The Transfer: A Divergent Story Read Free Page A

the bed with the objects strewn on the mattress around me. His footsteps are slowing down as he comes closer to the door, and Ipick up the spark plugs and motherboard pieces and wires and throw them back into the trunk and lock it, stowing the key in my pocket. I realize at the last second, as the doorknob starts to move, that the sculpture is still out, so I shove it under the pillow and slide the trunk under the bed.
    Then I dive toward the chair and pull it from under the knob so my father can enter.
    When he does, he eyes the chair in my hands with suspicion.
    “What was that doing over here?” he says. “Are you trying to keep me out?”
    “No, sir.”
    “That’s the second time you’ve lied to me today,” Marcus says. “I didn’t raise my son to be a liar.”
    “I—” I can’t think of a single thing to say, so I just close my mouth and carry the chair back to my desk where it belongs, right behind the perfect stack of schoolbooks.
    “What were you doing in here that you didn’t want me to see?”
    I clutch the back of the chair, hard, and stare at my books.
    “Nothing,” I say quietly.
    “That’s three lies,” he says, and his voice is low buthard as flint. He starts toward me, and I back up instinctively. But instead of reaching for me, he bends down and pulls the trunk from beneath the bed, then tries the lid. It doesn’t budge.
    Fear slides into my gut like a blade. I pinch the hem of my shirt, but I can’t feel my fingertips.
    “Your mother claimed this was for blankets,” he says. “Said you got cold at night. But what I’ve always wondered is, if it still has blankets in it, why do you keep it locked?”
    He holds out his hand, palm up, and raises his eyebrows at me. I know what he wants—the key. And I have to give it to him, because he can see when I’m lying; he can see everything about me. I reach into my pocket, then drop the key in his hand. Now I can’t feel my palms, and the breathing is starting, the shallow breathing that always comes when I know he’s about to explode.
    I close my eyes as he opens the trunk.
    “What is this?” His hand moves through the treasured objects carelessly, scattering them to the left and right. He takes them out one by one and thrusts them toward me. “What do you need with this , or this . . . !”
    I flinch, over and over again, and don’t have an answer. I don’t need them. I don’t need any of them.
    “This is rank with self-indulgence!” he shouts, and he shoves the trunk off the edge of the bed so its contents scatter all over the floor. “It poisons this house with selfishness!”
    I can’t feel my face, either.
    His hands collide with my chest. I stumble back and hit the dresser. Then he draws his hand back by his face to hit me, and I say, my throat tight with fear, “The Choosing Ceremony, Dad!”
    He pauses with his hand raised, and I cower , shrinking back against the dresser, my eyes too blurry to see out of. He usually tries not to bruise my face, especially for days like tomorrow, when so many people will be staring at me, watching me choose.
    He lowers his hand, and for a second I think the violence is over, the anger stalled. But then he says, “Fine. Stay here.”
    I sag against the dresser. I know better than to think he’ll leave and mull things over and come back apologizing. He never does that.
    He will return with a belt, and the stripes he carves into my back will be easily hidden by a shirt and anobedient Abnegation expression.
    I turn around, a shudder claiming my body. I clutch the edge of the dresser and wait.
    That night I sleep on my stomach, pain biting each thought, with my broken possessions on the floor around me. After he hit me until I had to stuff my fist into my mouth to muffle a scream, he stomped on each object until it was broken or dented beyond recognition, then threw the trunk into the wall so the lid broke from the hinges.
    The thought surfaces: If you choose Abnegation, you will never