Risa

An enormous tree spiraled gracefully upward to meet the glass dome of the hall, commanding the attention of even the most seasoned members of the crowd slowly filing into the room. I tried not to let my apprehension show, but my rigid Abnegation pose made my nervousness even more conspicuous. I distracted myself by admiring the tree; it must have taken generations of careful tending to create such an elegant, uniform shape.

"Hey Stiff, you ever been rutted against a tree?"

Icy shards slipped down my spine and pierced my belly. I recoiled away from the oily, venomous words against my ear as quickly as I could, half-turning to face their maker.

Two boys, one close-sheared and sinewy, the other dark and lean, and a girl who would have been lovely if not for a soulless smile laughed raucously.

"Risa. Over here." Protective, steel-edged words freed me and I hurried to Brooke's side.

"Don't worry about them. They think they're untouchable because Raven's mother is the President of the faction. We'll get Mase to drop a hammer on Hunter's foot or something."

I laughed to force the remaining shudder out of my body as she pulled me into a free space within the crowd. Voices turned to murmurs and finally fell silent as the Heads of Faction rose from their seats. "Listen up, Reese," she whispered with a wink. "This is when you find your calling."

"Tomorrow marks the start of Orientation Week. During this time, your work will be closely monitored by the Heads of Faction, and at the end of the week, your Contribution Role will be assigned to you."

As the President went on to explain the guidelines, I looked down at my hands and seemed to truly see them for the first time.

I had childishly small hands. My palms were pinkish, spongy, and slightly swollen at the fingertips from poor circulation. The backs were entirely covered in a multitude of tiny wrinkles. The knuckles were permanently rosy and much rougher than the remaining skin, indicative of the numerous times the skin had cracked and regrown during the cold winter months. Just how unfit I was for this faction started to dawn on me, followed closely by an electric panic at the prospect of becoming factionless.

It turned out that I had nothing to worry about: I had underestimated how accommodating Amity could be, and certainly wasn't expecting so many different areas of work. True, several of my group members were five years younger than me, but it was pleasant, satisfying work, made even more so under the beaming sun and saturated sky.

The greenhouses were beautiful, cathedral-sized monuments, filled with fruits and vegetables that I hadn't even seen before, let alone tasted. Abnegation are not supposed to indulge in luxury, which meant that all of our food was bland and tasteless. Even salt was frowned upon, despite being necessary for survival. I saw Grace pluck a cherry from a row of small trees and pop it in her mouth without a second thought. Feeling both guilty and exhilarated, I did the same. It was unlike anything I'd ever had before: drenching and delightful. She spotted me and I winked, putting a finger to my newly dyed lips. We stood there, the two of us, sneaking berries and giggling like schoolgirls.

The kitchens were impressive as well, filled with huge vats of steaming fruit slowly simmering into jams and preserves, mounds of potatoes piled into pond-sized cauldrons of boiling water, and every herb and spice imaginable being cut and dried and crushed and bottled by smiling men and women, chatting easily as they worked. I felt even more out of place than usual in here, and they seemed to agree, putting me on dish duty. However, passion for an art—especially one that has been deprived for so long—manifests itself eventually, and I savored every minute of the cooking classes.

Rows upon rows of orchards and endlessly sprawling fields ringed the outside perimeter of Amity territory. Most of the members—including those my age—worked here. I was able to easily climb the apple trees to shake down fruit into the waiting baskets; however, although I enjoyed the challenge of hauling bales, I woke up bruised and sore from the harder physical labor, and knew I would not be placed among my peers.

The only place I didn't like were the root cellars. The underground rooms were impressively huge like the other buildings. Rows of long, rectangular alcoves for shelves were carved into the earthen walls, and were protected by padlocked wooden panels over the front to deter intelligent, thieving raccoons. They held a multitude of preserved fruits and vegetables and spices; one room could easily have fed the entire faction for months. But I couldn't even bring myself to fully descend the staircase. I had always been afraid of small spaces; my father had tried to 'teach' me out of the fear by repeatedly pulling my the cowl of my Abnegation ceremonial robe over my face—the same doctrine by which he 'taught' me out of being left-handed by rapping my left knuckles with a wooden ruler until they bruised—but that only resulted in a severe distaste towards hoods and a strong inclination to run when faced with a confining space.

A couple of Amity laughed good-naturedly at my obvious aversion, yet understood and allowed me to pass items down the assembly line from the top of the staircase. Once again, I was overcome by the friendliness of everyone here.

The next week, I proudly crossed the stage amid cheering members and accepted my role as one of a multitude of chef apprentices.