So, if you're reading this, you noticed that I chose option two! Thanks for all the help! I felt a little guilty about relying on you guys...but you're so awesome that I just had to! Onto the story...

Tris POV:

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

Why did I have to do that?! But more importantly, why did Peter have to annoy me so much?

As I weren't already in enough trouble with my parents, I know am in even more! Now that I got another detention tomorrow with Johanna, my parents won't let me join the cross country team.

And on top of that, tomorrow is Al's funeral. It's in the morning, so my parents are making me miss third period to go.

"Excuse the interruption," the intercom blares out, "Any students wishing to attend Albert Jacobson's funeral must now go to the front office."

Only a few students in my Public Speaking class stand up. Christina looks at me, wondering if I'm going to follow her. I sigh and follow her and Will out the door, wondering why Eric isn't following us. I'm not sure how well he knew Al, but Al was close to all of us, Eric included.

When we get to the front office, Tori looks at us and sighs. "I wish I could be there, you know. Al was an amazing kid. It's just that," she gulps and whispers, "Mrs. Matthews made it very clear for me to stay here." She murmurs something about being scared for her brother.

The area is silent for a moment until a kid clears his throat, probably someone from the soccer team that Al was on last year.

"Oh, right!" Tori says. "Everyone, I'll need to see the notes you have."

We all pass forward the notes that our parents signed, then she types on her computer for about ten minutes. "You guys can go," she tells us. "This'll take a while."

So we file outside and onto the school buses that are parked outside the front doors.

When we get to the bus, Will starts walking towards the back, but Christina stops him. "Hold it," she says. "We've got to think this out. If we sit in the back, we'll be asking for trouble and the bus driver will immediately think of us as the troublemakers and report us to Mrs. Matthews."

Will then sits down in the front.

"But if we sit in the front," Christina continues. "We'll be immediately considered the nerds."

"Oh, for goodness sakes," Will says, breaking her one-sided conversation. "We'll just sit here, in the middle." He plops down in the nearest seat, and Christina sits next to him. I look around for an empty seat. The only one, thankfully, is next to Four.

"Hey," I say, as I sit down next to him.

"Tris, I didn't know you were coming."

"Yeah, well, my parents made me come...and I wouldn't feel right if I were sixty and looking back on my life, deciding that I couldn't come just 'cause Al hurt me." Then I clear my throat. "So, why are you here?"

He straightens his tie. "To pay my respects. " He rolls his eyes and continues, "Plus, Marcus got word that a news reporter is coming to the service and wants me to look my best to make him look his best."

Then it's an awkward silence for the both of us as the bus takes off.

"So," Four says, after a while. "Heard you got detention again."

I shove his shoulder playfully. "Shut up; you would have done the same thing."

He shrugs. "Whatever. I have football practice for Friday anyways."

"Friday? That's tomorrow." Then I gasp.

"What is it?"

"Did you buy your suit yet?"

"Is Christina making you ask that?"

"Maybe."

"Nah, Christina said she'd take care of it then I'd pay her back."

"You sure?"

"Yeah."

It's quiet the rest of the way to the cemetery. Four's hand rests on my thigh. It draws tiny, intricate circles nervously.

Twenty minutes later, we're all huddled around plot 6287 at the Bohemian National Cemetery of Chicago.

Four gives me his jacket once he sees me shivering in October's breezy wind.

"Thanks."

"Anytime," he says.

I was expecting this to be a sober, quiet occasion, but while the priest is reading a bible verse and blessing AL's coffin, cameras are clicking in the distance. And not the quiet click like Christina's iPhone camera makes. A loud kind. I turn behind me, and sure enough, plenty of photographers are clicking away their HD Sony Pixar cameras in the background and scribbling down the priest's words.

This is not right.

"Stop," I call out abruptly.

Heads turn my way.

Everyone stops. Everyone, but the reporters. I'm sure they love this. They've probably already got a headline for tomorrow picked out: 'City Council Member's Daughter Disses Former Friend's Funeral.'

"This isn't right," I say, not caring who's listening or not. I point to the reporters. "Half of you aren't even paying attention to what the priest is saying. You all just care about whether or not Mayor Eaton shows up in his black tux or jeans, or if he even comes. This isn't about that. This is about honoring Al. Now leave, or so God help me you listen to the bible reading."

None of them move.

"Tris is right!" Christina calls out. "This is about Al. Not about your stupid headline in the local section of the paper."

"Yeah!" some guy, who looks like a football player says, "Do it for Al or don't do it!"

"Albert! Al-bert! Al-bert!" the rest of the kids shout.

I look at Four and shrug. "Couldn't hurt. What Al did to me was wrong, but he deserves a proper funeral."

"Al-bert! Al-bert!" This time Four joins in. I even see Al's parents chanting. "Al-bert! Al-bert! Al-bert! Al-bert! Al-bert!"

"Al would love it," I say to Four. "The football team chanting his name."

"Wouldn't he?" Four agrees. He kisses my cheek and just like that, my last memory of Al is spectacular.

The next morning, I wake up late again, and slide down the stairs in my socks. I've got reason to celebrate; tonight is Homecoming. Plus, there's no school tomorrow because it's Friday.

"Beatrice," my father says disapprovingly. "What did I tell you about running down the stairs?"

"Sorry father."

I put my binder and a sandwich in my backpack and walk out the door, before my father calls me back.

"Yes dad?"

"What is this?" He holds up this morning's local section, and, just as Christina said, Al's funeral is on the front.

"Oh, umm...we were honoring Al?"

"Not that," my dad say. "This."

He points to a picture of Four and I. The dress I'm wearing in it shows my new raven tattoos.

Damn.

I thought I covered them, but apparently not.

"Dad, I'll be late for school."

He looks at me for a second, then looks at his watch. "And I work. We'll discuss this tonight with your mother. As for right now, Caleb's most likely already left. Would you like a ride?"

"Uh, yeah, actually. Thanks."

My dad picks up his briefcase, straightens his collar in the mirror, and walks out the door. I put my leather boots on and soon follow.

Car rides in this household are always quiet. Always. Especially when your father makes you drive.

"Do you have your permit?" my father asks.

I shake my head. "It would be a lot easier if I got a license," I remind him. "Then I could drive myself."

"Until you show us better grades, there's no chance of that until you turn eighteen. Now please go get your permit." He hands me his keys and I unlock the door and run up the stairs to my room. I grab my iPod and permit off my nightstand and run back down the stairs and lock the door.

I get in the car and turn it on, pulling out of the driveway. "Where's mom?"

"Beatrice, concentrate on the road," my father says. "She went to work early today."

"Oh. Why? I thought she was planning on doing everything at home as possible now."

"She was. But one of her clients called and she had to go in and get it sorted out. One of the food banks outside the city-David, I think, runs it-and she had to go and contact him." He clears his throat. "That green car behind you nearly has you tailgated. Pick the speed up to thirty-five."

I do, but the green Honda CRV behind me speeds up as well.

"Alright, turn here, Beatrice. You'll run into less traffic."

"Dad, I go this way every morning. I don't know that other way. I've never been to that part of town."

"Beatrice, listen to your father."

"Fine. Here? I can't cross the double yellow line."

"Beatrice, listen to me," my father says sternly. "That car was following me on my way home yesterday. Turn left now."

I turn my blinker on, but before I can fully turn, the green car from before slams into my father's with so much impact it nearly flips over. The last I see of that particular green car is a smirking driver. Then I remember. Eric. He drives a green CRV and works for Mrs. Matthews. Who does not like my father.

I must be going crazy. My head slumps into the steering wheel, but hits an air bag.

I try to breath; Caleb always said that it helps in a stressful situation. But right now, I can't breath, I can't think, I can't move.

I'm as good as dead.

Whatever Eric was trying to do, he did successfully.