Norma

The girl’s stare pierced all the way from the porch as if two aliens had beamed down to destroy her little Hallmark town. Moving, it seemed, was unthinkable. It was obvious by the way she maintained that death-grip around her neckline. A brief flash of recognition interrupted her consternation when her gaze brushed over Gunner, as if she too, were putting the pieces together: She had a brother. And he had a sister.

“Andria.” Nana’s voice was warmer than before. “Come on down, dear.”

The girl moved with fluid obedience, like her entire life was trained around it. The forced kindness in her eyes was proof. It flickered over Gunner as she got closer — his long hair and earring, falling to his beat-up sneakers and torn jeans. She wouldn’t look at Mom. But Mom was desperately looking at her — both their fingers tightened at their necklines. But Andria was clutching a gold cross necklace, not her skin.

Gunner sighed through his nose. So this was what Mom was about to tell him before they got out of the car. This girl named Andria was yet another aspect of Mom’s life she’d never cared to share anything about. An entire person kept anonymous, now materialized into existence.