When I wake up, it is to my father sitting alone at the table with a cup of coffee and the news.
"Where's Mom?" I ask and follow it up with a yawn.
"She had some things to take care of before the ceremony starts, we'll see her there though."
I pour myself a cup of coffee as well. I've always liked it sweet, something I share with my mother. Jeanine too, who my father says dumps an 'obscene' amount of sugar into every cup.
The things that my father and I talk about aren't really important, they don't carry the weight of the rest of my life. I am still trying not to think too much, but in the light of day that doesn't work. My mind is a storm as there is a knock at our front door.
"Surprise," drawls Natasha for the second time in less than twenty-four hours. Gwendolyn, Nikolai, and Maureen are behind her. And hanging on to Gwendolyn is Victoria with a vibrant bouquet of flowers in her arms.
"We came to see you off," says Marureen. All of them are dressed up for today's ceremony as well, each vivid in their shades. But they're all the same, and so am I.
So am I.
I take the flowers and joke about being underdressed.
Natasha curls her arm around my shoulders with a grin. "Well we'll help you."
My father is absolutely delighted to have them all as Maureen and Natasha start steering me away toward my room. Gwendolyn doesn't love the art of making oneself beautiful in the same way. Her blazers are perfectly cut to her figure, her straightened black hair is never out of place, but the way that she lines her eyes and darkens her lips is a formality more than anything else. To Natasha and Maureen, it is an art form.
"Your dress is lovely," says Maureen when I've put it on. "I'm so excited for you."
"I'm excited too." It's a lie, but that's okay. It's okay because that's what everyone needs to hear, including me.
Natasha is picking through my makeup bag, occasionally making noises of disdain.
"This," she says with no small amount of judgement, "is why I brought my own supplies." She sets down her purse and begins to unload her own treasure trove of product. It's just as well, she doesn't mean to be cruel, Natasha is simply a better artist than me. She's had five years to hone her aesthetic, I still feel like I'm figuring mine out.
There are pictures of my siblings' choosings before mine, each of them radiant in their own way. In a photo album somewhere are pictures of my parents just before they chose. My mother's dress was floor length and elegant in its simplicity, Minerva's had a half cape that fluttered as she walked toward the stage, Natasha's had trailed behind her in a way that others found distasteful and show-offy but I always thought was beautiful. My own dress – with its full skirt and drapery – has been made perfect by my mother's tailor. With every minute of preparation, I become more beautiful. I become more the person that I am meant to be.
As Maureen pins back my hair, I stare at her in the mirror's reflection. Once upon a time she had been Candor, brown haired and bare faced. Now her hair is a vibrant red that I hear people whispering about how unbecoming it is for a woman of her status. It is too Dauntless. It is simply too much. Minerva's face has been bare for seven years now. Could mine be the same? I get flashes of black and white before I remind myself not to think too much.
Maria said to forget yesterday, to forget what I saw and choose the way that I wanted to before. But why does that feel so much like 'choose what you're supposed to'? There are questions still heavy on my tongue.
When I come down the stairs, I am met with delight. I am beautiful. My father wipes a tear from his eye. While I was getting ready, so did he. Now he stands in a navy suit with intricate embroidering around the jacket collar and the ends of the sleeves. He has always liked makeup – Natasha inherited her sense of style from him – and today I know that he has put as much thought into his appearance as I have into mine.
It brings me pride to stand amongst my beautiful family, to be another link in a chain that stretches back to the founding of this city.
But then I think of those missing, and the feeling falters. It fades, and I am left with only that creeping dread. Is this enough? Am I enough? There have been nights where I lied awake wondering if I truly belonged in the family, because everyone here seems effortlessly perfect save for me. I know that things must have been hard for Percy and Minerva, but are they not perfect too? There is a legacy to live up to here. I am a Malachite, and Malachites don't crack.
No cracks, no breaks, no weak links, no mistakes.
I am putting my journal into the purse that matches my outfit perfectly when Natasha knocks gently on the frame of my bedroom door. We are alone, though we can hear the others laughing downstairs.
"Isn't it wonderful, Mimette, to live in the world that we do?" She comes toward me so our reflections in my full-length mirror are side by side. Her skin is lighter than mine, and her eyes more narrow. With her hair pressed, she looks just like our father. "Aren't you excited?"
Why does what she says feel like a trick question?
"I am." Everything I could ever need is here in Erudite. To turn away wouldn't just be stupid, it would be ungrateful.
She links one hand with mine to stop the tremor that I thought wasn't noticeable. "Don't worry so much. It'll just be a quick cut, then it's over."
Easy for her to say. She was top five in initiation, top student in her psychology cohort in college, and one of the youngest department heads in the history of Erudite. Natasha has never faltered in her life. She breezes through challenges that would have broken me a thousand times over.
My mouth opens before I really know what I'm going to say. Maybe I am about to spill my guts, have one last cry before I have to stand strong for everyone's sake, ruin all of Natasha's hard work on my makeup. But none of that happens, my father calls for us instead.
Natasha presses a kiss to my cheek. "See you soon."
"I love you," is what I say instead of making a promise I know I can't keep.
My father takes my picture on the stairs, as he has done for all of my siblings before me. I smile my way through all of the well wishes.
Nikolai is as confident as Natasha. Confidence has never been an issue for him. Maybe they have enough to make up for my ridiculous doubt.
Victoria throws her arms around my middle. She is small for twelve years old. Natasha styles her thick black hair every morning, yet some of it always seems to be in her face. I can still see where the transplanted hair was plugged in and the faintest discoloration of the skin graft on her face. She beams at me and I smile back. She still isn't very good at controlling the strength of her bionic right arm, but the squeeze no longer bothers me. Victoria is the closest I will come to being an older sister myself.
"You're coming back, right?" Why is it that kids always know exactly what to say to stab you in the heart?
"Of course." Victoria is easy to lie to; she would never scrutinize me like everyone else. But doing it hurts. Victoria has lost so much in her life; I can't be one of those things.
I learned a long time ago not to ask Gwendolyn about being Dauntless. When I first became fascinated with them and began asking questions, her answers were cagey at best. I can think of absolutely nothing worse to say to her right now than a question about what her birth faction was like.
She cuts my off my stammering with a firm squeeze to my shoulder. Her eyes are so dark I can barely make out her pupil. I think I've seen pictures of her mother with eyes like that – though hers were much larger.
"Mimette," Gwen's voice is always soft, "you're going to great today. It's going to be okay."
It is impossible for Gwendolyn to know what happened with my test, about all of the doubts that started years ago and are now coming to a head. She cannot know and yet her words are those of someone who might understand me. What was it like for her to leave Dauntless? Did she too have the weight of a legacy on her shoulders that she let go?
Can I let go?
Maureen holds my hands as she tells me how amazing I'll be. I've never seen a better example of opposites attracting than her and my brother. It's a running joke in my family that Natasha should have married Maureen and Nikolai should have been with Gwendolyn. But next April will be Maureen and Nikolai's three-year wedding anniversary. I've always wondered what drew her to Erudite over Candor; it's not like we had a superior figure skating team before her. Now I just regret never asking.
A wave of nostalgia hits me as I leave my home for the last time. Everything feels like it's gone by too fast. What if I never get to sit with my father in his rose garden again?
"Mimette," my father puts his hand on my shoulder and I realize that I've been stuck staring while everyone else has gotten in their cars and left. "Are you okay?"
'I don't know' isn't a good enough answer. It isn't the right answer. Instead I say, "Everything is changing."
That's almost just as bad.
"Oh, Dear, I know." He wraps me in a hug. "It's going to be okay; I promise."
He can't promise me that, not really. But it feels good to hear anyways. It is a comfortable lie. It is the right answer. I hold those words in my head instead of Maria's nonsensical mysteries. I can forget; I can be the person that I'm supposed to be – the person that I want to be.
I indulge one last childish impulse by taking my father's hand as we ascend the steps outside the Hub.
I have only attended a handful of ceremonies before my own, though my parents are required to attend annually. The last one was my cousin Filippa's, Amity born and chosen. That was just last year and she never seemed as nervous as I am now.
Walking into the cavernous hall they hold the Choosing Ceremony in takes my breath away each time. The five factions are divided into their own sections, five proud displays of color or lack thereof.
I don't have a hair out of place, nor wrinkles to smooth from my dress. These are just nervous habits.
My mother and Jeanine are side by side several rows ahead engaged in conversation with a man I recognize as Casey's father, renowned journalist Gordon Diarmond. It takes me a moment to find Casey herself in the front row, which is arranged in alphabetical order. Her brown curls sit atop her head pinned into an intricate bun. She does not see me, if she did she would not be frowning so hard.
My mother catches sight of us and lightly touches Jeanine's arm to draw her attention. We ascend the steps to meet them halfway but as my father opens his mouth to greet them, Jeanine's eyes catch on something over my shoulder.
"Good morning, Representative Prior,"
I turn to see a short, dark skinned Abnegation man at the bottom of the stairs. Flanking him is a woman and two teens. I don't miss the contempt and reproach in the teen girl's eyes, nor the shine of admiration in the boy's. Both teens have dark skin like the man I presume to be their father, but the girl has curious splotches of white breaking it up quite starkly. If they were not Abnegation, they would both be very beautiful; but Abnegation doesn't allow beauty.
"Hello, Dr. Matthews," says the man was we approach. Of course. This is Andrew Prior, representative of Abnegation, vice chair of the Abnegation Council, and perpetual thorn in my parents' side. He sounds very tired as he greets us. His eyes flicker to my parents. "Carolina. John."
"It is a pleasure to see you," says Jeanine.
Andrew's mouth twists in a way that makes clear the feeling isn't mutual.
"How has Marcus been?" asks my mother with an odd glimmer in her eyes.
Andrew's eye twitches and he pauses as though swallowing something bitter before saying, "As well as can be expected."
"It really is quite a shame what people are saying. Politics is one thing, the personal is entirely another."
"Well, then let us hope your faction gets a handle on its journalism department soon then," says Andrew's wife with a smile.
Jeanine frowns slightly. "Well, Mrs. Prior, freedom of the press is important. Just because you may not agree with something does not mean it must be muzzled."
Andrew's eye twitches again.
"And these must be your children," Jeanine changes the subject, the frown melting off her face. "I don't believe I knew that they were choosing today." She first looks at Andrew's son. "What is your name?"
"Caleb Prior," he says after a moment of what I take to be nervousness. Then he sticks out his hand for a handshake; Abnegation don't normally greet one another with handshakes.
"Jeanine Matthews, a pleasure. And you are?" She looks at the girl.
There is a strange moment of silence as the girl just stares at Jeanine. Then Caleb awkwardly says, "This is Beatrice."
"How lovely," says my mother. "I am Carolina Captor-Malachite. This is my husband, John, and my youngest daughter, Mimette."
"It is a pleasure to meet you," I say, smiling. Only Caleb smiles back.
"Well," says Jeanine, "the three of you certainly have an important decision to make today. I'm sure you'll be supported in whatever choice you might make."
Exchanging pleasantries is one thing, talking about my impending choice makes sweat collect on my palms. I clench my hands into fists so that they don't start trembling.
"Well it shouldn't really be a choice," says Beatrice. "The test should tell us what to do."
A bitterness I wasn't expecting roils through my stomach. I am so sick of hearing about how easy and natural this is for everyone else. The test failed me and I don't even get to talk about it.
"You're still free to choose," says Jeanine.
Choice is important. Freedom to choose in spite of aptitude is something that has been around since the founding of the city. The faction system works because everyone is free to choose what they believe in, who they want to become.
"But you don't really want that," replies Beatrice.
Caleb's mouth drops open in shock. Her parents look incredulous.
"We should really be going," Andrew cuts in, voice terse.
"No, no." Jeanine holds up her hand for them to stop. "It's fine." She doesn't exactly smile at Beatrice, I don't know what to call the expression on her face. I've never seen it before. "I want you to choose who you truly are and where you truly belong. Not on a whim, not because you wish you were someone you're not, but because you honestly know yourself. I want you to choose wisely." Finally her expression warmed. "And I know you all will."
"Right," says Andrew flatly. "Best of luck to you, Mimette." He inclines his head at Jeanine and my parents. "Dr. Matthews. Representative Malachite. Dr. Captor." I noticed him take his wife's hand as the four of them walked away. Casual displays of affection are another thing that Abnegation does not care for. What an odd group.
Most Erudite do not practice casual, public displays of affection either, but my parents never seemed to care. They almost always greeted each other with a kiss and when they stood together often held hands. I have approximately five minutes before I need to go sit down for the start of the ceremony, and I spend much of that time holding tight to the people who love me more than anything in the world.
I am very proud of myself for not crying when I leave them to sit with the other sixteen-year-olds in the front rows. I wish there was more we could say to each other, but if I open my mouth now I may cry. I don't look back either, not even to find any of my other family members. Percy and Minerva must be around here somewhere, at least a few of my cousins might have come to support me.
In my phone are three unread messages from the group-chat I have with Kira, Casey, and Eliza. Each of them has sent a picture of themselves in front of the mirror, ready to leave. Of course I have one of my own to send. I cannot see Eliza with the R's or Kira with the E's.
On stage are five bowls, carved with each faction's symbol and filled with something to represent each. Abnegations bowl holds smooth gray stones, Amity's holds soil, Candor's holds shards of glass, Dauntless' holds lit coals, and Erudite's holds water.
Why is it that I can imagine myself dropping the blood I will draw from my hand into any one of them.
Panic rises in my throat. I know what the right thing to do is. Of course, I do. I have always known.
Marcus Eaton – the man around which so many rumors swirl these days – walks onstage to the microphone. Each year it falls to a different faction leader to open the ceremony; when I was here for Filippa's choosing, the ceremony was opened by Jeanine. Marcus Eaton also gave the opening speech the year Natasha and Nikolai chose; I remember how perfectly still he stood as he spoke, and how his voice was a drone that nearly put me to sleep.
Today I am too wired to do anything but listen.
"Good morning. I welcome all of you to our city's four hundred and ninety-ninth Choosing Ceremony. On this day, we honor the philosophy of our ancestors, which tells us that everyone has the right to choose their own way in this world. Our dependents are now sixteen. They stand on the precipice of adulthood, and it is now up to them to decide what kind of people they will be."
I don't know who I will be. I barely even know who I am now.
"Centuries ago, our ancestors realized that it is not political ideology, religious belief, race, or nationalism that is to blame for a warring world. Rather, they determined that it was the fault of human personality – of mankind's inclination toward evil, in whatever form that might be. They divided into factions that sought to eradicate those qualities they believed responsible for the world's disarray. Those who blamed aggression and cruelty, followed Ray Brighton to found Amity. Amity is now responsible for ninety percent of all food produced, and provides care for people as well as the land."
I think of Percy, Casey, and Filippa. Cruelty is the root of all things wrong, isn't it? If humans were not cruel to one another, then there would be no conflict.
"Those who blamed ignorance built Erudite under the leadership of Glynda Seibold. We owe every comfort, every advancement to their tireless researchers and teachers." Those are nice words for a man who makes no secret of the fact that he thinks all Erudite are vain, amoral, and must be collared beneath Abnegation.
But he doesn't understand. If he knew, if he could be taught, perhaps things could heal. Everyone can learn to be better, and is Erudite not the perfect place to grow?
"Juliana Gilbert built Candor to stand in opposition to duplicity, creating a justice system that treats everyone fairly."
The idea of never having to lie about anything again is an attractive one. If no one has anything to hide, and all problems can be solved with open debate, we can work toward a better world as one body. Everyone is exactly who they say they are, and isn't that wonderful?
"Abnegation was founded by Miles Arden to rid the world of selfishness, to serve the community as a whole."
Why are people cruel? Why do they lie? Why do they stay willfully ignorant? Because they are selfish, because it is easier to do all of those things. There is beauty in Abnegation, a quiet kind; one that can't be found in Erudite.
"And Kerrian Price blamed cowardice, then created Dauntless to remedy it. Through the work of the Dauntless, we are made safe."
I am afraid. I have been afraid for the past twenty-four hours, I have been afraid for the past sixteen years. Afraid of who I am, afraid of who I'm not, afraid of who I may or may not be. Is bravery something I can learn? Is it something I can teach others? People do desperate things when they're scared; Dauntless makes sure that there are as few scared people as possible.
"In tandem, our five factions have achieved a peace that has never before been seen on earth. In nearly five hundred years there has been no war to scar us. We are the last of the earth's people; without the factions, we would not survive. Thus, today marks a happy occasion. Today our sixteen-year-olds make their first step into adulthood. May they lead us into an even better world than the one we live in now."
There is a round of applause before the first name is called. The ceremony will run in reverse alphabetical order, meaning I will be the last to choose of my friends. I don't have to watch them to know what the outcomes will be; we've known each other's choices for years. I know what they choose.
And they know what I will choose just as well.
There's no running from my destiny, and why would I want to? I love my life. I am happy here. I am satisfied.
If I just say it enough times, it will be true.
Don't think too much.
"Elizabeth Reynolds."
Eliza doesn't falter when she walks to the stage in her brand new heels. She smiles when Andrew Prior hands her a clean knife. She does not flinch as the steel bites her hand. She does not hesitate to drop her blood in the water, just like I knew she would. It's not a crossroads for her and never has been.
"Kira Elysium."
Kira's picture did not do her flowing black dress justice. The warm lights make her brown skin glow. I wish we had talked about this more. Neither wanted to be the one to initiate the conversation about choices and now we will never get the chance. I watch Kira's motions stutter between the coals and the water for just a moment; I see her caught between the two personas she's held for the past two years. I see all of the love she's ever had for Dauntless play out in her eyes. Then I see her choose for herself and herself alone; not for Eliza, not for her parents, only herself. The water is just one touch redder.
"Cassandra Diarmond."
I think I was hoping to see some kind of hesitation in Casey's eyes; there was some last, desperate part of me that wanted to might believe she might choose to stay at the last second. But of course she doesn't. At least she's nice enough to look at me like she's sorry. It's not that I don't believe her, I just wish that things were different.
"Mimette Captor-Malachite."
I am not Eliza, so when my legs wobble my heels just make it worse. Somehow, I am on the stage taking the knife from Andrew Prior. I am standing between five different lives to live.
I am in gray offering a hand up to those most in need.
I am in yellow growing a garden of my own in the sun.
I am in a sharp black and white blazer arguing my case before a judge.
I am in blue making the discovery of a lifetime, exploring endless libraries, teaching others what I know.
I am in black running wild, protecting others, beating back a darkness.
There is blood in my hand and I am remembering the two baskets; I am remembering the dog and the girl. I am standing before a man who knows I am a murderer. I am making sense of the impossible.
I am before a door.
I do not know what is on the other side.
I am a liar for telling my family that everything is fine. I am cruel for not loving everyone – for not even pretending to try. I am a fool who did not figure out what she wants. I am a coward for flinching at the unknown. I am selfish for clinging to the past instead of stepping up and being the person that everyone wants – needs me to be.
If I just try a little harder, if I reach a little higher then maybe I can be the person everyone needs me to be instead of the person that I am.
I am scared.
I jerk forward. When my blood is sizzling on the coals, the fear does not abate. But it will someday. I can learn. I can try.
I can be brave.