Page 42 of The Sixth Fraction

I shift my weight to one hip. I think about crossing my arms, but it feels like too much, so I don’t. I keep my eyes steady on hers.

“Yeah, okay, not bad,” she says to the Mender. “We’ll keep an eye on her.”

Gretchen pats the Mender on the shoulder and disappears from the doorway.

“What was that about?” I ask him.

“Just a suggestion to one of our guilds.” He gives me a crooked smile.

“You suggested me?”

“Some people only look like where they came from, and some people don’t. When I see the ones who don’t, I tell someone. It’s not a big thing.” He drums his fingers on his arm. “Enough dawdling. It’s time to try some things on.”

The Mender sets up a private space for me to change, and I do. I pull on rigid denim pants from Erudite, sturdy brown ones that come from who-knows-where, tight black ones from Dauntless. All are designed to fit close to the leg, a novelty. Then shirts: white, black, green, purple, red. Collared and short-sleeved and sleeveless. The only gray thing I keep is the sweater I brought with me. I never imagined a life of such variety.

The Mender pins the clothes that need just a little alteration and nixes the ones that need more than a little. Then I wait there, in the workshop, while he fixes them. I watch his elegant hands cutting the fabric with the scissors in perfect lines, defining the shape of my body; I watch as he threads the machine without effort; I watch as he turns the garments inside-out and feeds them into the needle, his foot working the pedal below.

“If you enjoy it, I can teach you,” the Mender says, without looking at me.

“I’m sorry?”

“You’re watching very intently, I thought maybe you enjoyed this kind of work.”

I shake my head. “No, I—I already learned it in Abnegation.”

“Hence my offer.” He looks up at me. “I could use an apprentice who knows the basics. And one of the first things you’ll have to do here, except learn how to get on a train, is figure out how you’re going to contribute.”

I wonder if I could ask him what the Foxes do. I decide not to risk it.

“I don’t enjoy sewing,” I say to him. “It’s just that you’re very good at it. It’s . . . soothing.”

“And you’re homesick,” he supplies.

I nod.

“We came from Candor,” Mae reports.

She’s getting closer to the end of her book. It’s not one I recognize, but that’s not surprising. The factionless get all the books the other factions reject for not teaching the right lessons.

She swings her legs under the table. “I miss the food.”

“Really?” I try to imagine the Mender in black and white clothes, walking the grand stone hallways of the Merciless Mart. It’s impossible. This place is a riot of color.

“That’s all I miss, though. People were mean to me there. My mother, mostly.” Her eyes are still on the page. “And when I told people about it, they didn’t believe me, because she figured out how to trick the truth serum.”

I glance at the Mender.

“We’re not sure how,” he says. “And I wasn’t willing to stick around to find out.”

But I know exactly how the Mender’s mother “tricked” the truth serum. The same way I stopped the Memory Vault from erasing my memories. The same way I confounded the aptitude test. She’s Divergent.

Tori told me the Divergent destabilize things, and that seems clearer to me now. The systems that the factions have put in place to control or monitor behavior fail against the Divergent. How can Abnegation ensure that whatever information they don’t want to get out is secure if they can’t erase memories? How can the Candor resolve a dispute if they can’t determine with absolute certainty who’s telling the truth and who isn’t?

I realize the Mender is giving me a wary look, like he’s afraid of how I’ll react.

“Sounds like you have a good brother,” I say to Mae.

“Are you kidding?” Mae says. “He doesn’t let me do anything.”