Текст книги "The Moon Dwellers"

Автор книги: David Estes

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Текущая страница: 4 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

There is a pause, like Cole is trying to remember, or count the days or something. Then he says, “Five years.” Five years? I am shocked. I expected him to say three months, or maybe six at the most. They’ve known each other since before the Pen. They must’ve met in school. That changes everything. The deepness of their relationship; what level of friendship I can have with them; what I can share with either of them.

“Yeah, five years, Cole. And how many times have I lied to you?”

“Never. At least not that I know of.” Cole sniggers to himself.

“Never—that’s right.”

“You might have just misheard, or misunderstood something.”

Tawni’s voice is rising. She is getting emotional. “No. No, I didn’t. I heard both my mother and my father say it before I ran away. I wouldn’t have left if I wasn’t certain. They are spies for the President, Cole. They know things. All I really needed to hear was that they were working for the sun dwellers, and then I was ready to leave, run away forever. But they kept talking. They said how Tristan is different from the President, different from his own brother. How they didn’t think he would carry on the traditions of his father if he became President. They were worried about that. I always wondered why we had so much more money than everyone else. I mean, I went to the same school as you. You couldn’t afford to eat, and I was eating with a silver spoon. Kickbacks for their dirty work. They were afraid the money would stop if Tristan took over. That’s how I know, Cole. That’s how I know!”

She almost shrieks the last bit and I hear Cole shush her, trying to get her to calm down. “Okay, okay,” he says. “I believe you. Okay, maybe Tristan’s all right, but I still don’t get what that has to do with us, with Adele. Just because he looked at her funny…”

“Not funny, Cole. Intently, seriously, the way you look at someone that you might try to track down at some point in the future. Particularly if you have the resources, which he obviously does.”

“What?” I hear myself say out loud. I mean for it to be a thought, confined to the safety of my own mind, but my wayward lips betray me.

Silence. I slap a hand over my mouth, hold my breath, listen to my heartbeat crunch in my chest like a miner’s axe on a slab of ore.

The door is flung open and Cole’s face is silhouetted against the lights in the corridor. Some of the light sneaks past his large frame and spills across my face. One of his eyes is swollen shut, his cheek beneath marbled with black, blue, and greenish yellow.

“Are you spying on us?” he says accusingly.

“No. I mean, yes. I mean, I just saw you talking and wanted to hear what you were saying.” Insert foot in mouth. Translation: Yes, I am spying. Bye-bye, new friends. Hello, loneliness.

Cole looks like he wants to hit me.

“Why didn’t you just ask us then?” The question comes from Tawni, who wedges her way between us.

“Ask you?” Again, the words pop from my mouth before I have a chance to stop them. They sound stupid. Like, Duh, asking would’ve been far easier than sneaking into a broom closet and listening through a door. I try to recover. “I, uh, I just thought you wouldn’t, uh, tell me these kinds of things,” I finish lamely.

“What kinds of things exactly?” Cole says.

Tawni pushes Cole back a bit with one arm. I’m surprised she can move him at all. Her arm looks like a toothpick compared to his armor-like chest. I guess she has hidden strength.

To my surprise, she says, “Cole, we need some girl time. We’ll catch up with you later.” Despite the evenness of her tone, her words sound like a command, and a powerful one at that.

Cole stares at me with one eye for a second, and then melts into the stream of bodies, disappearing in the mob.

When Tawni turns back to me, I say, “Thanks.”

Tawni offers me a hand and I take it. Unlike the previous day in the yard, her hand is warm. Without another word, she pulls me out of the closet and leads me against the flow of human traffic. Where I’d normally bump and knock into a dozen kids if I tried such a maneuver, Tawni is graceful, able to find the path of least resistance. I stay in her wake, protected. I haven’t felt protected in a long time.

Soon the crowds thin and we are walking alone. I am surprised to find myself still holding her hand. I feel like I should shake it free, but it feels so good—wonderful actually. I guess I need it. Human contact, that is. Having been deprived of human touch for so long, my body is craving it. Last night’s dream had certainly indicated that.

We reach a cell door. Not mine but the one next to it. Tawni’s. Funny that I never knew her and the whole time she was sleeping right next to me, just a rock wall between us. Not that it matters. I’ve lost Cole’s brief friendship and I am about to lose Tawni’s slightly longer friendship. It’s time for my last-ditch effort to save it.

“Look, Tawni, I’m really sor—”

“It’s okay,” Tawni interrupts.

Huh? This time I manage to keep my stupid remark inside my head, but I’m sure my confusion is written all over my face anyway. I can feel one cheek lifted weirdly, the opposite eyebrow raised, and my mouth contorted beneath my flaring nostrils. If Tawni and I are the lead characters in a magical fairy tale, it is obvious who is the ugly stepsister. Not Tawni.

I realize Tawni’s back is to me; she is facing the bed. Thank God, I think. Using my fingers, I manage to mold my face back into what I think is close to its normal shape. Just in time, too. She turns around.

Her eyes blaze with a sort of fire. Not real fire, but determination. It is unexpected. She just looks so thin, so frail. Although she towers above me, I feel so much bigger than her. At least normally I do. But now she looks strong, like maybe her bones are made of a tougher material than I thought. I wait for her to speak.

“Your father is alive,” she says.

Chapter Four

Tristan

I like calling the Tri-Realms the underworld. For to me, that’s what it is. At times it feels more hellish than if I were at barbecue with a bunch of demons and zombies, roasting the undead on a fiery spit.

I long to feel the wind tousle my hair, the sunlight on my face. Not the fake sun my father’s engineers have created, but the real thing. There is nothing like it.

The underworld is so different. Dark, gloomy—it feels dead to me. Like it isn’t natural that any form of life other than the spiders and snakes and bats should occupy it. Certainly not humans.

And if we live in the underworld, then my father is the Devil himself, shrewd, evil, self-serving. They say that blood creates an unbreakable bond. If there is a bond between my father and me—created by blood, DNA, or something else entirely—it is as brittle as talc, cracking and crumbling while I was still in my mother’s womb.

I see her face again—the moon dweller with the shimmering black hair—so beautiful, so strong, so sad, like she is crying invisible tears. Reaching out, I try to touch her, to comfort her. But each time I try, she seems further away, as if some unseen force is keeping us apart. I run, pumping my arms and legs harder and harder, trying to keep up with her, but never able to close the gap. Finally, when I think my legs will collapse beneath me, she stops. I approach, my heart fluttering, my body trembling in anticipation of feeling her skin against mine. I hear a slight whirr and feel a whoosh of air as something flies just past my ear. A flaming arrow. No! Already a spot of blood is seeping through her white tunic where the arrowhead has pierced her breast. The flames are licking at her clothes, charring them. I try to run to her, to douse the flames, to pluck the arrow from her skin and stop the bleeding, but my feet won’t move. At first I think I’m in shock, that I’m simply too weak-minded to gain control of my body, but when I look at my feet, they are encased in stone. He moves past me. The archer. I can’t see his face, but I’d recognize his gait anywhere. My creator. I scream at him to Stop, please stop! but he ignores me, instead blowing softly on the flames, fueling them until they spread. I have to turn away—God, how desperately I want to turn away—but I can’t. Can’t. Can’t even close my eyes. I watch her burn. She is brave—doesn’t even cry out, but I can hear her screams anyway.

I wake up sweating and yelling, thrashing about in my bed. And thinking about the underworld.

Roc is by my side. As always. He puts a hand across my chest. “Shhh,” he says. “Someone will hear.”

My legs stop thrashing, my arms stop flailing. I am breathing heavily but not screaming anymore. It was just a dream. I am on my bed; Roc must have carried me.

“What happened?” I say.

“You fainted,” Roc says, his lips curling slightly.

“Does that give you some kind of pleasure?” I snap.

Roc continues grinning. “Given it was brought on by your battle with a ferocious warrior, namely me, I’d say yes, it does bring me a level of pleasure. Especially because it was in the midst of my stunning and heroic victory,” he adds.

Normally I would laugh. But I feel anything but normal. I feel like I’ve lost someone special to me, someone close. Like my mother—but a different kind of close, a different kind of special. I grunt.

Roc seems to recognize that something is wrong and his smile fades. “Tristan, are you okay?” he asks.

I honestly don’t know. So I swing my legs over the side of the bed and tell him everything. About the girl in the Pen, the big guy who was about to assault her, how I saw her face just before I fainted, and about my dream—what my father did to her. When I finish I look for his reaction. I think he might make fun of me. If the roles were reversed it’s what I might do.

Instead, his lips are tight, his eyes narrow. He says, “I think it means something.”

“You do?” I say, genuinely surprised.

“Yes. A storm is coming. I’ve felt it for some time now. I think you have, too. Why we have never spoken of it before, I do not know. Perhaps we were scared.”

My first instinct is to contradict him. Not the stuff about the storm—whatever that means—but about us being scared. He might be, but not me. I’m not scared of anything. Not even my father—not anymore—although I probably should be. But I know I’ve been too reactionary lately—too quick to fire back at Roc if I don’t like something he says. Like a good friend, he’s put up with it, shaking his head and ignoring my outbursts. So, for once, I don’t say the first thing that pops into my head. I actually think about what he said.

A storm? I know he doesn’t mean a physical storm, like the ones that rage on the earth’s surface from time to time. Therefore, a metaphorical one. Like a conflict. A battle maybe. No, more specific than that: a rebellion. I have felt it, too. Have even commented on it. If not out loud, then in my head, to myself. How it is a wonder that everyone puts up with my father’s tyrannical politics, his cruel and unfair treatment of the people that support his way of life. Not a wonder—a miracle. And miracles simply don’t happen these days. Not anymore. They are a thing of the past, of legends, of stories. Which means it is bound to happen eventually. From time to time we hear whisperings of secret groups of radicals, plotting and scheming in hidden caves, using secret handshakes and passwords. My father dismisses them as casually as he swats pesky flies from his shoulder.

I have felt it, too. So why haven’t we talked about it before? I try to open myself to the possibility that I am scared, like Roc suggested. I know right away that isn’t it. It’s something else: I don’t believe my own feelings. And why would I? Things have been the same my whole life. Things will never change, can never change. Can they?

I feel Roc’s eyes on my face. I look at him. There is a twinkle in his eye, like he knows I’ve worked it out.

I say, “I’m not scared.” You know, just to set the record straight.

He winks at me. “I know,” he says.

“You what?” I say. “Then why did you—”

“Because I am scared, and I wanted you to think about things seriously.”

I rise to my feet. “What? I do take things ser…What are you suggesting, that I’m not serious enough?” My face is starting to feel hot.

Roc puts his arms out, palms open. “No, I just think that ever since your mom…”—his eyes drift down—“…left, you’ve been in a funk, a haze, not really as engaged as you used to be. The only time I see light in your eyes is when we’re training.”

“What are you, my shrink or something?”

“There you go—not taking things seriously again.”

I grit my teeth. I am determined not to make another light comment or joke for the rest of the conversation. I hope our talk won’t last too long.

“Fine,” I say. “Okay, so I’ve been in this haze, hating life, no light in my eyes except when I’m beating the snot out of you with a wooden sword…” Blast! A joke—I’ve failed already. Being serious is harder than I thought. Maybe Roc is right, but I’m certainly not going to say that out loud. Pausing, I try to gather my thoughts. Roc lets the joke pass without comment. “So I see this girl, this moon dweller. Roc, lemme tell ya, she was incredible. Beautiful. Even wearing her gray prisoner’s tunic she was stunning. Her hair fell like a black waterfall around her shoulders. Her eyes were intensely fascinating. And her curves, my God, Roc, were they ever—”

“Get to the point, Tristan,” Roc says.

Right. Serious. My point. What is my point anyway? Ahh, yes. “I felt something for her, Roc. Somehow across the distance, through the fence, over the mob of people, I felt something. I probably would have just let it go, chalked it up to male hormones, but then when she acted so strong, pushed that guy…I don’t know, since then I can’t get her out of my mind.”

“That’s called a crush, sir.”

Oh, damn you, Roc! He seems intent on making this more difficult than it has to be, even throwing a “sir” in there for good measure. I can feel the grit in my mouth as I shave the enamel off each tooth with my incessant grinding. Yeah, I love Roc like a brother, but also like a brother, I wish he would just go away sometimes.

When I speak again, I am proud of how even my voice is, pretending like I haven’t even heard Roc’s comment. “It’s weird. I feel like our lives are tied together. Like our destinies are intertwined. I think I have to find her, Roc, if only to know that she survived, that her strength didn’t lead to her death.”

“Is this moon dweller girl the only reason you want to go?”

I raise my eyebrows. “I, uh, I think so…” I’m so unsure of my answer that I rub my head to try to think. Yes, I want to know what happened to the moon dweller. Yes, I felt something for her and want to meet her. It hits me. “She’s only part of it,” I say.

“I know,” Roc says.

Of course he does. Roc always seems to be one mental step ahead of me. I sigh. “I want to get out of here, Roc. I’m tired of living like this. There’s no meaning in my life. I hate my father. I hate this place. Finding her is as good a reason as any to get out of here. I just have to get out of here. I can’t deal with my father anymore.”

“We can’t just leave.”

“Why not?”

“Don’t you think they’ll notice?”

“Of course they’ll notice, Roc. But who cares?”

“I do. I don’t feel like being chased all over the Tri-Realms by a bunch of your dad’s goons.”

“My father’s goons,” I correct.

“Your dad, your father: What’s the difference?” Roc says through clenched teeth.

I bare my teeth back at him. “It’s…different…to…me.” We are on the verge of another brawl.

“Whatever. In any case, I’m not leaving with you on some half-baked journey all over the Moon Realm, just to chase the first pretty tunic you’ve seen in a while. She’s a prisoner, for God’s sake.”

“Then I’ll go alone. And for the record, I’m not chasing a tunic. Yeah, I’ll try to find her. But this is not all about her, Roc. Like I told you, I need to do this for me. I thought you, of all people, would understand that.”

Roc’s hard stare continues for another moment and then his eyes soften. “Tristan, I…”

“What?”

“Never mind. You promise you’re not just doing this to find some silly girl?”

“Yes,” I say, my tone more confident than I feel.

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Yeah. I’ll come with you.”

I can’t hold back my smile. I’ll say it again: Roc is like a brother to me; I’m not sure what I would’ve done if he decided not to come. I’m glad we’ve made it through our serious talk without killing each other.

Roc says, “I’ll help you find your crush.” I spoke too soon. I leap off the bed, tackling him to the ground, pushing his face into the soft carpet, putting all my weight on him. I’m laughing, he’s gasping, trying to take a breath. I release him and stand up, but I’m not done yet. As he turns over I place a foot atop his chest and raise my fists over my head, relishing my small victory.

Like when I saw the moon dweller for the first time, I feel alive again.

We spend the rest of the day making plans. Now that the contract negotiations are finally over, I’ll request a holiday. My father will insist I go to one of the finest sun dweller resorts, one that has the brightest fake sunlight and truckloads of synthetic sand. But I’ll tell him I’m tired of those places, tired of the same old scene. It won’t surprise him—he already knows how I feel about the customs of the sun dwellers. If I request another trip to the Moon Realm—an unofficial, off-the-books trip—I think he’ll authorize it, as a sort of reward for all my work over the last few months. The first chance we have, Roc and I will ditch my security guards and go find the girl, and hopefully ourselves at the same time.

When we leave my apartment, I am feeling good. I won’t go so far as to say I am happy—I haven’t been happy in a long time—but I’m satisfied that I’m finally doing something real. Something I want to do. Cutting another one of my father’s ropes away, so to speak.

* * *

We are at dinner, the three of us—me, my brother, Killen, and my father, his lordship. Dinner is funny in our palace. The table we sit at is about a mile long, with enough place settings to host the entire forty-third ghetto of the Star Realm (their population is only twenty-three). My father, his majesty (a president, not a king), sits at one end. My mother used to sit at the other head, but now her seat is vacant, like it has been for a long time. My brother and I sit across from each other, in the middle, so far from my father that we’d need binoculars if we want to see him. Thankfully, I don’t.

When we were younger, my brother and I would get into all kinds of trouble at dinner, kicking each other under the table, slinging food across at each other, whispering nasty names so our parents couldn’t hear what we were saying. It was great fun, and we enjoyed the challenge of trying to get away with things while our parents shouted across the length of the table in a ridiculous attempt to have a conversation.

Now it isn’t worth the effort. Day by day, my brother is becoming more and more like a clone of my father. He even sits like him at the table, his back straight, his head held so high I don’t think he will be able to get his fork to his mouth without dropping his food. Killen is two years younger than me, but I know he thinks himself to be the older, wiser son. We haven’t had fun together in forever, since before my mother left.

“So I hear the contract negotiations were a success, brother,” Killen says. He is trying to sound smart. In reality, he’s never so much as negotiated a turd from his butt.

I put on a fake voice and say, “Splendid, my dear brother. Simply splendid. We got an even better deal than last year and the people of the Tri-Realms seem to love us even more!” To my dad it will sound like we are having a mature, brotherly conversation. Killen knows better.

“That’s wonderful, Tristan,” he says. Under his breath, he mumbles, “Quit being a dumb arse.”

“I would never take that title away from you, brother,” I hiss. I feel his leg swing out as he tries to kick me. He misses, his toe thudding against the leg of my chair. His face turns red and he curses under his breath. It probably hurt, too, because he is wearing these absurd shoes that look like white ballet slippers and provide zero protection for the foot. They are just another sun dweller fashion trend that my brother buys into. It’s a hard decision, but I’m sticking with my boots.

“Father,” I say loudly, maintaining my fake voice, “I’d like to take a holiday, now that the negotiations are complete.”

My brother is glaring at me, but I ignore him.

President Nailin shouts, “Of course! Shall I have Lima book a few weeks at the Sandy Oasis like last year?”

Shocking how predictable my father is.

I pretend to consider it. “Hmm, maybe…” I say. “But I am also considering doing something a little different…something a bit more exotic.”

“What did you have in mind?”

I glance at my brother. His head is cocked to the side. It makes him look even younger than he is.

“I would like to travel inter-Realm, to the Moon Realm. I think it will be a good way to show them that we appreciate their support. You know, by having a holiday there, spending some Nailins at their shops.”

“Absolutely not,” my father says.

I really thought he’d go for it, that my lie was a good one, believable, sensible. So I don’t have a backup plan. Killen is snickering, which doesn’t help.

“Why not?” I ask, really wanting to know what has prompted my father’s quick and decisive rejection.

“It’s just not proper,” he says simply.

I’ve never hated him more than I hate him now. It’s the way he says it more than his words. As though such a trip would be like me sleeping with the rats—no, worse, with the cockroaches. He wants me to be all smiles and winks when I am in the other Realms renegotiating our so-called contracts, and yet I can’t even take a simple holiday there?

My brother is nodding, wagging his head up and down like a dog. “It wouldn’t be proper, brother,” he parrots. Now I kick. My aim is true, connecting solidly with Killen’s shinbone. To his credit, he doesn’t cry out, although I know it hurts, can see it all over his face. He winces and holds his breath, trying to stifle a groan of pain.

“You’re right, father, brother. How silly of me. Have Lima book my usual.” I’ve lost my appetite. Before standing up I take another shot at my brother under the table, and from the shade of purple his face turns, I know I’ve hit the same spot. It is the only thing satisfying about the dinner.

Chapter Five

Adele

“What do you know of my father?” I say. It comes out as a croak, because I stop breathing when my heart rises into my throat. I gulp the words back down, trying to clear a passage. I take a deep breath.

“Only that he’s probably alive,” Tawni says.

I don’t think the words will come out right, so I hope she’ll anticipate my next question.

“How much of our conversation did you hear?” Tawni asks.

Damn, I am hoping for answers, not questions. I’ll have to speak. I try a single word: “Enough.” It comes out better this time, but still isn’t my natural timbre.

“Look,” Tawni says, “I’m sorry I didn’t open up to you before, but we’d only just met. The things I know are dangerous…”

She glances left and right, like the walls might have ears. She is making me nervous. Although the snippets I’d heard of Tawni and Cole’s whispered conversation intrigue me—particularly the stuff about Tristan—I’m not interested in that now. I only care about one thing.

“It’s okay. Just tell me about my dad.”

Tawni takes a deep breath. She looks stressed, her brow furrowed and eyes narrowed and intense, like something heavy is weighing on her. She says, “As you probably gathered, my parents are traitors. They live amongst the moon dwellers, but work for the sun dwellers. They’re spies for the President himself. I heard them talking one night. They thought I was out with my friends, but I’d returned early with a stomachache. They spoke about how Tristan is different from his father, how he cares about people. How he is inherently good.”

Her words are interesting, and typically I would be hanging on every single one, but I’m still missing the point. “What does that have to do with my father?” I blurt out.

Tawni stops abruptly, her eyebrows rising. “Sorry. Your father first, then the other stuff.”

She sits on the bed and motions for me to join her. I don’t feel like sitting, feel too wired to do anything but pace around the room, but I don’t want to argue, as I’m afraid it will delay the conversation further. I sit next to her, tapping my toe rapidly on the stone floor.

Tawni looks at me with sincere blue eyes and says, “My parents were the ones who recommended that your parents be taken away.”

It wouldn’t sting any more if she’d slapped me across the face. My parents dragged away in the middle of the night, out through the kicked-down door; Enforcers swarming through our home, smashing picture frames and tables and chairs and anything they could get their hands on; me, fighting like an animal to defend my family, who are eventually wrenched away anyway. The most disturbing image from that night: my father’s eyes, intense and scared, not fearful for his own life, but for mine and Elsey’s.

All because of Tawni’s parents. I don’t think kids should be judged by what their stupid parents do. Tawni’s words from before suddenly make sense.

I want to walk away from her, to leave her and her evil family behind forever, but I stay for three reasons. First, because I owe her for sitting down and talking to me in the first place, in the yard; for not walking away when I was rude and acting like a nutter. Second, because she still hasn’t told me everything she knows about my father—and I have to know. And third, because I want to believe in her words about kids having the potential to be different than their parents. I want to believe it for Tristan’s sake. Because if he isn’t different than his father, then all my thoughts and feelings over the last day—and my dream!—have been fake, pure fantasy. Which means that my heart will die again, and me with it.

As I try to make sense of my thoughts, of my feelings, I realize Tawni is crying. Her earlier strength gives way, her body crumples, she tucks her face into her hands. I know she’s been putting on a front—an attempt to be strong, to chase away her sadness with a brave face. She thinks I’m going to leave. She doesn’t know I have three reasons to stay.

I feel warmth in my bones, welling up from beneath my feet, until it reaches the top of my head. The warmth is compassion for Tawni. She didn’t ask for her parents to be traitors. And from what I understand, their treachery caused her to run from them, to leave home all alone, and to eventually be caught and brought to the Pen. No, she isn’t like her parents at all.

The sudden compassion I feel reminds me of my mother. I always think I am more like my dad, but now I wonder if there isn’t a lot more of my mom in me than I realized. I hope so. My mom is a special soul.

Instinctively, I put my arm around her and pull her close. Her eyes flick open for a moment, red and wet, and then reclose as she buries her head in the nook between my shoulder and chest. “I’m so sorry, Adele,” she moans.

I say nothing—there is nothing to say. I just hold her while sobs shake her body. I rub her back, smooth her hair—even kiss her forehead. Those were the things my mother used to do to me when I was scared—usually when still stuck in the throes of a waking nightmare about drowning. Slowly, Tawni’s body stops shaking and her muffled sobs relent. Her choked breaths become deep and consistent. For a moment I think she might’ve fallen asleep.

But then she says, “Why are you forgiving me?”

I haven’t said a word to her, certainly have not uttered the words I forgive you, but I guess my actions speak louder. But I haven’t forgiven her, not really, because there is no need.

“You haven’t done anything that requires my forgiveness,” I say.

Her puffy eyes look into mine as she sits up straight again. “Thank you,” she says.

“My father?” I say.

Her words come out in a rush, without pause to breathe. “He’s been taken to a camp set up for traitors—my parents called it Camp Blood and Stone—where the prisoners are made to work in some of the most dangerous mines in the Moon Realm. I understand it’s somewhere in one of the Northern subchapters, my parents mentioned subchapter twenty-six, I think.”

“What about my mother?” I say, realizing Tawni hasn’t mentioned her. She was very specific: Your father is alive.

“I don’t know,” Tawni says, “they only mentioned your dad.”

“How did you know they were talking about my dad?” My questions are coming rapidly now, as all of the investigative skills that my father has taught me are coming back.

“They said that the traitors they’d turned over to the authorities had two daughters, Adele and Elsey. Your name isn’t that common, so when I heard it and then later you told us about your parents, I made the connection.” Tawni crinkles up her nose, like she knows what my next question will be and is dreading it. But I have to ask it.

“Why didn’t you tell me last night when you realized?” I ask.

“I don’t know. I should have. We’d just met and I usually talk to Cole about stuff before I do anything. He’s my best friend. Has been for a long time.”

I’m not mad at her. She was in a tough position, not knowing how I would react when she told me, and yet she told me anyway. She could’ve just kept it to herself, told me to go stuff it when I eavesdropped on her, but she didn’t. She did the right thing. She’s not like her parents.

“What about the other stuff?” I ask, not wanting to specifically mention Tristan’s name.

“You mean about Tristan?” Tawni says, understanding immediately what I mean.

I nod, feeling my face flush slightly.

Tawni says, “We should include Cole in the conversation.”

My heart sinks. Cole. For a moment I’ve forgotten about him. He looked so angry at me. I’ve just met the guy, so I shouldn’t care what he thinks about me, but to my surprise, I do. Probably because of what he did for me yesterday during the riot. Or perhaps because he is Tawni’s best friend, and she seems like a good person, so that must mean he is, too. Or it might just be because I actually like him. Certainly his sarcasm works well with me.