Free The Moon Dwellers by David Estes Page A

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    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. Abo ut 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 m e. If the roles were reversed it’s what I might do .
    Instead , his lips a re 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 abo ut the storm—whatever that means —but about us being scared. He might be, but not me. I’m not scared o f anything. Not even my father—not anymore— although I probably should be . But I kno w I’ ve been too reactionary lately—too qu ick to fire back at Roc if I do n’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 do n’t say the first thing that pops i nto my head. I actually think about what he said.
    A storm? I know he does n’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 i n my head, to myself. How it i s a wonder that everyone put s 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 do n’t happen th ese days. Not anymore. They a re a thing of the past, of l egends, of stories. Which means it i s bound to happen eventua lly. 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 have n’t we talked about it before? I try to open myself to t he possibility that I am scared, like Roc suggested. I know right away that isn’t it. It’s something else: I do n’t beli eve my own feelings. And why would I? Things have been t he 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 i s a twink le in his eye , like he kno w s 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… W hat a re you suggesting, that I’m not serious enough?” My face i s starting to feel hot.
    Roc put s his arms out, palms open. “No, I just think that ever si nce 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 l ight in your eyes is when we’re training.”
    “What a re 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 comm ent or joke for the rest of the conversation. I hope our talk wo n’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