2 Gray Sun

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The cracked skin on my knee stings and itches as it rubs against the inside of my jeans. Crawling around in grass with Mom last night wreaked havoc on my kneecaps.

She fries eggs this morning, plopping the plate in front of me with a triumphant smile. She's no Chef Ramsay; the yolk is chalky and overdone.

Filling a glass with orange juice, she hands it to me with trembling hands. Her nerves are tightly wound, I can tell because a smile's been painted on with her lipstick.

"How're you feeling?" My knee knocks against the leg of the table as I take a sip of orange juice. 

She wrings a dishrag out in the sink and shrugs. 

I see we're doing the whole nothing-happened-last-night thing.

"Can I take Cherry to school today?" I ask, forcing eggs into my mouth. Cherry is Mom's crimson 1978 Camaro. Though it jerked and protested down I-40, it somehow got us from California to Oklahoma. "Unless you think..."

"Take it." Her concealer doesn't hide the bags under her eyes. She stands behind the kitchen island and leans forward on her elbows. With hair slicked into a tight ponytail that tugs at the corners of her eyebrows and wide hips that fill out gray sweatpants, she looks young again, unlike the woman I pulled from the dirt last night. "I don't think I can manage looking for any work today." She checks the counter for imaginary stains. "I'm a little tired."

Yeah, so am I.

"Get some rest." I say, poking at rubbery eggs.

How alike and so completely unalike we are, me and Mom. We carry the same slant in our eyes, same upturned nose with wide nostrils, same dimples on strong chins. We both tuck sadness away until it claws its way out of us. But the suspicious nature and hazel-green eyes, I got those from my dad.

She doesn't mention last night's episode. So, neither do I.

If Mercy were here, she'd scarf the eggs down and give Mom a reassuring hug. I'm not Mercy.

I finish the juice but leave the eggs.

"Enjoy your day, Moriah," Mom mutters, planting a kiss on my cheek. "Come home. Safe."

Does she mean it, Mercy? Or does she wish it was you coming back home instead of me?

I'm careful with the screeching screen door, closing it quietly until it catches with a soft click.

The sun, gray behind portly clouds, casts a dim light as swirling wind greets my face. My skin prickles as I kneel to pick up a small, white envelope fluttering under a rock on the porch: MORIAH HANLON

My name is written in large, block letters on the front. A gold sticker in the shape of a wolf's head seals the flap shut.

Ripping it open, I pull an index card out with two fingers. In the same ostentatious writing, it says:  WELCOME TO PACHUCK

It isn't signed.

The back of my neck tingles, but I ignore it. Maybe the neighbors around here aren't so bad after all. Or maybe they're in white pointy hats waiting to burn a cross on our yard. Either way, I toss the envelope in my denim backpack and decide to tell Mom about it when I get back.

Maybe she'll be normal then. I scrunch my face. Who knows what normal is with her anymore?

Once I'm behind the wheel of Cherry, backing out of our narrow, dirt driveway, I cry. A deep belly bawl that shakes my shoulders. I cry for Mom and her ghosts. For Dad and his needles.

I cry most for Mercy.

She'd have killed to have gotten her license. To have driven fast on highways, windows down, her hair a swirling mass around her face. Instead, she's dead, cold and colorless like this October morning in Oklahoma.

My eyes blurry with tears, I drive the ten minutes it takes to get to school screaming at her. I haven't gotten past the anger phase of grief. I just haven't figured out if it's Mercy I'm pissed with, or me.

The crying even ruins my usual morning turn-up. Cardi B's voice warbles in the old speakers as I remember the last thing I said to my twin sister:

"God, you're such a baby. You wouldn't know how to wipe your ass if I wasn't around."

🐺

Swallowing sobs, I pull the car into Pachuck High School's unpaved parking lot and wipe my nose with the sleeve of my UCLA hoodie. The lot is full, kids pouring out of pickup trucks, SUVs, and Range Rovers. The school, a depressing chunk of white cement, squats beyond the rows of cars.

After maneuvering Cherry into a tight space, I scurry with my hair in my face to Mr. Kessler's class before morning bell rings. I just want my usual seat in the back row. Students lean against their rusty lockers, recounting last night's OU game. There's no one here I want to chit chat with.

As kids file into the classroom, I run my finger over deep-carved grooves in my desk. Stigler from the class of '89 was here, and he wants everyone to remember.

I take a mental inventory of kids coming in. It's only taken me two weeks to size almost everyone up. There's only 205 kids in the entire school. It wasn't that hard.

Here come the cheerleaders in their blue-and-white uniforms. With long hair stretching down their backs, they take the middle row of Kessler's class and speak in hushed tones. A trio of guys wearing solemn expressions and wide-brimmed cowboy hats saunter in. After them, a few emos with pale skin, then broad-shouldered football players, followed by that annoying, tall girl with the braces, Sheila Hyatt.

Sheila with her hunched-back walk takes long strides to the seat next to me as she does every day.

And though my wild, curly hair covers my face like Cousin It from The Addams Family, Sheila still musters the courage to speak.

"Hey, good morning." Her voice carries a subtle twang. Everyone in Pachuck talks like this, dragging out their vowels and cloaking their words with softness.

"Hi." I slink further in my seat.

With wide green eyes, she removes her history book from her backpack and slams it on her desk. There's nothing dainty about this girl.

"It's crazy what happened, huh?" She wipes a stray strand of red frizz from her eyes.

"What are you talking about?"

She leans closer as Mr. Kessler demands everyone's attention. "What happened with Margaret."  

"Who's Margaret?" I ask.

I know faces. Names, not so much. Not that any of these kids would talk to me either way.

"You didn't hear?" Sheila smacks her lips, shaking her big head. "It's just awful."

That's when I realize everyone around me is whispering, as though they've all gotten laryngitis overnight.

Mr. Kessler bangs his meaty fist down on his desk. His face resembles a red, round tomato. "Listen up, y'all—and fellas, take your hats off in the building. You know the rules. I know everybody's worked up about this Margaret Cheng mess. But we're still gonna carry on here as usual. You understand?"

I shift in my seat, daring a whisper to Sheila. "What happened to Margaret?"

Tears puddle in those green eyes of hers. "They're saying she's missing. Another one. Missing."

Another one?

Sheila puts her large hands over her chest. "I hope Margaret is ok. And if not, I hope they, at least, find a body this time."

"

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