serene expression passing over his face. Tapping noises, tiny meteorites striking the carbon-reinforced glass, reach our ears. On the Moon, our only precipitation is “grit-rain,” a phenomenon that leaves small dents on the exterior of all our buildings. Calling someone a “piece of grit” is a routine insult.
“Your best friend—would she be angry with me for putting that bruise on your cheek?”
“ He probably would.” Umbriel might nick surgical scissors and mow down Wes’s shiny hair during the night.
“A bit protective, no?” Wes chuckles, expelling every ache in his body instead of mere carbon dioxide. “How long have you two been friends?”
“Fifteen years.”
“Since you were born?”
Nod. Our fathers, both named Atlas, were close companions in Militia. They had their first children at nearly the same time and raised Umbriel, Ariel, and me together. Mom likes to remind us that Atlas Phi taught me the alphabet in an hour, and that Umbriel took his first steps with his hand in Atlas Theta’s.
Then Dad was sent on that botched topographic assignment. Our families kept going after that, and sometimes I wonder if going on is all we know. Shutting my eyes, I summon Umbriel from my memories, imagine him sitting here, fussing over my hair and asking how my day was. It’s sweet and painful all at once.
“Was he the tall boy in your apartment, the one with you in Shelter?”
Nod.
“That explains a lot. Is he the reason you don’t talk? Because he has spoken for you all your life?”
I jab my right forefinger at my handscreen, and then promptly resume sitting on my left hand.
“It can’t be only handscreens that keep you quiet. Look at you now—we’re sitting on ours, but I’m the only one talking. Maybe you’ve got something to hide, or maybe words scare you because they’re so permanent. Don’t you hate that you can’t ever erase what you say?”
“Not really.” I’ve never felt dislike so strong it became hate—but yes, the longevity of the spoken word in the files of the Committee’s eavesdroppers, and more so in the memory of other people, irritates me.
His fingernails dig into his palm. “Did I upset you?”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“Sorry.”
The more he says, the heavier the air grows. With my eyes, I trace the seams between the tiles on the floor, searching for the shortest pathway from my left foot to the doorway.
Wes doesn’t stop pushing, but in spite of his efforts, I am as inanimate and immovable as one of the tiles. “Fine, fine, forget everything I’ve said, but answer this one question: What are you so afraid of?”
He talks as if he can peel back skin and muscle and bone to see straight into my soul. I’m so uncomfortable that I could faint— I’m usually the perceptive one.
Wes bunches the fabric of his pants in his fist. “If your best friend were asking, you’d probably tell him, no? I wish I were close to someone, like you are to him. . . . What did he say about your joining up so early?”
“Umbriel said enough.” His prolonged opposition is nothing I care to repeat.
“Forgive me for what I’m about to admit. . . .”
I blink at Wes expectantly.
“I wish he’d tried harder to stop you. For physical and mental health reasons, no one should face this Militia ordeal until they’re ready, or until they absolutely must.”
I close my eyes so that he can’t see my exasperated eye roll. What useless words! I know I’m an underage trainee and constantly in danger, but there’s no way to reverse the decision that brought me here and no need to critique it.
“And there’s another line of reasoning, saying even in the worst of times, live on for life’s sake—don’t gamble it away—”
I seize his wrist, pinching two of his tendons between my thumb and middle finger.
With his left hand—now unprotected—he gestures frantically for me to cover my handscreen.
Glaring, I cross my arms and block the audio
“Your best friend—would she be angry with me for putting that bruise on your cheek?”
“ He probably would.” Umbriel might nick surgical scissors and mow down Wes’s shiny hair during the night.
“A bit protective, no?” Wes chuckles, expelling every ache in his body instead of mere carbon dioxide. “How long have you two been friends?”
“Fifteen years.”
“Since you were born?”
Nod. Our fathers, both named Atlas, were close companions in Militia. They had their first children at nearly the same time and raised Umbriel, Ariel, and me together. Mom likes to remind us that Atlas Phi taught me the alphabet in an hour, and that Umbriel took his first steps with his hand in Atlas Theta’s.
Then Dad was sent on that botched topographic assignment. Our families kept going after that, and sometimes I wonder if going on is all we know. Shutting my eyes, I summon Umbriel from my memories, imagine him sitting here, fussing over my hair and asking how my day was. It’s sweet and painful all at once.
“Was he the tall boy in your apartment, the one with you in Shelter?”
Nod.
“That explains a lot. Is he the reason you don’t talk? Because he has spoken for you all your life?”
I jab my right forefinger at my handscreen, and then promptly resume sitting on my left hand.
“It can’t be only handscreens that keep you quiet. Look at you now—we’re sitting on ours, but I’m the only one talking. Maybe you’ve got something to hide, or maybe words scare you because they’re so permanent. Don’t you hate that you can’t ever erase what you say?”
“Not really.” I’ve never felt dislike so strong it became hate—but yes, the longevity of the spoken word in the files of the Committee’s eavesdroppers, and more so in the memory of other people, irritates me.
His fingernails dig into his palm. “Did I upset you?”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“Sorry.”
The more he says, the heavier the air grows. With my eyes, I trace the seams between the tiles on the floor, searching for the shortest pathway from my left foot to the doorway.
Wes doesn’t stop pushing, but in spite of his efforts, I am as inanimate and immovable as one of the tiles. “Fine, fine, forget everything I’ve said, but answer this one question: What are you so afraid of?”
He talks as if he can peel back skin and muscle and bone to see straight into my soul. I’m so uncomfortable that I could faint— I’m usually the perceptive one.
Wes bunches the fabric of his pants in his fist. “If your best friend were asking, you’d probably tell him, no? I wish I were close to someone, like you are to him. . . . What did he say about your joining up so early?”
“Umbriel said enough.” His prolonged opposition is nothing I care to repeat.
“Forgive me for what I’m about to admit. . . .”
I blink at Wes expectantly.
“I wish he’d tried harder to stop you. For physical and mental health reasons, no one should face this Militia ordeal until they’re ready, or until they absolutely must.”
I close my eyes so that he can’t see my exasperated eye roll. What useless words! I know I’m an underage trainee and constantly in danger, but there’s no way to reverse the decision that brought me here and no need to critique it.
“And there’s another line of reasoning, saying even in the worst of times, live on for life’s sake—don’t gamble it away—”
I seize his wrist, pinching two of his tendons between my thumb and middle finger.
With his left hand—now unprotected—he gestures frantically for me to cover my handscreen.
Glaring, I cross my arms and block the audio
Similar Books
