And there he is. A beacon of light in the dark. Tristan is his name. A name I grew up hearing spoken lightly amongst my friends. That was back when I had friends, of course. When life was simple, if not particularly good. Life is never good as a moon dweller. My father would tan my backside if he heard me say something like that. “Adele,” he used to say, “we are a blessed people, a blessed family. There are many others less fortunate than us.” Yeah, tell that to the men who dragged you away from me.

All the girls in my old school are in love with Tristan. Obviously, none of them know him, but like any male celebrity, he captures the attention of young, naïve females. But I’m not supposed to notice him. I’m supposed to be different. I’m strong, independent, rebellious. My father calls me a fighter. So I fight. Against whatever is popular, whatever is in. If the current fad is to wear dark-colored tunics then I’ll wear light. Or if the other girls really like wearing clothes every day then I’ll go naked. Not really, of course, but you get what I mean.

Now, stuck in the Pen, it seems like an awfully big waste of energy—to swim against the current, that is. But I can’t take it back, not any of it, no matter how hard I try. No matter how much I try to wish it all away, my past is the zit that you pop, watch bleed, watch heal, only to see poking from your skin again a week later.

Back to Tristan—who is the polar opposite of a recurring blemish. Blond, curly hair. Seventeen but already over six feet tall. Strong, solid frame. A princely face. Big, navy blue eyes. An addictive smile, with right-sized lips and ivory teeth. By addictive I mean like the hard stuff—crack cocaine. Not that I’ve tried it. Drugs are hard to come by down here. Not that I would try them if I could. Anyway, Tristan’s smile is like crack, in a way. You can’t look away from it even if you want to. You need it like an addict needs his next hit.

As he flashes a smile, I’m astonished to feel tiny bats in my stomach, despite the fact that his smile is targeted at his adoring fans. It’s like the black-winged rats are flitting about in my ribcage with needles and thread, patching and stitching my heart together again, using a bicycle pump to breathe life back into it. I’ve only ever seen Tristan’s face on a sun dweller magazine, and let me tell you, the photo didn’t do him justice. Although that was a few years ago, so maybe he’s just grown up since then, become a man.

Suddenly, I want to be with him. Yeah, me and every other girl living in subchapter 14 of the Moon Realm. There are about a thousand of them outside the Pen, lining the streets, screaming his name and throwing flowers at him. I even see one of them chuck her undergarments at him. I guess she’s addicted to his smile, too.

“You like him, don’t you?” a voice says from behind me.

I turn, unable to stop the look of surprise that blankets my face. A tall, white-haired girl stands before me. A blue streak runs down one side of her hair, which is long and straight, reaching all the way to the small of her back. She has porcelain features, as if her face was drawn on by an artist. I can’t help wondering what a beautiful girl like her is doing in a place like this. For a moment I can’t speak. I worry that my stay-away-from-me vibe disappeared, but then I check and find it’s still here. And yet this girl penetrated my defenses and dared to communicate with me? My first thought: There must be something wrong with her.

“Can I help you?” I say, probably not too nicely. My parents would be ashamed of me, but what can I say, I’m out of practice.

“I’m Tawni,” the girl says, sticking out her hand.

I look at her slender digits like they’re a nest of snakes, hesitate, and then eventually take them. I shiver at her icy touch, but her handshake feels surprisingly firm for how thin she is.

“Have a seat,” I say with a slight wave of my arm. I’m getting back into the groove, remembering all the tricks my mom taught me on how to be polite—like inviting a guest to sit down. It is my stoop, after all—I sit here every day.

With a slight grin she takes a seat next to me on the rock bench. “Thanks,” she says.

I grin back. I can’t believe it. I’m actually smiling. Well, sort of. I think it’s a pathetic attempt, but at least my lips are curled up in a crooked, awkward, I-don’t-know-how-to-smile-for-pictures kind of way. You know, like those kids in Year Three who always end up with the worst yearbook photos? The ones with the crazy eyes and fake smiles. That’s me trying to smile at my new friend, Tawni. Or at least she’s the closest person I have to a friend at the moment.

“Are you going to answer my question or what?” she says.

I wrack my brain, trying to remember her having asked me a question. The shock of having my first human interaction in months seems to cause my brain to malfunction. In my mind I am thinking Uh-duh-uh-duh-uh-duh, but I don’t think saying that will win me any points with Tawni, so instead I say, “Can you repeat the question?”

I know I sound so stupid, so formal, like a kid at school caught daydreaming by a shrewd teacher, but you can’t take back words once they leave your mouth, as my mom always used to point out when I would mouth off growing up. Tawni should walk away from me at this point, but she doesn’t.

“Tristan—do you like him?”

“Oh,” I say. I don’t understand the question. Like what? His looks? Well, yeah, the way I am staring at him probably gave that away. His personality? Hmmm, given I have never spoken to him—will never speak to him—that is a hard one to answer. His ruling style? To be honest, I am a bit out of the loop when it comes to politics. I know his dad is a creep, but I don’t know much about him.

So, because I don’t really understand the question, I just sit dumbly, hoping she will think I’m a nut and leave me alone. Not really. I do sit dumbly, but I’m not hoping she will leave. Truth be told, I’m glad to be talking to someone. Conversing—in an awkward sort of way. Tawni seems okay, and already I am feeling less alone. My urge to rush the fence and send thousands of volts of electricity shooting through my body has almost passed.

I have a sudden desire to be close to someone again, to know someone, to have a friend. The desire is so strong it takes me by surprise. I am so used to keeping everyone away from me that I forgot how good it feels to have people close by. My whole body tingles from the conversation. Very weird.

Surprisingly, Tawni doesn’t leave. Instead, she answers for me. “Yeah, I know. I like him, too.”

I’m not sure which of the potential questions she is answering, maybe all three. His looks, his personality, his ruling style. Maybe she’s another one of his crazed fans, obsessive to the point of throwing underwear.

The parade passes slowly—Tristan will be out of sight in a few minutes, moving down another street, probably heading toward Moon Hall, where the local politicians gather to do whatever it is that they do. Mostly screw us over. I crane my neck, trying to get a final glimpse of his smile.

“I don’t think he’s a bad guy,” Tawni says.

“Mmm, really?” I say, only half listening.

“No. I mean his dad’s a jerk, but I don’t think kids should be judged by what their stupid parents do.”

My ears perk up. I glance at Tawni. Her slight grin has melted. Her lips are pursed and thin. My brain starts functioning again. Doing the math, so to speak—figuring things out. Like I always did with my dad. My dad and I liked to solve puzzles together. Any kinds of puzzles really. Word puzzles, math puzzles, riddles—that sort of thing. I know I shouldn’t be thinking of my new friend Tawni as a puzzle, but I can tell there’s some hidden meaning behind her words, some revelation about her past. I am suddenly interested in her. Where she comes from, who she is, what she has done to land herself in this hellhole.