction that I was Divergent. Whatever that meant.

“Are you nervous?” asked Sherlock.

“‘Course not,” I replied.

His brow furrowed. “That was a lie.”

He’d caught it, quick as a whip. “I have the most boring life,” I told him. “I thought that was obvious.”

“Is that what you’re nervous about?”

Now I hesitated. Was I? I thought I was nervous about the Divergent thing. But maybe Sherlock had a point. I was utterly paralyzed of not belonging. Every single shot tonight had just reinforced that I didn’t and never would.

“Maybe,” I said.

“I mean,” said Sherlock, rubbing the back of his neck, “it’s okay if you don’t do every single thing that all of them do. I’ve only done a couple. And I grew up here.”

“Sure,” I shrugged.

He could tell that I wasn’t satisfied with that. He picked up his teacup, looked in as if he expected it to have magically refilled, then set it back down.

“Listen, Phoebe...I…uh…”

“Yeah?”

“I have something to get off my chest.”

“What?”

“I—” His eyes darted wildly, and he shifted, and he folded his arms in front of him. “This might be one of the hardest truths I’ve ever told.”

“Trust me.” I thought back to my multiple trespassing violations. “It cannot be that bad.”

“Okay.” He inhaled. “When I said that never have I ever kissed anyone, it was partly to see how you would respond. I wasn’t sure how to ask you a few days ago, on the park lawn. I didn’t think you had. But I wanted to know. After what happened in the attic, after, after almost seeing you die, I became terrified. I realized that I might have never been able to ask again. I know it sounds selfish—me asking a question, you almost dying, those two things are wildly incomparable. But I talked it through with my therapist after the fact and he said I need to be honest with you. Not that I didn’t already want to. But I think it’s time now. Life’s too short to wait.”

I was speechless.

I literally didn’t know what to think. I normally didn’t like letting myself jump to conclusions. But just like in Beauregard’s house, there I went—one clue, two clues, conclusion. Sherlock wanted me at this party. He wanted to know about my romantic status.

“You like me?” I said softly.

He gave an awkward half-smile and a small “heh.” Which was a pretty thorough answer.

I looked at my shoes. “Oh,” I said. “That would be a first.”

“Someone liking you would be a first?” said Sherlock, confused. “What are you talking about? You’re—” His eyes darted and his face began flushing pink. “—You’re so pretty. Even when I saw you in the halls at school, wearing the scarf.”

“No way.”

“I’m not lying. Look at me and tell me I’m lying.”

He turned and finally met my eyes. The evasion from before had been nerves, it seemed, because he was being honest now, honest as I could tell.

“You’re not lying,” I said slowly.

He nodded.

I shifted my hands to my lap. I had often dreamed about the moment when I would get this sort of information. Now that I had it, I wasn’t sure what to do with it.

“So,” Sherlock coughed, “I just wanted to let you know. That if you haven’t kissed anyone—well—it’s okay. Because I haven’t either.”

“Oh, okay,” I said.

A silence passed between us. He coughed again.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

“Huh?”

“I think I have a lozenge in my pocket, you can have it—”

He placed his hand on my bare arm, and I was too stunned to jerk away.

“I’m not sick,” he said. “I mean, I want to kiss you now.”

Oh.

Now I really, really wasn’t sure what to do with the information. I felt like I was holding the hot potato in that game we played as kids, and I saw the adult reaching over to turn the music off—I wanted to toss the potato anywhere but my lap, but didn’t want to be known as the polite Abnegation girl who smacked an unsuspecting child in the face with a bean bag. I didn’t want to kiss Sherlock. I had thought about it, then had come to the conclusion that I didn’t like him that much or in that way. I wished I could tell him that my parents rarely held hands even in our own home. I had trained myself to avoid all displays of affection because they raised me to take them seriously.

But Sherlock was also very nice and very polite—even for a Candor-born. He looked at me like a puppy, soft and unassuming.

“Okay,” I said.

I wasn’t really sure what to do. Thankfully, Sherlock seemed to have some idea. He moved his hand to cover mine and I only flinched once before letting him hold it. Then he closed his eyes and leaned towards me. Our lips met in a strange sort of squish. I almost pulled back too soon.

So instead, I focused on trying to make the kiss better, doing all of the things I had seen people do, like tilt my head and close my eyes and squeeze his hand. It just ended up making things weird.

He pulled back and let go of my hand. I tried to subtly wipe my lips, but he saw it.

“I’m sorry,” he said hurriedly.

“It’s fine, I’m fine,” I replied.

“That’s a lie. I’m really sorry, I won’t do it again. Unless—unless you want to. But if not—it’s not my business to tell you to kiss me.”

He meant it. He wouldn’t meet my eyes anymore, but I could tell.

“Thank you for your candor,” I said.

+ + +

Sherlock and I walked back to the Institute together, our hands in our pockets.

We talked some. About the Beauregard case. About us. He wanted a relationship. I didn’t, but I also felt bad. He told me not to feel guilty. He said I was going through a lot; he could understand if I didn’t want to worry about a relationship while still recovering from shock and a wound. I wondered aloud if it was my upbringing that was making me so hesitant about a relationship, and he admitted that he didn’t know. I suggested that he could try asking out another girl. Maybe Oona. Leanne seemed to like him, too.

It was past midnight by the time we arrived back. To my surprise, Ace was sitting at the front desk—the night guard. I knew there was a night guard. I didn’t think it would be Ace.

“Keys and ID?” she said.

We handed them over and she checked. She raised her eyebrows when her cool dark gaze landed on me.

“Have either of you been drinking?” Ace asked.

My instinct, ashamedly, was to lie. But then Sherlock said, “Yep. Both of us.”

Ace smirked. “Nice.” She didn’t even mark it down. I guess she just wanted to know.

She locked gazes with me again. I was first to break it. The last time we had spoken, it was the conversation with Miriam about Lady Rose. It still lingered bitter on the tongue.

Then Ace said, “You going out with the Candor kids now, Stiff?”

My heart lightened a little. I had begun to really hate it when other people called me that, except for Ace. Somehow, it reassured me that everything was okay with us, that we could go back to normal. Whatever “normal” was between us, at least.

“Abnegation kids generally don’t do vodka shots,” I said.

Ace laughed. She had a nice laugh, I noticed. The sarcastic ones were harsh and barking, but this one had music, a unique timbre that I had never heard before.

“Oh, that’s rich,” she said.

She handed us back our keys and ID cards. As she did, my fingertips brushed hers. There was a strange shiver. I met her eyes.

A flurry of emotions flickered between us. I saw on her face a deep melancholy, a thousand words unsaid. I let my eyes pass over her quirked nose, her full lips and strong jaw, her scruffy black hair that looked feather soft. The kindness in her deep amber eyes. Things might almost be back to normal.

But I knew that nothing would ever be the same. Our conversation, begun with Miriam in my room, wasn’t over. It had simply taken a recess. In the locking of gazes I saw a challenge, a puzzle, a suffering, a conflict, and a mystery. The water would boil over soon.

For now I understood something clear as day—I could not be in love with Sherlock. I was already in love with Ace.